David Wilson - Heart of a Dragon

He stepped out of his door, locked it carefully, closed his eyes and set the wards. He felt ancient forces converge as he mouthed the incantations. The ornate wooden door grew unfocused, shimmered for a moment, and as he stepped away it took on the aspect of a more mundane frame — painted dingy white and stained from too many hand prints and boot toes over the years. Donovan had stayed in those rooms a very long time, and he'd made a number of "upgrades" — he liked to keep them to himself. He owned the entire building, though it would have been difficult to trace it back to him. It allowed him to make hidden modifications, and to come and go as he pleased, while appearing to those around him to be just another tenant.

He avoided the elevators and took the stairs to the first floor. Once there, he turned toward the back of the building. There was a maintenance exit that led to an alley behind the building, and he slipped through it quietly into the muggy southern California night. He stood very still in the shadows and waited. If anyone had been watching for him to exit, they'd follow. If anyone outside was waiting for him, he wanted to know they were there before making a move.

All that stirred were scraps of paper in the breeze. The alley opened on the street at one end; at the other was a solid brick wall. Donovan turned away from the street. When he reached the rear wall, he walked along it slowly, counting bricks. He touched the thirty-third from the right, on the eighth row from the bottom. The brick shimmered. Donovan stepped back and watched as the tombstone shaped outline of a doorway formed on the surface of the wall. Three stone steps led down into the darkness beyond the doorway, and he took them quickly, running down all three, back up two, and then stepping back down and pushing on the wooden door ahead of him. It swung inward, and he stepped through, leaving the alley behind.

The door closed behind him with a click, and he stood in a corridor with stone walls stretching out to the right and left. Along the walls doors were lined up at even intervals, stretching off beyond his sight. The air was cool and dank and there was an odd, smoky scent in the air.

Torches shone at intervals along the corridor, but there was no indication of how long they'd burned, or who might have lit them. Donovan had discovered references to the corridor in a crumbling diary written by an early Californian explorer. It matched notes in ancient European texts, and at least one carefully preserved Asian scroll. All indicated a set of corridors, a nexus providing a central entrance and exit to a series of portals. The network was vast, and if everything he'd read was correct, all of those doorways might not open onto Earth. Fortunately, all of those he'd managed to open did.

There were lesser portals known to many of the denizens of San Valencez, but to his knowledge, Donovan was the only one to discover this older route, and he kept his secrets very close. Sometimes a secret was the difference between life and death.

When he'd discovered this first entrance, he'd purchased the building closest to it. The wall and the brick were an illusion — the steps that led down to the portals each had their own wards. His opened with a simple mathematical solution contrived of climbing and descending the correct number of stairs in the proper order. Others required more intricate keys and rituals. It was a mystery he'd only begun to unravel, but it had proven very useful. He believed that there had once been keys, possibly formed of crystal, but their location was lost to time

The corridor was ancient and powerful, and he never stepped into it without a twinge of nerves. Whatever power had created the portals and the corridor that joined them had stood for centuries, perhaps longer. The thought of how far they might stretch, and of who — or what- might share that corridor at any given time was sobering. It was also possible for magic — over time — to fade, or warp. He didn't think he wanted to be in the corridor when that happened.

Donovan walked slowly away from the doorway that led to his alley. As he walked, he counted the doorways on his right. He'd found that if he tried to watch the doorways on both sides, it threw off the count in some arcane manner. Fourteen doors down he stopped, turned to his left, and crossed to the portal directly opposite. He opened the latch and stepped onto a short stone stair that led up into the alley outside Club Chaos.

The sky was dark with clouds. Drizzle misted the air and dripped down the glass windows of shops and diners. Neon signs blinked, flashing their multi-colored messages to shadow people on the streets. Donovan walked to the end of the alley and glanced up and down Hawthorne before ducking back into the shadows beside Club Chaos. There were other entrances, but they wouldn't take him where he needed to go.

There are cities within cities. What we know and believe we know about places and events is based on our observations, and experiences. The alley beside Club Chaos looked like any other alley; it was dark and littered with debris blown in by the wind. One thing set it off. Near the center, there was a phone booth. There was nothing remarkable about it, and unless you really thought about it, even the most logical question might not occur. Why was it there?

There was no reason for a phone to be located in a dark alley. It was unlikely that those passing on the street would see if it they needed it. It was even less likely they would leave the safety of the street lights and rummage in their pockets for money to make a call there in the shadows, particularly in a time when everyone from school children to the elderly had a cell phone.

Donovan glanced over his shoulder toward the street and saw that he was alone. He ducked into the booth, tucked the receiver under his chin, and dialed 360.

The phone booth was the entrance to the many facets of Club Chaos. There were levels upon levels to the place, each serving a different segment of the city's population. Live music played on most levels. There was jazz, reggae, rock and even swing in one of the older sections. Donovan wasn't interested in the night life, or the parties. Not this time, anyway.

When the booth spun, he stepped into a dark room lined with candle-lit tables. A polished wooden bar ran along one wall. There were no bright lights. There were no mirrors. It was a quiet place where sound didn't carry. Donovan closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them to acclimate his sight.

A lone figure sat at the bar. He was tall and thin with long gray hair that spread out around his head like a nimbus of dirty string. He didn't look up from the tumbler of whiskey in front of him, but Donovan recognized Cord immediately. He crossed the room and took the stool beside him.

"Whiskey," he said to the bartender, "on ice with a little water."

Cord remained silent until Donovan had his drink and the bartender retreated. It didn't take long. They called this bar "The Crossroads," lying as it did somewhere near the heart of Club Chaos, but they might as well have named it "Discretion."

"So," Donovan said at last, glancing at Cord out of the corner of his eye. "You said that you had information?"

"You brought money?" Cord asked.

Donovan frowned.

"I never pay before I know what I'm getting. You've dealt with me before."

Cord slid his gaze sideways. The man's face was angles and slits. His eyes barely seemed to be open, and his mouth was set in a grim line. The informant's skin seemed to be stretched taut over a pointed chin and high cheekbones. There was no way to read his emotions, assuming they existed. He stared at Donovan for a moment in silence, and then turned back to his drink. He spun the tumbler slowly on the damp napkin it rested on and started to talk.