The Dragons of Heaven (10 page)

“You're not really a folklore student researching local dragon lore, are you?” Jill asked.

I shook my head. I couldn't sacrifice their safety. I'd already put them in enough danger. “
Huxian
. Please guide them back. I'll find my own way up the mountain.”

“Missy, no.” Jill touched my arm. Gently. She must have seen how I'd been favoring it. “We'll be fine. It can't be that far. We can find our way back safely.” I glanced at the rest of the group. From their expressions, none of them shared Jill's conviction.

“Come back with us,” Jim offered instead. “Those shadow things are still out there, and who knows what else?” He shook his head. “And you're hurt. Nothing can be worth putting your life at risk like this.”

Gunther and the cousins nodded in agreement. Jill's chin jutted, and she huffed as if she wanted to argue with Jim's assertion, but she stayed silent.

“I know what I'm doing.” Which was a lie, but they didn't need to know that. I glanced back at the fox. Her black whiskers twitched. “Take care of them?”

“As I was charged to.” The fox rose and loped down the right-hand trail.

“Go,” I said, giving Jill a quick hug and Jim a reassuring shoulder squeeze. “Before she manages to get too far ahead. I'll look you up when I get back to the States. Promise.”

Before I could lose my nerve, I turned to the other path and trudged my way up the mountain.

N
ow

Shimizu wasn't answering her cell. She wasn't at the co-op, either.

“Have you tried the clinic? She's always there,” said Patrick, our resident grad student and medical marijuana grower. Even when everyone else was gone, I could always find him in the huge solarium at the back of the shared house on Russian Hill, working on his dissertation. He'd taken over the entire couch with journal articles, books, and hand-written notes. Save a tree; kill a grad student.

“They're not picking up.” The clinic never did when they were in crisis mode. Even a tremor over 4.0 meant their phones were ignored for at least an hour. I tried Shimuzu's phone again. Straight to voice mail. “Damn.”

“What's going on?” Vess wandered into the common room with one long arm draped over her head. Stretching her traps. Vess was always stretching something.

“Shimizu's missing.” Patrick moved a stack of journal articles aside to make room for her.

Vess flopped down, pulling one leg up behind her shoulder. “Missing how? I just saw her this morning.”

“You haven't heard about the shit with China? Didn't your twitter feed download what's going on right to your brain?”

“I wish,” Vess snorted, throwing her towel at Patrick. She was still hoping for a singularity that involved her becoming a cyborg. “I was meditating. Why, what's up with China?”

She pulled out her smart phone and fiddled with it, but before it could tell her the world was going to hell, Mason and Luis charged in and did the honors.

“Did you hear what's going on in Oakland?” Luis asked, brandishing his tablet. The screen flipped from portrait to landscape and back too quickly to make sense of it.

“Oakland?” Patrick opened his laptop, which he'd shut when I'd come in frantic and looking for Shimizu. “You mean China?”

Luis shook his head. “No, dude. Oakland. Check it.”

“Have you guys heard from Shimizu,” I asked while Patrick Googled the local news.

Luis swiped at his tablet. “She's on a date.”

As one, the house turned to gape at Luis. Well, at least I wasn't the only one who hadn't known.

“She didn't tell us?” Mason might as well have said
you
for all the accusation in his voice. The way he was glaring at Luis, somebody was sleeping on the couch tonight.

Luis shrugged. Only a true stoic could date Mason and survive the drama attached. “It's not a date-date. More a meeting-to-confirm-you're-not-a-psycho date. Some girl she met online.”

“Ha! Got something.” Patrick's grin faded into horror. “Holy shit.” Behind the pretty young reporter, hordes of people crowded the Alameda ferry terminal, cops in riot gear holding them back.

We groaned as a group. “Shimizu took the ferry, didn't she? Chicken and Waffles?” I didn't need Luis's confirming nod. Of course she did. It was her favorite first date. According to Shimizu, somebody who couldn't appreciate good chicken and waffles wasn't worth dating. And her favorite chicken and waffles place was off Jack London Square in Oakland. Right where the newscaster was covering the proto-riot. Spitting distance from Chinatown.

“I'm heading over there.” In this crisis, getting across the bay was going to be a bitch, even with the leased replacement bike Jack had gotten for me.

“Are we Avengers-assembling?” Patrick asked. The other co-op members didn't know about Mr Mystic, but sometimes I wondered about Patrick. Whether it was from being smart, or often being high, he had an uncanny insight into things I'd rather keep secret. But he didn't talk, and that was what mattered.

I shook my head. “I'll head down there. You guys stay safe. I'll call when I find her.”

“I don't see what the fuss is about,” Mason said, taking Luis's hand – relenting on his cold shoulder almost as soon as he gave it. “Shimizu's not Chinese. Hell, she's barely Japanese. Her family's been here longer than mine.”

“And almost as long as mine,” Luis said. “But I still get asked for my green card and told to learn English.”

Vess looked up from her Twitter feed. “Yeah, people are going to stop and wonder about that Iowa accent while they hate crime all over her. Missy, there's another thing. Whatever's going on in China, it's affected Oakland. There's one of those force field things around their Chinatown.”

She handed me her phone. I scanned the feed. “Shit.”

Whatever they'd been trying in San Francisco, it looked like they'd succeeded in Oakland. I did some hashtag hopping. And New York. Los Angeles, Manila, London, Sydney. Every recognized Chinatown in the world was reporting a wall similar to the one around China.

Except for San Francisco.

Double shit.

I
left
, assuring the house I'd bring Shimizu back safe, then doubled back to the alley that ran alongside the Russian Hill Victorian and snuck into the first-floor rooms I shared with Shimizu. I forced myself not to rush through my transformation into Mr Mystic. The likelihood that Shimizu was in danger increased with every moment I delayed, but being Mr Mystic was about more than just keeping my identity safe. Even if the whole world discovered he was just Missy Masters in disguise, I'd still pull him about me. Mystic was cool and methodical. He thought things through. He remembered his Sun-Tzu. He didn't trust to luck and wits. At some point along the way, becoming my grandfather had started to feel as right as being myself.

And besides, he was an icon. People saw him, and they calmed down. Bad guys lost the will to fight. When people looked at me-as-Missy, they just peered over my shoulder, looking for the real threat.

Or, as Shimizu said when we first came up with the crazy idea: “Nobody surrenders to the Dread Pirate Westley.”

Braiding my hair flat and tacking down the wig took the longest. It was a thing of vanity that I refused to cut my hair or dye it black. I rationalized that it made my head look bigger, which added to the impression that I was larger than I was. Also, it meant my hat stayed on in a tussle. That was key. Without the shadows cast by my hat, deepened to a twilight dimness that foiled rods and cones, anyone might see through my disguise.

But in almost three years, nobody had.

The physical transformation was also a mental one. I'd practiced expressions; spoke to myself until my scatty rattle of verbiage smoothed into dry, urbane British wit – with the accent to match. It was a role, but after so long, I slipped into it like a well-tailored suit.

People flocked to fan forums dedicated to speculation about Mr Mystic's return to active duty after years of retirement – Mitchell Masters was pushing 70, after all. Some theorized that I was ageless due to my Eastern Kung Fu and meditative practices, others that I was a Legacy: some young man who had taken over the role while the old Mystic coached and guided me from his stronghold in the Cave of Mysteries. Nobody speculated that the Legacy might be a long-lost granddaughter. My grandfather had done his best to keep me secret and safe. Not even the most dedicated fans knew of Missy Masters.

Yes, I frequent the fan forums. I'm allowed my small pleasures.

The clothes were made to move in. My wool suit had gussets and plackets inserted to give me full range of movement without spoiling the lines. Double-breasted, thin pinstripes, starched collar harkening back to a silver age when clothes made the man, and style was a statement of moral fortitude. Soft leather half-boots, gloves to match, and a trench coat because at one point Mystic had been a spokesman for London Fog, and the look had stuck.

The hat was my finishing touch. I appreciated it for its pulp thematics as much as for the way it helped hide my features. Without his hat, Indiana Jones was just Harrison Ford in a costume. I settled the fedora on my head, swiped my fingers along the brim in a crisp gesture. I deepened the shadows around my face as I did so, and I became Mr Mystic.

T
hey hadn't yet closed
the Bay Bridge by the time I rode over it, but the traffic was doing a fair job at shutting things down all on its own. The Ducati had better pick-up than the Triumph, but it didn't handle as well. I occupied myself putting her through her paces. No use fretting over what I'd find in Oakland until I got there and could assess the situation on the ground.

I threaded through stopped cars, the world lit red by the constant brake lights. I kept an eye out for disgruntled motorists who might find it amusing to swerve into my path or clothesline me with whatever came to hand. People scoff, but such things are more common than my faith in the goodness of humanity likes to examine. I received more than my share of glares and horn blasts as I whizzed by inching SUVs and Priuses.

That was the appeal of the motorcycle for me. The dangers and the perks were the self-same thing.

The police were a presence the moment I exited the 880, diverting traffic and curiosity seekers away from Chinatown. I went with the flow, since it took me where I needed to go. Down Market and along the Embarcadero. The crowd outside the ferry terminal had worsened since the newscast, with people jostling and pushing towards the closed ferries: tourists antsy to get home, locals anxious to get out, and almost as many police in riot gear as there were civilians. Oakland never reacted when it could overreact.

There was a buzz in the air, the kind that just waited for a spark.

Little I could do here. I touched my helmet to the few shouts of recognition I received, ignored the flash of cell phones snapping a photograph, and wove south between cars and the growing crowds of people pushing out onto the Embarcadero.

I made it as far as the corner of Jack London before the crowds got too thick to ride through. I parked.

How was I ever supposed to locate Shimizu in this mob? I pushed through, abandoning my
excuse mes
and
pardon mes
after the first dozen or so human obstructions.

If I'd had my phone on ring, I never should have heard it. Good thing I kept it on vibrate. There was no quiet place to take the call. It was all I could do not to get trammeled by the crowd. I plugged one ear and resolved myself to shouting.

“Shimizu?”

“What the hell are you up to? I just called Patrick, and he said you came across to look for me.”

“Well, then, I suppose your question is redundant, since you already know what I'm about.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

Somebody shoved into me. I shoved back. The entire crowd was being herded like cattle up Broadway, away from the ferry and the more upscale shops around Jack London. I covered one ear and let myself go with the flow. “Why do you think?” I bit out.

“Oh. Oh! Are you serious? You
changed
before coming to get me?”

“I do wish you'd decide if you're upset that I came, or merely that I delayed slightly in coming.”

“Ooh, who's a pissy old man?”

“Shut up and tell me where you are.”

“Broadway and 4th.”

“What the devil are you doing up there? Nevermind. Wait and I'll come to you.” An easy enough promise, since the crowd was pushing in that direction. Getting her back to my bike would be the hard part.

A
fter a few more triangulating phone calls, and a good deal of shoving, Shimizu and I managed to rendezvous a block further northeast from her original location, underneath the 880 overpass. Getting back to my bike was unlikely. The best we could manage was going with the flow, which seemed determined to push us closer to the city and Chinatown. I hadn't seen any reaction from the police myself, but others in the crowd were reporting the use of pepper spray, batons, and kettling nets.

If that was true, it was only a matter of time before the tear gas and rubber bullets came out.

“This is bad,” Shimizu said, looking up. Bodies and cement blocked us on all sides. The underpass stank of car fumes, urine, and fear.

“Yes it is.” I kept my arm about her waist. “I don't think we're going to be able to make it back to the bike.”

“Some rescue.”

“Hush, I haven't completed it yet. You don't critique a maestro halfway through a composition.”

“This is why people prefer Skyrocket and think you're a has-been. He'd have had me out of here by now, no excuses.”

“I'll put a rocket pack on my Christmas list.”

The banter helped relieve the anxiety as we were pushed further and further along Broadway. We both took a deep breath as we came out the other side of the underpass and back into open air. A line of cops with orange kettling nets blocked off the side streets, keeping us moving along the main thoroughfare. At least half the crowd had cell phones out, brandished like cameras – hoping to catch their fifteen minutes of fame with some police violence to post on YouTube.

And then, at no cue I could discern, the police gave it to them.

Shrieks arose in reaction to the
whump
of canisters being launched, and smoke plumes followed. Shimizu and I, and the entire group we'd been shuffling along with, was shoved forward into the line of cops.

The police were not happy about being shoved closer to what I presumed was the invisible barrier around Oakland's Chinatown. They shoved back with their batons and their nets. I wrapped my arms closer around Shimizu, both so as not to lose her, and to protect her from elbows, fists, and batons.

The crowd surged again, pressing us up against the police and moving us all closer to the barrier. The same kind of barrier that had singed hapless chickens in Indonesia and crumpled shipping barges. Who knew what effect being mashed up against it would have? I didn't want to find out. We pushed back, not just Shimizu and I, but everyone under threat of being crushed. No good. The streetside crowd had too much collective mass, meanwhile the police between us and the barrier did their best to keep us all from being crushed and killed against its invisible force.