Dark Heart (25 page)

It was a disconcerting thought. She pushed it away, and tried for lightness.

“No huge dinosaur corpses with wings ’cause the kids ate them? That’s an interesting theory, but it doesn’t explain what happened to the skeletons of the last generation,” Sandra said, and the moment she did, she winced.

It was a cop thing to say, a cold, analytical hammer shattering a beautiful story. What she wanted to say was that she liked the story, and she wanted him to continue. But she’d said something else instead.
Why did he make her so self-conscious?

“I don’t see the tragedy,” Benny interjected. “What did humans do that was so wrong?”

“What did humans do that was so wrong?” Justin smiled, but his expression seemed somehow bitter. “We were jealous. It’s the oldest story in the world. In the Bible, a serpent told Eve that if she ate of the forbidden fruit, she would become like God. Where do you think that story came from?

“Long before humans could write such things down, a foolish young dragon befriended a human woman. This young dragon, this
serpent,
told Eve of the power in a dragon’s wings. Eve was a jealous woman and convinced her husband to slay the dragon so they could eat its wings. Once the deed was done, there was no going back. They tasted the forbidden fruit, brought the shadow of evil into paradise. Eve, her husband, and the entire human race was cast forever from the Garden of Eden where man and beast could live in peace and harmony.”

“Are you saying that the reason there are no dragons now is because we killed them off?” Sandra asked.

“Why didn’t the dragons stamp out humankind first, if they were so much more powerful, with their magic and all?” Benny asked.

Justin shrugged. “How can we be certain? Perhaps, at first, the dragons did not take humans very seriously. Being solitary, philosophical creatures, the dragons left the humans alone and expected to receive the same treatment. They expected better of us, and we killed them for their mistake.

“Being what we are, we humans could not help ourselves. The lure of forbidden knowledge was too great. The power gained by eating a dragon’s wings was too real. Adam and Eve passed this knowledge on to their children, who in turn went off to slay their own dragons. Thus began the pharaohs, Godlike beings who ruled the known world in that time.

“Once the killing of dragons started, it never stopped. There are examples in some of our more well-known legends. Tiamat in Babylon. Hercules killing the Hydra. Siegfried killing Lindworm. Beowulf and Grendel. Saint Martha and La Trasque in France.

“These people are revered as heroes, great men and women fighting great evil, but that’s all a lie. It’s history from the mouth of the victor. People must believe they are in the right when they commit atrocities. Otherwise their own guilt will destroy them. And so humans, out of their own necessity for self-justification, named the dragons evil. They were reputed to be linked with Satan, and thus we had to exterminate them, by the edict of God. That is how the unfortunate young dragon killed by Adam and Eve was recast as the voice of Satan in the Garden of Eden. If the same lie is told often enough, people begin to believe it. And then, of course, even lies can become self-fulfilling prophecies after many years.

“By the time of Saint George, no doubt some dragons had become enraged by the methodical extermination of their species and were determined to avenge themselves. But most dragons left Europe to escape the madness, rather than try to combat it. Their brethren in the East had no such problems with their human cohabitants. Humans in the East were no less violent than the shaggy Westerners, but they were certainly more respectful of dragons. It is said they admired their dragons and saw them as harbingers of power, fertility, and well-being.”

“So the dragons are all living in the East now?” Sandra asked.

“Alas, no, none are.”

“None?” Sandra asked.

“Sounds like they just sort of curled up and died,” Benny said.

“Ah, that is a very Western perspective on the situation. An Asian would see it much differently. In the Orient, one must be very careful never to ask someone for something they do not want to give you. If you ask for it, they are honor-bound to give it to you. Then, once the Asian has given it to you, he will hate you forever for asking for it.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Benny said.

“Perhaps, but it is also very polite. And the dragons of the East did the polite thing. When the day came that they were not wanted, they left. But I assure you, they were not happy to go. Ever since then the dragons of the East, also called by some the dragons from Beyond, have been plotting to exact their revenge.”

“Sounds like a conspiracy theory to me,” Sandra said. “And what do you think of the state of the world today? Somewhat conspiratorial?”

“It’s a bit shaky,” Sandra said.

“And how do you account for that?”

“Human nature?”

“Human nature with a bit of outside help from the dragons from Beyond.”

Benny laughed. “Good for them. I hope they wipe us all out.”

“Unfortunately I think they would have,” Justin said. “Except that we have someone in our corner.”

“Who’s that?” Sandra wanted to know.

“The last Western dragon. As I said, there were many dragons that were enraged by the idea of being driven off by these humans who had only just arrived upon the earth. By the time of Saint George, some dragons had become the evil we painted them to be. George became a hero for slaying them, but he was hardly saintly. The older accounts of his life portray him as a greedy, ambitious man. He saw himself destined to rule the world and convert it to his religion.”

“No wonder he’s the patron saint of England,” Sandra grinned.

Justin smiled, a warm sincere smile. “
Touché
, Yankee.”

Sandra’s skin tingled with the wine she had drunk. The warmth cradled her. She suddenly realized she was staring at Justin, caught herself with a slight start, and turned her gaze toward Benny.

“Go ahead,” Benny said to Justin. “I want to hear more.”

“The king of Libya asked Saint George to slay a dragon who was demanding the king’s daughter as a human sacrifice. The popular legends say Saint George subdued the beast with the sign of the cross and stabbed the evil monster through the heart. Other, older legends tell a different story.

“Saint George was a large, powerful, good-looking man. He had a voice that could fill an entire field. When he preached, people believed. When he gave orders, people followed. He traveled with a huge entourage of mystics, alchemists, Arabian magicians, and wise men from the far east. George had slain dragons before, but this dragon was not such easy prey. This dragon was the last of his kind. He was wise, and clever, and had thousands of years of anger burning in his belly. This dragon feared no man, but George was unlike any other man. And he had eaten quite a few dragon’s wings himself at this point.

“The Great Dragon escaped from the traps George laid for him and led the saint on a merry chase across Northern Africa. The dragon—perhaps the most powerful of its kind ever to exist—had no wish to fight Saint George. And this dragon had learned to disappear into its own reflection. When hunted by dragon slayers of the past, it would fly over a still pool of water and disappear without a trace.

“The dragon tried this on Saint George, but Saint George was not so easily fooled. If this last dragon was the strongest of its kind, then likewise Saint George was the strongest dragon slayer ever to hunt it. And so when the chase led to a small lake, and the dragon disappeared, Saint George was able to guess what had happened.

“Then Saint George used his cross to agitate the waters so they could never form a reflective surface and the dragon could never escape its haven. While maintaining his vigil, Saint George had the king of Libya dig a huge trench to drain the pool, trapping the dragon there forever.”

They all sat in silence for a long moment. Justin did not move, except to swirl the wine in his glass around and around. Then he leaned forward, set his wine down, and placed his elbows on the table. He beckoned them closer. “Do you know what they say of dragons?”

“No,” Benny whispered, enjoying himself.

“They say that the last dragon did not die. They say it still lives within its own reflection on the far side of a pool that no longer exists, and for the last twelve hundred years it has lived there, influencing humankind, trying to steer it from its evil, barbaric ways in the hope that someday it will be safe for the dragon to return.”

“Well, I hope it succeeds.” Sandra raised her wine glass. “Let’s drink to the dragon.”

“To the dragon,” said Justin. They clinked their glasses together.

“Where did you learn to tell stories like that?” Sandra asked Justin.

“Call it a childhood passion. I read everything I could get my hands on. When I told the best of the stories, I always had a large audience. I would make it my task to keep them riveted.”

Sandra scooted out of the booth, stood, and stretched. Her muscles responded with a chorus of dull aches, and she winced. “Whatever you did, it works. Where’s the ladies’ in this place?”

Justin pointed.

She turned and left the table, skirting the returning waitress.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” the girl asked, her voice a bit taut. She looked briefly at Benny, then focused her attention on Justin, something akin to relief on her face. He shook his head. Benny stared up at the young woman’s face.

“I’d like something. A large helping of smiles. I’d like some of that, if I could. Do you have any tonight?”

The girl hesitated. Then she grinned nervously and gave a forced laugh. And kept looking nervously at Justin, who ignored her.

“For Christ’s sake, the least you could do is
look
at me. I’m not that ugly,” Benny said abruptly.

The girl hesitated, obviously at a loss for what to do. Benny glared at her, waiting for a reply.

“Benny, don’t.” Justin put his hand gently on the younger man’s shoulder. He nodded for the girl to go.

She fled.

Benny slumped into his chair, fuming. Justin let the silence rest for a moment.

“It’s not her you’re mad at,” Justin finally said.

Benny nodded, but only looked more miserable. “I know. I didn’t mean to explode, but it was like she would’ve felt more comfortable if I didn’t exist. Did you notice how she couldn’t stand to look at me? And even when she did…I just get so sick of that fucking look in their eyes. They look at me like I’m some kind of a monster. You don’t know what that’s like.” Benny fell silent.

Justin realized that his own jaw was clenched. He forced himself to ease it.

“I dream about it all the time,” Benny said softly. “At night. Even daydreams. I picture myself walking up to a pretty girl and asking her to dance. And she smiles and I take her out there and dance until I…we—we just float away. I almost never had the guts to do that before my accident. And now it’s too late.”

Justin said, without looking directly at Benny, “You know, I was very sick once. I watched my body waste away, become swollen and hideously ugly. Repulsive. I thought I was going to die. I would have given anything, paid any price to make it all go away.”

“Yeah.” Benny let out a long breath, shook his head. “That sounds like the beginning of a familiar story. Does the usual come next?”

Justin blinked. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Benny replied. “The part where you tell me you sold your soul to the devil for looks, class, money, a killer accent, and a date with my sister…”

Justin grinned. He shook his head. “Fortunately, it wasn’t the devil who showed up that day.”

“Well, if he does ever show up, send him my way. I’ve got a hell of a deal for him.” Benny laughed suddenly, then reached for his glass and downed the rest of his wine.

Sandra returned from the rest room in time to catch Benny’s last words.

“Send who your way?” Sandra asked Benny.

Benny smiled. “The devil,” he said. “But he ain’t here right now.”

“One can never tell,” Justin said.

“
I
didn’t invite him,” Sandra pointed out.

“He’s invited into our world all too often,” Justin said somberly. Then he looked up at her and smiled. “But I think you scare him away when you’re around. Your soul shines too brightly to let him in.”

When they got back to the condo, Justin insisted on walking them to their door. He and Benny exchanged mumbled pleasantries and goodnights. Benny then beat a strategic retreat, leaving the two of them standing alone just outside the door.

“Thanks for the dinner,” Sandra said. “And the story. Best I’ve heard in a long time.”

“Did you like it?” he said.

“Very much.”

They both paused. The silence grew nervous, exciting.

“Well, I’d better get some sleep,” she said.

He nodded. “Of course,” he said, but did not move. The last of Sandra’s restraint vanished. She moved against him, lifted her face, and kissed him, long and hard.

“Go to bed—alone, this time,” Justin said softly, as he finally stepped back from her.

Sandra nodded.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

He turned and headed down the hallway. She backed into the doorway, but watched him until he got into the elevator and the doors closed behind him. He walked steadily and didn’t look back.

She heard a click and turned around to find Benny frowning at her.

“What?” she said. “What’s that look supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he said, “at this point in the fairy tale, you’re supposed to get on your white horse and carry him away.”

“Given my luck with men, he’s more likely to turn into a frog.” Sandra ran an affectionate hand through his hair as she walked past him and headed for bed.

J
ustin Sterling’s eyes closed slowly. He nodded, caught himself, then looked out the picture window in his living room again. The city’s lights twinkled like jewels on black velvet, reflecting in the glass sides of the buildings downtown and far away on the waters of Lake Michigan.

It looked like a peaceful scene. Yet he knew that peace was an illusion—it was likely that somewhere in that glittering night, someone was murdering—or planning to murder—someone else. Maybe it was a junkie knifing his pusher. Maybe a terrorist mixing a bomb. Most likely it was two men in a bar parking lot, fighting over some imagined slight or a woman they both coveted.

Peace was what mortals thought they desired, but they lied to themselves. What they really wanted was wealth, power, and control over others. They would destroy peace in a heartbeat to get it.

Even those who lived solitary lives—who cloistered themselves from the world—fought, even if it was only within their own minds. In fact, Justin was fighting now. He lacked someone to attack, so he waged war upon himself.

Justin looked out at the city, thinking of the millions of people living there. Their lives were so different than his.

He rose from his chair in silence, the raucous sounds of Chicago deadened by the expensive glass window. He lived forever—and his life was now safely insulated in a perfect, technologically engineered cocoon. A wonder of the modern age. He had the money it took to purchase the illusion of peace. He reached out and put a hand on the glass. It was cool and smooth—an illusion hiding the gritty reality of the city beyond the glass.

He turned away from the window. He must go into the city again tonight. The Dragon’s voice was quiet for the moment, but Justin could feel the master’s presence behind every reflective surface, watching. Did the Dragon approve of Omar’s punishment? Was the master furious at Omar? At him, for punishing Omar? Or did the master simply not care one way or the other?

And that was a puzzle, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t the Dragon intervened to resolve the conflicts between himself and Omar, himself and Kalzar? What did it mean that Kalzar was free to approach him through the mirror, when he hadn’t been before? And now he too could enter Kalzar’s private domain, from whence he’d also been barred before.

It was difficult for Justin to tell where he ended and the Dragon began. Was his rage the master’s way of speaking to him without using the mirror? He had often wondered how much control he really had over his own life, even when he walked the earth in human guise. He knew full well that he had very little control, if any, in the Wyrm state. He’d built a life as a man here in Chicago. He had the club, his home, his art. But were they really his? Were each of the drawings he had created somehow manifestations of the master’s will? Was everything he felt somehow influenced by that quiet, powerful voice? Were his feelings for Sandra McCormick the product of his own heart or an obsession implanted by the Dragon?

He was drawn to her. He could not argue with that. She felt real to him. She glowed with the force of her personality, lit up every room she entered—something he had not experienced in centuries, at least, and perhaps only once before in his life. He knew the original attraction was based on Sandra’s physical similarity to Gwendolyne. Like Tina, she had that classic bone structure, dark, glossy hair, a subtle smile, and fair skin. There had been many women in Justin’s long life. But very few of them touched him in any real way. Most never even knew he was watching them—as Tina had not, before he showed himself to her. And even Tina had no idea that beneath the monstrous form of the Wyrm lay a man.

Sometimes he had interacted with them. Most of the time he had not. But he had rarely been tempted to share all he was with them—and he had never acted on those urges. Sandra, after such a very short time, tempted him almost irresistibly.

Sandra had her own demons. And somehow Justin felt that she alone might understand his.

“So what will you do now?” he asked the glass. He wasn’t sure whether he was talking to the Dragon or to himself. Certainly the master lacked a soft spot for the desires of one of his immortals. Justin knew what the Dragon thought. She was getting too close to the truth. And he was helping her. Telling her the old stories. What on earth had possessed him? Why was it so important that she know the weight of his burden? The source of his power?

Justin studied himself in the glass. He was human now. He wondered whether she would recoil in horror if she saw him in his Wyrm state.

He remembered his wife, Gwendolyne, as she’d been before the plague took her.

Despite their similar appearances, she and Sandra were nothing alike.

Oh, on the surface they could have been twins—their long, tumbling hair, their dark eyes, their elegant faces and pointed chins, the slight upward tilt of their noses. But inside, they were as different as chalk and cheese. He wondered about his memories—was he seeing Gwendolyne’s face on Sandra now? Or Sandra’s face on Gwendolyne? He didn’t know anymore.

One thing he did know—the Dragon had good cause to fear her. Sandra had almost all the pieces of the puzzle now. She was fighting her conclusions—and who could blame her? In the modern world, stories of marauding, murderous, man-shaped killers were the sort of things sold to tabloid journalists, not Chicago detectives. But she knew in her heart what was going on. She might have figured everything out, even by now, even in the intervening hour since he’d left her, and decided to move her wild theories to the forefront of her murder investigation. It would take only one tiny lateral leap in her thinking. After all, he thought, he had more or less given her the last clues she needed to buy into the story at dinner.

The phone rang.

The club phone. Someone downstairs needed him.

He crossed the room, past the dais with the mirror. There were only two reasons his manager was supposed to call him. One was in the event of some cataclysmic emergency. The other…

“Mr. Sterling?”

“Yes, Edward.”

“There is a young woman here to see you.”

“I see. Is she as I described her to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not keep her waiting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Justin hung up the phone.

Minutes later, he heard a knock on his door. Justin was sitting in his chair in the dark, waiting. He stood.

“Come in,” he said.

Sandra opened the door. He watched her every movement. Every subtle shift of her body under the white Angora sweater she wore, every firm muscle encased in her snug jeans. She carried a small backpack in one hand and the wide neckline of her sweater had drooped over one bare shoulder. The hallway outside bathed her in soft white light. She glowed in it like an angel.

“What, no gentlemanly greeting at the door?” Sandra chided him. Her voice sounded calm, but he could feel her nervousness. She lingered in the doorway, delayed entering the room.

Her eyes adjusted rapidly to the darkness, and she looked quizzically at him.

“I wanted to watch you enter my dwelling,” he said. “Watch you coming to me.”

“You make it sound like such a big deal. Like crossing the threshold. Well, do you want me to come in?” she asked. “Or don’t you?”

“I can’t decide.” Yes, he wanted her. No, he feared her. Feared
for
her. Feared for himself.

“I fought with myself before coming over here,” she said.

“We have both been warring then. Has the war been won between us?” He got up and moved to greet her.

He was very close to her now. He could feel her breath. He thought he could hear her heart beating.

“Is this a war?” she asked. “Is that what we’ve got going here? Are we adversaries in some sort of battle?”

“Of course,” he murmured, so close to her, but still so far apart. “The oldest war in man’s history—the union between man and woman. It is always a struggle. A contest of wills.”

“Then let the battle begin.” She stepped over the threshold. “It’s dark in here,” she said. “I can barely see you. But I can see your eyes. I can always see your eyes.”

He reached a hand out toward her, then let it fall.

“I would touch you,” he said. “But where? Your lips…your throat…your hands…? They are all so tempting. I can’t decide.”

“Here…” Her voice was barely audible. She took hold of his hand, placed his finger on her lips. “Start here.”

He kissed her. Her eyes closed and shock flashed through them both like lightning, paralyzing them for an instant. The feeling that held them in its grip was overpowering. It was as if all the energy in the universe flowed through that single kiss. They abandoned themselves to it.

At last they parted. His heartbeat sounded loud in Justin’s ears.

Sandra, too, seemed overwhelmed. She swallowed, whispered, “My, my.” Her pack thumped to the floor. He took her in his arms again and kissed her thoroughly.

“I think, Justin…,” she whispered into his ear, “…we just won that war…”

Omar paused for a moment after he hopped the fence surrounding the safe house where the Drokpa agent masquerading as a psychologist in the Chicago police force had taken Tina Danforth. He was as careful as it was possible for one of his impulsive nature to be. No one heard the rattling of the chain links. Omar scratched at the stump of his arm and seethed. It would heal, but the newly forming nerves itched like crazy. It would be at least another couple of weeks before it was completely regenerated, Kalzar said. The infernal itching as it grew back was driving him mad.

Omar turned his attention away from his lost arm. A large black man in a white uniform walked around the corner of the brick building, wheeling a trash barrel out to the Dumpster. Omar stared at the man, then walked toward him.

The orderly turned when Omar was a scant few feet away. He jumped in surprise, then frowned. “Hey, man. You shouldn’t be here. Get out of here!”

Omar continued walking forward. The orderly retreated, got back against the Dumpster, and balled his fists, ready for a fight. He was a large man, very strong, and clearly sure he’d win any sort of confrontation.

“What the hell you doing here, anyway?” the orderly said.

Omar paused a couple of feet from the man. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the orderly. After a moment’s silence, he spoke.

“Trying to decide how to kill you without getting blood on your uniform.”

Tina awoke in the darkness of the strange room and sat up. Everything seemed odd to her—she’d been disjointed and confused ever since that terrible night. She had been dreaming about the dragons, some dreams terrible nightmares that dragged her screaming from sleep, others reassuring her that she would heal and times would change. She couldn’t remember exactly how the last dream—one of the lovely ones—had ended. She hadn’t wanted to wake up, but the dragons said she couldn’t stay right now, that she had to go back.

It was important, they said.

Now she just had to figure out where they wanted her to go.

As the reality of the dark room took hold, Tina heard something outside of her door. Fear tore through her. Now she remembered what the dragons had said and why she had to leave, leave now. The dragons said that danger would come for her tonight.

Do not be afraid, they had said, but be swift and prepare.

The door handle turned and a shaft of light fell across the floor. Tina slid her feet off the bed and stood up to face the intruder.

The man came in and closed the door behind him. He wore a white orderly’s uniform, but Dr. Shiang said the orderlies would not come into her room at night unless Tina called them.

The man paused. Tina could barely make out his features, but she saw enough to recognize him. He was the man who had attacked the Chinese kid just after Zack’s murder, who would’ve killed her if she hadn’t run for her life. Tina had talked about it with Dr. Shiang. The doctor told Tina the man’s name was Omar.

“I know who you are,” Tina said, feeling a strange calm. Her dreams, while a warning, had somehow settled her nerves.

“Do you?” Omar narrowed his eyes. He lunged across the room, slamming Tina up against the wall. She gasped, completely unprepared for his speed and brutal power.

“Good,” Omar said. “Then you know I’m the one who’s going to rip that pretty face off your skull.”

Tina struggled against the iron hand holding her captive. She kicked at him, scratched at his eyes. Nothing worked. He was toying with her like a cat toys with a mouse, enjoying her futile struggles while he contemplated the best location for his killing blow. Tina felt herself unraveling. Her calm dissolved as if it had never been, and she felt herself returning to that dark place deep within herself, the place where Dr. Shiang had found her.

Then she remembered the dragons’ voices from the dream and she ceased her struggles. The dragons seemed to speak to her again and soothe her fright. If Omar really wanted to kill her, she would now be dead. Perhaps he would hesitate long enough for her to escape.

Tina swallowed against Omar’s relaxed grip and spoke hoarsely. “I’ve heard the voices of the dragons from Beyond,” she said. “I have heard their singing. I will never be the same again.”

“Then you’ve joined the wrong side,” Omar said, a snarl curling his lip. He threw her across the room. She crashed into the bed, overturning it. The lamp, the digital clock, and a box of tissues clattered down around her. She cried out, sprawling onto the floor. She pushed herself up and turned to look at him, crying, sobbing through the pain.

Omar’s eyes were glowing red. He stood over her, waiting for something. Tina noticed that he had an empty sleeve where his left arm should be. At that moment he looked even more threatening than if he’d been whole, his body and his expression twisted and malevolent.

Tina swallowed, steeling herself, and said the first words that came to her. “You are just a minor disciple. You can’t take the dragonling form.”

That seemed to affect him. His triumphant smile turned into a snarl. “Soon enough, pretty one, I’ll cross that threshold. I don’t know who’s been telling you so much, but they obviously haven’t told you enough.” He moved toward her and Tina scuttled backward.