Heart of a Dragon Read Free Page B

carved characters along each band.   He slipped this over his neck and dropped it beneath his shirt.   He took a second group of green crystals that dangled from strong, thin chains joined by a loop at one end and dropped them into his hip pocket.   He studied the rest of the shelf carefully, and then turned away.   It was going to be a quick trip, and there wasn't any particular threat.   He had his usual protections, and on any normal day they were enough.   He just liked to have something up his sleeve for emergencies.
    Cleopatra hopped up onto his desk and watched him with wide, baleful eyes. He stepped over and scratched her between her ears.   She arched her back and pressed into his touch.   Donovan smiled.
    "Keep your eyes open, Cleo," he said.   "I don't want any surprises when I get back."
    Donovan glanced at the phone.   He considered calling Amethyst.   He knew she'd probably meet him if he asked her, and he'd feel better if someone else at least knew where he was.   He shook his head, frowned, and turned away from the phone.   He had no idea where his sudden paranoia was coming from, but he'd learned over a long life to trust his instincts, and though he didn't sense any particular danger in meeting with Cord, something felt wrong. No reason to drag anyone else into it, whatever it might be.
    He stepped out of his door, locked it carefully, closed his eyes and set the wards.   He felt ancient forces converge as he mouthed the incantations.   The ornate wooden door grew unfocused, shimmered for a moment, and as he stepped away it took on the aspect of a more mundane frame – painted dingy white and stained from too many hand prints and boot toes over the years. Donovan had stayed in those rooms a very long time, and he'd made a number of "upgrades" – he liked to keep them to himself.   He owned the entire building, though it would have been difficult to trace it back to him.   It allowed him to make hidden modifications, and to come and go as he pleased, while appearing to those around him to be just another tenant.
    He avoided the elevators and took the stairs to the first floor.   Once there, he turned toward the back of the building.   There was a maintenance exit that led to an alley behind the building, and he slipped through it quietly into the muggy southern California night.   He stood very still in the shadows and waited.   If anyone had been watching for him to exit, they'd follow.   If anyone outside was waiting for him, he wanted to know they were there before making a move.
    All that stirred were scraps of paper in the breeze. The alley opened on the street at one end; at the other was a solid brick wall.   Donovan turned away from the street.   When he reached the rear wall, he walked along it slowly, counting bricks.   He touched the thirty-third from the right, on the eighth row from the bottom.   The brick shimmered.   Donovan stepped back and watched as the tombstone shaped outline of a doorway formed on the surface of the wall.   Three stone steps led down into the darkness beyond the doorway, and he took them quickly, running down all three, back up two, and then stepping back down and pushing on the wooden door ahead of him.   It swung inward, and he stepped through, leaving the alley behind.
    The door closed behind him with a click, and he stood in a corridor with stone walls stretching out to the right and left.   Along the walls doors were lined up at even intervals, stretching off beyond his sight.   The air was cool and dank and there was an odd, smoky scent in the air.
    Torches shone at intervals along the corridor, but there was no indication of how long they'd burned, or who might have lit them.   Donovan had discovered references to the corridor in a crumbling diary written by an early Californian explorer.   It matched notes in ancient European texts, and at least one carefully