Heart of a Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Three

Martinez met them on the corner a few doors down from the Dragons' headquarters. Enrique was carried inside, but Martinez lingered. When the three of them were alone, Donovan filled him in quickly.

"So, when Jake tried to break into that circle, it held?" the old man asked.

"And when Los Escorpiones tried from the inside, it failed," Donovan said. "There is something here we aren't getting. Anya is no magician, as far as I know, but neither is she careless. What could she gain by letting the spirits out of the circle? We assumed that she placed wards to help bind them."

"That would make sense," Martinez said, "but the Loa aren't bound by the same powers as other spirits. I'm not certain their portal would be blocked by such a thing — not in the way you're suggesting."

"Then it has to be something else," Donovan said. "I have some research to do, I think. We need to go over this carefully and find what we've missed before it's too late — if it isn't already."

"You'll tell me what you find?" Martinez asked.

The two eyed one another for a moment.

"When are you going to tell me what you wanted the Rojo Fuego for?" Donovan asked. "Where did the dragons on those jackets come from?"

"Soon," Martinez said. "Give me a little time, and I will tell you everything. We owe you another debt, it seems, for bringing these two home."

"You'd better get in there," Amethyst cut in, "or there won't be two of them. It may already be too late. I didn't bring the proper things for a healing."

"I will do what I can," Martinez said.

He turned and disappeared into the well-lit interior of the Dragon's clubhouse.

Donovan watched until the old man was out of sight, then turned away.

"We may not have much time," he said.

They turned and left the Barrio. Donovan turned into a narrow street. It was lined with curious old shops. Amethyst glanced around, then frowned.

"This isn't the way back to your place," she said. "I've never seen this street before."

Donovan stopped where a dusty stairway led down away from the street. It was deeper than made sense, and with a grin, he started down. He went down three steps, stopped, and Amethyst almost bumped into him as he took two back up.

"What are you…"

In the shadows at the bottom of the stairwell, a door appeared. It shimmered slightly. It was made of wood panels, and there was a dusty glass window near the center. Donovan descended the rest of the way, reached out with one finger, and etched a symbol in the dust. Then he opened the door and stepped through without a backward glance. Amethyst stared for a moment, shrugged, and followed him into the darkness beyond.

They stepped into a tunnel; stone walls stretched off into the distance. There were small alcoves to either side where candles burned. Donovan gestured ahead with a flourish.

"Where are we?" Amethyst asked. "This isn't a normal portal."

"It's older," Donovan said. "Not too many know it's here. I use it when I'm in a hurry, and when I don't want to be followed."

"Who would be following us?"

"I don't know," Donovan said, "but if anyone was, they aren't now. It took me ten years to locate the sigil to open this, and another two years to find the proper stairwells. There are half a dozen of them in San Valencez."

Amethyst shook her head.

"You're always keeping secrets," she said.

"I wouldn't want to lose all my mystery," he said.

He hurried down the tunnel, and as he went, he counted passageways to the right and to the left. Finally, he stopped in front of one of the darkened entrances. He spun three times in place and stamped his foot, then stepped forward into shadow. This time Amethyst followed him without hesitation. They exited onto another stairway. Above them the night sky was dark, the stars blanked by the lights of the city. Traffic passed nearby, and a horn honked. Donovan led the way to the end of the street, and they turned into the alley behind his building.

"You know you're going to have to teach me," she said.

"Of course," he laughed. "There is more to that tunnel than meets the eye — more than I've been able to discover. Depending on how you use it, it can take you… many places. I've been meaning to take you down there, because it's carved of stone — and because certain documents I've located seem to indicate that the original keys may have been formed of crystal."

"Now I'm intrigued," she said.

They climbed the back stairs and took the maintenance entrance. There was no one in sight, and moments later the elevator opened on the thirteenth floor.

"Let's hope we find something quickly," Donovan said, opening his door and holding it for her to enter. "A lot may be counting on it."

The heavy door closed behind them with a loud click, and the hallway faded to normalcy, empty and drab.

~* ~

Martinez entered the room and went straight to where Enrique lay on a low couch. He still wore his leather jacket. Jake stood close beside him, as well as another man, slender and tall with very dark hair. As he approached, Martinez laid a hand on the tall man's shoulder.

"Let me through, Manuel," he said. "Give him room to breathe. I will do everything that I can for him, but you're going to have to give me room to work."

Manuel stepped aside, but only slightly. He had one hand on Enrique's shoulder, and he did not release his hold.

"You have to fix him," he said.

Martinez ignored this and knelt beside the fallen Dragon. Enrique was pale. His skin was clammy, and there was dried and clotted blood crusted on his shirt, and the inside of the jacket. Martinez peeled away the shirt. He drew a leather pouch from beneath his robes, detaching it from his belt with a quick tug. He opened the drawstrings and pulled out a long, thin blade. He gripped it and leaned over Enrique. Manuel reached down and caught him by the shoulder.

"What are you doing, old man?"

Martinez shook him off and glared.

"If you interrupt me again, I'll have you removed," he said. "You are here out of respect, offer me the same."

He turned back, lifted the soiled fabric of Enrique's shirt in one hand and began quickly cutting it away with the knife. He worked carefully until the wound was clear.

"Get me water," he said. "Clean rags."

Manuel turned abruptly and did as he was told. Martinez laid a hand on Enrique's forehead. He pressed his fingers to the man's throat. The pulse was there, but it was very, very weak.

Snake stepped out of the shadows. He stood by his fallen brother, watching over Martinez's shoulder as he worked. The Dragon's leader's eyes were deep pits. He obviously hadn't had enough sleep. Lines creased his forehead, and his hand was gripped into a fist.

"We shouldn't have sent them off like that," he said. "We should have sent more — all of us, maybe."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Martinez said. "More men would have died. This was the only way."

"That's what you say," Snake said. "It's not the way The Dragons live — not the way we die. I should have been there."

Martinez turned and stood suddenly, facing off with the taller, younger man, but not giving an inch.

"If this was a normal night, and you were facing a normal enemy, I would have watched you go and waved as you disappeared. You know better. You know this isn't like anything you've seen before — it's like nothing that I have ever seen. We are doing what we can. I know this isn't your way — it is mine — and it is the only thing that has kept you alive this long."

Jake stepped forward.

"You should have seen him, Snake," he said quietly. "It was like watching some kind of crazy science fiction movie. Man, he ran up a wall of smoke. That thing that stabbed him — that creature — that was no Escorpione. They're fast, and they're bad news, but they're just men. You and me, we've been fighting them all our lives. The old man is right — and we should have been able to do more — but having the rest of you there wouldn't have stopped those things. They poured out of that smoke like demons."

Snake turned away. Martinez started to follow, but Jake shook his head. The old man nodded and turned back to Enrique instead. Manuel had returned with water. The wound was uglier even than Martinez had imagined. He cleaned it as well as he could, applied salve, and then, with a long, curved needle and coarse thread, he stitched the torn flesh carefully. When he was done, he packed a strip of cloth soaked in water and a small pinch of herbs from his bag over the wound. He bandaged the cloth in place, then laid his hand on top and closed his eyes.

He spoke very softly, and though there were several Dragons close enough to hear him, they could make out no words. Those watching carefully saw that where his hand met the bandage, flickers of bluish light rippled across the fallen man's skin. Martinez stayed like that for some time, and then suddenly, stood and staggered back.

He dropped to his knees, reached out to try and put his hand back on the wound, but he nearly fell. Jake leaned down and caught him, holding him up off the floor. After a moment, Martinez brushed his hands away gently, and stood. He was shaky, and his eyes were dark.

"There is nothing more I can do," he said.

Manuel dropped down beside his brother. The steady rise and fall of Enrique's chest had ceased. His face was still, but peaceful. All trace of the blue light was gone. Martinez stepped close again and brushed a fingertip across Enrique's throat. There was no pulse. He waited a long moment, and then stepped back, shaking his head.

"It was too deep," he said. "He should have died immediately. He was strong — very strong."

Tears rolled from Manuel's eyes and ran freely down his cheeks. He made no move to brush them away. He leaned in and laid his forehead on his brother's chest, as if trying to hear something being whispered to him, or to draw the man's soul up and into himself. To call him back. His shoulder's shook, but he did not release the cry of anguish building in his throat, or give in to the sobs that threatened to shake him apart.

He stood very slowly and left the room. The others stood in ranks and watched him leave in silence. Moments later the back door of the clubhouse slammed. Snake stepped in from the next room and walked to stand beside Martinez.

"This has to end," he said. "We can't live like this — I can't lose more of them. First Vasquez — now this. I understand the road. I understand the engine on my bike, and the wind in my hair. I understand that I have to fight, and that I might die. This…I don't understand any of it."

"We will stop her," Martinez said softly. "You have to trust me. I am doing what I can — and there are others."

"The two who helped us?" Jake asked.

Martinez nodded.

"They are powerful, and it is good that they fight at our side. What we are up against is more than any one of us could withstand. They will fight, and we have to help in any way we can. We have to take the war to Anya Cabrera and her demons, or we will be lost before we even know that the battle has begun."

Before Snake could reply, Manuel burst back into the room. He went straight to his brother's side, and he knelt again. He kissed Enrique lightly on the brow; his hands clenched so tightly the nails bit into the palms of his hands. Then, working slowly and very, very gently, he began to work the leather jacket off of his brother's arm. He pulled it free of one arm, and turned to Jake.

"Help me," he said. His voice cracked.

Jake hurried to do as Manuel asked. They gently rolled Enrique to the side, slid the blood-soaked jacket out from under him, and pulled it free. Manuel dropped it on the floor at his feet, then turned back to his brother. He carefully arranged Enrique's arms, crossed on his chest. He leaned closer and closed his brother's eyelids. Then, crossing himself, he leaned down and picked the jacket up, holding it in his hands and staring at the dragon painted on the back.

It was still beautifully worked, but something had changed. It didn't have the luster it had possessed when Salvatore first painted it. The ice-blue seemed more like a dull gray. It might have been the light, but the jacket mirrored the death pallor of its owner.

Without a word, Manuel turned and headed for the door.

"Where you going, bro?" Jake called out.

"Don't follow me," Manuel said. "Don't. Fucking. Follow. I'm going for a ride."

"You should leave the jacket," Martinez said.

Manuel spun and locked his gaze on the old man. He held the jacket very tightly in his hands, and his arms shook from the tension of that grip.

"He was my brother, old man. This was his, and now it's mine. I will wear it in his honor, and when the time comes to take revenge — I will wrap it around the throat of the Escorpione bastard who killed him."

Before anyone could say another word, Manuel swung the jacket over his shoulders and slipped it on. He ignored the blood. Without a word he spun and left the room. Jake went to the door after him, but before he could even get onto the sidewalk the powerful growl of Manuel's bike ripped through the night.

With a squeal of rubber on pavement and a spray of gravel, the big chopper shot off down the street.

"Let him go," Snake said, stepping out beside Jake. "His brother is dead. Our brother is dead. Let him mourn. He'll be back. Let's do the right thing and take care of Enrique."

Jake nodded, and the two stepped back inside together. Martinez slipped past them to stand in the cool evening air. He stared off down the street after Manuel. His expression was troubled.

"Be safe," he said.

Then he turned and followed the others inside, closing the door on the night.

~* ~

Manuel gunned the old Harley and skidded around the corner of Forty-Second Street, barely catching traction before he slammed into the curb on the far side of the street. There was no traffic, and he shot off toward the entrance to the freeway. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he had to get out of town, get to somewhere he could cut loose without fear of being pulled over. The wind whipped through his hair, and he wanted it harder and faster. He wanted it to blow the world away behind him and erase the events of the night.

He turned onto the ramp without running into a cop and shot up the coast highway. He took the exit that led to the two-lane toward Lavender, and the mountains beyond. There were roads up there where he could be alone, where he and the bike and the road could mourn with one voice. He thought, maybe, if he reached the topmost peak of the mountain, up near the border of the sky, that he might catch a glimpse of his brother — of his spirit — his dragon.

The jacket felt heavy and wrong. It fit poorly, and he frowned. He and Enrique had always worn one another's clothing. They were nearly the same size, built the same, hard to tell apart after Manuel had shaved his beard. They had been inseparable, but now that word made no sense. It had no truth behind it. They were separated, and despite the fact that he somehow felt the outline of the dragon through the leather on his back — a dragon he could have sworn shared his brother's soul, he had never felt so alone. There was an ache in his chest — not where his heart was broken, but where the blade had sliced the jacket. He gritted his teeth and ignored it.

He flew down the highway and turned off on the mountain road, sliding up through shadows a little more slowly and then gunning the engine again. He raced upward, taking turns at crazy speeds and skidding into embankments.

At some point, a shadow rose to cover the moon. He could still see the pavement — the headlight of his bike sliced easily through the darkness. He glanced up, and nearly slid off the side of the road. Something soared overhead, something long and sleek, serpentine and powerful. He saw a flicker of blue light along its length, and heard the rustle of huge, leathery wings.

He roared around another corner. The road was narrow. The side of the mountain was steep, almost a cliff. He could not take his eyes off of the dragon. It was a dragon — it had to be a dragon. He drove straight at it, lifted his hand and reached out to it. He heard the impossibly loud scream as it called to him, and without hesitation, he launched the bike off into empty, open space.

"Enrique!" he screamed. "Brother!"

And then it was gone. Silvery clouds swam across the face of the moon, and he was falling, screaming, into tall trees and rocks. The bike struck first, bounced once, and flipped. Manuel's head slammed into the trunk of a tree. Branches broke and cut at his flesh, but he was already gone. He hit, finally, and slid for a very long time. The bike lay on its side, engine still idling. The headlight was smashed, but the taillight blinked through the shadows.

The jacket slid up and over the back of his head where he lay, covering him like a shroud.