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around the Barrio.
    Still, Donovan knew some things.   He thought back to other times, and other places far from San Valencez and California.   Donovan had come by his learning by long travels, and by even longer nights of study.   He'd visited Jamaica, and Haiti.   He'd spent time across the border in the jungles of South America and the cities of Mexico.   Back in his study he had books, manuscripts, hand-scribed notes he'd taken himself, and he thought that, perhaps, it was time to review some of them and refresh his memory.
    There are many channels of energy running in and through the world.   Places of power rested where they crossed, and lines of magic littered their trails.   Each of them was the source of mysteries and rituals, but one thing was true of each and every one – there was a balance.   Nothing came without cost, and there were rules.   When the rules weren't followed, the balance became skewed, and when that happened it was no longer an individual concern.   Imbalance in one quarter led to a similar imbalance somewhere else – equal and opposite.   Donovan had devoted much of his life to the protection of that balance.
    If what Cord had told him was true, Anya Cabrera was dangerously close to upsetting it.   There was a reason the Loa only visited during particular rituals, and there was a reason they needed to return.   While controlling them on this plane might seem simple and appealing, control, like anything that required effort, wore thin over time.   The thought of those dark spirits walking the streets unfettered sent a chill up his spine.
    He passed Forty-Second Street and turned, glancing in the direction of Santini Park.   He knew that any evidence of the night's activity would have washed away in the storm.   Probably the area was cordoned off by the yellow crime-scene tape and sawhorses, shadowed and forgotten by night.   He turned away and continued toward home.   He had reading to do, and he needed to get word and questions out to other contacts.   It was looking to be a long, interesting night.

Chapter Four

    Salvatore sat cold and miserable, huddled on Martinez's front step.   When the old man finally rose and stepped outside, he glanced down and shook his head.
    "How long have you waited here?" Martinez asked.
    Salvatore shrugged.   "I watched the sunrise."
    "Come inside," Martinez said roughly.   "It is too cold here for my old bones, and there is tea."
    Salvatore stumbled to his feet, and followed the old man inside.   He glanced around, as he always did, intrigued by the small home's interior.   Shelves and alcoves lined the walls.   Each held vials of powder, rolled strips of paper, old books bound in worn, rough leather, feathers, candles, and more.   There were symbols, or letters in a language that Salvatore was unfamiliar with, painted on the walls.   There were rugs and tapestries depicting strange places, and stranger creatures.
    The air was scented with herbs and spices, and other aromas more difficult to place.   It was impossible to say why, but the simple smell of the place calmed him, and the thought of the hot, pungent tea Martinez always served helped him order his thoughts.   He knew he would have to tell Martinez about the dream, but he didn't know how to start, or how to bring it to life in words.   Sometimes the old man listened with careful interest, and other times he silenced Salvatore in scorn.   The latter was rare, but Salvatore had a good memory.   This time, he knew, it was important that the old man listen.   The image of the fallen dragon, lying prone and lifeless on the beach, flickered through his mind.
    Martinez glanced over his shoulder, and Salvatore dropped his gaze.   A moment later they were seated at the battered kitchen table.   To Salvatore's surprise, the old man gave him bread and butter with his tea.
    "You haven't slept," Martinez