and crystals glittered in the dim light that managed to filter in through from the street. Candles softened by the warmth of the sun canted at odd angles and hid behind scraps of dark velvet and an array of odd, featureless dolls.
A visitor to Anya Cabrera's shop might have been reminded of New Orleans. All the stereotypical paraphernalia of voodoo, witchcraft, and Santeria lined the shelves. Milky glass candle holders with pictures of the Virgin Mary and the various saints stood in rows on shelves above others lined with books and small statues. The air was filled with the aroma of dozens of different types of incense. Tiny bins of crystals, spices, herbs and arcane ingredients were tucked up under the bottom shelves and covered the countertops.
There were bamboo chimes above the door that announced visitors and more beaded curtains that hid secluded, deeper alcoves from sight. If you entered through the front of the shop, that is what you saw. For tourists or those wandering blind, it was a quaint, sort of spooky attraction where you could pick up some strange incense and a voodoo doll to put on your desk at work and name after your boss. For the locals, those who believed, the candles and herbs and small spells chanted over, spat on and sealed in wax were an important part of life.
There were other ways in and out of the shop, and it wound back through a labyrinth of passageways, curtained rooms, and storerooms. No one knew how long Anya had inhabited that place, but the deeper in you got, the more it resembled a nest, or a hive.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the ocean beyond the city, a lone figure made the turn into the short street. He did not look behind him, or to either side. His dark hair was slicked back over his ears and tied with a leather thong in back. His tattooed arms jutted from the chopped off sleeves of a black denim jacket. On the back of that vest a scorpion was embroidered in brilliant green and gold. Hector Alvarez walked with a slow, confident stride, his movements fluid and graceful.
He entered the shop and turned to the counter running along one wall. There was no one seated behind it, and he stared for a moment, growing very still. He turned and scanned the shelves and the beaded passageways leading back into darkness, but nothing stirred. He didn't want to call out. There was an ancient brass bell lying on the counter, but he had no intention of ringing it. He had been invited to this meeting — he wasn't about to let that invitation be converted to a summons.
'May I help you?'
The words fell like the tinkling of a bell, soft, but clear. Hector spun back to the counter. Seated just beyond it, in clear sight, a slender woman with deep, brooding eyes watched him calmly. Her long, dark hair was woven into small braids and decorated with tiny silver caskets. They jingled when she moved her head. Hector glared at her and stepped closer.
'I'm expected,' he said.
She watched him, unimpressed. She shook her head and the silver caskets jingled. At the sound one of the sets of beaded curtains parted and two men stepped through. They were nearly identical, black as if they'd been carved from twin logs of ebony, bald, with eyes that glinted like chips of obsidian. They wore armbands of gold in the shape of entwined serpents, and large gold pendants on chains dangled from their necks. They didn't speak. One stepped through and off to one side, the other held the curtain open with a massive arm.
Hector turned back to the girl behind the counter. He knew her, or, he knew of her. She was one of several apprentices to Anya Cabrera. Her name was Kim, and she'd been working in the shop since she'd been a very young girl. No one ever saw her on the streets, except running errands in the market. No one knew where she'd come from, who her parents were, or how she'd ended up in Anya's care. The one thing Hector knew for certain — and he knew this because, on a previous visit, he'd passed the girl's rooms and seen it with his own eyes — she slept in a coffin. Her furniture was made of piled grave markers and wooden caskets of every shape and size, molded and re- designed into shelves and cabinets. Hector had caught only a short glimpse through dark curtains, but in that moment he'd seen the girl rise from her…bed. The image had burned itself into his memory, and now, trying to meet her stare — the stare of a mere girl — his blood slowed and expanded like ice in his veins.
She held his gaze a moment longer, and then nodded toward the two men, and the passage beyond.
'Raoul and Stephen will escort you,' she said.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but it carried. He turned toward the passageway, squared his shoulders, and brushed past the two men. He wanted very much to look back and see if she was watching him, but he controlled the urge. He was afraid that if he turned back, she would not be there, disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. Hector's face was flushed, and the blood pounded through his veins. He did not like being toyed with. He was the President of Los Escorpiones — a powerful man in the Barrio. The old woman was powerful as well, and she had proven an important ally, but he could not show weakness. He'd come alone, but there were others watching. They filled the streets beyond the shop, waiting for a sign, or for his call. They would descend like an avenging army at the first sign of trouble, but despite this knowledge, Hector prayed it would not be necessary.
He wasn't worried about Raoul or Stephen. Hector always packed heat, and he was no slouch in a fight. It was this place, this dark, rat-hole with all its odd turns and shadowed rooms. There was no way to know, once you'd taken the first half dozen corners, which direction you were heading. There were other ways out — he knew this because he'd been escorted out by at least two of them over the years, but he was certain if he had to find any of them on his own, he'd be lost for days. Maybe forever. Things in Anya Cabrera's den were not as they seemed, and he suspected, though it made no sense, that they were not always the same, either. Not in the way the streets of the Barrio were always the same, or the lines on his hand.
Raoul led the way down a long, narrow passage. They turned left twice and right at least once. Ahead Hector saw a light. They headed straight for it, and moments later stepped into a large room with rounded edges. The walls were covered in tapestries, and the floor was carpeted in some sort of lush, green shag that resembled grass too long denied the intimacy of a mower. The air was heavy with the scent of Sandalwood, though the smoke was mixed with other more subtle aromas and too thick to be enjoyable. On the far side of the room, seated in a large, ornate chair decorated with red satin and gold gilt, Hector saw Anya Cabrera. From where he stood it was hard to make out details, but despite this her eyes glittered as she watched him. Nothing else in the room would focus, but he saw those eyes clearly.
Hector crossed the room. His feet felt heavy, and his legs were sluggish, but he forced them into motion. He knew it was a test. Everything with Anya Cabrera was a test. He had no intention of failing it. He told himself, as he had on so many other occasions, that she was only a woman. His mind flitted briefly back to Santini Park, and the storm. He saw dark figures moving with incredible speed. He heard the screams and the cries — not those of a normal battle at all, but of something darker.
'You are punctual,' Anya said, breaking the silence. 'It is a good trait in a young man, and so rare.'
'I do not like to waste time,' Hector said. He managed to keep his voice steady. 'I have the report you requested on our — encounter — with the Dragons.' He fell silent for a moment, but when she didn't answer, he continued. 'I also have concerns.'
Anya arched one eyebrow. She smiled, but there was no warmth or humor in the expression.
'Tell me,' she said. 'Then we will talk.'
Hector did. He told her how the Dragons had arrived in a roar of chrome and throbbing engines. He told her that Snake had been present, and about Vasquez, the fallen giant. He also told her about his own men, moving like the shadows of bolts of lightning; rising when they should have been dead, fighting on against overwhelming odds like demons and swarming like hordes of vermin. As hard as he tried to prevent it, his voice shook when he told of the storm breaking, and their retreat. He'd gathered his men together, moving like wraiths into the alleys and darkened streets. The Dragons had left their dead and fled. Los Escorpiones had lost no one. Not a single casualty.
'This is a problem?' Anya asked softly.
'There are no dead,' Hector replied, 'but neither do they all live. Two of my men, Paulo and Bernini, have not spoken since the battle. They sit, and they stare, and they do not move. They are like empty shells. Several others stare into shadows with wild eyes, as if they sense things just out of sight, but can never quite find them. I left no men behind, but at least five of those who follow me are as good as dead — possibly worse.'
'They will return,' Anya said. 'You will bring them to me, and leave them. When the time comes — when you need them to fight — they will be by your side. It is a promise.'
Hector had a lot more on his mind. He wasn't thinking so much about the next time he needed the men to fight. Paulo was his cousin. Paulo's wife and children were sitting at home with a father who would not talk to them
