The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  The sight of her pale-cream underbody flying over me, her womanhood swollen and exposed, makes me suck in a breath before I leap into the air myself.

  “Catch me if you can!” she mindspeaks and wheels out of sight.

  I hear her laughter, smell her scent all around me, but the irregular terrain, the half-egg-shaped hills, the deep crevasses and ravines in between them give her hundreds of places to hide. I roar in frustration and she calls out, “Can’t you find me?”

  Finally, I catch sight of her entering a deep, long ravine. I swoop in after her, strain to catch her. As I close, I marvel at the beauty, the delicate lines of a female of my kind, thinner, less broad than me, her length four feet shorter than mine, her wingspan six feet less. I wish it were daylight so I could examine her more fully, enjoy the delicate colors of her scales, the flashing brilliance of her emerald-green eyes.

  She laughs just as I near her tail, then swerves and shoots skyward, beating her wings as fast and hard as she can.

  I laugh too, follow and overtake her, soaring above her, close enough to prevent any further escape.

  When she sees her position, she no longer tries to evade me. “My name’s Elizabeth,” she says, coming closer, turning so she flies upside down, her underbelly almost touching mine.

  “And mine is Peter.”

  I soar slightly lower, let my body brush hers and, when we touch, we both say, “Oh!”

  We separate for a moment. “I liked that,” she says.

  Flying closer to her, I know nothing but unbridled lust, insatiable need. I bump against her again, grab, hold and join her in midair, thrust myself inside her.

  Sighs explode from both of us and we fold our wings against each other. I ride her, thrust in sympathy with the violent contortions of her body as we plunge toward the earth.

  We break free of each other a scant two hundred feet over the trees, spread our wings and soar back into the sky, going higher this time, so we can stay coupled longer the next time we join. Elizabeth and I repeat this three more times. Then, “Follow me!” she calls and leads me, aching, wanting, on a twisting journey through ravines and hills until she lights on the lip of a cave, halfway up a hill overlooking a wide valley.

  I land behind her, follow her inside the cave to a bed made from branches and soft leaves.

  She says nothing, lies on the bed in front of me, watching me, her sweet underbelly exposed.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” I say, thinking how fortunate I am. I take in her scent, the sweetness of her breath, the rich odor of her body, like the fresh, earthy smell of a forest floor. “I’ve come a long way to find you.”

  “I’m glad you did, Peter. . . .”

  I approach her on all fours. The smell of cinnamon and musk, blended with the thick, wet aroma of her excitement, envelopes me and I breathe it in, every part of my body aflame, aroused.

  She lets out a low moan, almost a growl, barely moves as I rush forward, pin her beneath me.

  I thrust into her and gasp at the hot, wet hold her body takes of me.

  Roaring, thrusting and twisting beneath me, she clamps her teeth on my throat—just below my jaw—rakes my back with her claws, opening and closing her wings, wrapping her tail around mine, pulling when I retreat, pushing when I return, her breath coming in loud gasps.

  I bellow and ignore the pain of her bite, her scratches, as I continue to pin her beneath me. When she pulls her head back and opens her mouth to bite me again, I meet her mouth with mine, lock my teeth against hers, breathe her hot breath as she breathes mine—our bodies entwined, entangled, woven together as tightly as a mariner’s knot.

  When I can’t hold back anymore, I pull my head back and roar into the cool night air. Elizabeth bellows, gyrates beneath me and we push each other toward orgasm, writhing, roaring, losing all capacity for thought or control until, at last, our bodies are overwhelmed by a frenzy of wracking, almost painful spasms—followed by unbelievable relief.

  Afterward we lie apart, let the night air cool us, Elizabeth and I stroking each other with our tails. “Peter?” she asks. “Was it what you expected?”

  I laugh, say, “More.”

  “Good,” she says, moving closer.

  “Was it what you expected?” I ask.

  She pauses before answering and for the first time in my life I worry about a female’s reaction to my performance. With human women I always knew I was good and rarely cared. But Elizabeth is oh so different. “I think it was,” she says and then laughs at my frown.

  “No, it was good . . . wonderful really.” Elizabeth hugs me, strokes me. “But you’ve had human women before, haven’t you?”

  I nod. “None of them were anything like you.”

  “I like hearing that,” she purrs. “But that means you had something to compare it to. I didn’t. I only knew what Mum told me and, believe me, she left quite a bit out.” Elizabeth giggles and I laugh with her.

  She snuggles against me. “Peter, really, I’m delighted. . . . I’m thrilled to be with you. I think we’ll make each other very happy.”

  I say nothing more, but silently thank the fates and Father for my finding her. Content for the first time in my memory, I hold her, listening to her breathing slow, feeling her body grow warmer against me as she falls off into sleep.

  A cold wind blows into the cave and Elizabeth shivers and pushes closer to me. I embrace her, pull her toward me, then extend my wings and fold them over us, forming a warm cocoon for us both.

  She sighs in her sleep and I grin, slowing my breathing to match hers, giving myself up to sleep just as willingly as, I realize, I’ve given myself up to her.

  9

  A flock of green parakeets, screeching and cackling in the trees outside the cave, wake me the next morning. The cool morning air surprises me when I open my wings, then fold them back. Beneath me, Elizabeth mutters, curls herself into a ball and sleeps on. I smile, nuzzle her gently, then get up and stretch.

  I can’t think of any part of my body that doesn’t ache and that’s just fine with me. Never in all my couplings with human women have I ever found one with even a hint of Elizabeth’s passion. I walk to the mouth of the cave, stare at the mist blanketing the green treetops in the valley, marvel at the way we made love the night before.

  All around the valley and beyond, other egg-top-shaped hills jut from the ground. In places where the mist has cleared, I can make out the deep holes in the ground, the ravines and sinkholes in between the hills—everything covered in thick, lush, green vegetation.

  Cockpit Country, Elizabeth said. I wonder how she came to it. We’ve yet to tell each other anything about ourselves and I can’t wait to learn about her.

  If we were human, I think, this would have been a one-night stand and both of us would wake embarrassed and anxious to leave each other’s presence. But somehow, I know with certainty that the sleeping female within this cave now belongs to me, as I do to her—for life.

  Elizabeth awakens an hour later to find me sitting near her, admiring her in the light of the morning sun.

  “Peter, you’ll make me blush,” she says as I continue to stare at her, marveling at how much more beautiful I find her than human women—the soft light green of her scales, the delicate arch of her back where it curves to her tail, the delightful, cream color of her underbody, flushed pink around her sex.

  “I just think you’re lovely.”

  She laughs—the deep, rich tones of a woman who’s sure of herself—turns and displays herself to me. “Is this what you find so lovely, Peter?”

  I shake my head, start to tell her I find so much more about her that’s lovely, but my body betrays me.

  “You poor dear,” she says, drawing me toward her with her tail. “Your mind says one thing”—she touches me between my rear legs—“and this says something entirely different.”

  Afterward, we drift back to sleep. Elizabeth wakens me an hour later, pulling and pushing my body. “I’m hungry,” she says, �
��Come hunting with me.”

  “In the daytime? Isn’t that too dangerous?”

  She laughs, pulls me toward the cave’s mouth. “You forget, this is Cockpit Country. We don’t have any roads here, barely any trails. Anyone who travels through has to contend with hill after hill—cliffs and ravines, lakes and rivers, caves and sinkholes, rocks so sharp they can slice through flesh, ground that collapses under foot, underbrush so thick no one can cut through it without a saw. Except for an occasional hunter, some old Maroons and a smattering of ganja farmers, most Jamaicans avoid this area and none of the others dare come this far.”

  I follow her out into the morning air, dive with her toward the remaining morning mist and skim through it alongside her. The cool moisture of it counteracts the sun’s hot rays beating on me from above and I whoop from the pleasure of it, spiral and dive and zoom skyward, laughing.

  Elizabeth lags below me. “You’ll never find prey up there,” she says.

  “I’ve never flown in daylight before.” I swoop down beside her and let out a roar of pleasure. “I’ve never felt so free!”

  “Quiet!” She drops lower, her eyes fixed on the terrain passing below.

  An almost-perfect circle of water glistens a short distance in front of us and she says, “Stay here,” then contracts her wings and dives toward a small clearing on the edge of the lake.

  I circle overhead as she crashes into the underbrush at the edge of the clearing, listen to the squeals of the wild boar she pins with her talons, watch the bushes jerk and sway from their struggle. In a few moments all grows calm. “Come, Peter,” she calls. “There’s plenty for both of us.”

  For some reason the image of a television-sitcom mother, calling her family to breakfast, crosses my mind. I grin at the incongruity of it as I land and help Elizabeth drag the big boar into the clearing.

  “Not as good as human meat,” she says serving me the first taste of her kill. “But we’d have to travel to the outskirts, near Accompong or Quick Step, where their farms and ganja fields are . . . and that’s best done at night.”

  We feed, side by side again, neither speaking, Elizabeth saving special parts for me, rubbing herself against me as we eat. Afterward, she runs toward the lake, leaps into the water and dives out of sight. I follow, dive after her.

  When I surface, she’s nowhere in view. I swim farther out and dive again. Still I find no sign of her.

  I surface again. “Peter!” A voice calls from the shore.

  Surprised to hear my name spoken out loud, I stop and turn in the direction of the voice, then gasp at what I see.

  A young, naked woman, shorter than I would have expected, her mocha skin still wet and glistening from the lake’s water, waves at me from the sandy beach.

  I swim toward her, dive and change shape underwater just before shore.

  “I thought you might like to see my human shape,” Elizabeth says as I approach her. She stares at me, her emerald-green eyes seeming to examine me from head to foot, and her voice goes deep and throaty. “I certainly wanted to see yours.”

  Her accent surprises me. She looks like a light-skinned Jamaican woman and I expect to hear an island lilt to her words. Instead, her pronunciation is clipped and terse, like upper-class English enunciation.

  Droplets of moisture shimmer in the short, dark curls that cover her head. She grins as I inspect her, turns and models so I can take in each delicious aspect, each curve of her thin, lithe form.

  “Do you like?” she asks, cupping her small, brown, rounded breasts in her two hands, her dark nipples hard and thick—either from the chill of the wind or the excitement, I hope, building within her. “I could make them larger if you want.”

  I shake my head, displace her hands with mine, kiss her full, soft lips then pull her warm, wet body close to me, enjoying the disparity in our height, the top of her head nestled under my chin. I lean down a little, whisper, “Do you like?” into one of her small, perfectly formed ears as I press myself against her.

  Elizabeth nods, wrapping her arms around my neck, pulling me down with her, onto the sunbaked sand.

  In human form, I have no need to rely on instinct. I know just what to do and I concentrate on showing her a more gentle way to make love—stroking, touching and teasing each part of her, teaching her to do the same.

  * * *

  Later, lying in the sand, her head resting on my right arm, one of her legs across mine, she says, “So that’s how they do it.”

  I laugh, gaze toward the sky, watch a pair of black crows fly overhead and say, “Do you think we’ll ever stop long enough to have time to just talk—get to know each other?”

  She runs a hand over my chest, and speaks softly, “We have time now.”

  “For starters, how old are you?” I ask.

  Elizabeth pulls away a little, makes a small pout with her lips. “You should know that, my just coming into term, your being my first, my only—”

  “Bear with me, Elizabeth,” I say, sitting up, reaching for her, touching her protruding lower lip with one finger. “My parents sent me to school with humans. I even graduated from the University of Miami. But it seems they neglected to teach me very much about my own people.”

  “I never went to school. Pa says it would be silly to bother with such things. My mum taught me everything I need to know—how to hunt to feed my family, which herbs to grow and how to use them, how to brew Dragon’s Tear wine, even how to read and write a little.”

  She pauses and looks away from me. “I’ll be eighteen in three months. Mum says I came to term earlier than most.”

  I nod. “My father said you’d probably be young. . . .”

  “Is that bad?” Elizabeth frowns, looks down at the sand. “You’re supposed to want to be with me from now on.”

  “Of course I do.” I pull her toward me, hug her, kiss her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her forehead. “The question is, do you want to be with someone as old as me?”

  She pulls back, and looks at me. “And how old is that?”

  “Fifty-seven,” I tell her and she laughs.

  “That’s not very old. My father was a hundred and ten when he finally found my mother. My brother Derek’s ten years older than you right now and he hasn’t found one of our women yet.” She grins. “He’ll be as envious of you as my little sister will be of me.”

  “So you want to be with me?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She grins as if she thinks me slightly confused. “Is there any other choice?”

  The flippant way she talks about us injures my pride. “You don’t have to come with me,” I snap. “You could wait for someone else to come to be your mate.”

  “You are my mate. You fought for me and took me.” Elizabeth shakes her head at me. “Why would I wait for anyone else when your child is already growing inside me?”

  10

  Elizabeth insists we circle north before we fly back to the cave. “I want you to see Morgan’s Hole, where I grew up,” she says. She points out a formation of eight hilltops, slightly taller than all the rest in sight. “That’s almost in the middle of Cockpit Country.”

  We soar over the egg-shaped hills and look down upon yet another valley, larger than most but still irregular in its vegetation-choked green terrain. “Why would anyone want to live here?” I ask.

  “You told me your father chose an island to live on, for easy defense. My grandfather, Captain Jack Blood, chose to go inland for the same reason. The valley’s almost impenetrable. They call it Morgan’s Hole because the old reprobate granted it to my family when he was lieutenant governor.

  “My father says the English were so glad to have someone willing to live in an area terrorized by the escaped slaves, the Maroons, they hardly asked for a pound in payment. The Maroons, of course, soon learned to keep their distance from us.”

  I follow Elizabeth as she flies lower. To me, one hill looks like the other, each valley seems a repetition of the one before. I marvel she can find her way. Wi
thout her, I’m sure I’d never find our cave again.

  “There!” she says, and I look in the direction of her gaze.

  In the far corner of the valley, after a series of cultivated fields, set into the side of a hill, almost hidden by an overhang, obscured by two immense, silk cotton trees growing in front of it, a stone house, similar, but larger than the one my father built, looks out over the valley.

  “Are we going to visit your family now?” I ask.

  “Oh . . . no . . . not yet,” she says, changing course, flying higher.

  “But shouldn’t they know about us?”

  “They already do.”

  Of course, I think. I should have realized my family wasn’t the only one who could mindspeak over long distances. “And?” I ask.

  “Mum is so excited. . . . She’s already planning for the feast.”

  Once again, I feel as if I’ve arrived in a completely foreign culture. “Feast?”

  “Of course,” she says. “That’s when you’ll meet my family—in a few days, when everything’s prepared. You’ll like them. Pa can be a little fearsome, but I know he’ll like you.” She laughs. “After all, what choice does he have now?”

  She clears a hill by only a few feet, drops into the next valley beyond and I follow close behind, thinking, this is my child bride, my life companion. Amazingly, she’s soon to be the mother of my child. I want all these things, accept them completely, but they’ve come so fast. For a moment, I envy humans with their dating rituals and courtship, their endless confusion between love and lust, their constant conflict between desire and security.

  With us it’s almost too simple. Sex and procreation. She becomes fertile, gives off her scent and I have to have her. I have her, she conceives and she’s mine. No shy glances across a room, no sharing of histories, not even any conversation.

  Neither Elizabeth nor I have uttered the word “love.” I wonder how she would react if I did. Had another male arrived before me, or killed me in combat—she would be flying alongside him now with equal devotion.