The Seadragon's Daughter (Dragon de la Sangre)

by Alan F. Troop

  Henri nods. “It was alone and it came right up to the stern and poked its head out of the water. I tried to pet it but when I did, it dropped back into the water.”

  “Maybe it didn’t want to be touched,” Chloe says, pushing the throttles forward. “They are wild after all.”

  “But it came back . . . a couple of times. It’s funny. It wouldn’t look at me but it finally let me touch it. It did,” Henri says. “I swear.”

  My bride looks at me, raises an eyebrow, and I shrug.

  4

  It only takes only a little more than an hour and a half for us to cross the dark waters of the Gulf Stream and arrive in the clear, light blue shallows near Bimini. While I know the island I want lies near Victory Reef, I can’t find it on any of the charts we have.

  “What’s its name?” Chloe says.

  I shrug, take the wheel from her and guide us from one small spit of sand to the next. “I could find it from the air in a second,” I say. “It doesn’t look like much, just a glorified sandbar with a few trees and bushes—maybe three quarters of a mile long and a quarter wide. The whole thing barely sticks out of the water except for one sand dune on its north end . . . I don’t think that’s more than twelve feet high.”

  Chloe searches the waters around us, points to a pine tree-crowded island a few hundred yards away. “How about that one?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “This is a specific island. My mother died there. My father buried her there, and when he died, I buried him next to her. As long as we’re near I want to visit it.”

  As more time passes, we make a game of it, looking for a flat island with a hump at one end. After dozens of false sightings by each of us, Henri shouts, “I see it Papa!” He points to an island no more than a half mile away, one I’d glanced at and rejected. “See! There’s the hump!”

  I study the solitary dune on its north end, partially obscured from view by some pine trees, and nod. “That’s it,” I say, turning the boat in its direction.

  Bright white sand covers a small, gently sloping beach shielded from the wind by the dune at the north end of the island. I run the Grady White in toward the beach, slowing the motors, trimming them up as we approach and the water becomes more shallow. Finally, a few yards from shore the boat’s bow digs into the sandy bottom and we stop.

  “Can I, Papa?” Henri says.

  I nod and he jumps off the boat into the clear, shallow water. Chloe laughs, says, “Watch Lizzie for a minute,” and jumps off the boat too, splashing Henri as she lands. He splashes her back and a water fight erupts between them, both of them slapping at the knee-high water and drenching each other.

  Smiling at the mayhem going on in the water, I busy myself gathering up the blankets, towels, food and drink we’ve brought and preparing to bring them to shore. Once Henri throws up his hands and surrenders, a very wet Chloe comes over to the boat. I hand her a towel, wait for her to dry herself, then pass Lizzie to her.

  After I dig an anchor into the sand and we set up camp in a pine tree-shaded area just inland of the beach, I take my family to visit my parents’ graves. We climb the dune together, Lizzie in Chloe’s arms, and stand next to the small rock piles that mark each of their graves. “This is where my father and mother are buried,” I say.

  Henri nods, stands by my side for a few moments, then wanders off to explore the area while Chloe and I remain staring at the piles. “I know you told me your mum was killed, but you never told me how,” my bride says.

  I smile at the British accent that suddenly appears in her speech. She spoke that way when I first met her. Born in Jamaica, raised by parents who spoke English like they were at tea in London and servants who spoke as if they were from the streets of Kingston, Chloe can flip from an English accent to a Jamaican one in the same sentence. Now, after a few years’ exposure to our TV, she most often sounds like an American.

  “My mother was careless,” I say.

  Chloe cocks an eyebrow.

  “It was toward the end of World War Two. I wasn’t much older than Henri. She and Father put me to bed before she went hunting—just like you and I do with the kids.” I sigh, remembering the night. “She called out for us. ‘Henri! Peter! Come quickly! Please!’ It woke me, and then my father was in my room—already in his natural form.

  “I changed too and we flew to this island.” I look around until I spot a small circular area of sand at the base of the dune. I point to it. “We found her there. She was lying there bleeding, gasping, with terrible holes ripped through her body.” I shake my head.

  “It was too late. Father said too much damage had been done. She died a few minutes after we arrived. We buried her up here and piled stones to mark her resting place. Afterwards, on the way home, Father told me she’d tried to swoop down and snatch a sailor off the deck of a surfaced U-boat patrolling in the Florida Straits. He said, ‘I told her not to attack any armed ships. I told her it was too risky. But she did it anyway—at least eight times without a problem. This time a German machine-gunner managed to fire a burst in her direction and hit her. It’s our curse. Our women are too reckless.’ He was right you know,” I say.

  “I prefer to think we’re just braver than you males,” Chloe says.

  “Could be,” I say, staring at the graves. “Either way, I wish my mom had been a little more careful. She died too young. At least my father lived as long as he wanted.”

  “How old was he when he died?”

  I say, “Over four hundred,” and Chloe widens her eyes. I smile at her surprise. Our kind expects long lives. Why shouldn’t we? We can change our shapes at will, heal most of our own injuries and illnesses. But still few manage to maintain themselves past three hundred.

  Father always said that most didn’t care to live much longer. “If it wasn’t for your mother and you, I’d never have stayed so long in this life,” he said.

  We spend the rest of the day swimming, exploring the island and collecting driftwood. By the time the sun begins to set, Henri and I have already dug a depression in the sand and stacked driftwood in it. As the night turns cool, I light the wood afire.

  With nothing to do but sit on our blankets, gorge ourselves on roast beef sandwiches and watch the flames as they leap and dance, Elizabeth and Henri soon fall asleep. Chloe and I sit side by side, our bodies touching, both of us watching the sleeping children and the fire. Neither of us speaks.

  Finally Chloe stands and motions for me to do the same. Both of us have put on sweatshirts. She pulls hers off, throws it on our blanket, then does the same with mine. Chloe glances at the children, to make sure they’re still asleep and then gives me a half leer, half smile and yanks my bathing suit down.

  I step out of it and reach for hers. She shakes her head, backs up a step and removes her top, then the bottoms, by herself. Tossing them on the blanket she takes my hand and leads me away from the fire, my body instantly chilled as soon as we leave the protective circle of its warmth.

  Chloe tugs me along, away from the campsite, up the dune. At the top, I pull her close, hold her until her naked warmth and mine start to warm us. When I begin to grow hard, she pushes me away. “We didn’t need to come here for that!” she mindspeaks, grinning at me as her skin tightens and ripples, her face lengthens and her shoulders swell. “Look at the sky, the moon, the stars. What a fine night to hunt!”

  I turn my eyes from my bride’s transformation and look up to the three-quarter moon overhead, the bright pattern of stars filling the clear, dark sky everywhere I choose to stare. I grin. Creatures like Chloe and I need only a few stars or a sliver of the moon to see in the dark. Tonight it’s as if we’re bathed in starlight.

  Chloe’s wings rustle as they emerge from between her shoulder blades. She spreads them so quickly that they snap when they reach their full extension. I turn my attention back to her. “Well?” she mindspeaks. “Do I hunt alone tonight?”

  “Hardly,” I say, studying this clawed creature standing beside me, the wings held
at the ready, the long tail stretched behind her, the light green scales covering her body everywhere except her cream colored underbody. I suck in a breath, remembering how it feels to make love to her in this form and will my body to change too.

  “It’s about time,” Chloe mindspeaks. I ignore her and concentrate on the thrill, the pleasure and the pain of stretching bones and flesh, growing fangs and claws, hardening skin into armored scales. When my wings finally burst from my back, I groan and spread them to their full extension—yards fuller than Chloe’s.

  She backs up in mock fear and mindspeaks, “Eeek! I think it’s a dragon!” I swat her with my tail and she slaps back with hers, so hard that it stings.

  I grapple with her, both of us struggling until I finally enfold her in my wings so she can’t move.

  “Okay tough guy, you’re bigger than me. I admit it,” she mindspeaks. “Now can we get on with it? I’m starved.”

  I release Chloe, flex my wings, my stomach growling, saliva flooding my mouth at the thought of fresh prey. The full stomach I had before I changed is only a memory now. It’s one of our limitations. Shifting shapes burns energy, sometimes far too much.

  The wind gusts against me and I block it with my wings. I take a few practice flaps, then rush forward, my wings scooping air, shoving it behind me. “Now!” I mindspeak. The sound of Chloe’s wings beating air just behind me follows me as I leap into the air.

  No creature should be denied the joy of flight. I bank in a wide spiral over the island, my eyes fixing the shape of it in the dark in my memory. Chloe, flying by my side, does the same.

  We circle a dozen more times, building altitude, before Chloe folds her wings and dives toward the sea. I follow, plummeting through the cool, dark air, spreading my wings only a few yards over the surface of the ocean, skimming over the wave crests, chasing Chloe, who somehow manages to stay just feet in front of me.

  Far from the island, we climb again and I roar into the night. Chloe’s giggle fills my mind. “What are you roaring at?” she mindspeaks. “Trying to scare somebody?”

  I ignore her and roar again. “It feels good,” I mindspeak. “We’ve gone too long without this.”

  Chloe spots a fishing boat cruising not too many miles away, banks and begins flying in its direction.

  I bank too, chasing her, finally flying in front of her. “No boats. If a crew goes missing here, the Bahamians might connect it to what’s going on in Miami.”

  “Then where? I don’t want to go too far. Lizzie or Henri might need us.”

  Banking, turning southeast, I mindspeak, “The kids will be fine. If either wakes they can call out to us. Henri’s old enough anyway to take care of most things.”

  “But, Peter . . .”

  “It’s okay. I’m taking us to Andros. It’s not too far. I’ve hunted there before. The island’s huge and mostly unpopulated. But they do have some small communities scattered along the coasts—enough to make for good hunting.”

  We approach Andros from its northwest corner, the land a vast black mass sprinkled with few lights.

  “Are we really going to find anybody here?” Chloe mindspeaks. “Couldn’t we have just gone to Bimini?”

  “Bimini’s too developed, too civilized these days. Parts of Andros don’t have roads, power or even running water. We can hunt here without worrying about attracting any attention.”

  Chloe follows as I descend to a hundred feet. We glide over the water together, passing over a long, deep white beach, then trees and flat tilled fields. Everything remains dark beneath us until finally we come to a dimly lighted area, an open-air patio outside a white concrete building. Men crowd its six wooden tables, hunched over games of dominoes, drinking from bottles.

  We circle over the patio, listening to their voices, to the island music blaring from outdoor speakers, smelling the aromas of beer and cooked food and the scents of the humans below us. Our stomachs grumble and we circle, swallowing saliva, watching, waiting.

  Four men finally get up from a table and walk away from the lights. Chloe flies off after them. “It’s too many!” I mindspeak. “Why not wait until one leaves by himself?”

  “I’m tired of waiting. I’ll follow until they break up and then take one of them.”

  I stay over the patio, wondering if I should have followed my bride. But fifteen minutes later a single tall, muscular male rewards my patience by leaving his table and walking off into the dark alone.

  He crosses a nearby field, singing, drinking from a beer bottle. I follow overhead and wait for him to leave the bar and the others far behind. After the field, the man turns onto a dirt path, drains the last of his beer and throws the bottle into the bushes. He walks forward in the direction of the sea, muttering to himself, occasionally laughing.

  No homes lie in sight, no other humans. I wonder if he’s a fisherman or a farmer, whether he’s returning home to a wife and family or an empty house. No matter. My stomach aches.

  I dive, rush at him from the front. He opens his mouth, his eyes wide, clearly about to scream. Slashing out with a foreclaw, I slice his throat, the rich aroma of fresh blood filling the air as I seize his thick, warm body with my rear claws, yank it into the air and fly toward the sea. “Chloe come! Fresh meat!” I mindspeak.

  “I have some too, Peter,” she says. “Don’t be mad. It seemed like they never were going to break up. I took all four.”

  I find her on a deserted beach, four bodies laid on the sand near her. I land, lay my kill next to hers. “Chloe? Four? It’s such a waste. . . .”

  “I know Peter, I know.” She sniffs at my kill, inspects each of hers. “I shouldn’t have . . . but it’s done now.” She chooses the smallest of her victims, drags it over to me.

  As is the custom for our females, she selects a tender morsel of meat and serves me first before she feeds. I take it and swallow it and then we feed together side by side until we’re satiated. Langour overtakes us then and we allow ourselves to lay together on the sand and doze for a short while.

  Chloe stirs first. She nudges me. “We should get back to the children and let them feed too.”

  I stretch, rest my tail over her tail, press my body close to hers. “There’s something else we could do first,” I mindspeak. “We haven’t done it in our natural forms in a long time.”

  “And we won’t for a while longer,” Chloe says, pulling away from me. “We have children, Peter. We have to give them the chance to change into their natural forms and feed while there’s still enough night left.”

  I know she’s right. Still I refuse to move until she’s chosen which kills she wants to bring back with us and until she’s disposed of the extra bodies in the waters far off the shore.

  5

  No newspapers or television stations report any new disappearances in the waters off of Miami that weekend or the week that follows or the week after that. The local stations stop broadcasting their endless conjectures over who or what has been causing the disappearances. The Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard cut back on their patrols and for the first time in months, Chloe says, “Maybe we could think of going hunting together sometime soon.”

  I nod. As much as we and the children enjoyed our foray to the Bahamanian Out Islands, I much prefer flying from and returning to our own island. “We’ll give it another week,” I say. “If things are still calm, I think we’ll be able to start getting back to normal.”

  But the next morning, when I come up to the great room for breakfast, Chloe greets me with a frown and says, “It happened again.”

  Looking out the window I see the patrol boats cruising on the bay—just as many as before. I shake my head. “You know nothing says we have to stay here while this is going on. We could go to Jamaica, stay at Bartlet House, visit with your parents and your brothers at Morgan’s Hole.”

  Chloe looks at me and grins. “You want to visit with my family?”

  I shrug. “Everyone has their in-law problems.”

  “Everyone’s
in-laws haven’t tried to kill them,” Chloe says.

  “But that’s over now,” I say. “Anyway, your brother Philip was never part of it, and your Dad pretty much made up for it before he left here for Jamaica.” I think of Chloe’s older brother, Derek, and the frown he wore for weeks after I defeated him and his father. “I could live without ever seeing Derek again. But as long as he’s polite he won’t bother me.”

  “Pa would never let him be anything but pleasant to you.”

  “Then there will be no reason to avoid Jamaica. I know Henri would love to start riding horses again. Lizzie’s never been there. We could get a little pony for her. We could fly when we want. Hunt when we want.”

  “But school won’t let out until June,” Chloe says.

  I shrug. “So? Henri’s already far ahead of most of his class. He won’t have any trouble catching up next year. I can call Tindall. Tell him to arrange with Granny and Velda to open Bartlet House, get it ready for us.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Chloe says.

  “You should call your parents and let them know to expect us.”

  Chloe laughs. “Why don’t I call Tindall and tell him to arrange things—and you try to call my parents? I told you the satellite phone we got them would be a waste of money. They’ve never once picked it up to call us. They don’t think that way. In my family, when someone leaves home, they consider them gone for good. Remember how it was when I called them after Lizzie was born? It took forever before Mum picked up and then she scolded me for making her talk on the damned thing. She hates it.”

  “Still you should give them a call,” I say.

  “Maybe,” Chloe says, then sticks out her tongue at me.

  The more I think of Jamaica and our vacation home, Bartlet House, far inland of Montego Bay, close to the wilds of Cockpit Country, the more I like the idea of going there. I’ve little doubt it will take much time for our groundskeeper, Granville Morrison and his wife, Velda, to get the house in order, the stables filled with gentle horses and the swimming pool crystal clean.