Dark Heart (34 page)

B
enny watched from an inconspicuous entryway at the front of the club as the coroner’s van pulled up. Police cars flashed their red beacons, turning the facade of Gwendolyne’s Flight into a nightmare of crimson. He had followed Justin all the way from the cathedral. And now he waited.

Two gurneys rolled out of the front doors. One gurney held a body which, though draped with a white sheet, was headless. The other gurney also had a sheet draped over it, but it was impossible to tell from the outline of fabric what it concealed. A crowd had gathered in the street. People flocked to watch, but Benny didn’t care. He had seen all he needed to see. Nothing further that happened here could alter his sworn course, one way or the other. He knew what he had to do.

The body wagon pulled away from the Flight and started down the street. Benny stepped from his shaded alcove. The van slowed to a stop at the first red light, and Benny ran to open the passenger door.

“Hey!” the man inside protested.

Benny grabbed the passenger’s head and slammed it into the dashboard twice. Blood sprayed from his broken nose onto the windshield. The driver yelled, opened the other door, and scrambled out. Benny threw the unconscious body of the paramedic onto the pavement, jumped into the driver’s seat, and pulled the van into the intersection.

He could not hope to escape the city in the stolen van, especially when he’d taken it by violence not half a block from a crime scene filled with cops. But he didn’t want the van.

He drove for a couple of minutes, then turned into an alley. Tires squealed and rubber smoked as he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt.

Leaving the engine running, Benny opened the back and looked at the two gurneys. The one with the dead body did not interest him. He knew who it was, and Kalzar could rot there for all he cared. But the other gurney…

Benny whipped the sheet off and looked at the blood-smeared plastic bag. In it was a head and two gory masses of bone and flesh that most people would not be able to identify. But Benny knew what they were. They were what he wanted.

Ripping the plastic open, he dragged the two wings out of the van. A fence bisected the alley. He threw his bundle over and climbed to join it. Once on the other side, he knelt and looked at the wings. They were badly damaged, ripped or cut off at the joint, but that shouldn’t matter.

He could not stay here long, and he had much to do. He brought the first wing to his mouth and bit into the bloody flesh of the shoulder joint, scales and all. Slowly he chewed, forcing down his urge to gag.

No sooner had he swallowed than he began to feel the power course through him. A wide grin spread over his crimson-spattered lips. He ripped away another bite with great zest.

Yes…

“Now you are mine, Justin,” Benjamin McCormick vowed. “There is no place you can hide where my master and I cannot find you.”

Tina huddled close to Li on a Chicago rooftop. She trusted all the Drokpas, but she felt the most comfortable with Li. Maybe it was because they were so close in age, but Tina figured it was mostly because Li had saved her from Omar in the very beginning. Li was the bravest person she had ever met.

They watched Benny quietly as he devoured Kalzar’s wings. When Benny finished, he loped off into the dark. Li sighed and moved away from the edge. He rolled onto his back and stared upward.

“This was not foreseen,” he said.

Tina nodded. “We’ll have to ask the others to keep an eye on him.” Tina didn’t like to see Li so downcast. “But the rest is going as they hoped it would, isn’t it?”

Li closed his eyes and Tina could see his pain in the lines around his mouth.

“Sandra’s death saddens you,” Tina said.

He nodded. “I wanted to save her. I was overruled.”

“Dr. Shiang says—”

“I know what she says. I know what Grandfather says. I’ve heard it all before, okay?” Li pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the fire escape. She saw the tears streak down his face.

“I’m sorry,” Tina said, following.

“Don’t be sorry,” Li said, shrugging. “Everyone is so sorry. Sorry doesn’t do anybody any good.”

V
incent Carthy didn’t know why he had been chosen to make this meeting or these arrangements. It all smacked of something highly illegal, and if he hadn’t been given the impression that his job hung in the balance, he would’ve turned down the assignment. Certainly no one else had wanted to do it.

Stanford & Bentley Financial Consultants did not usually send their employees on errands for clients, and especially not a junior partner like Vincent. But here he was, with a checklist of the most bizarre instructions he’d ever been given, a checklist he had filled with the precision for which his firm was famous.

Again Vincent checked his watch. His client was thirteen minutes late, going on fourteen. Vincent wondered nervously what he would do if the guy didn’t show. How long should he wait? Vincent wanted to leave now, but…

Vincent looked up and jumped. One minute he’d been staring at a deserted country road. The next he was looking at a man in a black trench coat, with long hair, Ray-Ban sunglasses concealing his eyes, walking toward him. Where had he come from? Vincent wanted this over with.

Vincent smoothed his lapels and waited by the BMW with the matte black paint. The man walked straight up to him and stopped. He did not remove his glasses.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Vincent greeted him.

The man nodded. “A good afternoon to you,” he said, in a crisp English accent.

“Here is your car, sir.” Vincent made an eloquent motion with his hand. “Exactly as you requested. All of the modifications have been made. The chrome trim and surface paint have been covered in matte black.”

“The windows have been smoked on the inside, as well as the outside?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir. It reduces visibility.”

“I shall have no trouble seeing, rest assured.”

Vincent nodded. “You realize that it is not legal, not without any mirrors whatsoever?”

“I am aware of that.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And the other matter?”

Vincent cleared his throat. “Yes. The funds have been wired, sir. The purchase has been made.” He extended his hands with a ring of six keys. “These are for the ignition and the doors. This one is for the trunk. These two are for the yacht ignition, one for the doors on board. I took the liberty of labeling them for you, sir.”

“Thank you.” The man took the keys. “And the name?”

“I have contracted the work. It should be complete by the time you arrive. ‘Sandra’s Truth’ in black, across the stern. Correct?”

“That’s correct. Thank you.”

The man stared at Vincent a moment longer, then nodded. “I have instructed a limousine to pick you up here in ten minutes. I hope you do not mind the wait.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good.” He went to the door of the BMW and opened it.

“Sir?” Vincent asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

The man turned. “Yes?”

“I realize that it is none of my business, but might I ask where you’re bound?”

For the first time, the man smiled. “There are some people in China I have to meet.”

Vincent furrowed his brow. “I see, sir.”

“I doubt it.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Vincent asked, confused.

“Do you believe in dragons?” the man returned.

“Sir?”

“Dragons. Do you believe they exist?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Vincent stammered.

“I had a dream,” the man said softly. “A dream that perhaps someday they won’t.”

Vincent’s mouth dropped slowly open.

The man closed the car door behind him. The engine roared to life, and he pulled out onto the highway.

M
ARGARET
W
EIS
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of over thirty books, including the Star of the Guardian series, the Death Gate Cycle, the Darksword Trilogy, and the Dragonlance series. She lives with her husband, Don Perrin, in a converted barn in Wisconsin.

D
AVID
B
ALDWIN
has held a variety of jobs in his twenty-eight years, including security guard, tattoo artist, and carpenter. In addition to his writing career, he is a Harley Davidson mechanic.

Cover illustration © 1998 by John Howe.

Cover design by Carl Galian.