Dragon DelaSangre

by Alan F. Troop

  I grin at the incongruity of my prisoner threatening me.

  "And how do you plan to do that? Don't you think the chains and the locked cell will get in your way?"

  "Well, I didn't say it wouldn't be a challenge." Santos laughs.

  His laughter catches me off guard and I let myself join him, wishing things could be different, wondering how hard it will be to control this man. Our mirth lasts only a moment, then fades into silence—Santos glaring at me, me returning his stare.

  In the next cell Casey Morton grumbles, "How can you laugh? You know the bastard's going to kill us."

  "Are you?" Santos asks.

  "Not unless I have to," I say. I see no reason to explain their eventual fate. "Of course, the two of you are going to have to stay here. You'll be expected to help maintain the household and the grounds—"

  Santos whoops and laughs. "You're fucking nuts! This is America. You want to make us slaves?"

  I frown, consider rushing into the cell and striking him—beating him until he learns humility. "Enough! You need to speak and act with more respect. Look around you. Test your chains. You and your friend have no options. You're going to have to learn to accept that."

  "And if I don't?"

  "There are dogs outside that would like the opportunity to meet you," I say. "Or I could leave you locked up without food or water. I could hurt the woman or you dozens of different ways. I could kill her and let you live… or vice versa." I shrug. "Or I could kill you both. Or you could cooperate and live fairly comfortable lives."

  Santos looks around his cell. "You think this is comfortable?"

  "It could be made more so."

  "We need to get out of these wetsuits," the Cuban says.

  "It can be done," I say. "But first, you mentioned a note yesterday."

  Santos grins as if he has the upper hand. "We need food and dry clothes. And Casey needs for her cuts to be taken care of."

  I nod. "First tell me about the note."

  "It came in the mail from the attorney that bailed me out, the one I didn't hire. He said it was from his client in California."

  Scowling, I say, "Go on."

  "There wasn't much to it. It said, 'You're on the right track. Peter DelaSangre killed your sister.' Then it said, 'If you ever need help bringing him to justice call,' it listed a number, a local one…" Santos pauses, shakes his head. "I can't remember it now… and then it said, 'Please call any time day or night.' There wasn't any signature or name."

  "Did you ever call?" I ask.

  He smiles. "No, I wanted you to myself." Santos pauses again, his grin turning smug, then says, as if he's earned some new concession, "Casey and I should stay in the same cell."

  "No." I shake my head. "I don't think so."

  "Okay, I guess you're in charge," Santos says, his tone acid again. He holds his hands up, palms out, in a mock gesture of surrender. "So it's whatever you say, Boss… for now. Just don't forget… things can change. And when they do, you're dead."

  This time I chuckle. The man has no concept of my powers and abilities, nor of Elizabeth's. I have no doubt, if given the chance, he will attempt to slay me and I have no fear that he will succeed. "Whenever you think you can kill me," I say, "Please feel free to try."

  "I will… later," Santos says. But he cooperates when I unlock his cell and readjust his chains so I can lead him into the hallway. Morton surprises me by cooperating too, shuffling out of her cell, waiting next to Santos while I chain them together. Santos whispers something to her, but she saves me the need to quiet them and stares away, saying nothing in return.

  Father taught me that keeping humans captive calls for constant vigilance and careful technique. "As weak as they are, they are most dangerous and most determined once they are taken captive. They become like rodents in a cage. They never stop trying. I've had ones who dug through stone; others who worried at their chains so much that the metal failed. You must always keep them bound in some way, alternate their cells on an irregular schedule, inspect their walls and floors, examine their locks for tampering. Never show mercy, never trust them. Whenever you do, they'll turn on you."

  I fetter Santos and Morton the way Father taught me—with only twelve inches of chain between their feet, their wrists bound by shorter chains, Santos's right ankle shackled to Morton's left, his neck ring connected by a short chain fastened to hers. They have no choice but to move slowly, shuffling in tandem with each other, their chains clinking as they ascend the stairs in front of me.

  Their clangor precedes them, wakes Elizabeth shortly before we reach the second floor. "Peter?" she mindspeaks. "Why are you bringing them up here now?"

  "They're a mess. They need to shower and change.…"

  "They're slaves. Take them outside and hose them down," Elizabeth says.

  "That's unnecessary," I say. "We've plenty of extra rooms, more than enough showers they can use.…"

  "They're not our guests."

  "But it wouldn't hurt to treat them as well as possible."

  "Honestly, Peter, sometimes you make no sense. They're just humans."

  Elizabeth joins me as I lead them into one of the other bed chambers. I'm relieved to see that she's chosen to be both in human form and clothed. I doubt that Santos and his woman would be as cooperative if they saw either of us in our natural states.

  "You," Elizabeth says to the woman. Morton looks at her, then stares at the floor, waits to hear what Elizabeth wants. She remains still as my bride unchains her and helps her out of the wetsuit and the bathing suit beneath it. She stands naked before us, slightly trembling.

  "So thin," Elizabeth mindspeaks. She holds Morton's empty chains in one hand, runs the fingers of her free hand over the cuts and bruises of the woman's face, then turns her so she can examine the long gash on Morton's side where one of the Hobie's wires cut into her. "After you shower, I'll put some herbs on this," Elizabeth says. "It will heal quickly."

  Casey nods. The woman's docility surprises me. She accepts Elizabeth's continued inspection—Jorge and I watching them.

  "Do you like her?" Elizabeth asks. "Would you want to make love to this blond woman? Or is she too thin for you, her breasts too small?"

  Santos shifts beside me—clinking his chains, shaking his head—but I ignore him. "I only want to make love to my wife," I say and turn my attention to Elizabeth, her swollen stomach. "Maybe once I would have found one like this of interest.…"

  "She isn't an animal!" Santos shouts. He whirls toward me, throwing his arms over my head, wrapping the chain between his manacles around my neck, choking me, grunting as he tightens his grip.

  Instead of fighting off his attack, I immediately thicken my neck muscles, preventing the iron links from blocking my air or cutting my blood flow. Santos tries to tighten his hold and groans when he finds that, no matter his effort, he can't. I almost feel sorry for him as he strains to no avail, wait for him to see the futility of his actions and give it up.

  Morton, her eyes wide, watches our struggle, but provides no help. Not so Elizabeth. She quickly tires of waiting for me to end it. "This is stupid," she says. Twirling Morton's empty chains over her head, she steps closer to us and crashes them into the side of Santos's head. His grip loosens and I push the chain from my throat, and knock him to the floor.

  I put my foot on his chest to hold him down. "Look at this," I say to him, my finger on the bright red bruise his attack left around my neck. He glances, then looks away. "No, I want you to watch." I bear down on my foot, so all my weight presses on his chest and let up only when I'm sure I have his attention.

  "I won't punish you this time," I say, massaging my swollen throat. "You haven't learned yet how strong we are." I relax my muscles, will my flesh to heal. "No attack of yours will ever succeed." I point to my neck. "This is why."

  His expression changes from defiant, to bewildered, to amazed as my neck narrows and the redness abates, then disappears. "What the hell are you people?" he asks.

 
"Your captors," I say. I step off him, motion for him to rise. "All you need to know is that we have the power to do with you as we wish. Now stand and wait while we tend to your friend."

  He gets up, ignores the thin, red rivulet of blood running down the side of his face, dripping onto his wetsuit. "If you say so, Boss," he says.

  Casey Morton needs no prodding. She does whatever Elizabeth tells her, accepts her chains again after she showers, waits to see what else we require of her.

  Jorge, too, now follows instructions. He makes no moves when I unchain him, doesn't object to Elizabeth undressing and examining him. She runs her palm over his chest hair. "He's much hairier than you," she mindspeaks.

  I shrug. "I thought you liked my bare chest."

  "I do." She grins. "Remember, I haven't seen as many naked men as you've seen naked women." Elizabeth cups his testicles in her hand, makes no effort to hide her curiosity as she examines him. Santos endures it, looks away. "You're larger than him. Still, I wonder how he would be—"

  "Elizabeth!"

  Her smile widens. "Jealous? Why, Peter, you know I'm yours and yours alone. It's just that sometimes I wonder about human men. After all, he's not one of our people. It wouldn't really be cheating."

  "It would be to me," I say, wishing again we hadn't seized these two, realizing how many months we have to go before our child's birth and Santos's and Morton's demise. Far too long, I think, if Elizabeth intends to go on in this vein.

  "Why, Peter"—she giggles—"your face is red."

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  « ^ »

  The evening news carries a report of Santos's catamaran being found, floating upside down, off the shore of Miami Beach. The commercial fishermen who recovered the boat repeat for the cameras that they saw no signs of anyone floating nearby. Both Jorge's and Casey's pictures are flashed on screen. Tapes of Mrs. Santos weeping over her missing son and the Mortons stoically appealing for boaters to help search for their daughter run for days on every broadcast.

  At the office, Arturo gloats, and says, "Good riddance. At least that's one problem that's solved itself."

  Jeremy approaches me later, asks, "Peter? Did you have anything to do with their disappearance? Not that it matters, as long as they're out of the way."

  I give him a blank stare until he retreats from my office.

  We keep our prisoners in the house while the search goes on, let them rest and heal in their cells. At first we dress them in my old clothes, Elizabeth's being far too small for Casey Morton. They look almost comical as they shuffle along, barefoot, in chains—my shirts and pants too baggy, too loose, too long for both of them.

  Elizabeth grunts when she sees them. "My slaves back in Jamaica were better dressed than these two. At least they had shoes," she mindspeaks.

  "Your shoes are too small and mine are too large," I say.

  "We'll have to buy them new ones and new clothes on the mainland."

  Casey continues to be the passive one, silently following orders, shuffling from room to room as she cleans, never complaining about her chains. But she proves useless in the kitchen. "I don't eat meat," she explains when Elizabeth tells her to prepare steaks, blood rare for us and however Santos and she like for them. "And I hardly ever cook." Morton points to Santos. "He's the one who's good at that."

  "You'll have to eat what we give you," Elizabeth says. "You're too thin for your own good." She instructs Santos on what to prepare, ignores his grumbling that the chains get in the way.

  When the food is ready, she insists that Casey eat her entire steak, and sits next to her at the oak table in the great room, prodding her to continue eating.

  "I wouldn't force her to eat so much," Santos says. He needs no such encouragement, wolfing his meat down almost as quickly as Elizabeth and I do ours. Then we all three sit and wait as Casey takes one small bite after another.

  Santos puts his feet on the chair across from him, slouching in his seat, like any other man relaxing after a good meal. He looks around the room, notices the blue ceramic pitcher on one of the shelves. "Hey, Boss, that's what your wife poured for us, when we first came here, isn't it?"

  I nod.

  "What is it? I've never heard of anything like that."

  "Peter, there's no need to tell him about it," Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  "And there's no harm in it either," I reply. "What good would the knowledge possibly do for him?"

  She sighs and turns her attention back to Casey, nagging her to take yet another bite.

  "It's a family recipe," I tell him. "Elizabeth makes it herself."

  Santos knits his eyebrows, looks from the pitcher to me and back to the pitcher. "Why?"

  I smile at him. "Sometimes it's useful. You saw what it did to you."

  He shakes his head grimly.

  Elizabeth says, "Good. You're finished."

  We both turn to see Casey's plate empty. The blonde sits still, her eyes glazed, her white skin paler than usual.

  "She hasn't eaten meat since she was twelve years old," Santos says.

  Casey nods, then belches, and leans over to her side and begins to wretch, spewing Elizabeth's hard work all over the floor.

  Santos glares at Elizabeth. "See, I told you. If you hadn't made her stuff herself…"

  My bride shakes her head, shouts, "Stop!" at Morton, who continues to empty her stomach.

  "Do something," Elizabeth says to me.

  She looks so bewildered, so frustrated, I have to stifle an indulgent grin. I hold my hands up. "We can't control their stomachs," I mindspeak.

  "Clean it up!" she yells at Santos.

  The Cuban gets up to do as he is told. He turns to me, says, "I warned her," and I nod. Elizabeth glares at me. If she could, I'm sure she would make me clean it up too.

  As the weeks pass, I become used to sharing our home, letting Santos and Morton lighten my burdens. Elizabeth and I go on shopping forays to Good Will and the Salvation Army, bringing home armloads of clothes for our prisoners. I let Jorge make up grocery lists and we stock the kitchen and freezer with all types of foods and condiments that would never tempt my bride or me.

  Growing a little more tired of her pregnancy each day, Elizabeth spends more time in bed. She only ventures outside during the day to oversee Casey as she works in the garden or to accompany me when I go to the mainland. She takes to napping early, every evening, before we hunt.

  I find I enjoy having Santos work by my side. The man likes to talk and, as long as we avoid any discussion of his sister, has a seemingly endless catalogue of stories about his coworkers and ex-girlfriends. To my delight, I learn he likes to play chess—the only human game Father deigned to play—and we fall into the habit of playing a game each evening, after dinner, before I lock him and Morton back in their cells.

  Elizabeth and I never leave the two unsupervised outside their cells. It becomes routine for me to unlock their doors each morning and lock them again each evening. As time passes without any resistance on their part, my bride and I both decide to lessen the amount of chains Santos and Morton must bear. In their cells, I reduce their load to a single chain attached to an iron ring set in the wall, but long enough to allow them to range the width and breadth of their confines.

  Casey learns to surrender control of her diet and finally eats as my bride wishes. Slowly her body thickens and curves appear where bones once were noticeable. Elizabeth too continues to grow bigger, the child strong and kicking within her. Even at night, after my bride has changed into her natural state, her new girth can't go unnoticed. "Do you still desire me?" she surprises me by asking one night.

  "I thought you didn't want to anymore."

  Elizabeth shakes her head. "I didn't before. I do now. Mum told me I might—for a while—after the baby grew some. Do you still want to, Peter?"

  "Of course," I say and I find myself making love to her again as often as when we first met.

  Sex, I find, is on Santos's mind too. He brings up the s
ubject one afternoon, shortly before the end of January, when I have him follow me outside to help me do routine maintenance in one of the arms rooms.

  Even though I can't imagine any way the man will ever have an opportunity to try to break into the room, I make Santos face away before I approach the narrow crack in the stone on the arms door's side. I check to make sure his eyes are elsewhere before I thin my arm and work it into the crevice, feeling for the release lever, smiling at the loud click as it opens.

  After my arm regains its shape, I allow the Cuban to turn. Jorge whistles when I lift the crossbar and throw open the room's thick oak door. I watch as he examines the ancient weapons stored on the shelves, the extra cannons in the back of the room, the bags of shot, the sealed, lead canisters filled with gunpowder. "Did you once have an army out here?" he asks.

  I grin and shake my head. "Not an army," I say. "But my ancestor believed in maintaining a strong defense. That's why he kept so many rifles and cannons here."

  Santos picks up one of the longarms, examines it and puts it back in place. "Muskets, Boss," he contradicts me. "These have smooth bores. That makes them muskets. If the barrels had grooves cut inside them, then they'd be rifles."

  "Oh," I say. "I take it you know your way around these."

  The Cuban reaches for an old, massive, naval, blunderbuss, rail gun, and grunts from its weight as he lifts it. He nods. "Not that I'm used to handling real ones. Every one of these are collectors' items. You could make a fortune selling them." He studies the piece, looks into the muzzle. "The ball this fires has to be as large as a child's fist."

  "Not quite," I say, pointing to the golfball-size, lead balls stacked on a shelf a few feet away.

  Santos hefts the piece again before he puts it down. "No wonder they mounted these on the rails. The recoil would knock even a large man on his ass." He picks a flintlock pistol up, cocks it, sights it on me. "Tempting," he says, laughs. "Too bad it's empty."