shattered by a scream of rage. The beat of leathery wings vibrated the air overhead, and the sand at Salvatore's feet shifted and sifted over his feet. He stood as still as possible, and pressed the brush to the canvas.
He did not look up to see, but he knew that, in that instant, the dragon soared back into the clouds, and was gone. There was something different about the red paint, something powerful. As he stroked it along the length of the dragon's curling body, heat emanated from the canvas. Sweat beaded on his brow. Even when it trickled into his eyes, burning and blurring his vision, his hand was steady.
He filled in the darker reds, moved through shades of coral and blended bright to dark as the dragon came to life. He knew that he could have stopped, looked up, and caught sight of his subject, but he already knew the dragon, and he sensed that it knew him as well. Something was different this time. Something had disrupted whatever thin cloud he passed through from one world to the next. Whatever it was, the dragons were restless, particularly the giant red one — the dragon he now painted.
As Salvatore worked, lights flickered to life and glowed in the highest windows of the city beyond the walls. The dragons soared in and out of the clouds, and though he felt them dive near again and again, they did not swoop down as they had in the past to lift him. Something prevented it. Something in the red of the paint, he thought. He had thought he would have to highlight with white paint to catch the way moonlight rippled over the great beast's scales, but it came easily. The air of this place lent power to the paint. He worked steadily up the body from the tail, moving toward the head and the eyes. Before he finished, he hesitated. He stepped back, just for an instant.
He studied his work. The dragon was so close…so nearly perfect. It would only take a single stroke of the brush to complete it. As he stared, the sky opened up with a roar of wind and sound that nearly crushed him to his knees. He threw back his head and saw the red dragon. It dove straight at him, dropping at impossible speed with a scream of rage and defiance. Salvatore still clutched the brush. He met that dark gaze, and held it. He reached up and dabbed the final bit of Rojo Fuego onto the canvas.
The action took no more than a second, but in that time Salvatore released himself to the dragon. He knew the dive was too steep. It would crash into him, crush him into the sand, and there would be an end to the visions. The brush dropped from numb fingers and he followed, dropping flat on the sand.
He closed his eyes and waited for the impact that never came. Somehow, as the painting came to life, the creature flattened its dive. It came so close that its wings raised a cloud of damp sand to choke Salvatore's breath and blind his eyes. As it passed, it gripped him tightly in massive talons and lifted him skyward. Its wings beat like huge tents in a high wind, and it screamed. Salvatore rubbed at the grit and sweat in his eyes and fought to regain his site.
He opened his eyes, and the city spread out beneath him. The towers rose so high their uppermost spires brushed the clouds. There were lights in the windows. They glowed, each a different hue. The streets, if there were streets between those massive structures, were lost in vast shadows near the ground. The clouds roiled, caught in the grip of a storm that raged and slashed at the city with wind and rain. The waves far below crashed against the rocky beach and pounded at the sand, as if trying to reach the stone walls.
Salvatore saw all of this in the few seconds it took the red dragon to rise and flatten out its flight beneath the lower edge of the clouds. He looked down from above at the uppermost spire of the city. Red light flickered in the windows. The dragon swept back its wings, and they stopped in the air, just for a second, directly above that tower.
Salvatore opened his mouth, as if he might speak, but in that instant, the dragon released him. His breath was sucked from his lungs by the speed of his fall. He tried to scream, but couldn't force the air from his lungs. He approached the tower so quickly it grew from a tiny speck to a huge, stone edifice in the span of a heartbeat. For the second time in only a few minutes, he closed his eyes. Darkness enfolded him and he fell into it with a choked sob.
~* ~
Snake stepped into the room as he saw Salvatore topple. He moved quickly, arms outstretched. He caught the boy just before he hit the floor and lifted him easily. He saw the brush on the floor and was oddly drawn to a splotch of red paint. Then he raised his gaze to the canvas, and stood very still. He rose, still holding Salvatore in his arms, and stared.
'My God,' he said. 'My God, Sal, look what you have done…'
He still stood there, staring, when Jake entered, took Salvatore from his arms, and carried the boy to his bed. Without another word, Jake slipped back out of the room. When he closed the door, Snake still stood, one hand outstretched toward the canvas. The air in the room felt uncomfortably warm, and the eyes of the painted dragon glowed like red hot coals.
Chapter Thirty
As the circle closed around them, the world beyond it became a murky haze of blurred images. The sky was clearly visible if Donovan stared straight up. It was like standing in a cylinder of smoke stretching toward the stars.
Amethyst struggled fiercely against her bonds, but she was tied tightly. They had gagged her to be certain she couldn't disrupt the ritual, and at least one of the tall, bald servants remained close by her side at all times. Anya Cabrera sat in her makeshift throne, overseeing the ritual. Donovan kept an eye on her, but she seemed not to have noticed him. He wasn't worried about the Escorpiones who were still possessed; he had the pendant Amethyst had given him tucked in beneath his shirt. His spell was holding, as well, though he had no way to know how long it would be effective. So far none had noticed him.
He moved slowly toward the outer edge of the circle. To release Amethyst he knew he'd have to get around behind her; no easy feat with so many of Anya's followers milling about. A drumbeat rumbled to life, and what had been a somewhat disorganized mob coalesced into a sinuous, moving line of bodies. They spread out and formed a third concentric ring. Amethyst fell just outside that ring, and Donovan managed to slip beyond the dancers just as they closed the gaps. They danced in odd, disjointed steps that somehow fit the pounding on the drums. As they passed by Anya Cabrera, she handed each a bottle. They were identical this time, dark glass that seemed black in the firelight. Each man tipped his bottle up, took a long swig of the contents, and then continued around the circle.
Donovan watched his steps carefully as he moved toward the rear of the stake. Everyone else within the boundaries of the circle was involved in the dance except for Anya and Amethyst. The guardian who'd stood at Amethyst's side had been drawn into the dance with the others. All Donovan had to do was stay as close as possible to the outer ring without touching it.
Then the first of the dancers, one of the bald servants, drew forth a wickedly curved blade. He flicked it around his fingers and hands deftly, almost like Japanese Hibachi chef getting ready to dice chicken. The silvery metal glittered in the firelight. Donovan held his breath. The big man was very close to Amethyst. The dancer drew back his arm and spun. The motion was sudden and graceful, and Donovan only bit back his scream with a desperate clench of his jaw. The blade spun down past Amethyst's chin and barely missed cutting her breast as it sliced cleanly through her jacket. The cut was clean, and as they passed, the others reached out, some flicking at her with fingernails, others gripping and tugging. The jacket was shredded in a matter of moments, and the man with the knife approached for a second time.
Amethyst wore a form fitting top and tight jeans. Her eyes glittered with anger, but she was tied securely, and there was nothing she could do as the drums pounded out their rhythm, and the dancers pranced and whirled past her in an ever faster, ever more violent circle of motion and color.
Donovan sped his pace, but there were only a scant few feet between himself, the outer circle, and the dancers. If one of them bumped into him, either the spell would break, or they'd find him. Then he'd end up tied on the far side of the pole if he couldn't fight his way out.
The key was getting Amethyst free. When Los Escorpiones had rushed the circle from the inside at the junk yard, it had broken like so much smoke. Donovan thought the same would be true here. The circle was meant to keep things out, not to keep them in. The ritual was essentially identical. He just had to make sure they were ready to make their break before that circle was broken. He had no intention of allowing the ritual to reach its conclusion,
