The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  I pull on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of sneakers, then run up the staircase to the third floor, shake my head at the cold remnants of the fire in the hearth, the dampness sprayed by the wind throughout the room.

  “Peter!” Father calls me as I pull the last window shut. “Come close my windows, the rain’s coming in.”

  “Father, you can close them yourself,” I say as I look around the room, and make sure everything’s secure. Outside, rain drums on the windowpanes.

  “Peter, you opened the windows. You damn well can close them.”

  I grin at Father’s intransigence, walk slowly down the stairs to his room.

  “About time,” he says when I enter. He coughs and wheezes for my benefit, watches as I rush around the room slamming doors, shutting windows. “Start a fire too,” he instructs. “Take the chill out of the air.”

  I stack logs in the fireplace on the exterior wall, grab a few handfuls of hay from Father’s bedding to serve as kindling. The fire will soon make the room intolerably hot, but I know Father won’t care. Age has made him sensitive to cold and far too fond of heat. I strike a match and watch the hay catch fire, the flames blossom and lick around the logs.

  “Why haven’t you told me about our women and the scent they give off?” I mindspeak Father.

  He sighs and turns on his bedding. “Why make you wait for what might not come? Why have you search for what might not be there?”

  “But you’ve always promised that one day I’d meet a woman of our blood. . . .”

  “And so I’ve always hoped.” He sighs again. “We are so few.”

  I sit on the hay at his side, watch the fire catch and listen to it crack and pop. “How will I find her, Father? Her scent came on a southeast wind last night. The wind shifted to the north today. She could be almost anywhere below us.”

  He takes a deep, rasping breath, coughs and wheezes as he sits up next to me, puts a wizened, taloned hand on my shoulder. “She’s most probably in the Caribbean. The wind will shift again and, if she’s untaken, you can follow her scent.”

  “Untaken?” I stare at the old creature. It hadn’t occurred to me that she could have more than one suitor. “First you talk as if we’re the last ones of our kind, then you speak as if there are hundred of us. . . .”

  “Peter,” he says, and shakes his head as he goes on, “I don’t know how many of us are left—whether we’re three or three thousand. I doubt she’s yet taken. But I want you to know it’s a possibility. Which is why, the next time you smell her on the air, you have to go to her.”

  “And leave you here alone?”

  Father sighs. “I’ve lived a very long time. You know that. Your mother was my third wife. I had six sons and three daughters before you—all dead now. Soon it will be time for me to go too.”

  “All the more reason for me to stay with you now.”

  “All the more reason for me to go.” Father forces himself to his feet, shambles across the room on all fours and lies by the fire.

  “The heat feels good on these old bones,” he says. “I’m tired, Peter. Time has long since ceased being my friend. If you hadn’t been born, I would have died when I lost your mother. I’ve forced my lungs to work, my heart to beat these last few years to make sure you weren’t alone. Now that I can be sure there are others of us out there, I can think of letting go.”

  “No!” I say out loud.

  He nods, ignores my distress. “Our females come tomaturity in their eighteenth year. After that, until they mate, they cycle every four months. During each cycle but their first, they’re usually in heat for three weeks. If this is a young one, as I suspect she is, what you’ve smelled on the air is the result of her first oestrus and that typically lasts only a few days. I doubt any male will have time to find her in such a short interval.”

  “Why are you so sure it’s the Caribbean?”

  Father coughs, stares into the fire as he goes on. “When the DelaSangres came to the New World, we weren’t the only people of the blood to make the trip. Pierre Sang, Jack Blood and Gunter Bloed sailed ships across the Atlantic too. Eventually, Sang settled in Haiti, Blood in Jamaica and Bloed in Curaçao. But all of our ships sailed together for six months each year looting ships and taking prisoners.”

  I look at Father, my eyes wide. “You never told me you sailed with others of our kind.”

  He shrugs. “It was long ago. What better way could there be to maintain our wealth and keep our larder full?

  “We were all privateers. Each of us carried Letters of Marque—Blood’s from England, Sang’s from France, Bloed’s from Holland and mine from Spain. We kept our ships and human crews on the islands south of us. None of the crew ever questioned what became of our captives. They were very good years . . . until the Europeans turned on us and banned privateering. After that, we went our own ways.”

  “And you think their families are still on those islands?”

  “Most probably.” Father turns to me. “She will come to term again in four months, sometime in July. You must be ready to pursue her. If she mates with another, she’ll be lost to you forever.”

  The fire’s heat burns into me and I wonder how the old creature can like it so much. “What if she won’t have me?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Our women don’t work that way. Until they’ve mated for the first time, when they’re in heat they’re available to any male that finds them. Whichever one takes her, has her for life.”

  “It’s that easy?”

  Father grins, showing every one of his pointed yellowed teeth. “Easy?” He cackles and I blush at his reaction, feeling like a young boy all over again. “Peter, with our women nothing’s easy. Remember, they’re the true hunters among us, fearless, impetuous and far too daring.”

  He shakes his head. “Even your mother, who loved gentle pursuits, who cherished her music, books and arts. She was the one who insisted on your being educated like a human. Even she could be unmanageable and headstrong. . . .” He pauses and coughs. “If she listened to me, she wouldn’t have gone off hunting that night. I told her, with the war going on, the seas were too dangerous. But she insisted on crossing the Florida Straits to hunt over Cuba. On her return she flew too close to a surfaced German submarine. I doubt their gunner realized what she was. The night was too black for him to make out more than a large shadow passing in the dark. But he sprayed the sky with machine-gun fire, striking her with one of the bursts, doing too much damage for her to repair.

  “She tried though, flying until she found a deserted key thirty miles west of Bimini.”

  I nod, knowing the story, remembering her last few thoughts calling to us so faintly from so many miles, so far away. Father and I had traveled to that island—no more than a glorified sandbar really—and had buried her body there, that night, before there was any possibility of its discovery.

  Father senses my thoughts and says, “I want you to bury me next to her.”

  “Of course,” I say, experiencing once again the loss of her, wondering how devastating the loss of him will be.

  The old creature studies my expression and cackles anew. “Don’t be so morose, Peter. I’m not dying tonight or tomorrow night either. Think of the young bride you’re soon to have. Dwell on that and the creation of new life rather than this old creature in front of you. Go now. You’ve plans to make and things to do. I have memories I want to visit before I sleep again.”

  The wind and rain slam against my closed windows when I return to my room. The large exterior oak doors creak and rattle with each gust. I look out the window and see only the dark sky and the white crests of the breaking waves. For a moment, I question whether I want to go out in this. To do otherwise would be to dwell on all the things Father has told me and, just now, I’d rather put my mind elsewhere, worry and plan another day.

  I grab my foul-weather gear from the closet, bundle it under one arm. The gold glint of Maria’s jewelry catches my attention and I realize I’ve forgott
en to put it away. I scoop that up and drop it in my pocket, then leave my room and bound down the wide steps of the great spiral staircase.

  At the bottom, I pick up the burlap bag containing Maria’s bones, sling it over one shoulder and walk to the sixth and smallest cell. Inside, it looks like all the rest except that the stone walls remain unmarred. No prisoner has ever had the opportunity to draw or gouge messages on its wall. No captive has ever slept in this room.

  I put down the burlap bag and seize the end of the wood cot bolted to the stone floor. It creaks and rasps as I pull up on it, refusing to budge at first, then rising slowly, floor and all, on hinges hidden underneath, speeding up as the lead counterweights hanging below take effect, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.

  Once again slinging the burlap bag over my shoulder, I enter the passageway. The black surrounds me as I descend the stairs. At their end, a dangling rope slaps my face. Once this surprised me but, after all the trips I’ve made through this dark passageway, it’s as familiar as the ocean sounds outside my window. I give it a hard tug and grin at the groan of the moving floor above, the crash as it slams shut.

  I proceed forward in the dark, my shoulders brushing against the cool stone walls of the passageway, my hair touching the ceiling. There’s no light here and, with only one direction to travel, no need for it. After forty paces I feel the corridor widen, the ceiling rise above me. Running my fingers over the wall to my right, I find the switch and flick it on.

  The light illuminates a round chamber, no more than ten paces in circumference, leading to another dark corridor on the other side and flanked by two, steel-plated wood doors, each chained shut and padlocked.

  As always I feel uneasy here, knowing that every man who worked on these rooms was slaughtered as soon as they were completed. I turn to the door on my right and dial the lock’s combination. Years ago, after Father ceased to visit this floor, I removed the ancient locks Don Henri had installed and replaced them with modern, stainless-steel combination padlocks, both to forgo the need for keys and to save me from any further time wasted on struggling to unlock the aged and rusted devices.

  The door swings open and I can’t help but gawk at the riches inside, chest after chest brimming with gold and silver jewelry. Boxes containing Rolexs, Cartiers, Omegas and Ebals. Ancient gold and silver ingots stacked knee-high near the far wall. Piles of twenty-dollar bills taken from drug runners who’d suffered a fate far worse from us than they would ever have encountered from the DEA.

  Maria’s few pieces of jewelry look paltry and cheap alongside the wealth they join. Still I drop all of it in a chest, the gold four-leaf clover resting on the top and proceed on, locking the door, extinguishing the light and entering the other narrow, dark corridor.

  Stumbling occasionally over the rough stones lining the floor, I follow the passageway’s contours as it curves, then dips, then rises, then ends—another wooden door blocking any further progress. I listen to the wind and the rain outside and I smile, knowing I’ll soon be out in it.

  It takes only a few moments of fumbling in the dark to pull on the yellow slicker and matching yellow overalls of my foul-weather gear. I throw the ancient bolt on the door, push it open and, leaving Don Henri’s escape tunnel, I breathe in the clean cool night’s air. I revel in the beauty of the storm as rain beats in my face and lightning illuminates the heavens.

  The tunnel opens in the bushes just a few yards from the dock and I pause to add some large rocks to the bones inside the burlap bag, then I sprint to the dock where my Grady White tosses and pitches. Thunder cracks somewhere in the night and I laugh. The seas will be furious and dangerous in their anger. No right-minded person will be out in such weather.

  I throw the burlap bag into the cockpit of the Grady White, then make my way to the Chris Craft and release its dock lines, tying its bowline to the Grady White’s stern cleat.

  Taking my boat’s wheel, I fire up the Yamahas and head out the channel, towing the Chris Craft behind me. I gasp when I clear the protection of the island and the full force of the wind hits me. The Grady White’s wheel fights my control. Waves crash over the bow. Salt spray and driving rain hammer my face and eyes.

  I push the throttle forward even more and concentrate on guiding the boat through the twists and turns of the channel. The Chris Craft follows, fighting its towline, crashing into waves, skittering sideways from their impact.

  Taking the last turn of the channel at full speed, turning the wheel hard to the right, I yank the Chris Craft out of the channel, take it over the coral rocks lurking just under the surface. The Grady White quivers when the other boat hits rock, then slows, motors whining, as it pulls the Chris Craft across the coral, ripping and splintering the wooden boat’s bottom.

  The rain is so dense that I can barely make out the Fowey Rock lighthouse’s beacon a few miles away. I pray that the Chris Craft doesn’t sink until I’m well past it, out in the deep water where I always dispose of my family’s secrets.

  Besides, I find I’m enjoying myself, fighting to keep the Grady White under control, steering my way from wave to wave. Fear isn’t a possibility. Should the boat founder or I get knocked overboard, I can always change shape and take to the air.

  On the edge of the Gulfstream, the waves tower over my boat, threatening to crash down on me. I wait until the Grady White clears the top of one giant wave, then I rush back and cut the Chris Craft’s line before we hit the bottom of the trough. The boat disappears behind me, sinking as I guide the Grady White to the top of the next wave.

  I repeat the maneuver two waves later, this time throwing the burlap bag containing Maria’s bones into the angry sea. I’m too busy to watch it sink and very glad to have my attention required elsewhere.

  The run back to the island goes easier. With nothing to tow, the Grady White responds to the lightest touch. Running with the wind behind us reduces its ferocity, lessens the impact of the driving rain and I have time to think of Maria and allow myself to mourn her passing.

  Against the reality of her gruesome death, the image of a faraway love’s embrace seems even more illusory to me than before. Had Father not confirmed the probability of her existence, I would probably now be assuming that what happened wasn’t the result of an airborne scent but rather a moment’s madness. It wouldn’t be the first time I felt my existence was insane. Certainly no human would think it otherwise.

  Near the island, the shock of Father’s words sink in and, for the first time in my life, I consider living without him. It makes me ache inside, a hollow empty pain that tears at me and sears my brain. I want to cry out against any thought of it but I know Father’s right. For the love of me he’s lived longer than he’s wanted and, in return, I must let him go without complaint.

  I must focus instead on finding the woman, the mate my blood requires. The thought of her brings back the memory of the scent of cinnamon and musk floating in the evening air. My heartbeat quickens and my nostrils flare. To my shame I forget about the undeserved death, so recent, so sad, of an innocent girl.

  For the moment I forget Father’s words too, his imminent and desired demise. The recollection of the distant female’s scent overtakes me and—no matter the rain, the wind, the tousled, frothing seas that batter me—I give in to the fantasies the remembrance brings.

  5

  Father chooses to die in May. Even though we’ve discussed his impending death many times, I still gasp when I open his chamber door, the first morning of the month, and find him lying still and open-eyed on his bed of hay.

  My nose wrinkles at the stale musty smell his dead body gives off and, for an instant, I feel like running from the room. Instead, I pivot in the doorway, stare into the interior of the house and take a few cleansing breaths.

  Just the night before, Father had regaled me with stories from his past, laughing and boasting of the victories he’d won, the enemies he’d defeated. I shake my head as I approach him now. I’d laughed with him, taken
a vicarious thrill from his tales, marveled at the strength he seemed to keep summoning to go forward, the sparkle still shining in his emerald-green eyes. Now a dead carcass lies in his place, green scales turning opaque, those bright eyes turned milky and glazed.

  I sit on the floor next to his bedding and stare at his remains. I envy humans and their ritual approach to death. If this were a human household, I could wail and gnash my teeth, busy myself calling priests and ambulances, friends and relatives. There would be a funeral to be planned, food and refreshments to order for the well-wishers and afterward, meetings with attorneys and accountants to see what could be salvaged from the estate.

  If only, I think, I could busy myself with these things. But there’s no priest for me to turn to, no ritual I can embrace—even Father’s estate has long since been transferred to my name, his death faked years before and recorded then by our family’s attorneys.

  After dark, at least, I’ll be able to carry Father’s body to the island where my mother’s buried and keep my promise to lay him down beside his beloved. Until then there’s nothing to do but wait and surrender to the pain.

  Dark comes late this time of year and I spend the day wandering the grounds and the veranda, hating the bright light of day, the white sails billowing far off at sea, the gulls soaring in the sky, rupturing the quiet of the day with their raucous caws.

  I throw off my clothes as soon as night falls, change shape in the dark shadows near the walls of the house. Truly my father’s son now, I spread my wings to the evening air and leap into the sky.

  The rushing air embraces me and I flex the great muscles on my back, push huge quantities of air with each beat of my wings. Ordinarily the mere act of flying fills me with joy, but tonight sorrow and anger consume me. Higher, faster, I spiral over my island. I want—I need to feed, to taste life as it drains away, and I want to taste it soon. I have no patience for caution this night. I descend in a long gentle curve as I search the surrounding waters for prey.