The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  Part of me wishes she were with me for more reasons than that I was the first to service her. But another part revels in the knowledge—now, no other male of the blood can approach her and hope to win her over, not as long as I live.

  In our cave, Elizabeth and I curl up on our bed of branches and leaves. “I made it as soon as I came in heat,” she says. “I’d already found the cave before . . . the last time.”

  “I smelled your scent then—all the way up in Miami.”

  “I cried when no one came. Mum said not to worry, someone was bound to find me eventually.”

  As the afternoon sun settles and the day begins its slow journey into night, I tell her about my boat ride south and my quest for her.

  “Peter, I’m so glad you’re the one who found me,” she says before we drift into sleep.

  I awake, cold and alone, stare out into the darkness beyond the cave. Without such human things as watches or clocks, I have no way of knowing how long I’ve slept.

  “Elizabeth!” I mindspeak.

  No reply comes and I get up and pace about the cave.

  “Elizabeth, where are you?”

  Her reply comes from far off, faint and strained. “I’m hunting. I’ll return later. Go back to sleep.”

  With no light, no book, no television set, I see no other choice. I sigh, settle back into the bed my bride made for me, for us, and think of the logistics of bringing the Grand Banks to Jamaica, worry about Elizabeth’s family and the feast and carrying my bride back home . . . until sleep confuses my thoughts and steals me away.

  A child’s whimper wakes me. I sit up, stare around the cave, wait until my eyes adjust to the dim moonlit night.

  The shadow I recognize as Elizabeth, stands near the mouth of the cave, facing me. Two much smaller shadows lie on the cave’s floor in front of her. One moves a little and whimpers again.

  “What a great night!” she says. “I flew all the way to Maroon Town and found these two, all by themselves, walking on an old trail. . . . One for each of us. It’s such luck, the first night I go hunting to feed my man.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” I say, shaking my head.

  She misunderstands the intent of my words, lifts one of the children, a boy, not more than ten years old, kills him with a single slash of her talons, and lays him before me.

  I stare at his still small form and sigh.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  “I don’t like to eat their young.”

  “I don’t understand. They’re just humans.” Elizabeth goes to the other one, another boy, slashes him open too. “If I’d known, I would have brought you an older one, but I’m hungry now, Peter. I can’t eat until you do.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “It’s our way.”

  I force myself to feed, hating how much I relish the sweet taste of innocent flesh. What I leave, she finishes for me.

  Later, she comes to me, lies beside me. “Don’t be mad at me, Peter,” she says.

  “You are what you are,” I say to her.

  “No, Peter, we are what we are.”

  True, I think. I wonder if she’ll ever understand how I feel. “You’ve grown up in one world,” I say. “I’ve grown up in two. Sometimes it’s hard for me.”

  Elizabeth snuggles closer, places her tail across mine, rubs me with it—slow, rhythmic strokes. “Soon you can show me your other world. But,” she says, “remember, you’re in my world now.”

  I nod. “But,” I say, “when we return to my world, you’ll have to learn to be much more careful. Taking children is just too dangerous. Humans are peculiar. They ignore it when others abuse their own kids, but if one disappears, they go crazy looking for it. If they think a child’s been killed, they search heaven and earth for the murderer. Even my father, who loved the taste of the young ones, indulged himself very occasionally.”

  “They’re just humans, weak and soft,” Elizabeth says. “My Pa never worries about any of them.”

  “Maybe so,” I say. “However, there are millions of them and they have guns and cannons and bombs that even we can’t withstand. Here it may be safe for you to be brazen. In Miami, it could cost us our lives.”

  Frowning, she pulls away from me. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

  How little of the world she knows, I think. I look at her, my young dragoness, remembering what she confessed just this afternoon—she’s never finished a book, never seen a movie. “I’ve never been allowed outside of Cockpit Country,” she said. “I’ve only seen the ocean from high in the air, looking out across the land. It’s very blue, I think.”

  There will be so much I can show her. Her naïveté strikes me as adorable. I reach toward her. “Oh, Elizabeth,” I say. “I never want to scare you. I just don’t want anything to ever harm you.”

  Elizabeth graces me with a small smile, sidles back toward me, begins to stroke me again with her tail. I shift alongside her as my body surrenders to the sensuality of its movements. “Again, Elizabeth?” I ask. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll grow tired of it?”

  She laughs and I smile at the silver-bell sound of it. “After all, you’re already pregnant and I haven’t smelled your scent since the first time we joined. . . .”

  “Peter, there’s so much you don’t know! As far as your questions—yes . . . again. Why not? And no, I’m not afraid of growing tired of it. Mum says it’s a gift our people have. One to be used as often as we want.”

  The room fills with the scent of cinnamon and musk. I roll back from her, face her, my nostrils flaring, my breathing growing rapid. “Not fair!” I bark.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” she asks, and laughs again. “I had no choice before we met. I had to spread my scent. Now it’s different. Our women can do that at will, anytime after their first mating. But only for our mates.”

  She displays herself to me and I suck in a deep breath at the sight of her. “Peter,” she says. “It doesn’t matter that I’m pregnant. It will be eleven months until our child is born. You wouldn’t want to spend all that time without me, would you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to spend a day without you,” I say, approaching her, breathing her scent, wishing the moments to come could be longer, even more intense.

  Elizabeth sighs as I lay down beside her and entwine my tail with hers. “Before we start, Peter, you have to know, this has to be our last time in the cave. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. My parents expect me home tomorrow—to help prepare for the feast. It would be good for you to leave after this—to return to your boat tonight, bring it back for me. Mum says my brother will meet you in Falmouth Harbor when you arrive.”

  “No,” I say, pulling back from her, looking toward the dark interior of the cave. “How will he find me, know who I am? You come fly with me. We can both meet your brother.”

  “He’ll find you,” she says, reaches for me, strokes my back. “You’re going to have me for a lifetime, Peter. Surely you can share me for the next few days. . . .”

  I shake my head but allow her to pull me back, to lie down with her on our bed of branches and leaves, lose myself in the feel of her, breathe in the scent that overpowers me, give myself to the joy of belonging to someone who belongs to me.

  11

  We both leap from the cave’s mouth, into the night at the same time. “I hate to leave you just yet,” Elizabeth says. She flies by my side for a few minutes longer, then sighs as she breaks away and soars across the valley. I lag behind until I lose all sight of her, climb higher and higher after that—Cockpit Country growing small and dark beneath me, my love hidden somewhere in its gloom.

  The half moon stands out in the dark sky like half a gold coin laid down on black velvet. Its yellow glow illuminates the world below me, deepens and lengthens the shadows that rule Cockpit Country at night, follows me as I pass over the lights of Falmouth and Montego Bay, shimmers over the waves after I leave the land behind.

  While Cockpit Cou
ntry, with its crazy mélange of hills and valleys, confuses me, here at sea I know my way. I fold my wings, plummet almost to the ocean’s surface, then spread them and glide just over the waves. The fresh salt smell fills my nostrils and I sigh and breathe it in, glad to be away from the heavy aromas of blooming plants and rotting vegetation.

  A twinge of guilt strikes me and, for a moment, I wonder why I’m not stricken with grief to have had to leave Elizabeth behind. But it isn’t her absence that fills me with joy.

  This is far and away the greatest adventure in my life. Already I’ve crossed a good part of an ocean in my quest to find my love. I’ve found her, fought for her, killed for her and won her. To have stayed longer in Cockpit Country, hunting and sleeping and making love, would do nothing to bring the adventure closer to its conclusion.

  Besides, I think, being far too aware of the protests my muscles make every time I flap my wings, the almost pleasant ache of my overused and congested loins—a few days’ rest wouldn’t be such a bad thing before I face my young bride again.

  I reach the Grand Banks an hour before dawn, thank the fates when I see it riding safe and secure on its anchor line, just as I left it. In my absence, two other boats have anchored nearby, a sailboat and another trawler, and I’m glad to have the cover of the last few minutes of the night when I land on the boat’s top deck, change shape, clamber down the steps and rush inside.

  Fatigue tugs at me. I force myself to pull out the charts, look up the coordinates for Falmouth, program them into the GPS and the autopilot. My stomach growls and rumbles and I realize how much energy my travel and shape-changing have depleted. I almost sleepwalk as I turn dials, flip switches, cranking up the twin diesels, listening to them roar into life, then settle into a subdued growl. I throw on the generator, the air conditioning, and the once-silent craft now vibrates slightly from the hums and grumbles of its machinery.

  The windlass groans as it reels in the anchor line. I stop by the freezer before I go forward to make sure everything’s fast, take out a large sirloin and throw it in the microwave.

  A man, woken no doubt by the noise of my activity, comes up onto the deck of the sailboat moored a few dozen yards away. As naked as I am, he watches as I secure the anchor on the bow pulpit, then turns his back and urinates over the side. An impulse strikes me to take him, substitute his fresh meat for the steak defrosting in the microwave, but I push the thought away.

  I’ve had more than enough human flesh over the past few weeks. A simple uncomplicated steak strikes me as more of a treat right now.

  He turns back and waves. I return the gesture, go inside to the galley, take the barely warm steak out and hold it in one hand, blood dripping on me and the deck as I carry it to the bridge, wolfing down chunks of it. One-handed, still eating, I put the motors in gear and guide the Grand Banks out to sea.

  Later, after Cayman Brac has disappeared into the ocean behind me and blue water surrounds me on all sides, I activate the autopilot and head below to the dual luxuries of a hot shower and a soft, clean bed.

  Lying under clean sheets, in that frustrating stage before sleep when weariness exists in so much excess that it denies rest, I wonder how Elizabeth will react to all of this.

  She knows these things exist. She bragged to me, she saw much of it in the few border towns she was permitted to visit with her brother—the ramshackle buildings and homes in Troy and Warsop astounding to her because of their modern devices. But she’s grown up in a home without any of it.

  I grin, thinking of how wide her eyes will get when I bring her to the real world, how much there is to teach her, expose her to, feeling like Pygmalion.

  Thinking of her makes me miss her and I picture her in my mind, the image shifting between her human shape and her natural one. I wish the boat would go faster, rush me back to Jamaica so I can endure the feast—whatever that may be—and start the long journey home.

  Once there, I know, everything will be perfect. It has to be. Elizabeth will have anything she wants. I have the money and power to give it to her.

  Just before I drift off, the boat rolling in its sea dance, the motors droning in the background, I remember something Father said . . . and I wish I didn’t.

  “Remember we once ruled the world,” he told me. “We only lost it because we assumed we would rule it forever. Beware smugness, Peter. Our people have no worse enemy.”

  12

  I love the way islands rise into view on the open water. My own island, Blood Key, lies out of sight of mainland Miami. Every time I leave Coconut Grove, I have to point the boat in the correct direction without any visual confirmation, the island only revealing itself to me as I travel across the bay, teasing me by first showing a few treetops as thin black smudges above the horizon—then slowly swelling up before me as I speed toward it.

  Jamaica first shows itself as a dim glow on the horizon, late into the second night of my cruise. Though I know I may be too far offshore to reach her, I mindspeak, “Elizabeth!”

  “Peter?” A different voice answers, faint but distinctly male.

  I pause before I reply, wondering who, why—worried that something could have happened to her. “Yes,” I say.

  “This is Derek, Elizabeth’s brother. I’m to meet you when you arrive. . . .”

  “Is Elizabeth okay?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Of course . . . I thought you knew she can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “It’s the damned tradition, you know. Bloody pain if you ask me. But Mum and Pa insist on the old ways. God knows I’ve argued with them. Told them a thing or two quite a few times—if you know what I mean—”

  “Derek!” I interrupt, and sigh before I continue. “What tradition are you talking about?”

  “Elizabeth thinks it’s stupid too. She can’t understand why you two can’t talk or see each other until the feast. I told Pa, you’d already seen everything she has to offer, she’s carrying your whelp after all, but he won’t go against my mum.” His chuckle reaches all the way from Jamaica. “Not that I blame him.”

  “Can you tell her I miss her?”

  “Of course . . . She says she can’t wait to be with you.”

  I grin when I hear that.

  “Peter?” Derek says. “How close are you?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I think I’ll make it to Falmouth sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Do me a favor, old man. Could you push on a bit more? Come in at Oyster Bay. You can put up at Sparkling Waters Marina. That way I don’t have to drive into Falmouth. I’d rather avoid the place for a little while.”

  I shrug and say, “Sure.”

  “You’ll like the marina better anyway. The water’s quite remarkable at night, phosphorescent you know.” He pauses but I don’t have a sense he expects any comment from me. Rather, it seems, he’s following his own train of thought. After a few more moments he continues. “Good, that settles it! I’ll meet you at the dock the morning after tomorrow. I’ll tell Mum to expect us before dark.”

  Footsteps wake me as Derek Blood strides onto the wooden dock and paces the length of the boat, once, then twice before he hails me. “Peter!” he says. “This is your craft, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” I call out, sitting up in bed, reaching for a pair of shorts. “I’ll be with you in a minute!”

  “Fine-looking boat you’ve got. Wouldn’t mind having one like this myself. . . . No hurry, old man. I’ll wait for you on deck.”

  I find him sitting on a seat on the flybridge, his sneakered feet propped up on the console. Dressed in a striped polo shirt and white shorts, he looks like he’s on his way to tennis. Derek flashes a wide smile when he sees me, makes no effort to hide his scrutiny. “Elizabeth described you very well,” he says, stands and offers his hand.

  It’s like shaking hands with a vise. He’s at least three inches taller than I am, muscular enough to strain his clothes to the point of bursting. I match the strength of his grip, returning his open stare.


  Had I not been expecting him, had I not seen his telltale emerald-green eyes, I’d never guess he’s Elizabeth’s brother. Blonde-haired, sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, his skin is too white, too untouched by any color, other than a slight red flush on his cheeks, to think him related to her in any possible way.

  He sees the confusion on my face and laughs. “Wait till you meet the rest of the family. Elizabeth changed a few years ago, decided she likes looking like a native. Chloe, our younger sister, did the same thing, but chose to be even darker. Mum and Pa, my younger brother, Philip, and I still prefer to look the way our ancestors did.”

  We both have to squint in the bright early morning sun and Derek looks at his gold Rolex watch and shrugs. “Sorry about the time, old man. I just wanted to make sure we could make it back to Morgan’s Hole before dark. Sometimes the roads can get quite dicey.”

  Derek waits while I go to the marina’s office and call Miami. I manage to catch Jeremy Tindall at home, just before he leaves for the office.

  “For Christ’s sake, Peter,” he says. “How much longer do you plan to keep using my damn boat? Is it okay? Where the hell have you taken it?”

  “Hello, Jeremy. I’m fine. Just in case you’re curious,” I say.

  “And the boat?”

  “The Grand Banks is fine too, not a scratch. Jeremy, listen to me. I need you to arrange some things.”

  “Like?” he says.

  “I’m in Jamaica and I’m getting married.”

  “To a Jamaican?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “I need papers for her, citizenship, legal ID, social security, driving license—the works. And a Florida marriage certificate for us too.”

  Jeremy snaps, “Arturo handles those things.”

  “Arturo’s busy. You know how to arrange it too. Don’t screw with me on this, Jeremy. Elizabeth’s very important to me.”