The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  “What if they go for you first? I won’t be able to help you there. It would be better if I acted sooner, alone.”

  “I know Santos. We’ve played chess for months. He always goes on the defensive. He knows I’m locked in a cell. He’ll want to find and eliminate you first.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” Elizabeth says. “It is possible you know.” Irritated, she twitches her tail.

  I feel her movement. “Stay still!” I warn her again.

  “Did you see that?” Casey asks Santos.

  Jorge, intent on working the ramrod, driving the charge home, says, “Huh?”

  “I think the thing’s tail moved.”

  “Casey, it’s just an involuntary movement,” he says. “We blew half its head off. Nothing would survive that. . . .”

  The high-pitched growl of a small outboard motor interrupts their conversation. Santos and Morton both look seaward. Out in the dark, the dogs greet the noise with a chorus of barks and growls. Santos says, “I think the cavalry’s arrived.”

  Casey stares at the water and snorts, “Some cavalry! Four middle-aged men in an inflatable dinghy.”

  The dog pack’s noise turns to bedlam and, in my cell, I can picture them on the beach massing for an attack. Staccato bursts of machine-gun fire cut through their clamor, turning their growls into yelps, their barks into howls.

  Santos grins. “With that armament, I think they’re help enough.”

  As the bursts and dog yelps continue, Santos goes on loading the rail guns.

  “Why bother?” Casey asks.

  Jorge shrugs. “Just in case,” he says.

  In my cell I wince at each machine-gun blast, worry that all my dogs will be destroyed forever and wonder, if we survive, whether I’ll ever be able to replace them. All too soon the gunshots stop and the night becomes quiet again.

  “Damn!” I mutter. I clench my fists, open them. I’m able to raise my arms almost to shoulder height, then drop them. Soon, I think. If only I have enough time.

  I groan when the first man steps into Elizabeth’s view. Tall and thin, grinning, looking like a charter captain in his yachting cap, T-shirt and khaki shorts, Jeremy Tindall approaches Jorge, his hand out, and says, “Mr. Santos, I believe.” Three shorter, more muscular men follow behind him, their faces obscured by the shadows.

  I pray that Arturo isn’t one of the others.

  “You should have killed him long ago,” Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  The other three men emerge into the light and I let out a sigh of relief when I see that all are Asian. Tindall nods toward a gray-haired Chinese man dressed much like him. The man is older than the others and carries a large, black Colt automatic in his right hand. “This is General Chen,” Tindall says, “and these”—he points to two fatigue-clad men armed with AK-47 machine guns—“are his assistants.”

  Santos shakes Tindall’s hand, nods to the others, who nod back to him. “Glad you’re here. We can use the help.”

  Casey points at Elizabeth. “It isn’t bleeding anymore.”

  “What the hell is that?” Tindall says. He backs away, as do the others, muttering in Chinese.

  “I’m not sure,” Santos says. “But whatever it is, it’s dead.” He turns to Casey. “If it would make you happy, take my blunderbuss. Shoot it again.” The Cuban cocks the newly loaded weapon, holds it out for her.

  “I’ve never fired one of these,” Casey says, and takes the rail gun, holds it with both hands by her waist.

  Santos begins to pour powder into the wide barrel of yet another gun. “Just point it and pull the trigger,” he says. “Worst thing happens, you’ll miss, and since it’s dead already anyway—who cares?”

  The blonde scowls at him. “Sometimes you’re such an asshole! What if it’s alive?”

  She pokes the barrel of her gun into Elizabeth’s left haunch. To my relief, my bride stays still.

  Tindall and the Chinese step closer. The two assistants hold their AK-47s at rest. “I’d be careful if I were you,” Chen says, and points his pistol in Elizabeth’s direction.

  “Looks dead to me,” Santos says, dropping a golfball-size lead ball into the barrel of the blunderbuss, ramming it home. He cocks the hammer, primes the flashpan with gunpowder.

  “Maybe . . .” Casey says. She prods Elizabeth again with the gun barrel then points it straight at my bride’s midriff.

  “NOT THE CHILD!” Elizabeth mindspeaks, roaring, sweeping her tail in front of her, knocking Casey down, the blonde’s gun flying from her hands, the woman screaming.

  Chen empties his automatic into Elizabeth as he backs up, Tindall behind him. His men rush in front of him, fumble with their machine guns, preparing to protect him.

  Elizabeth roars, ignores Chen’s bullets, kills one man with a single slash across his neck, yowls as the other man empties his clip into her. She leaps forward and seizes him in her mouth, shaking him until he no longer moves.

  “Son of a bitch!” Santos shouts. He shoulders his gun, fires, the ball whizzing by the side of Elizabeth’s head.

  Crying, Morton tries to crawl away, saying, “Please, please.”

  I feel the agony of Elizabeth’s wounds. I know the hunger that courses through her, the need for food to speed her healing. I share her anger at her attackers. Elizabeth bellows and I revel as she rakes Casey’s body with her talons, rips her open. I smell the rich aroma of fresh blood as my bride breathes it in, savor it as she does.

  The blonde screams again and Elizabeth attacks once more, biting a huge hunk of flesh from Casey’s leg, swallowing it in one gulp.

  Santos drops his now empty rail gun, watching my bride. Elizabeth eyes him as she tears another piece of flesh from the dying woman. She looks for Tindall and Chen, but they’ve disappeared from sight.

  “THE MAN!” I feel my bride’s hunger and need for energy, but I see the danger too. “YOU HAVE TO STOP THE MAN!”

  “He’s nothing,” Elizabeth says.

  The Cuban dives for Casey’s discarded gun.

  Elizabeth sweeps her tail at him, knocks him down.

  Santos grabs the rail gun by the tip of the barrel and scrambles back, pushing with his feet, scooting on his rump. Elizabeth, growling, stalks him until he backs into the wall of the house. Unable to retreat any farther, he yanks the rail gun toward him just as my bride rushes at him, and slashes out with her left claw.

  He blocks her with the gun—its barrel slamming into his forehead with the full force of Elizabeth’s blow—then pivots the blunderbuss and fires it at point-blank range.

  Fire and smoke erupt in front of Elizabeth. The noise deafens her. The massive ball passes through the side of her neck, shredding flesh, shattering her spine, splintering her shoulder bone. I bellow in my cell at the same time as Elizabeth roars in pain on the veranda. She staggers backward, collapses against the parapet, her eyes still open, her mind still aware.

  Santos, almost as stunned as she, sits across the walkway from her, his back still to the house’s wall. Casey lies on the deck between them, her blood coating the wood planks, her breath coming in spastic gasps. The Cuban stares at Elizabeth, waits for her to roar forward and finish him.

  “I can’t, Peter. I can’t move. . . .”

  “I know,” I say, feeling what she feels, knowing as she does how badly she’s injured. I struggle to sit up, my body finally beginning to comply. “Don’t give up. Your body can survive this.”

  She sighs. “He won’t let me.”

  “It won’t be much longer before I can move well enough to find my way out.”

  “It will be too late, Peter.”

  Together we watch Santos. He stares at her, shakes his head, mutters, “Son of a bitch.” Then he crawls toward her, stopping by Casey, putting his lips on her forehead—a farewell kiss, I suppose. He lingers a moment, then continues on, stopping just out of Elizabeth’s reach. Santos examines her again, shakes his head once more. “What are you doing with that?” he says, reaching forward.

&nbs
p; “Oh, Peter,” Elizabeth mindspeaks as the Cuban undoes the gold chain that I just this morning wrapped around her wrist.

  Santos holds it in his fist. Still staring at Elizabeth, he scoots back to the wall and braces against it, pushing himself up with his legs. The Cuban pauses, inspects the gold clover charm, kisses it and fastens the chain around his neck. Never taking his eyes off Elizabeth, he sidles away from her, works his way to the arms room.

  Tindall and Chen come out of the shadows. Chen stoops over, picks up an AK-47 lying by the side of one of his dead men. He checks the magazine, finds it’s empty and reloads it. Then, chambering a load, he points it at Elizabeth.

  “Don’t bother,” Santos says. “I have something better.”

  I try to change shape, but the Dragon’s Tear remains too much with me. I look around the cell, try to recognize anything that might help me free myself. The dark defeats me. I tug at my chains. They resist me. “Try to escape, Elizabeth,” I say. “Before he comes back!”

  “You know better, Peter. I can’t.”

  “You have to force yourself to heal. You have to try, even if it takes your last bit of energy.”

  “No,” she mindspeaks. “It might kill the baby.”

  “Elizabeth,” I say, “Without you, what chance does the child have?”

  “I won’t risk hurting my baby!”

  I try to think of something to say to inspire her, to spur her to act in her own interest. I worry that Elizabeth’s injuries have weakened her ability to reason.

  Santos returns carrying a cannonball under one arm, a canister of powder under the other. He ignores Elizabeth’s scrutiny, goes about the business of loading the cannon.

  Frantic, I struggle against my shackles.

  “I couldn’t let that woman harm the baby,” Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  “I understand.”

  Once the cannon’s loaded, Santos looks at Tindall. “You could help you know,” he says.

  Chen laughs, keeps his rifle trained at Elizabeth. “Jeremy doesn’t like to get his hands dirty,” he says. “He’s used to others doing his work for him.”

  Tindall scowls at him, walks over to Santos. “Just show me what to do,” he says. He grunts and groans as he helps Santos inch the ship killer around, until the black, gaping maw of the cannon aims straight at Elizabeth’s head.

  Santos stares at her. “I don’t know what the hell you are,” he says. “But this should finish you.” He walks away, toward the arms room.

  “Peter, I don’t want to die,” Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  I pull at my chains as best I can, knowing I lack the strength to escape yet. “I know, my love,” I say.

  “Your love . . . I like that. Peter, I was so young. . . . I was learning. I would have made a good wife for you after the baby was born.”

  “I’m sure, love. I’m sure you would have.” In the dark, I feel tears wetting my cheeks, do nothing to wipe them away.

  “Promise me, you’ll say good things about me to our son.”

  “Of course,” I say, not quite sure she realizes what she’s saying.

  Santos returns with a torch he’s taken down from the wall.

  Elizabeth sighs, says, “I would have been a very good mother.”

  The Cuban lowers the torch’s flaming end to the touch hole and the roar of the cannon penetrates the house, reverberating in my cell.

  29

  Rage alternates with sorrow. I know my bride is dead. For the first time since our marriage, I can’t find her touch. I have no sense of her. It’s as if I’ve lost my sight, or my hearing. I am truly alone now, without hope, my future shattered.

  Jorge Santos is to blame. I imagine making him die slowly, in great agony.

  I yank on my chains but still they resist me. The manacles cut into my wrists and I welcome the pain.

  Tears come again and I welcome them too. I understand now how Father felt when Mother died. Like him, I’ve lost my life’s companion. And my child before he’s ever known the world. I want to howl and tear my hair. Damn Jorge Santos!

  And yet I can’t blame the man completely. I am the murderer of his sister. I have been his captor. His woman, if she isn’t dead, lies dying on the veranda of my house, mortally wounded by my wife. If anyone has good reason to kill, it is Santos.

  And I have no doubt he intends to kill me. I know the man. I calculate how long it will take him to come for me.

  As he does when he plays chess, he’ll hesitate before he proceeds, fret that his position might be insufficient. With me imprisoned, he’ll think he has the time to take every precaution.

  First he’ll make sure at least two rail guns are loaded. He won’t bother with more, the guns are too large, and more of them would burden him too much.

  Besides he has Chen and Tindall as his allies. Though Tindall, I’m sure, will prove worthless. He’ll lag behind, argue for caution. As a miliary man, Chen will urge a quick assault. He’ll feel safe enough to proceed as long as he holds a loaded machine gun.

  But Santos will insist only he knows the house. I’m sure he’ll feel the need for further protection before he ventures inside. He’ll tarry long enough to load a few pistols too, stick them in his belt. Only then will he search the upper floors for Elizabeth. Only when he doesn’t find her, will he come for me.

  In truth I’m tempted to let him. My wife and child are gone. I sigh and lie down on my cot. The thought of life alone on my island fills me with dread. Santos, at least, has a mother to return to. I have no one.

  I let the dark envelop me. I become nothing lost in nothingness, air floating within air, time lost for all time. I would float away if my chains didn’t weigh me down. I would sink if the cot wasn’t underneath me. This, I think, must be how it feels to die.

  Perhaps I will.

  My breathing irritates me. I hate the sound of my heart beating. I want complete silence. I try to still myself, achieve total calm. And still, the quieter I become, the less I move, the more something tweaks at my consciousness. A lingering thought? An emotion my subconscious refuses to stop feeling?

  No matter how I try to dampen my senses, it intrudes. Finally, unable to ignore it, I concentrate on identifying it, disregard everything else. The sensations I receive frustrate me with their vagueness. It’s almost like mindspeaking but not quite—as if it’s slightly merged with the type of closeness Elizabeth and I shared. No words, no images, just feelings—fleeting impressions of occasional movement, occasionally restricted by something soft (a wall?), sometimes flashes of content, always the overwhelming sensation of moist warmth.

  Elizabeth must be dead. I know it. I feel it. Yet my heart races at the thought that some remnant of her consciousness may be left, that some possibility may remain for her resurrection. I reach out for her, mindspeak, “Elizabeth?”

  The answer stuns me. No words to it, no thoughts, just the feather-light touch of another presence brushing against my mind—not my wife but my unborn son.

  Henri! My child may yet be saved. The realization changes everything. If I fail, if I permit Santos and the others to win, not only do I die but so does my son. Time, which meant nothing a few moments ago, means everything now.

  I curse myself for wallowing in self-pity rather than recognizing the possibility of saving more than myself. By now they must be searching the floors above me. I must take action immediately. I turn my attention back to my surroundings, see nothing. Outside, at least, stars or a partial moon usually give me enough light to see through the darkness. But here in the cell with no lights on anywhere, blackness engulfs me.

  The chains that bind me remain too strong to break, but for a creature who can change shape at will that hardly matters. I test whether the effects of the Dragon’s Tear have abated enough, concentrate on narrowing my right hand and wrist.

  My body seems almost indifferent to my wishes. It conforms to my shapechanging ever so slowly. I concentrate, ignore the pain the change requires and pray Santos’s search of the house takes
longer than my escape.

  Finally, I’m able to slip my hand out of the right manacle.

  My left hand and wrist go easier and I escape that fetter too, turn my attention to my ankles and feet. Only the slave collar remains. That proves the most difficult, as I elongate and narrow my head enough to slip free. I stand as soon as I throw the last chain off and almost topple back—the sudden rush of rising, coupled with the remaining effects of the Dragon’s Tear wine and the total dark looming around me disorient and confuse me. I weave in place a few moments, focus my thoughts on where the cell door may be.

  When I reach it, I find barely three inches of space exist between each thick iron bar. I almost cry when I think how difficult slipping my body out will be. Surely, I think, it can be done, but I’ve never attempted such a thing. I back up, pace a few steps. Taking deep breaths, steeling myself for the attempt, I pace a few steps more and walk headfirst into a wall that I didn’t expect to encounter.

  Then I remember Casey’s insistence on putting me in a smaller cell. I grin, shake my head, take more deep breaths to clear my mind, then test my assumption by putting my back to the wall and walking forward until I touch the opposite wall. Just five steps! I almost laugh out loud. Santos will be so confused when he arrives to find the locked cell empty. I grab the end of the cot and yank on it, raising it, opening the passageway to the treasure room below and the door to the dock beyond it.

  In their desire to place me in the smallest, least comfortable cell, Santos and Morton, who had no knowledge of the secret passage, unwittingly assured my escape.

  Once on the stairs, I close the passageway behind me, take the steps two and three at a time. I waste no time turning on lights. I know the way. Rushing through the corridor, ripping my clothes off, I reach the door to the outside and throw it open. I wrinkle my nose at the stink of sulfur the expended gunpowder has left on the evening air, and change shape.