The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  I nod.

  “I know in some ways I’ve been a disappointment to you, Peter. But I hope not too much.” Elizabeth strokes me with her tail.

  I look at her. Even swollen as she is, I find her beautiful. “You’ve never disappointed me,” I say. “We were brought up differently. We’ve just had to learn about each other.”

  “Peter,” she says, looking into my eyes, “do you remember, on the boat, when we talked about love?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you then I wasn’t sure what love was.”

  I nod.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about it these past few months. The child’s nearness has made me examine things. I’m sure now, Peter. I love you.”

  They are words I never expected to hear from her. Momentarily, I wonder if I’ve been disloyal to her, spending so much of my time with Santos and Casey, enjoying it as much as I have. But just being beside her, hearing her words, reaffirms her importance to me. “I love you too,” I answer.

  We lie side by side, in that netherworld between consciousness and sleep, listening to the rhythm of each other’s breaths. “Peter?” Elizabeth rouses me. I move enough for her to know I’m listening. “In the morning when you wake, would you do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “The gold clover necklace that you gave me before we married is on the dresser top. I know it’s silly. I know it doesn’t fit me in this form but I’d like to wear it. Could you fasten it around my wrist so it won’t fall off? Promise me?”

  “I promise.”

  We drift toward sleep again and I remember my other promise, the one I made to Jorge Santos. “Santos and I will be firing one of the cannons tomorrow afternoon. I don’t want the sound to surprise you.”

  “It won’t, Peter,” she says, snuggling against me. “Just be careful playing with your silly toys.”

  In the morning I wake and change to my human shape. Leaving my bride’s side, I immediately look for the gold clover necklace. I carry it back to Elizabeth, kneel beside her and carefully wrap it, twice, around her right wrist, just above her taloned paw. It makes me smile that she wanted to wear it and I take my leave, kissing her on the snout, taking care not to wake her.

  I pause before I leave the chamber, watch her sleep, let the love I feel for her well up inside me. Resisting the impulse to wake her and pledge my love aloud, I go out the door. Later, I think. There will be plenty of time for that.

  Santos and Morton both seem somewhat subdued when I release them from their cells, as if their thoughts remain elsewhere. I think nothing of it, my mind on Elizabeth and the child. I don’t permit myself to think of the humans’ impending deaths. I decide to confront that when necessary.

  In the late afternoon I go out to the veranda, survey the sky, nodding at the low gray clouds, the gusting wind—smiling at the roiled surface of the sea. No boats are anywhere in sight nor, in this weather, would I expect them to be.

  Sure our activities will go unheard and unobserved, I open the arms room, then fetch Morton and Santos. The woman sits on the wall and watches while Santos and I roll the cannon back. I let him prepare and load the charge. We both stand by to let Casey light the fuse.

  They both shout when the cannon fires, belching flame and smoke. I join in their hurrahs when the ball strikes, sending up a white plume of water a quarter-mile offshore.

  Jorge grins, and asks, “Again?”

  “Why not?” I say and we take turns loading the ship killer, then firing it. I run Santos back to the arms room six times for more ammunition, all of us turning giddy, laughing as we load the cannon, our ears ringing, our faces smoke blackened.

  “Peter,” Elizabeth mindspeaks to me. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop? If you keep this up, some passing boat will surely notice and inform the authorities.”

  I think of all the bribe money the marine patrol takes and laugh. “As if they’d care,” I tell her, sending Santos to the arms room one last time, thinking how tired he must be when he takes longer than usual to return and load the cannon.

  After Casey lights the fuse and the cannon fires, I send Santos and Morton inside. I close and lock the arms room out of their sight. Then, still grinning from the pleasure of firing the big gun, I follow the two humans indoors.

  * * *

  I insist that Jorge prepare Elizabeth’s steak first. When it’s ready, I leave him and Casey in the great room to prepare our dinner while I bring my bride hers.

  “Did you have a good time?” she asks as she sits up.

  “Very good,” I say, sitting in the hay next to her, placing her plate between us.

  “I missed you.”

  Her confession surprises me. “I thought you liked to be left alone during the day.”

  “Until recently I have. But the baby’s making me feel so many things now. I find I want you near me.”

  “Then I’ll come down right after dinner,” I say.

  “Can’t you just stay?” Elizabeth asks.

  I shake my head. “Jorge’s making Carne’ Diablo especially for me tonight. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

  “You and your pet human.” Elizabeth holds up her arm, and admires the necklace wrapped around it. She sighs. “If you think you have to go, then do so. Just be careful with that food. Remember what it did to you last time.”

  27

  “Hey, Boss! You ready for your dinner?” Santos greets me as soon as I walk into the great room.

  I sniff the acrid smell of spices and meat sizzling in his skillet, grin and sit at the table. “Bring it on,” I say. “Let’s see how I handle it this time.”

  “Indeed, Boss,” he says, smiling, serving me first. “Let’s see if you can take it tonight.”

  He and Morton sit across the table, eat in tandem with me. This time, I space my bites, sip water between every few. Still I feel the heat building as I proceed. One bite strikes me as particularly hot, scalding my throat, making me cough. I take a gulp of water, say, “It’s delicious. But did you make it spicier tonight?”

  Jorge and Casey exchange glances. Both smile at me. “Not so you’d notice, Boss,” he says.

  I return to my meal, take bite after bite, sip after sip. By the time I finish, my mug sits empty and the heat still burns inside me. I shake my head, say, “It’s still too damn hot. I need some more water.”

  “No problem, Boss. Coming right up.” Santos and Morton both rush to the kitchen.

  To me it feels like it takes forever for them to return. The heat builds, sears my throat, eats at my insides. Finally, they come back, each carrying a flagon as before. I rip them from their hands and gulp the entire contents of one, then the other.

  “Better?” Santos asks.

  I sigh and nod, the heat abating, a calming glow growing within me. My mouth feels greasy and I run my tongue against my teeth, wondering why they feel so slippery. A thought crosses my mind and I shudder, then look toward the shelves on the wall. I can’t find Elizabeth’s blue ceramic pitcher anywhere on them.

  My mouth falls open. I struggle to close it. Santos’s face and Morton’s loom in front of me, studying me. Both grin as if they’ve won the lottery. I want to ask them if it was the Dragon’s Tear wine, but I can’t form the words.

  “Did it work?” Morton asks.

  “Test it,” Santos says.

  She picks up my fork and jams it into my right forearm. I try to scream, will myself to change. Nothing. Casey yanks the fork out, studies the blood on its prongs, the red liquid flowing from the four puncture wounds on my arm.

  “Well, Boss,” Santos says, “you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He forms a fist with his right hand and strikes my face with all his force. The impact throws my head to the side, turns my vision blurry. Still, I can’t move or make any sound.

  I concentrate on my thoughts, but even they seem to form and dissolve of their own accord. I ignore the sound of Jorge and Casey talking, let their words wash by me.

  “.
. . kill him,” Jorge Santos says and I return my attention to the world around me.

  “I don’t think you can,” Casey says. She points to the wounds on my arm, now mostly healed. If I could, I would laugh. Even drugged and near comatose, my body still possesses the ability to heal itself.

  “Son of a bitch!” Jorge mutters. He walks to the kitchen, returns with a long carving knife, stands behind me. “You killed my sister, you prick,” he growls, grabs my hair, yanks my head back and slices through my neck.

  Even dulled as my senses are by the Dragon’s Tear wine, the pain that sears through me—as intense as if he had used a red-hot blade—brings tears to my eyes. But I can’t even gasp.

  When he releases me, my head sags forward. I watch as my blood gushes onto the tabletop. Within a few moments, the flow stops. Casey says, “I don’t like this. He’s already healing. Let’s just get out of here.”

  “No,” Jorge says. “Not before we kill them both.” He saunters to the far wall, takes down Father’s cutlass and returns.

  “What makes you think that will do any better than the knife?” Morton asks.

  “I don’t.” Santos takes an exaggerated fencing posture, lunges forward, runs the blade through me once, twice. Cleans my blood from the cutlass by wiping it on my pants leg. Watches as my wounds close in minutes.

  “We just don’t have the right weapons,” he says, smirking. “I know where we can get them.”

  “Let’s just leave,” Casey says again.

  “You forget the dogs,” Santos says. “We’ll have to do something about them too. Kill them all.”

  “How?”

  “Some help wouldn’t hurt,” Santos says. He looks around the room, points when he sees my cell phone. “Casey, honey, please get that for me.”

  He looks into my face as he dials the phone. “Oh,” he says, “I guess when we talked about the note, I neglected to tell you one thing—I remembered the number after all.” Then he walks away, says into the mouthpiece, “This is Santos, I’m calling about Peter DelaSangre. . . .”

  His voice drops and no matter how I strain, I can’t hear any more of the conversation.

  Later, they help me up and lead me out of the room to the spiral staircase. To my surprise, I shuffle forward on command and continue moving as long as I receive constant attention. Jorge provides this, prodding me along the way with the cutlass. “I should just push you down the stairs, you evil bastard,” he mutters in my ear.

  Casey shushes him. “We don’t want to wake the bitch up,” she whispers and we proceed past the second floor in silence.

  I try to call to Elizabeth, but can’t form any sounds. I attempt to mindspeak to her, but the thoughts escape me. I lose track of where we are, only regain awareness when Santos slaps my face.

  “Get in the cell!” He guides me forward, but Casey grabs my arm.

  “Not mine,” she says. “It’s too large and comfortable for him.” She pulls on me, makes me walk farther. She stops, points. “This one, it’s smaller.”

  “Fine,” Santos says. He shoves me, knocking me to the stone floor next to the cot. The Cuban holds me down while Casey rifles through my pockets and produces my keys. I pay no attention to the clank and jangle of chains and manacles as they undo their fetters and bind me in them.

  Jorge slaps me again. I realize I’m on the cot—my neck, my wrists, my ankles chained. I make no effort to test my fetters. The Dragon’s Tear wine shackles me more completely than they ever could.

  Casey Morton looks down at me, spits in my face. “I hate you!” she says. She begins to cry and pummels my face with her fists, striking again and again, saying, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

  Jorge pulls her back. “Casey, honey, stop,” he says. “We don’t know how long we have until the wine wears off. Let’s get what we need from the arms room and finish these creatures off.”

  “How can we get through the door? You told me yourself, there’s no visible lock. No way you can see to release the crossbeam.”

  “That was before.” Santos beams. He puts his face to the bars, directs his words at me. “Today, when we were firing the cannon I finally had a chance to examine the mechanism.” He clangs the cutlass blade against the steel bars. “There’s a release lever that can be reached through a crack in the stone. You just need something skinny and strong to reach it.” Santos laughs, thrusts the cutlass through the bars. “This will do, I think.”

  They turn off all lights on the floor, leaving me in total darkness. Without the slightest glimmer of light, even I can’t see through the blackness. I’m tempted to sleep, but I fight the impulse. Elizabeth is in danger. I concentrate on reaching her. To my amazement, I do, finding myself in her dreams, her mind more open to me than any day since our wedding. The Dragon’s Tear wine, I think. I try to call her name, but can’t form the word.

  Dogs bark outside. I hear them with her, see her room as she does as she blinks her eyes open. I feel her confusion too as we hear the sound of metal scraping stone, the metallic click of the crossbeam lever releasing, the groan of the arms door being yanked open, the clank of heavy objects being moved on the veranda.

  “Peter?” Elizabeth mindspeaks. “I hear things. What is happening?”

  I try to tell her. The words almost form, but slip away before they gel. “Danger,” I want to say. “Save yourself.”

  “Why don’t you answer me?” Elizabeth asks. “Peter, please!”

  She rises and I watch through her eyes as she walks to the bedchamber’s outside door. “No!” I imagine myself yelling, but no sound, no thought escapes me. Elizabeth opens the door and Casey Morton screams.

  Elizabeth roars and I see Casey’s horrified countenance just as my bride does.

  “Casey! Move!” Jorge Santos shouts and the blonde jumps to one side. He lifts a massive weapon to his shoulder and aims it at Elizabeth. She stares at the barrel’s black muzzle and I recognize the weapon as a rail gun. I try again to warn my bride, but she rushes forward without hearing me.

  The gun explodes before her, Jorges Santos flying back from the recoil. Elizabeth screams as the ball rips through her right eye socket. Her mind goes blank.

  Cut off from her, I lie motionless in the dark, alone with my thoughts. Grief engulfs me. I attempt to move, to curl into a fetal position, but even that is refused me. I can’t blink an eyelid or moan. It is wrong, I think, to be denied the ability to weep.

  28

  Time passes or doesn’t move at all. It’s impossible for me to tell. All I know is the hard slab of the cot beneath me, the weight of my chains. I strain to see anything of my surroundings, but view only darkness. I listen, but hear only the stillness around me. I know Santos will come to kill me. The man could never leave knowing the murderer of his sister still lives.

  I struggle to move, concentrate on controlling just one finger—the small one on my right hand. I will it to respond. It trembles and, if I could, I would smile. I will it to move again and it flexes. I turn my attention from finger to finger, slowly bringing each to life. My eyelids resist and then succumb to my desire to blink.

  My successes make me hopeful and I try once more to mindspeak. “Elizabeth!” I call. “Elizabeth, please answer me!”

  A sob escapes from my lips when I receive no reply. I lie still again, give way to the solitude of my existence.

  Something . . . a wisp of energy . . . a glimmer of a thought touches me. I concentrate, try to reach out, strain to receive whatever may be out there.

  “Elizabeth!” I call again.

  A feeble reply brushes my consciousness. “Peter?”

  I open my mind to her, attempt to merge with her, like I did before. I recoil from the pain and confusion I find, her anger as she rejects me. “Elizabeth,” I mindspeak. “Please.”

  It takes all my energy to understand her thoughts. “Peter, where have you been?” she asks. “Where are you now?”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, you can’t believe how happy I am to hear you.
. . . I was afraid he killed you.”

  “Very nearly. He hurt me badly, Peter. Where are you? I need you. I think he and the woman are still near me. Please, Peter.”

  “Lie still. Don’t let them know you’re alive,” I say. “I’m below, locked in one of the cells. At dinner they tricked me. They served me Dragon’s Tear wine.”

  “Oh, Peter! I warned you.”

  “You did and you were right. But now we have to stop them.”

  “I’m healing quickly. It won’t be long before I’m much stronger, Peter,” she says. “I can hear them now. They’re talking about you.”

  I attempt to raise my arm. It refuses to budge. I force a sigh. It seems control of my thoughts will be easier than command of my body. “Elizabeth, I’m afraid it will be awhile before I can leave my cell.” The idea of leaving her alone angers me. I try again to merge with her thoughts. This time she doesn’t rebuff me.

  Elizabeth emits a mental gasp when I join with her. Together we listen.

  “We could use more firepower,” Jorge says. “They should be here soon. But for now, we need to rely on ourselves. We don’t know where the woman is or how many more things like this are around. We still have to kill DelaSangre. Bring me three more rail guns and I’ll load them for us.”

  Casey Morton grunts her assent.

  “They still don’t realize what we are,” I say. “That has tobe to our advantage. Can you open your good eye just a skinch?”

  Elizabeth does and together we watch Santos nearby, working in the flickering yellow glow of two lit torches, pouring powder into one of the large guns.

  “Peter?” my bride says. “I can do it. I’m growing stronger. In a little while I’ll be able to stop them. . . .”

  “No! Not without me.” In my cell I try to lift my arm again. It rises a half-inch before my strength fails me. “If they think you’re dead, they’ll leave you alone and concentrate on searching the house, trying to find the person they imagine you to be. By the time they give that up and come for me, I’ll be recovered enough to elude them. Then we can both end this.”