David Wilson - Heart of a Dragon

Hector stood his ground. He wanted to turn and rush for the exit, but he knew to do so would mean his death, or worse. He remembered what had happened to his men. He thought about Paulo, the man's empty eyes and limp, vacant features. He did not want to become like Paulo.

Anya stepped closer, and then she raised her right hand, palm up, and snapped the fingers of her left. The younger woman, Kim, slipped out from the shadows behind Anya's chair with a jangle of silver and placed something in Anya's hand. Kim was gone almost as soon as she'd appeared.

"I understand your concern," Anya said softly. "And I understand how you feel about those who follow you. If you trust me, I will bring you through this, and you will be stronger than you have ever been before. Those who stand with you will be rewarded. I have a gift."

She held out the object Kim had given her, and Hector saw that it was a velvet bag secured at the top by leather ties. On the surface of the bag, symbols had been stitched with brightly colored thread. He didn't recognize them, but they drew his eye. Anya opened the bag, tipped it up, and shook three small dark statuettes into her hand. They resembled the one dangling about her neck.

"Take these," She said, dropping them into Hector's hand. "Keep one for yourself. Choose two that you trust — not those who have been touched, but others. Give the other two to them. In two days time I will hold a service. You must come, and you must bring your men. All of them. We will unleash a power, you and I."

Hector turned the small statues over in his hand, examining them. They were waxy to the touch. Something passed from the soft stone into the palm of his hand, and he nearly dropped them. Instead, he closed his hand around them tightly.

Anya stepped closer. Hector swallowed, but he didn't flinch. She insinuated herself against him, brushed her long hair over his shoulders and leaned up to whisper in his ear. He felt the brush of her breasts through the soft silk of her gown. The blood drained from his face, and he trembled with the effort of remaining still. Her scent was musky, and it stole his ability to concentrate. He knew if she came closer, she'd feel his erection, and the thought of what she might do was nearly more than he could stand. His muscles tightened and he bit down hard on his bottom lip.

"We will rule the Barrio. The Loa will come to us. They will walk the streets and they will leave our enemies like litter in the gutters."

Anya trailed her fingers up Hector's chest and drew her index finger up his throat to the tip of his chin. She leaned closer and licked his lip as if tasting him. Then, with a flourish, she stepped back.

Hector grabbed his courage a last time.

"My men?" he asked.

Anya met his gaze and held it, then, as if satisfied with what she'd seen, she nodded. She snapped her finger again, and one of the huge, bald black men stepped forward. It might have been Raoul or Stephen, or one of half a dozen others. Hector couldn't be certain without turning away from Anya Cabrera's gaze. His father had taught him to never look away from a snake. You might get bitten, but you would see it coming.

The big man handed Anya a small, clear bottle. She passed it to Hector.

"Give each of them a single spoonful of this."

Hector took the bottle, but he didn't look down to examine it.

"It will cure them?"

"It will test them," Anya said flatly. "If they are strong, it will bring them back to you. If they fail to meet its challenge? They will die. It is the only way."

Hector swallowed again, and then nodded. He turned and started across the room.

"Do not forget," Anya called after him. "Two nights from now… in the yard."

The curtains at the far side of the room parted. This time it was the girl, Kim. Hector wondered vaguely how she'd gotten ahead of him and into the passageway. He hadn't seen her pass, and he hadn't heard the telltale jingle of the ornaments in her hair — yet there she was. He followed her into the gloom without looking back, the waxy, disturbing figurines clutched tightly in one fist, and the bottle in the other. As he walked, finally, his erection loosened, and he began to breathe more steadily.

The farther Martinez walked from the Barrio, the more he stood out among those he passed. They took no notice of him as he slid from aging prophet into the guise of a homeless vagrant by traveling only a few city blocks. There were cities within cities in San Valencez. The inhabitants of one seldom crossed the border into the next. It was comfortable that way. No one had to act to protect a border that wasn't threatened, and what was there in the Barrio that would tempt the well-tailored suits of downtown into the squalor of the Latin quarter?

Martinez kept one hand in his pocket, where he turned a small parchment around and around in his fingers. He had been saving it against just such a day as this. He intended it as a gift, but the gift would be more of a peace offering, and a bribe. It had been many years since he'd stepped foot in the home of Donovan DeChance There were reasons for that long absence, and he wasn't certain that even the gift in his pocket would bridge that particular gap. It didn't matter; he had to try.

DeChance collected information. There was nowhere in the world more likely to yield a lost tome, or a forgotten manuscript than the townhouse in downtown San Valencez. Martinez hadn't seen for himself, but his sources told him that much of the information had been scanned and catalogued digitally — that the arcane knowledge of the world was being organized for the first time on computer memory banks and protected more carefully than the gold in Fort Knox. Martinez had no use for telephones, or computers, pagers or stereos. He was born of a different age, and he clung to what he knew best. It didn't mean he wouldn't take advantage of sources as they presented themselves. If DeChance had what he needed, he'd have to find a way to convince the man to share.

The sun was low in the sky when he finally climbed the steps up into the building that held DeChance's townhouse. There was no doorman, just a series of buzzers in an ornamental brass panel. Martinez smiled as he pressed the number thirteen and waited. He heard a metallic buzz, and a moment later DeChance's voice grated through the small speaker.

"It has been a long time," he said.

Martinez smiled. He'd had no illusions about arriving unnoticed.

"Too long, I think," he replied. "And without the apology I should have offered long ago."

The speaker was silent, but a second and louder metallic buzz announced that the lock barring Martinez from entering had been disengaged. The old man pressed through and entered the foyer. He knew the way to the elevators, but they made him claustrophobic, and in any case they would be of no help. Most buildings in the older part of San Valencez — those that climbed higher than a dozen floors — skipped the number thirteen. The elevator in DeChance's building was no different, except that the elusive thirteenth floor actually existed. Martinez took the stairs slowly, resting often. He knew DeChance would be patient. He only hoped he would also be forgiving.

The climb gave him time to think — and to remember. The rift between himself and DeChance was entirely his own fault, and he realized that he could have fixed it any time — on any given day. He could have come here, as he was coming here tonight, and made things right. It had never been important until now, and that meant that it became important only when he needed something. Donovan would see that too…and yet, as he trudged up the stairs toward the thirteenth, Martinez found that he was suddenly and honestly sorry it had come to this.

He rested at each level. He was an old man. He'd been an old man for a very long time, and before that he was middle aged, and young for equally long times. He had seen things and known things — so many things — that he'd managed to forget which were important, and why. He waited an extra moment on the twelfth landing, and then climbed the last set of stairs and pushed through the dusty door to the thirteenth floor.