Heart of a Dragon (13 page)

Salvatore wanted to tell Martinez that, though he always saw the man and dragon as one, and he was certain that he could paint the dragon– particularly with such wonderful paints, that he did not understand.
 
He did not understand why he was now the center of so much attention.
 
He did not understand how he could see what others could not, or why it was so important that he do this particular painting now.
 
He wanted to thank the old man for the food and the drink, and for not leaving him passed out in the street where he'd fallen.

Instead he just nodded and sipped the last of the milk.
 
He was very full, and a little sleepy.
 
He wanted to stand and walk around to look into the bowls, but he could see no way to do so without blocking the sunlight, and he understood somehow that the light was important.

"What are they?" he said at last.
 
He pointed at the crystals.

"They concentrate the color," Martinez explained.
 
"The light through each contains the purest hue of one of the primary colors, yellow, blue, and Red.
 
All other colors are shades of these, dilutions, or complex mixtures. The power in a painting–the power in any image–is focused on a foundation of the three.
 
I have one more thing to do.
 
Do you want to watch?"

Salvatore nodded.
 
Martinez stepped to the sink and small counter that served as his kitchen.
 
He grabbed a long, slender knife from the rack on the wall and turned toward the door.
 
Salvatore rose and followed.
 
The old man stepped out into the dying sunlight and walked around the side of his home. There was a bench there, pressed up against the wall.
 
Martinez climbed nimbly up onto this, and Salvatore stood below, watching.

He balanced on the bench and stared up toward the eaves intently.
 
There was nothing there to see, and Salvatore frowned, screening the last of the day's light with his hand so he would miss nothing.
 
There were deeper shadows just under at the edge where the roof met the wall, and thought he couldn't see into them, he knew that Martinez could.

Something small and quick darted across the white stucco of the wall.
 
Martinez struck like a snake.
 
A small lizard with brilliant blue and black stripes was pinioned to the wall by the striking blade.
 
Salvatore cried out, but Martinez let out a grunt of satisfaction, spun, and pressed the squirming creature deeper onto the blade.

He didn't glance at Salvatore as he passed; he hurried inside.
 
Then, as Salvatore's stomach grew queasy, the old man leaned in from the side, careful not to break the beam of light from the crystal, and held the gecko over the red bowl.
 
A single drop of blood dropped into the mixture, and Martinez pulled back.
 
He strode to the door and flipped his wrist, sending the dying lizard flying into the street.

Salvatore still stood, staring into the bowl where the drop of blood had spread, slowly, and then– as if the paint hungered– was swallowed and disappeared.
 
He stretched out a hand toward the bowl, and then pulled it back as if afraid he'd be burned at the touch.

Martinez returned, placed the knife in his sink, and stepped up beside Salvatore, watching as the light moved slowly toward the far edge of the bowls.

"There is no red closer to prime," the old man said.
 
"We have no dragons here, but it is close enough, I think.
 
When you blend these colors, you will find every hue of your dragons in their joining.
 
The more powerful your prime colors, the more complete the spectrum of your work.

Salvatore thought about this for a moment.
 
He closed his eyes, and saw the subtle blends that created his purple, his green, and his orange.
 
He thought of the dragon he'd drawn with the chalk on the sidewalk and how difficult it had been to get the colors right.
 
He'd had to force them, trying again and again.
 
This would be different.
 
A very small amount of the paint could be blended, and then more added to change the hue.
  
When he opened his eyes, he smiled.

"You understand," Martinez said.
  
"It is good.
 
You must be very careful with these paints.
 
I will not be able to make more in time.
 
I do not believe Jake's will be the last dragon you are called on to paint, and we must be ready.
 
I will show you how to store and preserve the paint.
 
You must listen carefully and do exactly as I say.
 
A great deal depends on it."

"I will be careful," Salvatore said softly.

Martinez nodded, but he was already moving again.
 
He pulled three sheets of white plastic from a drawer.
 
He grabbed the blue paint bowl and very slowly, very carefully poured the paint onto the plastic.
 
It was thick, and it didn't run toward the edges as Salvatore feared it might.
 
Martinez deftly rolled the plastic, tying it off at one end with a bit of cord.
 
He pressed the plastic, worked the paint down toward that tied end, and then rolled the plastic so it came to a cone-shaped tip at the far end, which he also tied off.

"You'll be able to loosen this," Martinez said.
 
You can squeeze some of the paint out the tip, and then seal it again.
 
We must keep it moist, and cool.
 
I will help you to find the proper place– perhaps we will dig a small pit in one corner of your floor."

Salvatore nodded.
 
He was already thinking of the perfect place, the twisting, helpless body of the lizard impaled on Martinez' blade fading as the image of Jake's dragon struggled to the surface.

Martinez repeated the process of sealing the other two colors.
 
Again, Salvatore saw that there was extra care taken on the red.
 
He couldn't understand this, under the circumstances.
 
There was very little of the red in Jake's dragon.
 
It was gold and green, scales gleaming brightly.
 
He felt it reaching out to him and heard its call.

"We'd better get going," Martinez said, after bundling the paints carefully.
 
He held the door for Salvatore, who stepped out into the dying light of the day.
 
Together they disappeared into the Barrio, heading for Salvatore's small shack.
 
Jake would be there soon, and it would be time to paint.

Donovan and Amethyst stepped into Club Chaos from the entrance on Forty-Second Street.
 
They didn't have an appointment, so The Crossroads wasn't the right destination.
 
They needed to get into the more crowded areas of the club and see who they could shake out of the rafters.
 
They were dressed for a night on the town, Amethyst in a long, dark gown, open down her back and slit at the sides.
  
Donovan wore his customary dark trench coat, and he'd grabbed a black fedora to complete the ensemble.
 
They didn't want to stand out, and dressing too conservatively would have done that as quickly, possibly more quickly, than taking their appearance too far.
 
Club Chaos served a particular crowd…those who didn't belong were usually not hard to spot, and each inner den had its regulars.

"Where to first?" Amethyst asked.

"I think the pool room," Donovan said.
 
"I know a guy who might be in there, and if not there are a few regulars that hail from the Barrio.
 
Last time I was there I even saw one of Anya Cabrera's goons."

"The bald ones?"

"The same," Donovan said.
 
"It was one of the only times I've ever seen one of them out of her site, or out of the Barrio.
 
He must have been on an errand.
 
I didn't bother to try and talk with him."

Amethyst nodded.
 
"Probably wise.
 
Either he'd have gone for your throat, or just clammed up and reported your curiosity."

Donovan nodded.
 
They ducked past the doormen, and entered a long hallway.
 
To either side, shorter passageways led to a variety of inner bars.
 
Music pounded through the speakers in the hallway, and as they passed the entrances to the various clubs, they pulsed with sound – a different variety and volume from each.
 
Rock, Industrial, Swing – even Country.
 
There was something for everyone at Club Chaos, assuming one knew where to look.
 
Donovan knew that the acoustics had been enhanced by other-than-mundane methods.
 
There was no other place like it on Earth…or, at least not in San Valencez.

They made their way to the back of the main passage and followed the hallway to the left.
 
As they continued, the sound of balls being racked and the snap of cues slamming into balls echoed off the walls.

"Busy." Amethyst said.

"Better for us.
 
The more people there are, the better chance we'll find someone who knows what's going on.
 
We probably don't have that much time.
 
If Martinez is desperate enough to hit us both up on the same day and risk our finding out, then something bad is happening, and soon."

"There's a small Voodoo contingent in the city, as well as in the Barrio," Amethyst said.
 
"There are plenty who go in just for what Anya has for sale. If we're lucky, we'll find one of them here, playing dark priest for the local girls."

They entered the pool hall slowly and scanned the tables.
 
There was a booth near the first table, and they headed for it.
 
Most of the seats were full, and all of the pool tables were doing a brisk business.
 
Even the stools at the bar were occupied.

"You get the booth, I'll get the drinks," Donovan said.

Amethyst wound her way to the empty booth and took a seat, taking in her surroundings as she went.
 
Donovan
 
rounded the four small pool tables toward the bar.
 
There were a lot of faces to process, and it was a rough crowd.
 
He recognized several of them, but no one he thought would be of any help.
 
At the bar, he ordered two draft beers and turned back toward the table.

A tall young man had stepped up to the end of their booth.
 
Amethyst stared up at him, and Donovan smiled.
 
He hoped she left enough of the boy in one piece to keep the rest of the club's patrons from either turning on them en masse or clearing out.
 
He hurried his steps.

The young man slid into the booth beside Amethyst, and Donovan cursed under his breath.
 
As he stepped closer he heard the boy give out a short yelp.
 
Donovan slid in and was about to speak, then stopped.
 
Amethyst had her unwanted visitor by the collar.
 
In her other hand she held a jewel encrusted mirror so that he was forced to look into it.

"Let me go," the boy said.
 
"I didn't mean
nothin
'…"

"You didn't mean anything," Donovan cut in helpfully.
 
"Anything.
 
If you didn't mean '
nothin
' then it would mean that you did mean something, you see?"

The boy tried to turn and stare at Donovan, but he couldn't pull free.

"Just look into the mirror," Amethyst said softly.
 
"Take a look at what you see, and then I'll let you go."

The boy should've fought.
 
He should have yanked back and tried to drag her out, or hoped that his collar tore and he got free, but instead, he looked straight into the small mirror. He started to scream, but Amethyst slammed her other hand over his mouth and held him. She leaned close then, brushed her lips close to his ear, and whispered something Donovan couldn't quite make out.
 
Then she let the boy go and gave him a little push that sent him staggering back through the tables.

He bumped into one table, sloshed beer over the top of a full pitcher and brought a string of curses and blows from those he disturbed.
 
Then he turned toward the door.
 
The boy ran out of the club so quickly that the room fell momentarily silent, watching his retreat.
 
After a moment, the sound of someone breaking a rack shattered the silence.
 
The room came back to life like a slow turning movie reel coming back up to speed.

"What did you say?" Donovan asked.

"I told him to get a good look at what women see when he smiles at them." She said smugly.
 
She tucked the mirror back into her handbag.