Heart of a Dragon (38 page)

Before they'd gone more than a block, Martinez stepped out of the shadows and fell in beside the make-shift stretcher.
 
He reached out a hand, as if to touch Snake, or to check for life, and then pulled the hand back.

"It's over," Donovan said.

The old man turned, met Donovan's gaze, and then shook his head.
 
He turned, spotted Salvatore, and went to the boy's side.
 
Donovan saw him lean in close and whisper something, but he got no response.
 
Martinez laid his hand on the young artist's shoulder and shook him gently, but
 
again there was no reaction.

Salvatore's hair stuck out at crazed angles from his pale face.
 
He still gripped the makeshift club that had once been a flagpole.
 
Martinez tried to pry it gently from his hand as they walked, but Salvatore wasn't letting go, and again, the old man let it slide.

"We have to move fast," Jake said.
 
"Those sirens are getting closer, and we have a ways to go.
 
If they catch us before we get to the clubhouse, this is going to be hard to explain."

"They will not see us," Martinez said.

"I wish I shared your confidence," Jake said.

"I have taken care of it.
 
They will not see us."

Jake stared at Martinez for a moment, and then nodded.
 
He turned back and led the others through the darkened streets.

Donovan turned and glanced at where Amethyst supported the girl on her arm.
 
He wanted to go to her, to talk to her and offer his help, but that would have to wait, at least until they got back to the clubhouse.
 
He glanced up at the moon far above.
 
He thought he saw a shadow pass before his eyes, far above, and his heart chilled.
  
He flashed on Martinez shaking his head.
 
If it wasn't over…

They turned the last corner and saw the lights of the clubhouse ahead.
 
The bikes that had lined the park now covered the street, and the clubhouse yard.
 
The fire in the back yard had been built up again, and light streamed from every window of the building.
 
They hurried their steps. When they got within a couple of blocks, a contingent of quiet, silent Dragons took the makeshift stretcher from their hands gently and moved on ahead.
 
Jake joined them, softly giving directions that Donovan noted were followed without question.

Relieved of his burden, Donovan hurried to Amethyst's side.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She'll live," Amethyst said.
 
"Salvatore gave her a good shot to the head, and she's confused.
 
She hasn't been in control of her body for hours.
 
Also, one thing we failed to consider when we brought her along with us … she's one of the
Escorpiones
' women.
 
The more her memory comes back to her, the more she's scared out of her mind.
 
I've told her we'll watch out for her, but I think we need to get her away from here.

"Give me
 
a few minutes," Donovan said, "And we'll go.
 
We can drop her at the hospital and tell them where to find her people.
 
I need to see what Martinez is up to."

"What do you mean?" Amethyst asked.

Just then, the shadow crossed the moon again.
 
This time it seemed a bit lower, and a bit darker.
 
They both glanced up.
 
There was nothing in sight, but something hung in the air, something dark and angry.
 
Something powerful and hungry.

"I think," Donovan said, "you have your answer."

He spun, and ran for the entrance to the clubhouse.
 
He slipped in past the groups of Dragons, their heads hung and their voices low.
 
They'd won a battle that night, but they'd lost their President, and they'd lost brothers, and for most of them, there were more questions than answers.
 
They didn't prevent Donovan from passing, but he caught more than a few confused glances.

There were candles on every horizontal surface.
 
Donovan wound his way into the crowd and searched until he spotted the gray of Martinez's hair in the kitchen.
 
He pushed through and found Salvatore seated at the table, staring at his hands.
 
Martinez stood over him.
 
The old man had a far-away expression.
 
He seemed on the verge of saying something, and at the same time uncertain what it should be.

"Martinez," Donovan said, grabbing the old man's arm.
 
"What have you done? They aren't gone. The dragons."

"They are not here either, my friend.
 
They are … between."

Donovan started to ask what that meant, and then he caught sight of
 
Salvatore.
 
The boy sat at the table, but there was little indication of whether or not he was aware of his surroundings.
 
He seemed lost in some other place.
 
Tears had streaked his cheeks and his eyes had dark bags beneath them, as though he'd been drained of energy…or hope.

"The painting," Donovan said softly.

"Yes," Martinez said.
 
"It was the painting.
 
It opened a portal – connected worlds.
 
Now that painting is gone, but the portal…it never closed."

"No," Donovan said.
 
"I understood that.
 
The paint – the
Rojo
Fuego – is there more?"

Martinez blinked.

"Yes, a little.
 
I don't know how much.
 
There are other colors, as well.
 
They aren't as powerful…"

"We need the red," Donovan said.

He dropped to one knee before Salvatore.

"Sal, can you hear me?" he asked.

The boy glanced up slowly.
 
His eyes were glazed, but he nodded. He was aware.

"You have to paint," Donovan said.
 
"You have to close the portal.
 
The only one who can do it is you – you see the dragons.
 
They are in your heart – your soul.
 
You are the one who brought Snake and his dragon together.
 
Now Snake is gone…you have to take his dragon home."

A light flickered in Salvatore's eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I don't know if I can do it," he said.
 
His voice nearly broke.
 
"Senor Snake…I did not know him for long, but…he was like a father…or a brother.
 
He gave me strength, purpose.
 
For the first time in my life, I felt as if I mattered.
 
Now…"

"Now more than ever," Donovan said, "you matter.
 
It's in your hands.
 
Your gift – your talent – you can make it right.
 
You can't bring him back, but … you can make certain he didn't die in vain."

Jake walked into the room then.
 
In his hand, he held a small square of fabric.
 
Donovan looked at it more carefully and saw that it was part of the sheet that had held Snake's dragon.
 
The big man held it almost reverently.
 
He laid it on the table in front of Salvatore and stepped back.

Salvatore stared at the white cloth in silence.
 
Martinez rose and left the room.
 
When he came back, he held the remnant of the
Rojo
Fuego, still carefully wrapped.
 
He also had a bag filled with the other colors, and Salvatore's brushes.
 
He laid them on the table beside the cloth.
 
Donovan nodded to the old man, and they turned.
 
A moment later, everyone had left the room, and Salvatore sat alone.

"I'll return before morning," Donovan told Martinez.
 
"I have to help Amethyst with the girl."

"Does she remember anything?" the old man asked.

Donovan shook his head.

"She's scared.
 
The last thing she remembers is following her boyfriend to Anya Cabrera's circle.
 
I don't think she'll go back there.
 
Can't say that I blame her.
 
If my boyfriend offered me up for a voodoo ritual sacrifice, I'd have some serious questions about the future of the relationship."

Martinez laughed drily.

"I'll watch over the boy," he said.

Donovan stepped to a window and glanced out into the night sky."Can he turn them back?"

"I don't know," Martinez admitted.
 
"It's what I feared all along.
 
If Snake had lived, there would have been balance. Now the portal between this world and that other has grown thin.
 
I have never been able to walk that road.
 
The boy has been there many times.
 
I wish I'd had the time to teach him more – but in this instance, he is the master."

Donovan glanced back through the doorway into the kitchen.
 
Salvatore had the paintbrush in one hand.
 
He stared at the cloth intently.
 
Dragons guarded the doorways, their backs turned to give the boy privacy.

"I hope he has the strength," Donovan said.

He turned to the doorway.
 
Martinez faced him, and, tentatively held out his hand.
 
Donovan took it without hesitation.

"We will have things to talk about," he said, "once things are settled.
 
I will see you before the sun rises."

He turned and slipped out into the night.
 
Amethyst waited impatiently by the side of the road.
 
He slipped up on the opposite side of the girl and
daraped
his arm around her back.
 
They moved off into the shadowed streets without a word.
 
Behind and above them, a huge shadow slid across the face of the moon.

Salvatore stared at the cloth.
 
He traced designs across the surface with the fingernail of one hand.
 
At first the motion was random.
 
His mind was far away.
 
He tried to concentrate on the city, or the dragons, but something intruded.
 
It was a pattern, a geometric shape.
 
His finger began tracing that shape onto the white cloth, and he frowned.
 
It was familiar, and at the same time he was certain he'd never seen it before – not exactly.

His paints were laid out beside him.
 
There was also a worn piece of black charcoal. He picked it up almost absently and began to sketch.
 
He continued to trace the pattern.
 
There were six corners.
 
He filled in circular shapes near the points, and in the center he drew a larger circle, with a concentric ring inside it.

He shaded the edges, and darkened the spaces between the circles.
 
At some point he reached for one of his brushes, and the paint.
 
He started with green. He shaded one of the circles carefully.
 
He lightened the green and highlighted the edges, then switched to white until the sphere appeared to glow.

He worked more quickly now.
 
He shifted colors and brushes.
 
He worked with violet, and blue, red and yellow.
 
His hand became a blur.
 
He painted the spheres around the outer edge, but his mind – his concentration – was fixed on the center. It was plain and white, but in his mind, it pulsed and glowed.
 
He reached for the last packet of paint, opened it reverently, and dipped his brush.

The shift was sudden and absolute.
 
The second his brush dipped into the
Rojo
Fuego he felt the chair fall away.
 
He was dropping through the air, and beneath him the city spread out in a wide, geometric panorama of color and shadow.
 
He saw the towers, one for each color, and the pattern of his painting focused.
 
Beneath him, the glowing read upper chamber of the central tower approached at sickening speed.

He gripped the brush, somehow it made the passage with him, and though it swirled in the open air and not across the surface of the white canvas, he knew he could not stop.
 
If he let the pattern slip – if he failed to blend the colors in his mind, he was lost.
 
As he fell, his eyes filled with tears.
 
They slid across his cheeks and whipped off into the night sky of a world that could not be.
 
It didn't matter.
 
He didn't need to see what was in front of him.
 
He knew what to do – what to paint.