Heart of a Dragon (9 page)

He passed along the wall of a half-forgotten church, and at the corner, he checked the lens.
 
He slipped it back into his pocket quickly.
 
He was close – very close.
 
He rounded the corner of the building and made his way through debris and piles of old garbage toward a vacant lot behind the building.
 
Light flickered from a fire, and he heard voices speaking very low.
 
Donovan reached the back corner of the building and peered around.

In the center of the vacant lot, a fire burned in an old barrel.
 
Cinder blocks had been stacked around it to create a fire break.
 
There were several shadowy figures gathered in small groups.
 
They didn't notice Donovan, and when he got a closer look at them, he realized why.
 
They were homeless.
 
They had gathered to share what small rations they'd gathered that day, and the huddle together by the fire, sharing the dim light and the warmth.

He saw a young couple with a smaller shadow clinging to the woman's leg.
 
There was an old man, and a younger man – maybe in his twenties – with eyes so white and wild they glimmered in the firelight.
 
He looked as if he hadn't eaten in a week, but he paced rapidly back and forth, glared into the shadows, and then spun back and away to pace again.
 
Donovan knew the signs of addiction well enough, and wondered briefly why the others allowed him to stay.
 
He would not help them, or feed them, or protect them.
 
The man would take what he could get; he had no choice.

Donovan was about to turn away, disappointed, when a cry broke the silence that froze his blood to ice.
 
It rose from low tones to a high, baying howl.
  
Donovan saw those in the clearing draw closer to the fire.
 
The father grabbed his child up in his arms, and then drew his small family together in a tight, protective embrace.

Something flashed past on the far side of the lot.
 
It moved so quickly that Donovan could not bring it into focus.
 
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a pocket watch.
 
He held it up, gripped one of four protruding stems, and turned the knob.
 
He closed his eyes as he did this, and when he opened them, things had slowed.
 
The group around the fire stood like statues.
 
Donovan remained where he was, and was rewarded by a second cry.
 
It rose very slowly this time.
 
The sound was like a horrified scream screeching from the needle of a record player on too-slow a speed.
 
The watch in his hand ticked slowly.
 
It was counting down from 60.

Donovan moved.
 
He pressed off the wall and hurtled into the vacant lot.
 
He slipped past the immobile vagrants and the fire … which had also slowed to the point it seemed to move in stop frames. On the far side of the lot Donovan saw a shadowed figure, still moving, but slowly.
 
He ran, and as he ran, he drew a long, silver cord from his pocket.
 
As he approached the fleeing creature, the clock continued its relentless countdown.

The thing stood erect, its body covered with dark, glistening fur.
 
The face, though vaguely human, was elongated.
 
The ears were too long, and the jaws were open wide, revealing a long, lolling tongue and sharp, canine teeth.
 
The eyes were yellow and jaundiced, wide with fear and crazed.
 
Donovan unrolled the cord and ran round the creature in a tight circle.
 
He bound it with three tight turns, and just as the last seconds ticked away on the face of the pocket watch, he spoke a short incantation, released the cord, and stepped away.

The world rushed back into focus.
 
The sound of the fire crackling slammed into him and nearly deafened him.
 
The others in the lot still hadn't seen Donovan, who stood watching as the thing trying to hurtle itself forward and out of sight tumbled suddenly forward and writhed on the ground.
 
It howled, and Donovan stepped back.
 
No one else moved.
 
They turned and they stared at the creature struggling on the ground, and the dark, unfamiliar man standing over it.

Donovan moved first.
 
He stepped toward the fire, holding up his hands.

"I am not here to hurt anyone," he said.
 
"I need to make sure that no one else is harmed by this one," he turned and gestured to the creature.
 
It seemed unaware of his presence, or of anything else but the cord that bound it.
 
Its frenzy only increased as it continued to struggle, and the harder it fought for its freedom, the tighter the bonds became.

"Who are you?" the young father asked.
 
"Why are you here?
 
And that…what is that?"

Donovan started to answer, but fell silent as another figure melted from the darkness. Tall and thin with his gray hair waving about his face like the mane of some deranged lion, Old Martinez stepped into view.
 
His expression was caught somewhere between anger and pain.
 
He stepped toward the creature, and Donovan moved to come between them.
 
Martinez ignored him.
 
With a sweep of one hand, Martinez sent a small cloud of dust out to settle over the thing. What followed was a sizzling, popping, gut-wrenching sight.
 
The body on the ground twisted and jerked.
 
The features became malleable, shifting from the creature Donovan had captured to the face of a young man, and then back again.
 
It took only moments, but seemed like hours.
 
When it was all done, the young man lay, loose in the now pointless silver binding, in a fetal curl on the dirt.

Martinez knelt at the boy's side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Louis?" he said.
 
"Louis, can you hear me?"

"He killed a girl," Donovan said, stepping closer.
 
"In the city.
 
I left her mother in mourning; I promised to see that there was justice."

"This is not your concern," Martinez said, rising to face him.
 
"The Barrio is mine…Louis is mine.
 
I will deal with this."

"How long have you
known
?" Donovan asked.
 
He didn't turn, or back down.
 
"How long have you known, and how did he get out into the city?"

Martinez frowned, and it seemed he would ignore the question completely.
 
Then his features softened, just for an instant.

"I have known his family since his father was a boy," Martinez said.
 
"This happened one, maybe two years ago.
 
The one responsible has been dealt with."

"Why was Louis not dealt with as well?" Donovan asked.
 
He knew the words sounded harsh, but there were times when sentiment could not be taken into account.

"Lycanthrope is a disease," Martinez replied.
 
"It does not require a sentence of death if it is controlled.
 
Surely you know others – in the city beyond – who have lived much longer with this curse."

"They do not kill young girls," Donovan replied.
 
"They have learned control, and have agreed to the proper restraints.
 
I can do the same for your young friend.
 
He will be well cared for – protected from himself, even as others are protected.
 
You know it is the way. You should have brought him to the city when it happened."

"As I said," Martinez replied, "I will deal with this.
 
The Barrio cares for its own."

"You know I can't let that happen," Donovan said.
 
"If you let me take him, and you can provide adequate detainment – have it tested – he can be returned.
 
It's the best I can offer."

"You dare to threaten me?" Martinez said. "Even here?
 
Even in the Barrio, so far from your books and your precious friends, you dare to act as if you can walk in and take something without my consent?
 
You should not even be here."

Donovan's heart raced, but he kept his mind clear and controlled the tremble that tried to slip out his arm to his fingers.

"I followed him here.
 
I crossed your border in pursuit of a killer.
 
In the past, that has never been considered a breach of etiquette, or trust…"

"This is…different." Martinez said.

The boy began to stir, and Martinez turned back to him.
 
Donovan watched, and that momentary distraction was his undoing. In that moment, something small and covered in tan fur leapt from the shadows.
 
It gave a growl and latched onto Donovan's heel.
 
He spun, kicked out, and sent the small creature flying, but that moment was all that Martinez required.
 
He cried out in a language Donovan vaguely recognized as originating in South America – very old – and the air grew suddenly black with a dark, cloying mist.
 
Donovan cursed and lunged toward where the boy had lain on the ground, but he found nothing but bare ground.
 
There was no sound.
 
Not even the crackling of the fire broke the silence.
 
Whatever Martinez had conjured, it dulled sight and sound, scent and sensation.
 
Donovan closed his eyes and waited.

When he opened them, he stood alone.
 
The lot was empty, and the fire was out. There was no sign that anyone else had been there, and no sign of where they might have gone.
 
He considered pulling out the green lens and following.
 
He knew he could track Martinez easily enough, but he wasn't sure he was prepared for such a confrontation.
 
He'd hoped to get in and out undetected.
 
The situation now required more than he could bring to the table alone.

He turned, slowly, and left the Barrio the way he'd entered.
 
He stepped into the shadowed streets beyond, turned into an alley, and a moment later he was gone.
 
He wondered what he would tell the girl's mother.
 
He only hoped that he was right, and that the girl was dead.
 
If she lived…

~ * ~

Donovan shook his head.
 
So many years.

"He was my son," Martinez said softly.
 
"I should have told you, but I was afraid that he'd be taken anyway.
 
I was afraid you, and others, would use the knowledge to find him more easily and lock him away."

"I would have helped you," Donovan said.
 
"I had no answer for that girl's mother.
 
When we sent word to you, asking how you had resolved the situation, you never responded."

"I should have told you," Martinez sighed.
 
"I should have trusted you, but I did not know you – I'm not sure that I know you now.
 
I did not want to lose him."

"And did you?"

Martinez smiled.
 
"No. In fact, you may be interested in the solution that I found.
 
He was difficult, as you may imagine, but he did not escape.
 
Not again.
 
His family helped…and others.
 
We kept him well protected at the proper times, and then I found what I had been looking for.
 
It's a collar, cast silver and inscribed with the proper symbols at the proper time.
 
As long as he wears it, the moon has no effect.
 
He has been living a normal life … giving me grandchildren.
 
I should have come to you…told you…there are always things we regret."

Donovan nodded.
 
He took a sip of his bourbon.

"You have the instructions?" he asked softly.
 
"There are others that I know of, men and women who have been too-long imprisoned…"

"Of course," Martinez replied.
 
"I have them with me, and more.
 
I've brought you something – not that a gift can make up for years of silence – but I've also come to ask for your help.
 
I have another boy under my care now and a war on my doorstep."

"I tend to stay out of wars," Donovan said, "particularly in the Barrio.
  
I've heard rumors, though, disturbing rumors.
 
I'm told the Anya Cabrera is walking a very fine line."

"She has long since crossed that line," Martinez said.
 
He caught himself before he spat, realizing he was not on the street.
 
He sipped his drink in an effort to cover the motion.

"You have information?" Donovan asked?