Heart of a Dragon

Chapter Eighteen

Donovan and Amethyst stepped through the doorway into the alley across from the Barrio just after sunset. There was still movement on the street, but the two paid no attention to it. As they stepped out and scanned the area, they barely registered as light shadows on the walls of the building s behind them. They were like fuzzy, warped spots in the air, and though they passed very close to several passersby, no one registered their presence.

"It seems as if at least the first half of the amulet's power isn't exaggerated," Donovan said. "Let's hope it works as well on the eyes of spirits — Loa in particular."

The dark, soapy stone figurine rested against his skin, and he felt the urge to squirm away from it. It was warm to the touch, and he was fairly certain that on more than one occasion, it moved. He didn't want to think about what that motion might mean. He had known that such talismans existed, but they came from a branch of study he'd avoided. Not black arts, exactly, but not "clean". The amulets fell somewhere in the in-between and Donovan knew that, particularly in realms of power, gray areas could prove the most dangerous.

They stood in the doorway of an abandoned bookstore and watched Anya Cabrera's guards at the entrance to the junkyard. Now and then one would move in, or out of the passageway. There were never less than two in sight and in the shadows a bit further down the street they could make out the forms of two young men — no doubt Escorpiones. Torches flickered throughout the tangled piles of broken and twisted metal. The cloying scent of incense flavored the air, and music rose from the shadows.

"Is that guitar?" Amethyst asked.

Donovan listened closely, and then nodded.

"Guitar, some sort of flute, drums… Anya has pulled out all the stops. I recognized the music — it's powerful. I knew there were those in the city who still played it, but I wasn't aware that they could be bought. They may prove a new sort of problem before we're finished."

"That's what I needed to hear," Amethyst said. "As we sneak into the heavily guarded voodoo Loa infested junkyard to spy on a madwoman, what I really needed was something else to worry about."

Donovan laughed.

"I don't think we're getting in through the front door," he said.

They might have slipped past the first round of guards with the help of the amulets, but if they entered that passageway, and were detected, there'd be no way out. Donovan reached into one of the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a long slender crystal on a chain. He breathed on it — causing it to fog up — spoke a small incantation, and then held it out so that it dangled freely.

The crystal swung in slow circles. Amethyst watched in amusement.

"You still have that?"

"I never get rid of anything useful," Donovan said. "Besides, it was the first gift you ever gave me."

"That would have sounded more romantic if you'd skipped the part about being useful."

Donovan concentrated. The crystal swung a final time and then, as if it had been gripped by invisible fingers, twisted up and away to the right, pointing along the side of the junkyard into the shadowed streets. Donovan turned in the direction of the pull, and Amethyst fell in behind him. They crossed the street and moved quickly along the front fence of the junkyard. There were other gates — or had been — but Anya Cabrera's people had re-arranged things inside to prevent unwanted entrance to their court. What they needed was to find something that had been overlooked. Though there were shopkeepers shutting up for the night, and pedestrians passing nearby, no one glanced at the two or acknowledged them in any way. They moved like ghosts.

They turned onto Delaporte and followed it for several blocks. As they moved in deeper, the street grew darker. The streetlights on that particular avenue were in disrepair, and though the city was well aware of the problem, workers were reluctant to enter, even in large groups. It was the home of Los Escorpiones, and each time the city spent the money to repair the lights, they were broken again before they'd burned a single night. It is one thing to sit back in a comfortable office and talk about taking care of the gang-related problems, and entirely another to be out on the streets trying to make it happen.

The junkyard bordered Delaporte for four blocks. Just before it turned again on Forty-Eighth, a large wooden gate rested on heavy metal hinges. It was closed, and there were chains across the opening. The homes across from that gate were low-slung and dark. There were no lights, and boards covered many of the windows. Broken and abandoned toys littered the lawns, and the sidewalks were awash in colored paintings and slogans. People lived there, but when the light drained from the sky, they melted away, huddling close in their rooms and waiting for the uncertain safety of daylight to draw them out.

Donovan studied the street carefully, but detected no movement. It seemed that Los Escorpiones were all involved in the night's activities. Normally there would be guards and sentries. If Anya Cabrera had her way, they would no longer be necessary.

He turned back to the gate. The chains and the lock that held it closed were rusty. The fence itself rose up to about seven feet. On this side it was built of aged, warped wood. The paint had long since peeled away, and knots had fallen free. It was cracked in a few places, but the wood still appeared strong.

"Feel like a climb?" Donovan asked quietly.

Amethyst frowned at him and stepped up to the gate. She looked up and down the street, but there was no one in sight. Los Escorpiones were busy, but even in their absence no one braved Delaporte. Satisfied, Anya reached up and pulled a thin blue crystal from her hair. She gripped the lock in one hand and inserted the crystal into the keyhole. When it was in as far as she could get it without releasing the base, she closed her eyes.

The crystal let off a dim blue glow. The lock grew almost transparent, just for an instant, and then, with a click, it fell open. Amethyst held the two halves of the chain in one hand and slipped the crystal back into her hair. She hooked the lock over one end of the chain and pulled on the gate. It opened about a foot with a creaking groan.

"Nice," Donovan said with a chuckle. "You always carry lock picks in your hair?"

"You'd be surprised what can double as a fashion accessory."

She lowered the chain gently to prevent any more unwanted sound, pressed the gate open wide enough to allow them both access, and slipped inside. Donovan followed, and then pulled the gate closed behind them. If they weren't out by daylight, someone was going to see that open lock, and the chain on the ground, but for the moment they were safe enough. He turned and studied the piles of rotting vehicles for a moment, then pulled out the pendulum again. After only a moment it swung at an angle to the left.

"Shall we?" Donovan said.

Amethyst only nodded. Now that they'd entered the junkyard the music was much louder, almost hypnotic. The incense smoke was thick, and it seemed to seep from every crack and pore of the place, as if seeking to escape.

Donovan slipped between a smashed Ford Mustang chassis and the remnant of an ancient Cadillac. Amethyst followed. There was a narrow crack buried in deep shadows, and they followed it inward. Cars were piled so high on either side that the light of the moon would only penetrate when it had finally risen to the center of the sky. Donovan moved with sure-footed grace, stopping every few feet to draw out the pendulum and test their direction. Within moments the gate was lost to site.

They moved very slowly, and very carefully. For one thing, many of the trails through the yard were narrow and lined with jagged bits of metal. In the darkness it was easy to snag clothing, or cut an arm by coming too close to one side or the other. The music was eerie and had grown steadily in volume as they progressed.

"The guitar is getting louder," Amethyst said softly, "but not the flute, or the drums."

"I noticed," Donovan replied. "We must be near one of the musicians. If so, we're in no immediate danger — they aren't violent. We don't want him to see us though, if we can help it. He'd be able to pinpoint our location for Anya's people without even breaking rhythm."

"That shouldn't be a problem. We're still wearing the amulets."

Donovan nodded, but didn't look convinced. He followed the pendulum around the corner of a Jeep so buried under and forgotten that it had begun to compress downward, windshield broken away, tires flattened. The scent of rotting rubber mixed with that of the soil and the rust; entropy was making a meal of the junk, wearing away at it slowly and steadily.

Their way became suddenly easier. The path ahead had been used more recently — there were signs of footprints. There was also another trail winding off directly across from where they entered the wider path.

"We're going to have to be more careful from here," Donovan whispered. "I don't think they will be patrolling this far out, but they've been through here recently. They may just be working on expanding their operations. If they bring Los Escorpiones fully on board, and for good, then the gate onto Delaporte will probably not remain closed much longer."

Amethyst nodded. "Which way?"

The pendulum wavered. It began to swing to the right and then faltered. The chain swung that direction, but the crystal dangled at the end, as if something had dampened the energy allowing it to defy the call of gravity. The chain pointed right, but the crystal itself pointed straight down.

They looked at one another. Donovan shrugged. He put the pendulum back in his pocket and slipped around the corner to the right, moving slowly. They made better time, but at the same time, moved with greater care. The music was much louder, and they heard voices raised in loud raucous laughter. The air around them was charged with a strange energy that made it difficult not to get caught up in the rhythm; the syncopated heartbeat of the ritual.

"They're in full swing," Donovan said. "We'd better hurry, or we're going to miss anything important that happens."

They stepped into a cleared space and stopped cold. Seated before them in the driver's seat of a long-abandoned school bus was a young man with very long hair and coal-black eyes. He held a very large-bodied acoustic guitar across his knees. His fingers flew over the strings, and the sound they produced pounded through the night to blend with the other instruments.

Donovan stood very still. Amethyst stepped up beside him. The musician had not acknowledged their presence. Still, they waited. Donovan took a step forward, and then another. A path led between a group of heavy machinery carcasses, and he stepped toward it gingerly. Amethyst mimicked his movements. They slipped wraith-silent through the clearing, and up to the entrance to that new passage, all the while keeping their eyes locked on the guitarist.

Just as they thought they had made it through unseen, the man turned. He winked at them, and there was a very subtle change in the sound from his instrument. It didn't disrupt the rhythm, or the song, but Donovan knew in that instant that some message had been sent.

"He sees us," Amethyst said. She didn't sound frightened, but she did sound confused.

"It's the music," Donovan said. "I don't think he knows who, or even what we are for certain. He's so in tune with the sound, so connected to the notes and the rhythm that he felt us pass. He's informed the others of it, too. Whatever comes next, I think we have to assume that Anya Cabrera is now aware that someone is here."

They ducked onto the path and hurried off toward the center of the yard. They were very close. Donovan spotted an old front loader. It had been parked with its shovel up in the air, high enough that it peeked over the top of most of the stacked vehicles.

"There," he said. "We should be able to see what's going on from there and still remain out of site. She won't be any more able to see us than before. Knowing someone is here and finding them are two different things entirely, and Anya Cabrera has other things on her mind."

They scrambled up the old, yellow hulk and climbed into the deep, rusted shovel. Once inside they peered out over the toothed lip. Smoke billowed and wisped from the central square of the junkyard. They could make out whirling, dancing shapes. They saw Anya Cabrera, wearing nothing but a thin scarf around her neck, sliding sinuously in and out among the other dancers.

"Showtime," Donovan whispered.