David Wilson - Heart of a Dragon

Salvatore reeled under the assault. He fought to close his eyes and blank the nightmare images from his thoughts. He fell back, landed roughly on the damp sand, and he saw it. The dragon reared over him in the strobed lightning illumination, its form and rage embedding themselves in his mind and soul.

Salvatore shook his head and whispered, "No," to the howling wind and roaring dragon, but there was nothing he could do. The dragon screamed and soared into the darkness, visible now, though barely. The sky melted from image to image as only dreams and nightmares can. Salvatore screamed then, too. He knew this Dragon, recognized the pulsing heat at the center of the creature's image. He wanted to cry out, to scream a warning, but it was too late.

The Dragon wheeled once, roared its defiance into the face of the storm, and flipped to its back in mid-air. It hung there for a long moment, and then plummeted toward the sand and waves. Salvatore turned and crawled toward the surf. He wanted to scream again, but the image of the falling dragon had robbed him of breath once more. He whispered, low and soft. "No."

The sudden crack of thunder too close to the shed ripped through Salvatore's dream and brought him bolt upright on the cot, shivering uncontrollably. His sheet was drenched in sweat, and wind whistled through the cracks in the walls and tore at him, dragging goose bumps up to ripple over his skin. His teeth chattered, and his eyes were open so suddenly, and so wide, that he was momentarily blinded. He saw nothing but the final image of the dream. Nothing but the dragon.

He gasped and fought to calm his heart, and his breath. The dragon released his vision, but it was trapped inside him, thrashing and raging against the storm that was his mind. He glanced toward the doorway, wanting to rush out into the night, and to find out what had happened. The visions never came to him without cause

Slowly, Salvatore rose, pulled his tattered jacket down from its hook on the wall and wrapped it around the damp sheet. He closed his eyes, but sleep was very slow to come, and not deep enough to provide rest. He dreamed of the dragon until the sun reached soft orange-red fingers over the skyline to tempt him from his bed. Finally he rose, dressed, and slipped out the door into the fresh morning air, where he walked to Old Martinez's steps and sat on the cool concrete to wait the "Prophet's" arrival. All he could expect was a warm cup of tea and a slice of bread, but at least he would not greet the morning alone.

Donovan DeChance sat by his fire and stared into the flames, lost in thought. He was a tall, striking man with long dark hair that washed back over his shoulders. His eyes — at first glance — seemed black, but they flashed violet if he turned his head just the right way. At that moment, he was idly stroking Cleopatra, his Egyptian Mau, and worrying over a problem that had haunted him for years. It seemed no more likely to be solved in that moment than it had in any of the other thousands he's spent pondering it, but he persisted.

The main room of his home was a combination library, den, living room and office. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves so tall that there were rolling ladders attached to each to make the uppermost shelves accessible. Along the base of the shelves were crates filled with more books, manuscripts, scrolls and documents. The contents of those crates overflowed onto the floor and flowed out to cover every horizontal space in the room with the exceptions of the chair he was sitting in, his desk, and the altar in the corner.

On the table beside him a tumbler of whiskey waited beside the slip of paper that had sparked his mood. It was a delivery notice — three more crates to arrive within the next couple of days. He knew he could find room for them along one of the walls, or behind his couch, but that wasn't the problem. Soon, something would have to give, and he wasn't ready to abandon his bedroom, or the few hideaways remaining to him.

When the phone rang he stared at it, at first unable to draw his thoughts back into the moment. He seldom got unexpected calls. For a moment he considered letting the answering machine handle it. He glanced at the crates and stacks of books and sighed heavily.

"Soon," he said, lifting Cleopatra carefully off his lap and standing. "Soon we will figure this out, Cleo, or you will find yourself sleeping four feet in the air on papyrus scrolls."

Cleo yawned, stretched and rubbed against his leg as he stepped to his desk and reached for the phone. Even the phone was old. It was black with an elegantly curved handset, and it looked out of place beside the wide, flat-screen computer monitor and the CPU.

"Yes?" Donovan said.

"It's Cord. I have information I think you'll be interested in."

Donovan frowned. He glanced at the fire, and at his chair, then back down at the phone. He considered chancing it and trusting his security, then sighed heavily.

"Not on the phone," he said. "Club Chaos. Ten o'clock."

"You're buying," Cord said.

The line went dead, and Donovan hung up. Cord was one of a string of informants and less-than-reputable denizens of the San Valencez underground who reported to Donovan regularly. The darker half of the city rested in a delicate balance, powers vying for control on all sides, new players dropping into the game unannounced, and Donovan couldn't afford not to remain current. He dealt in information and knowledge. His life often depended on knowing just a little bit more about things than anyone else involved in them, and so, instead of sitting and sipping whiskey as he tried once more to solve the conundrum of too many books and too few shelves, he turned toward the city.

"You'll have to watch the place for me, Cleo," he said. "I'm not expecting company, but we never know, do we?"

The cat stared up at him and licked its lips. The connection between the two was a deep one. If Donovan closed his eyes, he could watch himself through Cleo's eyes. He often wondered what the cat saw in those moments, but, once again, it was a subject for another time and place.

Donovan stepped to one of the few shelves in the room that was not completely overflowing with books and studied a small rack. Charms and pendants dangled from metal hooks. There were vials filled with powder, rags and pouches, and an array of stones lined up in careful symmetry. He never went to Club Chaos without proper preparation, particularly when Cord was involved. The man was much smarter than he let on, and Donovan wasn't naive enough to think he was the only beneficiary of that intelligence.

He studied the pendants carefully. He settled on an equal-armed cross in deep amethyst. It was set in an intricate pattern of silver with tiny carved characters along each band. He slipped this over his neck and dropped it beneath his shirt. He took a second group of green crystals that dangled from strong, thin chains joined by a loop at one end and dropped them into his hip pocket. He studied the rest of the shelf carefully, and then turned away. It was going to be a quick trip, and there wasn't any particular threat. He had his usual protections, and on any normal day they were enough. He just liked to have something up his sleeve for emergencies.

Cleopatra hopped up onto his desk and watched him with wide, baleful eyes. He stepped over and scratched her between her ears. She arched her back and pressed into his touch. Donovan smiled.

"Keep your eyes open, Cleo," he said. "I don't want any surprises when I get back."

Donovan glanced at the phone. He considered calling Amethyst. He knew she'd probably meet him if he asked her, and he'd feel better if someone else at least knew where he was. He shook his head, frowned, and turned away from the phone. He had no idea where his sudden paranoia was coming from, but he'd learned over a long life to trust his instincts, and though he didn't sense any particular danger in meeting with Cord, something felt wrong. No reason to drag anyone else into it, whatever it might be.