He stepped closer and took Salvatore by the arm. Salvatore detected no unity among those gathered, though they stood so closely packed it was difficult to tell where one ended, and the next began. There was fear in the air, some of it directed at Snake, and some of it beyond the yard and the clubhouse into the night. There was nothing holding them together but the iron will of the man they called Presidente and the presence of the crazy old man, Martinez, at his side.
Jake stepped forward and handed a long pole to Snake, who slammed the base of it into the ground at his feet. Salvatore saw that the canvas he'd painted on had been wound around the top of that pole. He stared at it, mesmerized. He knew what was to come, or thought he did, but he couldn't imagine the effect it might have on the gathered Dragons.
When he was certain that he had their attention, Snake reached up and untied the string at the top of the banner, letting the sheet uncurl from the pole. Opening it carefully so that the design remained concealed, he stood, tall and ominous, full of a strange energy that Salvatore felt rippling in the air.
"Tonight," Snake said, staring out into the darkness at some point beyond his followers, "I fight Los Escorpiones. Alone, or with you — I fight." He swept his gaze over the gathering, catching the few that started guiltily at his words, boring through them mercilessly."They have come to the very borders of our streets and homes. They have killed our brothers — they have dishonored our colors. If we allow this to pass, we are nothing."
He turned to Salvatore, and Salvatore felt the grip on his arm tighten. A part of him wanted very much to run, but he stood his ground.
"Here stands Salvatore Domingo Sanchez," Snake said. "In his heart live dragons! There are those among you with whom he has shared their flame. He is what we should be. He is what we must become. I don't know when or where I lost the way, but he brought me back. He can bring us all back. Somehow he looked inside of us — of me — and found the Dragons. He found them, and he called them back."
Salvatore turned, ignoring those gathered, to stare at Snake. No one had ever said such things about him. No one had ever made him feel such honor.
"The old one," Snake gestured at Martinez, who stood still and silent, a knowing smile on his lips, "assures me that he knows what is to come. He has had a vision. He has seen the coming battle, and Los Escorpiones die tonight. They cease to exist. Who, among you, do you suppose will bring this about? The biggest? The strongest? No. It won't be me, and it won't be any of you, because we don't deserve it. We lost our way. We lost our power. It will be Sal who saves us; he bears our power. In his talent, and his art beats the heart of a Dragon!"
A wave of nervous energy rippled through the clearing. Salvatore picked up snippets of thought, though not clearly enough to tell which came from which man. He'd never been able to read minds, but somehow he knew that this was new…something different.
They were still scared, and now they thought Snake was crazy. They expected a fight, and they knew what they were up against — or thought that they did. This wasn't supposed to be a weird ritual like Anya Cabrera used against them — it was supposed to be a rally, and a battle. — the last act in a war. Nobody had quite the strength or the courage to voice their doubts. Snake was a dangerous man. If he was crazy now — well, then he would just be more dangerous. They waited for him to make sense, and for the call to leave, a call they all dreaded.
Snake reached up and whipped the flag open. He almost yanked the pole from Salvatore's hands, but Salvatore clung to the pole with all his strength and dug his heels into the soft earth. Snake's dragon floated into the air on its background of white. The sheet rippled and whipped in the wind with a snap like thunder.
Salvatore stared up at the creature. He remembered it — knew it so well he could have traced its outline in the dirt with a stick and brought it to life — but he didn't remember the painting. His stomach lurched, and now he clung to the flagpole for support. He saw the city, rising up to meet him. He felt the air whistle past his years and saw the glowing towers below. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. He felt the dragon's claws clutch him tightly. The sensation of falling became one of soaring — gliding flat just clear of the turreted towers and massive stone walls.
And then he stood, hands clutching the flagpole so tightly his fingers felt as though they would snap from the strain. Snake gripped his shoulders and held him upright, and that other world faded into a wall of faces reflecting firelight. His first thought was that they would think that he was crazy. Surely they hadn't seen that city — hadn't seen what he had seen. After a moment, he relaxed in Snake's grip. There was no laughter. They all stared up and over his head, where the flag and the dragon waved in the wind. Not a man among them spoke.
"It's time," Snake cried. "We ride…we fight."
He turned and yanked the flagpole from the dirt and Salvatore's hands. Salvatore fell in behind, and they passed through the crowd, who parted like a dark, brooding ocean. Martinez stayed by the fire. This would not be his fight, but Salvatore had been swept up in the moment. Snake didn't hesitate as he passed through the clubhouse and back out the front. He strode to his bike and Salvatore hurried at his heels.
Snake swirled the flagpole briskly, wrapping the dragon tightly. He handed the pole to Salvatore, who held it without question. Snake pulled a bit of rawhide from his pocket and tied it around the flag, securing it to the pole. When he was finished, he turned to Salvatore.
"You'll ride with me, Sal," he said. "When we get where we're going, you'll carry the flag. Whatever happens, you stay with me. No matter what you see, no matter what happens, you keep that dragon flying. Understand?"
Salvatore nodded. Snake climbed onto his bike, and Salvatore slipped in behind him, leaning on the tall sissy bar. He clutched the flagpole like a lance, letting it rest on Snake's shoulder. He grabbed Snake's jacket with his free hand and held on for dear life as the big man kicked started the engine. All around them, the Dragons poured out of the clubhouse, mounted their bikes and started their engines. The roar of the powerful machines reminded Salvatore dimly of the far-off cries of those other dragons.
They pulled away from the curve and roared into the night. Martinez stood in the pool of light from the clubhouse doorway, watching as they disappeared into shadow.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Donovan and Amethyst returned to the park where Anya Cabrera's fires had burned only short hours before, but this time they traveled on foot. There was no way to know where the Escorpiones trapped in the portals might have gone, or if they'd gone anywhere at all. It seemed prudent to avoid that confrontation for the moment.
They stuck to the shadows, but there was no activity. Darkness had fallen, and though the street lights glimmered dimly, they weren't bright enough to provide more than small pools of illumination, surrounded by deep shadows.
The park was deserted. They stopped on the far side of the street and studied the scene of the ritual carefully. There were few trees in the park, and most of them were Palms. There was nowhere to hide. Nothing moved, and the only sign of the ritual that had taken place was a drift of smoke from the spot where the central bonfire had burned.
"They're gone," Donovan said. "But where?"
"That's not the only question," Amethyst added, stepping into the street and heading across toward the park. "I was the sacrifice for that ritual — but we don't know if they managed to complete it without me. We have to find them, but first we have to know what we're up against."
Donovan followed her, scanning the street a final time before stepping into the park. Whatever had happened here, it was over. Anya Cabrera and her minions had disappeared completely, taking Los Escorpiones with them. In fact, they'd taken everything with them, cleaning the area so thoroughly it was difficult to believe they'd been there at all.
Donovan moved to the remnant of the central fire. He grabbed a branch and dug around in the ashes. There were bits and pieces of wood and charcoal, but though he circled the enti
re pit, nothing else came to light.
"The ritual burned it out," Donovan said. "If there was anything in that fire that might have helped us, it's gone now."
Amethyst walked to the top of the circle, where the post had been driven into the ground. It was gone, and the hole where it had stood had been filled with soot and ashes. She leaned in and looked more closely.
"There's something here," she said.
Donovan stepped over and was about to poke the end of his stick into the hole, when she laid a hand on his arm and stopped him.
"Wait. I don't mean there's something you can find in the ashes. Something happened here — something…"
Amethyst pulled a thin, silver chain up over her head. A blood-red crystal dangled from the end of it. She held it cupped in her hands, breathed on it, and then let the chain slip through her grip until the crystal dangled from her fingers. She spun it in a slow circle around the circumference of the posthole. At first, nothing happened. Then the ashes near the center of the hole shifted lifted and spun, as if caught in a wind, spreading out in a wider and wider circle as Amethyst widened the arc of the crystal's motion.
"What…" Donovan clamped his mouth shut as the ashes shimmered, and turned red.
Where the hole had been, a bright, wet circle had formed. It looked as if it was a puddle of fresh blood. Ripples began near the center, spreading outward. Then they cracked and broke like ice on a pond. The ridges and crevasses formed lines and then knit into an ever-sharpening image. Amethyst concentrated. Donovan stepped back for a better view. Before the image was complete, he knew the answer.
"My God," he said. "It's Anya Cabrera. She was the sacrifice."
Amethyst stood quickly. As she drew the crystal away, the bloody image shattered to ash and dust as if had never existed. She dropped the necklace back over heard head and tucked the crystal out of sight.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
Donovan had already turned, and was headed back toward the street at a run.
"If she sacrificed herself, it means they completed the ritual. If that's true, then the Loa are trapped in this dimension in human form. That's what we feared. Now it's worse."
"Worse?"
"The worst that we feared was that Anya Cabrera would control an army of dark spirits and use them to take over the Barrio. Now those spirits are here, but there is no one to control them. I'm not sure what has happened, but we have to find Anya's followers, and we have to find Los Escorpiones, before it's too late, and not just for the Barrio. If those spirits get loose in the city, we may never track them down."
"Where are we going?"
"We have to try and find Martinez." Donovan said. "And I think we'll have to chance the portals. If whatever he's planning has already begun, they need to know what happened here. If not, it seems likely that Anya's people will act against the Dragons."
"They'll be slaughtered," Anya said.
"I don't know about that. Martinez has something up his sleeve. Whatever happens, it isn't going to be good for the Dragons, Los Escorpiones, or The Barrio."
They entered the alley at a run. Donovan leaped down onto the stone steps. This time, instead of carefully taking steps up and back, his feet moved so quickly it was like a dance. Within moments the portal opened, and they leaped through.
"This way," he cried.
They turned right and pounded down the corridor. They passed rows of doors to either side so quickly there was no time to take in details. Amethyst glanced over her shoulder several times, but whatever had become of the Loa they'd trapped in the passage earlier, neither they, nor their human hosts were in sight.
Donovan led her up a set of stairs on the left, and moments later they stepped out onto the street. They stood outside an abandoned warehouse. There was nothing to indicate that this set of stairs had been used in the last fifty years. The building was run down with boards covering what remained of the windows. The bricks were painted in bright colors by graffiti artists. There was no one in sight.
"This way," Donovan said.
He hurried down the street and around a corner. Not too far in the distance, a single home was lit up. It looked as though a party was taking place in the back, but there was no sound.
"That's the Dragons' clubhouse," Donovan said. "There are lights; maybe we're not too late."
They ran the few blocks to the clubhouse, but before they arrived, Donovan's heart sank. There were no bikes out front. The door was closed, and though firelight flickered out in back, no shadows moved in that light, and there were no voices. As they reached the front door, Martinez stepped from the shadows.
"They are gone," he said. "They are heading back to Santini Park."
"We have to get over there," Donovan said. "Anya Cabrera completed her ritual, but she sacrificed herself in the process. I don't know what is waiting in that park, or if Anya's spirits will even answer the call with her dead, but if they are there, it's going to be bad. Much worse than last time."
"I sensed that something had shifted," Martinez said.
The old man looked exhausted. He seemed thinner, and older. His snow-white hair floated about his face like a gray cloud. His shoulders were stooped.
"I have done what I can," he said. "I gave them a chance. Salvatore is with them. He bears their standard into battle. You saw what the dragons he painted on their jackets could do. This one was painted with the Rojo Fuego. The boy is very powerful. He is connected to another place…a place where dragons are more than men. I cannot say that it will be enough, but I can say that I do not think Anya Cabrera's dark spirits will find it an easy battle to win."
"Can the boy control it?" Amethyst asked.
Martinez shrugged. "As well as it can be contained, he can. I can't help but think that if Anya gave her life for this battle, there is still something we're missing. I can't believe she would just perish and leave the world to its own devices. Her intention was to rule, not just to destroy."
"You could be right," Donovan said. "In any case, we have to get over there. I don't know what we can do to help, but we have to try."
"Go then," Martinez said. "It isn't far. I'm afraid I'm too old, and too weary, to make a good run of it. You'll have to tell me the story, when it's done."
"I hope there's someone left to tell it," Donovan said.
He turned, and ran down the street, his jacket trailing behind him. Amethyst followed. Martinez stood and watched them go until all there was to see was mist and shadow. Then, slowly, he turned back to the clubhouse, opened the door, and stepped inside. The empty street returned to shadows, and to silence.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Santini Park was awash in silent shadows. The Dragons arrived in a slow, winding string of bright headlight beams and rumbling engines. Snake pulled up first, as he had before the previous battle. He let the old bike roll to a stop against the curb, slid the kickstand into place, and sat very still. Salvatore sat behind him, clinging to Snake's jacket with one arm and holding onto the flagpole with the other. His shoulder ached from where the wind had fought to rip his burden from his arms. His eyes watered, and his eyes were wide.
It hadn't been a long ride, but Salvatore was unused to the precise balance and the whipping of the wind against his unprotected face. Snake had ridden without a helmet, his long hair flowing out behind him and tickling Salvatore's face. They had never gotten over twenty miles an hour, but it had reminded Salvatore of that other place, of flying in the grip of the great red dragon. When he closed his eyes, he could see the city below, and the glowing, colored towers.
Now the others pulled in behind them. They peeled off to either side, flowing out and parking like rows of dominoes, each bike tipping onto its kickstand a moment before the next in line. They followed Snake's lead and sat very still. Salvatore scanned the park, but nothing in that darkness moved. He allowed himself to hope, just for a moment, that no one else would come. There was no way to know for certain that Los Escorpiones would meet this challen
ge, though they certainly must know by now that the Dragons were on the move. Word in the Barrio traveled like smoke, or the wind. Nothing happened that did not eventually make its way to the most distant of ears.
When the last of the Dragons had cut his engine, and they sat in a long, glittering line, the chrome of their engines catching and recasting moonlight, their faces shadowed silhouettes. The night went so deathly silent that Salvatore thought they must all be able to hear the pounding of his heart. It wasn't so much the fear of Los Escorpiones as the fact he could not see them. He could not hear them. He felt them like prickles of ice walking on spider feet over his skin. He sensed them in the hairs at the nape of his neck. He tasted the fear of those surrounding him, and an answering…something…in the darkness.
Snake slid off the bike and stepped onto the sidewalk. He scanned the park slowly, but there was nothing to see. Salvatore climbed carefully off the bike and stood beside Snake. To the right and left, the others followed suit. They lined the sidewalk, and this time there were so many that the entire edge of the park became a wall of Dragons. They didn't speak, and they didn't move. Every man of them waited for a sign from Snake.
In the park, the shadows shifted and slid. Patches of darkness so black they stood out, even against the darkness of the unlit field spread out before them, moved and then disappeared. There were lights in the distance. At least, to Salvatore they seem to be far in the distance. He knew the park, though, and it wasn't that big. It wasn't that deep. Those lights looked too far away to exist, and they danced in and around the moving shadows like will-o-the-wisps.
At every movement, Salvatore felt a shiver of fear dance up his spine. His hands were cold and clammy where he held the flagpole, and he tightened his grip until it was painful. He had one purpose, one reason to stand where he stood. He had to hold the flag. He had to hold it no matter what happened. He had to hold it, or whatever was out there in the darkness would win, and he would be standing there unprotected.
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