'Several of The Dragons fell. One of them was Vasquez. If the storm hadn't broken when it did, it would have been worse. Anya Cabrera intends to run any power from the Barrio that is not under her control. The boundaries between the Barrio and the rest of the city are already tenuous. This could be a problem.'
Donovan nodded. He withdrew a second fifty from his pocket.
'Vasquez? You're sure? The one they call El Gigante?'
Cord nodded. He didn't look up as Donovan passed over the money. 'If anything changes, I'll be in contact.'
Donovan remained seated as Cord slipped off his stool and faded into the shadows. There was only one exit from the room, and it led into the phone booth. There were chambers in the back, and darker alcoves where larger groups could sit and speak in silence. No matter how loudly you conversed at The Crossroads, the sound didn't carry. The bartender continued quietly polishing beer glasses and watching the door. Probably, if one looked carefully enough, there were other exits. Donovan had never questioned it; he appreciated the privacy afforded, and was pretty sure he didn't want to tangle with whoever provided it.
After giving Cord time to make his departure, Donovan rose and left the bar. The alley was as empty as it had been when he arrived. He straightened his jacket and stepped out into the street, turning uptown toward home and blending into the growing evening crowds.
During the day, Donovan avoided the streets as much as possible. His striking appearance and slightly antiquated wardrobe tended to attract too much attention with the sun high in the sky. At night, a different city emerged. Those who were out and about had their own agendas, and their own concerns. They had no time to worry about a tall, lone figure walking quickly away into the city. Donovan didn't feel like taking the portals… he wanted to think.
His knowledge of Anya Cabrera, and of voodoo, was rusty. There had been no reason to pay attention to the old woman for some time; the more active power in the Barrio was an old man named Martinez, and Martinez was content to remain within comfortable borders. San Valencez was a large, sprawling city with many levels of apartments and ghettos surrounded by outlying suburbs. The Barrio was only a small, southern quarter, home to poor Latino families and bordered by the territories of two gangs — The Dragons, and Los Escorpiones. The form of Voodoo practiced by Anya Cabrera had a very small following in the city, but it was concentrated in and around the Barrio.
Still, Donovan knew some things. He thought back to other times, and other places far from San Valencez and California. Donovan had come by his learning by long travels, and by even longer nights of study. He'd visited Jamaica, and Haiti. He'd spent time across the border in the jungles of South America and the cities of Mexico. Back in his study he had books, manuscripts, hand-scribed notes he'd taken himself, and he thought that, perhaps, it was time to review some of them and refresh his memory.
There are many channels of energy running in and through the world. Places of power rested where they crossed, and lines of magic littered their trails. Each of them was the source of mysteries and rituals, but one thing was true of each and every one — there was a balance. Nothing came without cost, and there were rules. When the rules weren't followed, the balance became skewed, and when that happened it was no longer an individual concern. Imbalance in one quarter led to a similar imbalance somewhere else — equal and opposite. Donovan had devoted much of his life to the protection of that balance.
If what Cord had told him was true, Anya Cabrera was dangerously close to upsetting it. There was a reason the Loa only visited during particular rituals, and there was a reason they needed to return. While controlling them on this plane might seem simple and appealing, control, like anything that required effort, wore thin over time. The thought of those dark spirits walking the streets unfettered sent a chill up his spine.
He passed Forty-Second Street and turned, glancing in the direction of Santini Park. He knew that any evidence of the night's activity would have washed away in the storm. Probably the area was cordoned off by the yellow crime-scene tape and sawhorses, shadowed and forgotten by night. He turned away and continued toward home. He had reading to do, and he needed to get word and questions out to other contacts. It was looking to be a long, interesting night.
Chapter Four
Salvatore sat cold and miserable, huddled on Martinez's front step. When the old man finally rose and stepped outside, he glanced down and shook his head.
'How long have you waited here?' Martinez asked.
Salvatore shrugged. 'I watched the sunrise.'
'Come inside,' Martinez said roughly. 'It is too cold here for my old bones, and there is tea.'
Salvatore stumbled to his feet, and followed the old man inside. He glanced around, as he always did, intrigued by the small home's interior. Shelves and alcoves lined the walls. Each held vials of powder, rolled strips of paper, old books bound in worn, rough leather, feathers, candles, and more. There were symbols, or letters in a language that Salvatore was unfamiliar with, painted on the walls. There were rugs and tapestries depicting strange places, and stranger creatures.
The air was scented with herbs and spices, and other aromas more difficult to place. It was impossible to say why, but the simple smell of the place calmed him, and the thought of the hot, pungent tea Martinez always served helped him order his thoughts. He knew he would have to tell Martinez about the dream, but he didn't know how to start, or how to bring it to life in words. Sometimes the old man listened with careful interest, and other times he silenced Salvatore in scorn. The latter was rare, but Salvatore had a good memory. This time, he knew, it was important that the old man listen. The image of the fallen dragon, lying prone and lifeless on the beach, flickered through his mind.
Martinez glanced over his shoulder, and Salvatore dropped his gaze. A moment later they were seated at the battered kitchen table. To Salvatore's surprise, the old man gave him bread and butter with his tea.
'You haven't slept,' Martinez said.
'I dreamed,' Salvatore said simply. 'It was very real.'
'Tell me,' Martinez said softly.
Salvatore sipped his tea to clear his throat, glanced longingly at the bread and butter, and then did as he'd been asked.
'I was in another place,' he said. 'There was an ocean, and there were eyes; great orbs of light that filled the sky. I was frightened, but I could not look away. Then I saw it. It was a dragon, huge and powerful. It screamed, and I wanted to run, but I could not move.'
'Did it see you?' Martinez asked. The old man's voice remained calm, but when Salvatore glanced up, the old man's eyes glittered with a light Salvatore had seldom seen.
'Yes.' Salvatore said. 'It turned to me, but then, something happened. Very suddenly it flew into the sky.'
A sudden knock on the door interrupted Salvatore's story. He fell silent, uncertain what to do.
'Wait,' Martinez said. 'Eat your bread and drink more tea. We aren't done here.'
Martinez rose and answered the door. Salvatore shook his head slowly to clear it of visions, and reached for the bread. His fingers trembled with hunger and he fought the urge to stuff all of it into his mouth in a single bite. He spread the butter over it evenly and took a small bite from one corner.
When Martinez opened the door, a large, dark haired man stood outside. The man's arms were covered in tattoos. His hair was long, pulled back in a pony tail. He wore jeans, boots, and a denim vest covered in pins and colorful patches. A chain dangled from his hip, looping back and fixing his wallet to his belt. Salvatore had seen the man before, though he did not know his name.
'What is it, Jake?' Martinez asked.
Jake's face was drawn and pale, and much like Salvatore, he seemed to have gotten little or no sleep. He held another vest in his hands, and he twisted and wrinkled the fabric nervously as she stood, as if on the verge of some outburst, or emotion.
'It's Vasquez,' he said softly. 'He's dead. Last night, in Santini Park…'
'I have heard,' Martinez said, cutting the man off gently. 'I did not know if was truly El Gigante, but I heard
