David Wilson - Heart of a Dragon

"I am sorry," he said softly. "I am very tired."

Jake only glanced at him for a moment, and then returned his attention to the vest in his hands. Salvatore felt Martinez' gaze remain on him for a moment longer, but he didn't meet it. He couldn't get the image of the vest on the table out of his mind. He'd seen it before — and he knew of the man who'd worn it. His heartbeat sped, and he did not try to drink again, fearing another spill.

Martinez broke the silence.

"Tell Snake that I will do what I can. What is happening affects us all, and we must stand together. Tell him to send word to the other clubs…the smaller ones. They will already know that something is wrong, and I believe they will offer support. Tell them all to keep their eyes, and their ears open. Anything and everything they learn about these others — Los Escorpiones — I need to know."

"The police took him," Jake said. It was hard to tell if he'd heard what Martinez said. He was staring at Vasquez's colors. "His body won't be released immediately — his family is trying to get control of the remains — and to arrange services. You'll come?"

Jake glanced up then, to gauge Martinez's reaction.

"Of course," the old man said. "I will come, and I will help with the preparations. I have contacts with the authorities as well…I will see what I can do to speed the release of his remains. I am very sorry for your loss. I have known the man you call Vasquez since his mother named him Pepe twenty years ago. I knew her mother as well."

Jake frowned, as if trying to calculate how old that would make Martinez, or whether to believe it was true. He rose slowly.

"I'll tell Snake what you've said. It will ease his mind, I think. I'm sure he will come to you — to talk."

Martinez nodded. "I am always here," he said. "I'll be waiting."

Martinez rose and saw the bigger man to the door, closing it behind him. Then he returned to the table and sat.

"What did you see?" he asked abruptly. "When you spilled your tea?"

"I know that vest," Salvatore whispered. "He is El Gigante — one of The Dragons. I saw him — I mean…" Salvatore fought for the right words. His face flushed; he knew it would sound strange — that Martinez might not believe him. "I have seen his dragon."

"Last night, you mean?" Martinez said. He wasn't asking. "You saw it in your dreams; you saw him die."

Salvatore nodded. "Yes." He glanced up. "I couldn't save him. I couldn't help him. I could only watch, and I was afraid."

"There was nothing you could have done," Martinez said. "There are powers at work — powers you know nothing about. Still, you were there — and you saw. That is something that few have ever been able to accomplish. There may yet be a way that you can help. The others like Jake — they are all Dragons. Do you understand?"

Salvatore did understand. He'd dreamed of the dragons more than once, seen them soar and heard them scream, but always at a distance. Salvatore walked the streets, at times, running errands for Martinez, or just searching for food. He saw the Barrio's Dragons roaring past on their glistening bikes, parked outside local bars, meeting in the park. He knew where their clubhouse was located, and when he saw the dragons — the real ones — he always knew which of them they were connected to. He didn't' know how he knew, or why he saw them when no one else did — but he knew Jake's dragon as well as that of the fallen giant, Vasquez.

"I have seen them," he said softly. "I have seen many dragons…but I don't know how to help."

"You still draw?" Martinez asked, changing the subject to quickly Salvatore was confused.

"Yes," he said.

"Do you paint?"

"A little," Salvatore said. He was shy about his art, uncertain what others would think. He kept it locked away most of the time. "I have little paint. I have made some canvas by cutting scraps and cleaning, but it is hard."

"I will get you the canvas, and the paint," Martinez said. "Go and draw. Draw the dragons as you've seen them. I don't understand it completely yet, but you have a part to play before this is all through."

Salvatore gulped the lukewarm remnant of his tea and rose. He started for the door, but Martinez called out to him.

"One more thing," the old man said.

Salvatore turned.

"Stay clear of Anya Cabrera and Los Escorpiones. If you hear anything, or see anything, come straight to me."

Salvatore nodded. He slipped out the door, already thinking of his pencils, and what he would draw. If was good to have something to concentrate on — something other than the dying dragon on the cold sand of another world.

Martinez stood for a long time in his doorway, watching as Salvatore disappeared down the street. He would have taken the boy in long before and begun the long, arduous training he knew was a part of both their futures, but there were other matters that had to be dealt with first. He only hoped they both survived.

When he realized that he'd been standing alone in the doorway watching an empty street for too long, Martinez heaved a heavy sigh, stepped back inside, and closed the door. There was work to do, and he hoped that he wasn't too late for it to matter. He'd had reports for some time that Anya Cabrera had stepped over the boundaries of common sense, but this was the first actual confirmation. The descriptions of the battle, and of Los Escorpiones left nothing to the imagination. There were forces unleashed in the Barrio, and they needed to be returned to their rightful place before it was too late.

Martinez scanned the shelves above his table and finally pulled out a tall, oversized leather volume from between two others that were almost identical. He lifted the large tome easily, his wiry strength belying his slender, aged frame. He might be old, but there was a lot of life left in his bones. More than most would credit.

Standing only a little over five feet tall, and weighing in at only about a hundred and forty pounds, Martinez did not cut an imposing figure. His hair was long and gray, wisping about his head like a silver nimbus. He wore a white cotton shirt and ancient dungarees. His feet were encased in sandals so old they looked like they were formed by bands of dirt. On the street he blended into the background, drawing little or no attention — unless you knew him.

His eyes were the key. They were grey and bright like chips of ice. There was a power in their depths that was undeniable. If you got close enough to meet that gaze, you realized that your first impression had been very, very wrong. Whatever the old man might be, he was not weak. Among the inhabitants of the Barrio he commanded the respect due a force of nature.

The book he'd pulled from the shelf was old and brittle, and Martinez handled it with care, separating the pages with one long fingernail and sliding them open. He knew what he was looking for, but it had been a very long time since he'd needed it. So long, in fact, that he couldn't clearly recall the year. The book was written in thin, spidery script. There were incantations, recipes, symbols and wards. He hesitated over each entry; it was good to keep them all in mind, and to know where they could be found. There was too much to know for any one man to remember, so he refreshed his mind when he could.

Finally, he reached the page he was looking for. Brilliant designs were scrawled across the yellowed paper. Their color was vivid, like the illuminated script of ancient monks. Most of the pages in the book were black and white — simple script and symbol with as little decoration as possible. This page was their antithesis. Martinez traced the designs on the page and stared at the colors.

F or all the intricacy of the designs, there were very few colors. Three in all. Red, Blue, and Yellow. The primary colors. The colors of all that is real. Everything else, he knew, was a shade — a variant. Three was a powerful number, and these shades — these particular colors — were powerful as well. There were things one could do to enhance their potency. Famous works of art had shared the secret — works of literature through the ages had benefited from illustrations a bit more perfect than others. The magic was not always in the hand wielding the pen. Sometimes the colors spoke for themselves.