The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  “Chloe talks about falling in love all the time,” Elizabeth says. “She reads about it in all her books. She says it’s a feeling that consumes every part of you. But Mum says that’s nonsense, love is for humans. She says our people work differently.”

  I take Elizabeth’s hands in mine, stare into her face. “But I do love you. I’ll always want to be with you.”

  She sighs. “I always want to be with you too. You know that. Neither of us has a choice with that. But today, when you reached me in the water . . . I felt something more. It’s like you touched a place inside me where no one’s reached before . . . only . . .”

  “Only what?” I ask.

  “I’m just not sure if that’s love or not.” Elizabeth shrugs. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. And I don’t want you to be upset that I’m confused. . . .”

  I want her to say she loves me but, even wishing that, I’m not positive I know much more about true love than she. I know our people can love. When Mother died, I watched my father suffer. He wailed and roared and lashed out at everything around him—so much so that I hid from him for days. I wonder if I could care that deeply about anyone. Would Elizabeth’s death drive me to such total despair? I’m only sure of our connection to each other, the invisible bond between us so strong that it’s almost palpable. For now, that’s more than enough for me. “I’m not upset. I know what we have,” I say.

  “Good.” She squeezes my hands in hers. “I’d hate it if you didn’t understand.”

  Later she takes my hand, guides it to the warmth between her legs. “Do you think maybe, you could make love to me tonight, like we were humans, madly in love?”

  I grin at her. “I think I can do that.”

  Elizabeth surprises me with her willingness to forgo any further hunting. She no longer complains when I defrost steaks for us. The closer we get to Miami, the more compliant she becomes. She agrees to don clothing, promises to stay close to me, not to change or fly off until I tell her it’s safe.

  “This is your country,” she says. “Until I get used to it, I’ll trust that you know best.”

  She delights me by finally starting to tell me about her life, growing up in Morgan Hole. “Mum made it as good as she could,” she says. “Pa mostly ignored Chloe and me. He paid most of his attention to Derek and then to Philip, after he was born. Derek thought he was too old to have much to do with any of us. It was Mum who took us swimming, horseback riding, flew with us as soon as we could take to the air. She taught us everything—how to make Dragon’s Tear wine, how to mix potions. She showed us how to read and write, had us help her in the garden, took us hunting with her. Most especially, as soon as we could understand, Mum taught us to avoid angering Pa.

  “We were all afraid of him. Even when we were little he’d occasionally strike us hard enough to draw blood. Most of the time though, he’d take whoever displeased him, lock them in one of the cells under the house and leave them there for a day or two without food or water.”

  I shake my head, say, “That must have been terrible.”

  “No,” Elizabeth says. “It wasn’t so bad. We could always mindspeak to each other. When any of us were punished, the others would sneak down with food and drink. We’d giggle and make a picnic of it. And I wasn’t in trouble very often anyway—not after Chloe got older.”

  “Chloe?” I ask, thinking of her cute younger sister, the smile the little teenager always had on her face, wondering how much of a discipline problem she could be.

  “She likes human things too much,” Elizabeth says. “Chloe’s always reading or painting. She prefers to stay in her human form, goes out of her way to talk to the servants. Pa hates it all, but no matter how much he punishes her, she keeps on doing what she wants.”

  “Why do you think she likes human things so much?” I ask.

  “You’re a funny one to ask that question,” Elizabeth says. “Why do you?”

  “You know I was raised with it,” I say. But when Elizabeth continues to look at me, as if she’s waiting for more of an explanation, I shrug and continue. “After my mother died, Father told me her family had been accidentally killed in a cannon barrage, in France, during World War One, when she was a baby. An orphanage took her in and raised her. She didn’t even know what she was until she came to term. Father found her then and took her for his bride.

  “He said, of his three wives, she was his favorite. Father loved how different she was. He tolerated her passion for human art and literature, but argued when she insisted I learn human ways too, that I go to school with them. He worried she would make me too gentle. She said, knowing human things and human behavior would make me more powerful. In the end, Father acquiesced. But I suspect his agreement had more to do with his love for Mother than his respect for her arguments. I think it’s a mark of his devotion that, after she died, he continued to send me to school.”

  “That makes sense.” Elizabeth nods. “For Chloe, it was one of the servants. Mum was sick for a few months after she gave birth to my sister. She allowed this one servant, Lila, to take care of Chloe. The two of them grew very close. Even though Mum frowns at it, Chloe still makes sure to spend some time with Lila every day.”

  “Well I don’t think it’s hurt her,” I say.

  “Of course you don’t.” Elizabeth smiles in a way that slightly parts her lips, as she usually does before sex or when she wants me to do something. “I just hope,” she says coming closer, putting her arms around my neck, “you don’t wonder whether you got the wrong sister.”

  Our last night at sea, Elizabeth insists on staying above deck. I sit with her on the flybridge, watching with her for signs of land. The evening ocean has calmed so much that its waters are as flat as any lake and the Grand Banks glides along with only a gentle tip and roll to its movements—the hiss of the water, as it’s displaced beneath us, commingled with the purr of our twin diesels. The mild rocking of the boat, the quiet lullaby of the passing waters finally overtake me and I fall into a deep sleep.

  Elizabeth stays up, wakes me when she sees lights on the horizon. “The whole sky is glowing over there,” she says.

  She hugs me when I nod and say, “We’re almost home.”

  The sun begins to break into the sky shortly before we reach the Fowey Rock lighthouse. I turn off the autopilot and take the helm as we approach it, the dark lines of its skeletal structure looking in the early light like a child’s construction toy rising from the sea. Elizabeth stares at it, turns toward the lights of Miami—their glow bleaching out from the coming dawn—then gazes back at the dark, light-streaked clouds floating in a sky that first turns gold, then blue on the horizon as the sun rises. “It’s all so beautiful,” she says.

  Her eyes widen as we enter Biscayne Bay and cruise by the first of the stilt homes that line the Biscayne channel, Miami’s skyline still too far in front of us to be fully visible. But Key Biscayne, just a few miles to our right, sits close enough to dazzle Elizabeth with its upscale homes and towering, white-concrete condominiums. “Is that Miami?” she asks.

  I shake my head, point to the dozens of high-rise buildings slowly rising into sight, far across the water.

  “Oh,” she says.

  A pang of homesickness hits me when I glance to the south and see the green treetops of Soldier Key and the dark smudges on the water beyond it that I know will soon grow to show both Wayward Key and Blood Key. “See the islands?” I ask Elizabeth.

  “Is that yours . . . ours?” She points to Soldier Key.

  I shake my head. “Look farther south, the second one past it. That’s your new home.”

  She stares, squints her eyes, then shrugs. “I can’t tell,” she says. “It’s too far.”

  I examine the sandbars barely showing on either side of the channel, realize the tide has a while to go before it reaches its lowest point, leaving us plenty of time to reach the island. I grin and say, “You’ll see it soon enough.”

  17

  The
dogs hear us first. They start barking and yelping while we’re still wending our way through the channel—the boat under just enough power to maintain forward momentum—my bride on the bow, peering into the water, shouting, “Watch out!”, guiding me away from any threatening rocks.

  By the time we reach Caya DelaSangre’s small harbor, Elizabeth’s shouted warnings of underwater dangers, the mutter of our motors and the howls of the dog pack have brought Arturo Gomez—bearded, barefoot, long haired, shirtless and tanner than ever—to the deck of his sleek, thirty-five-foot SeaRay cabin cruiser, a black automatic pistol in his right hand.

  He uncocks the gun and shoves it into his cutoff shorts’ right front pocket when he sees me. The weight of the pistol pulls the cutoffs down a little, accentuating the swell of his protruding stomach. I shake my head and smile when he takes notice of Elizabeth’s red halter top and tight khaki shorts and sucks in his gut as he grins and nods toward her. It’s hard for me to think that the scruffy vagabond in front of me is the same man as the dapper, always meticulously dressed president of LaMar Associates.

  As I’d suspected, Arturo’s anchored in the middle of the harbor to keep his distance from the dogs. There’s barely enough room alongside his boat for the Grand Banks to pass. To reach the dock, I have to steer uncomfortably close to the SeaRay.

  “Nice girl,” Arturo calls out as he walks along the side of his boat, watching our movement, obviously prepared to jump forward and fend us off if it appears we’re going to run into him.

  “Nice beard,” I say as we glide past.

  He rubs the thick growth on his face and flashes one of his wide smiles. “You damn well gave me enough time to grow it.”

  “Didn’t you say you could use a vacation?”

  “A vacation, yes.” Arturo laughs. “But I’ve been gone from the office so long I’m afraid they’re going to think I either died or retired. Do you realize it’s August already?”

  I shake my head, and marvel how time has become so unimportant to me. “What day is it?” I ask.

  “Tuesday, the second.”

  “Peter!” Elizabeth warns from the bow. I look forward, see we’re moving too quickly, back off the throttles and turn my attention to bringing us close to the dock without striking it. She maintains her position, a coiled line in her hands, waiting patiently for the opportunity to jump off the boat and secure its lines. As we close, Slash and Scar and a half dozen other growling dogs watch us from the dock, legs splayed, teeth bared, hackles raised.

  “Are you sure she’s going to be okay?” Arturo asks from the safety of his boat.

  Elizabeth turns and stares at him as if he were a dead, rotting fish, spoiling the air with its odor. She purses her lips and whistles one sharp loud blast and laughs as the dogs scurry off the dock and rush out of sight. I laugh with her, amused to see the red flush rise on Arturo’s face.

  After Elizabeth cleats our lines, I cut the motors and sit back to stare at the dock, the nearby trees, the coral walls of my home. The sea breeze quickly washes away the last remnants of the Grand Banks’s diesel fumes and I breathe in the familiar aromas of salt air and fresh green vegetation that welcome me home. I half expect to hear Father mindspeak to me, feel the loss of him once again, and wish he were here to meet my bride.

  Arturo rows his dinghy over and joins us on the dock. “Good to see you,” he says, shaking my hand and slapping my back. Turning his attention to Elizabeth, he asks, “Is this the bride?” He holds out his hand to shake hers, grins and says, “She’s beautiful. Congratulations!”

  Elizabeth looks past him, ignoring his gesture. “Can we go inside now?” she mindspeaks. “I want to see the house.”

  Arturo waits, sweating, squinting from the hot sun’s glare, his smile now strained, his hand still extended.

  “Please, Elizabeth, take his hand. The man is useful to me. He’ll be gone soon enough.”

  Elizabeth sighs, offers forward a limp hand, gives a thin smile as Arturo grasps it lightly and quickly disengages. “Now Peter?” she asks.

  I force a smile. “Why don’t you go below and put your things together? We need to unload the boat. I’ll come down in a few minutes to help you.”

  She glares at me, mindspeaks, “He’s just a human. Why not have him do it?” Then she clambers onto the boat.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Arturo says.

  “Not at all,” I say. I fight the impulse to apologize for my spoiled bride. “Thanks, by the way, for your help with that Caribbean Charm thing.”

  The Latin grins. “No problem. My guys tell me the fire was one of the biggest the county’s ever seen. It started during the day, killed everyone in the executive offices. Caribbean Charm’s been shipping merchandise like crazy ever since.”

  “Good.” I nod, thank him for watching the house and ask him to call Jeremy Tindall, tell him that I’ll be returning his boat later in the day.

  “Not that Jeremy has any desire to hear from me these days,” he says, stares at the Grand Banks and grins. “I’d wash the decks if I were you. Jeremy will have a fit if you return it in this condition. He’ll be complaining for weeks.”

  “Doesn’t he usually?”

  Arturo laughs and nods. “God, it’ll be good to get back to work,” he says. “I even miss Jeremy. Though I doubt he wants to see either of us very much.” Then he looks at me. “What did you think of our boy?”

  I knit my eyebrows at his question.

  “Santos. What did you think of the report? Tindall faxed a copy to me.”

  “I haven’t read it yet,” I say, remembering the manila envelope I stowed in the drawer next to the lower wheel. “I haven’t had time.”

  “No time?” Arturo says. “How busy could you have been? What were you doing, rowing back?”

  Banter may be one thing, but too much familiarity is another. I give him a blank stare.

  Arturo’s grin disappears. He knows better than to continue in the same vein. “Well,” he says, “I wish you would read it soon. The guy’s a pain. He even hired some ultralight pilot to fly over the island. Damned plane buzzed me four days in a row. He’s still driving Emily crazy too. He calls and asks for you every day.”

  I nod, frown that I have to pay attention to this annoyance so close to my homecoming.

  “There’s no reason you have to meet with this guy, you know,” Arturo says.

  I wave my hand, as if to push away his suggestion and the violence it implies. I’ve already promised myself to try to avoid bringing any more death to Maria’s family. Besides, I wonder at the man’s persistence. “I want to see what this man is like,” I say. “Just tell Emily to arrange a meeting this Friday morning at ten.”

  * * *

  Below deck, Elizabeth sits in the salon, greets me with silence, her arms folded across her chest. Through the passageway I can see our belongings piled haphazardly on top of the bed.

  “He’s gone,” I say.

  She shrugs, says nothing.

  “Nice job of packing,” I say, going to the drawer next to the lower helm, taking the manila envelope out of it.

  “At home we have servants do such things.”

  “Here we don’t.” I go into the bedroom, start separating the pile, folding and organizing the clothes.

  “We should.”

  “Father gave up slaves before the Civil War.”

  “Who does all your cleaning? Who maintains the house?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t see why you would want to,” Elizabeth says. She joins me next to the bed, stares at the clothes, picks up a pair of shorts, folds it slowly. “I’m not used to having to do these things. I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I am.”

  After Elizabeth asks three more times, I finally agree to leave our belongings on the ship and take her to the house. “We can bring everything in later,” she says.

  She grins as we walk down the dock, her smile widening when I unlock the
iron gate and throw the switch to turn on the generators. “We have power?” she asks.

  “And lights and air conditioning, TVs and stereo . . .” I say, smiling when she runs ahead of me, watching her climb the wide coral steps leading to the veranda, two at a time.

  Elizabeth waits for me on the veranda, leaning on the parapet next to the cannon, staring at the ocean. When I join her, she says, “I’m going to love it here! Show me all of it, every room. Please.”

  I take her to my room first, throw open the double doors and wince at the heat and dampness, the smell of must. I open the windows and the doors to the interior and rush from room to room, opening doors and windows, letting the fresh sea air cleanse and cool the house. Elizabeth follows me, helps me open everything. Along the way she touches the windows and the doors, sits on the beds, turns the light switches on and off, runs her hands over the smooth stone walls of the interior.

  “This house is much smaller than Morgan’s Hole,” she says. “But it’s much nicer, I think.”

  On the third floor, in the great room, she wanders from one side to the other, taking in the panorama from each window, asking me to tell her the names of the islands she sees and point out the mainland in the distance. The sea breeze courses through the room, cooling it and comforting us, making us forget the August heat outside.

  “Is it always so comfortable inside?” she asks.

  “Mostly,” I tell her. “But in the winter we sometimes need the fires to keep us warm.”

  “It’s cold every night at Morgan’s Hole,” she says.

  She walks to the wall, touches the old cutlass that has hung there as long as I can remember.

  “My father’s,” I say. “From his pirate days.”

  Elizabeth nods, studies the oil paintings hanging on the walls nearby, asks me about them too. “French impressionists,” I say, looking at the landscapes and portraits my mother brought with her from France and insisted on displaying throughout the house. One shows a nude young woman posed on a couch.