"You dare to threaten me?" Martinez said. "Even here? Even in the Barrio, so far from your books and your precious friends, you dare to act as if you can walk in and take something without my consent? You should not even be here."
Donovan's heart raced, but he kept his mind clear and controlled the tremble that tried to slip out his arm to his fingers.
"I followed him here. I crossed your border in pursuit of a killer. In the past, that has never been considered a breach of etiquette, or trust…"
"This is…different." Martinez said.
The boy began to stir, and Martinez turned back to him. Donovan watched, and that momentary distraction was his undoing. In that moment, something small and covered in tan fur leapt from the shadows. It gave a growl and latched onto Donovan's heel. He spun, kicked out, and sent the small creature flying, but that moment was all that Martinez required. He cried out in a language Donovan vaguely recognized as originating in South America — very old — and the air grew suddenly black with a dark, cloying mist. Donovan cursed and lunged toward where the boy had lain on the ground, but he found nothing but bare ground. There was no sound. Not even the crackling of the fire broke the silence. Whatever Martinez had conjured, it dulled sight and sound, scent and sensation. Donovan closed his eyes and waited.
When he opened them, he stood alone. The lot was empty, and the fire was out. There was no sign that anyone else had been there, and no sign of where they might have gone. He considered pulling out the green lens and following. He knew he could track Martinez easily enough, but he wasn't sure he was prepared for such a confrontation. He'd hoped to get in and out undetected. The situation now required more than he could bring to the table alone.
He turned, slowly, and left the Barrio the way he'd entered. He stepped into the shadowed streets beyond, turned into an alley, and a moment later he was gone. He wondered what he would tell the girl's mother. He only hoped that he was right, and that the girl was dead. If she lived…
~* ~
Donovan shook his head. So many years.
"He was my son," Martinez said softly. "I should have told you, but I was afraid that he'd be taken anyway. I was afraid you, and others, would use the knowledge to find him more easily and lock him away."
"I would have helped you," Donovan said. "I had no answer for that girl's mother. When we sent word to you, asking how you had resolved the situation, you never responded."
"I should have told you," Martinez sighed. "I should have trusted you, but I did not know you — I'm not sure that I know you now. I did not want to lose him."
"And did you?"
Martinez smiled. "No. In fact, you may be interested in the solution that I found. He was difficult, as you may imagine, but he did not escape. Not again. His family helped…and others. We kept him well protected at the proper times, and then I found what I had been looking for. It's a collar, cast silver and inscribed with the proper symbols at the proper time. As long as he wears it, the moon has no effect. He has been living a normal life… giving me grandchildren. I should have come to you…told you…there are always things we regret."
Donovan nodded. He took a sip of his bourbon.
"You have the instructions?" he asked softly. "There are others that I know of, men and women who have been too-long imprisoned…"
"Of course," Martinez replied. "I have them with me, and more. I've brought you something — not that a gift can make up for years of silence — but I've also come to ask for your help. I have another boy under my care now and a war on my doorstep."
"I tend to stay out of wars," Donovan said, "particularly in the Barrio. I've heard rumors, though, disturbing rumors. I'm told the Anya Cabrera is walking a very fine line."
"She has long since crossed that line," Martinez said. He caught himself before he spat, realizing he was not on the street. He sipped his drink in an effort to cover the motion.
"You have information?" Donovan asked?
"I… believe that I can handle it," Martinez said. It didn't sound as though he believed the words himself.
"This is too big," Donovan said. "The stakes are too high. It won't be just the Barrio in danger if she goes too far, and my information says that is exactly what she intends. I need to know that I can trust you this time, Martinez. I'm going to look into this…it would be a great help to me If I knew that I didn't have to worry about you blocking my efforts."
Martinez studied his drink. He took another, longer sip, and then, very slowly, he nodded.
"There are things that I must do," he said. "I have protected those in the Barrio for a very long time. They have come to me already — and they are frightened. I must do what I can."
"And I will help you, if I can," Donovan replied. "I have my own methods, though, and I believe we'll work better apart than together. A truce, then?"
Martinez glanced up and smiled. It was a crooked expression, and difficult to read, but Donovan had seen it before, and he returned it.
"What is it you have come for?" he asked.
"There is a boy, Salvatore Domingo Sanchez. He lives in a shack near my home, and he is an artist. The boy is truly brilliant — what he can do with chalk, or pencils, or paint… it is powerful. He has formed connections in the Barrio, but he is not ready for the challenge. He needs an edge. I need to make paints for him — special paints — born of the prime colors. There is only one thing I need. In all my years, I've never been able to find the formula for Rojo Fuego."
Donovan stared at the old man. He hadn't heard those words in decades. Fire Red. The color of dragon's fire. The formula in question was very old. There couldn't have been more than four or five copies of it in existence. One of them resided in an encrypted file in a folder on Donovan's hard drive. He'd destroyed the original.
"That is a very powerful formula," he said.
Martinez eyed him, taking a drink, but not dropping his gaze.
"I know what it is…young man."
They stood like that in silence for several breaths, and then, very suddenly, Donovan laughed.
"I cannot tell you how long it has been since someone called me that — and it was true. Okay, you have a deal. I will trust you with this formula, and you will trust me within your Barrio."
Martinez smiled again. "That is fair."
Donovan stepped around his desk and started tapping keys on the computer terminal. A moment later the printer in the corner beeped, and a single sheet of paper rolled slowly out. Martinez waited respectfully until Donovan walked to the machine and retrieved the paper.
"You mentioned a gift…" Donovan said.
Martinez grinned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a very old, tightly folded sheet of parchment.
"It is brittle," he said. "Have a care with it."
"What is it?" Donovan asked.
"It is the instructions for creating the collar," Martinez said softly. "The cure for lycanthrope, such as it is. I didn't know for certain that you would ask about Louis. I did not know, for sure, that I would tell you the story if you did. I knew you would find this of value."
Donovan reached out and took the ancient paper carefully from Martinez's grip. In its place, he handed off the freshly printed formula.
"Be careful," he said. "You know what you hold, and I will not ask you why you need it, but there are a great number of others depending on the two of us. We must tread carefully."
Martinez tucked the paper into his pocket and held out his hand. Donovan took it, and they shook warmly.
"When this is over," Martinez said, "You must come to the Barrio. I will introduce you to Louis…and we will share another drink."
"I will look forward to it," Donovan said.
They both emptied their glasses, and Martinez turned toward the door.
"I haven't much time," he said.
Donovan nodded and stepped past him, opening the door.
"Be safe," he said.
Martinez turned, and one last time, he smiled.
"And you, my friend. And you…go with all the Gods at your back."
Martinez disappeared into the hall, and Donovan closed the door. He turned to his desk with the parchment still unopened in his hand. He knew there was a chance that when he opened it, there would be nothing there — or that whatever was written on it would be a fabrication. He didn't believe it. What he believed was that a burned bridge had been brought back from the ashes. He placed the folded paper on his desk. He wasn't quite ready to test his intuition, and he had a lot of work to do.
As if understanding, Cleo walked over and plopped down on top of the parchment, pinning it to the desk. She began washing her paw again, and Donovan laughed. He poured bourbon and scratched Cleo's ears. He raised his drink in a silent toast to Martinez, and to Louis. It was shaping up to be an interesting night.
Chapter Eight
After Martinez was gone, Donovan reached for the phone. Even though he now had a somewhat safer time ahead of him in regard to the Barrio, he thought it might be best to bring in an ally. Martinez had seemed sincere, and if it proved genuine, the gift he'd brought would do a great deal of good, but Donovan wasn't quite ready to invest his complete confidence. The old man had his own agenda, now and always, and it was best not to assume that it ran parallel to his own.
On the second ring a bright, cheerful voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Amethyst?" he asked.
"Who else would I be, love?" was the quick reply. "You did dial my number."
Donovan chuckled. "Some things have come up — some rather odd things. I was wondering if you might be free for dinner? While we eat, we could talk…"
"It sounds wonderful," she said, "but you come here. I've been out twice this week, and from the tone of your voice you aren't coming over to talk about old times or plan that vacation you keep promising me."
"You're going to cook, or should I bring something?"
"I'll cook. I'll surprise you."
"You never fail to do that," he said. "I'll be over about eight, then. I've had an interesting visitor, someone you know. There's trouble brewing in the Barrio. Coil came to me yesterday with reports."
"Anya Cabrera?" she asked.
"You've heard then?"
"I heard some disturbing things, but none that I've been able to cobble together into anything coherent."
"We'll compare notes then, and put together a battle plan."
"You expect a battle, do you?" she asked
Donovan smiled. He could almost see her impish grin as her words shifted up in tone.
"I do. It is best to always expect a battle. That way, when you find peace, you enjoy it all the more. I'll see you this evening."
"Bring wine."
The phone went dead and Donovan hung his up more slowly, staring at it and shaking his head. He turned and stroked Cleo, who rubbed eagerly up into his hand.
"More and more interesting," he said. "What do you think, Cleo? Is that paper what he says it is?"
The cat actually seemed to think about it before turning, folding in half, and washing her back foot. Donovan picked up the folded parchment, fingered it gently, and then carried it to his shelves. He tucked it carefully into the front cover of a large leather volume on the end of the shelf.
"There will be time enough to test it later," he said.
Cleo paid no attention to him at all. Donovan strode to the door, opened it and stepped into the hallway beyond. A moment later, he was gone.
~* ~
When Donovan reached Amethyst's door, he held a paper bag with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a single rose in the other. He was there on business, but he never visited empty handed. They'd known one another a very long time, but he still liked to surprise her.
The door opened, and Donovan stepped inside. It closed behind him with a soft click. The hallway was dimly lit. The air was scented with Jasmine. Everything was deep earth tones, soft satin and dark velvet. Amethyst stepped in from her den and smiled at him.
She was a tall woman with flame-red hair. Currently, that hair was adorned with cascades of dark, smoky crystals that winked at him with soft glimmers of light. She wore a floor length gown, slit up the side, and he could not help glancing at the flash of leg it revealed as he stepped closer.
"You dressed for the occasion?" he said.
"No," she laughed. "I had business earlier. I haven't had a chance to change. You like it?"
Donovan took the invitation to inspect her and smiled his appreciation.
"Very much so."
He handed her the rose, and then slid the wine out of its bag. Amethyst smelled the rose and then trailed it down her cheek and under her chin, obviously enjoying to the soft petals against her skin.
"I love roses," she said. "But you knew that."
"The wine is from Spain," he said. "Marques de Riscal."
"Red wine and red roses," she said, laughing. "If I didn't already know better, I'd think you had something in mind other than strange visitors and the Barrio."
"I wish that were true," he said. "Today Old Martinez came to visit. He brought me a gift."
"What did he want?" she asked, suddenly interested. "The two of you haven't spoken since…"
"That is done, too, I think," Donovan cut her off. "The lycanthrope was Martinez' son. His name is Louis. If what I'm led to believe is true, the gift Martinez brought me contains the instructions for creating a collar that prevents the change."
"A cure? He brought you a cure? What's he been doing with that all these years? Do you trust him?"
"I don't know. He seemed sincere, and there is no doubt that there is trouble in the Barrio. It wouldn't serve his interests to start trouble on a new front if he already has a war brewing on his doorstep. He came in search of the formula for a particular pigment of paint — Rojo Fuego."
Amethyst took a deep breath.
"You'd better pour that wine, then," she said, "because Martinez was here too. He didn't tell me any interesting tales of his son. He brought me a particularly powerful pair of "Apache Tears" from the desert. It's why I'm wearing these now." She brushed her fingers through her hair and the obsidian crystals tinkled. "I was celebrating."
"I take it that he needed something from you as well, then?" Donovan asked. "Something he didn't bother mentioning to me. He must have known I'd find out."
"I traded him three crystals," she said. "Prime crystals…red, blue, and yellow. They were concentrators."
"And he asked for all three?" Donovan frowned.
"No, he only asked for the red. I keep them in sets — I don't break them up. The other two alone would be of no use to me, and the one in imbalance would have been too powerful for any normal use. I explained that to him, and he was as patient as he was condescending."
"He doesn't have a normal use in mind," Donovan said.
He told her quickly about the young artist, Salvatore Domingo Sanchez.
"I don't know what Martinez is planning, but it involves the boy. There is something about the 'Fire Red' that is important to him…important enough that he doesn't trust the formula alone. I can't think of another reason he'd want your concentrator. He intends to use it to enhance the mixture."
"But why?" Amethyst asked. "If he's making paint for this boy…"
"We'll have to figure that out," Donovan said, "and soon. There's a more immediate problem, though. According to what I heard from Cord, and from comments that Martinez made, Anya Cabrera is meddling with powers that she will not long be able to control. She is trying to run Martinez, and anyone else who stands against her, out of the Barrio. Unfortunately, what she is unleashing will not stay bottled up for long. If she isn't stopped, we're going to have a problem leaking out into the city that we might not be able to solve."
"I heard that she was spending time with one of the local gangs," Amethyst said. "They're called Los Escorpiones, and even before Anya Cabrera, they were trouble."
"There is a gang near Martinez, as well," Donovan said thoughtfu
lly. "If my memory serves me, they are called 'The Dragons.'"
"Dragon Red," Amethyst said. "Coincidence?"
"Never," Donovan replied. He stepped past her to her bar and grabbed a corkscrew. "There's no such thing as coincidence — only controlled bursts of fate. We need to gather more information."
"Not tonight, I hope?" she asked.
"No," Donovan replied. "There's nothing we can do until morning. Well, almost nothing."
They both laughed, and he poured the wine. As Donovan swirled his before the first taste, it caught the light, deep and red. Like blood — or paint. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't put a finger on it.
Then Amethyst stepped closer and wound her arms around him, licking the rich red wine from his lips, and whatever thought he'd been about to have melted away.
Chapter Nine
Salvatore sat on the sidewalk outside of his shack. Much of the surface was covered in brightly colored drawings, soaring eagles and ocean waves breaking against stones on the beach. Where he sat there was a plain, white square of concrete, and in the center of that square, Salvatore drew.
He started with a black piece of charcoal, rough and sharpened to a point on one corner. He didn't see concrete, or even a blank slate. His mind was trapped in the dream that had driven him from sleep. The morning breeze riffled his hair, but sweat trickled down his neck and under his dirty t-shirt. He'd slept only a couple of hours, spent the rest of the night huddled on the corner of his bed, shivering and waiting for the light.
Now he worked. He struggled to force the images from his mind. He thought that maybe, if he recreated the dream, he could be free of it. Barring that, he could share it, and maybe someone could help him find his way through to a place where he could rest again. The moment the sun had broken across the city skyline, Salvatore had stumbled out into the light.
In the night, he'd dreamed. He'd walked again on that beach, a beach that could not exist. The dragons hadn't seen him — they had soared against the dark backdrop of the sky, winding and whirling around one another and screaming their defiance. Salvatore had found a place on an outcropping of stone to sit. The dragons were beautiful. He sat and watched them for hours, powerful and free. In the distance there was darkness deeper than anything he'd ever experienced. It didn't move closer, but it loomed like storm clouds on the horizon.
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