The Dragon Delasangre (15 page)

“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.”

 

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.

I point to it. “That's my mother. She lived with an artist in Paris and posed for him before Father found her. Father only told me about it just before he died. He said, after she
became his bride, he brought her back to the city and bought her whatever she wished, including all the paintings she wanted. She insisted that, no matter the cost, he had to buy this one.”

“And you, Peter,” Elizabeth says, her voice turning coquettish as she goes from picture to picture, “can you afford to buy your bride whatever she wants?”

“You'll see,” I say.

 

By the time we walk down the spiral staircase to the bottom floor, Elizabeth's pace has slowed, her lips have settled into a partial smile, a show of polite, if indifferent approval. She gives the cells we pass only a cursory glance and hesitates when I enter the smallest one. “Peter, I've seen cells before. . . .”

Her eyes widen when I pull the cot up and the passageway opens.

“Where are we going?” she asks as we descend into the darkness.

I say nothing, avoid turning on the lights at the bottom until the treasure room's open. Elizabeth allows me to guide her into the small cold room, and I stand behind her and flick the switch once she's in place.

“Oh my,” she says, her hands to her face, her emerald-green eyes wide as she glances from chest to chest. “My father would do anything for this.”

“As I promised—he'll have some of the gold.”

She picks up a handful of jewelry, holds it to the light, then turns to me. “We don't have to be too generous, do we, Peter?”

Outside, to my surprise, the garden thrills her even more than the treasure room. “Dragon's Tear,” she says, examining the plants, pulling weeds as she looks. “Death's Rose. Angel Wort. Why didn't you tell me you had all of these?”

I shrug. “It was my mother's garden. Father and I mostly ignored it.”

Elizabeth puts her hands on her hips. “With all this and the seeds that Mum gave me, we'll have a proper garden in no time. There's already enough Dragon's Tear here for a good few quarts of wine. I'll have some made within a few weeks.”

“And then?” I ask.

She gives me a sly grin. “And then I'll teach you a few things.”

 

I don't even think of the Santos file until late in the day, after we've returned Jeremy Tindall's boat and cruised home in my Grady White.

Tired and weary of maintaining her human form, Elizabeth insists on reverting to her natural shape before she takes a nap.
“I don't know why you like the human form so much,”
she says after she changes.
“I always feel better like this.”

“And I'm used to the other.”

She helps me make a bed of hay for her on the far side of my room, lies down and motions for me to join her. I take in the soft green hue of her scales, the gentle curve of her tail, her delicate beige underbody and almost accept her invitation. But I refuse to revert to the thoughtless pattern of life that I've lived the last few weeks. After dark, there will be more than enough time for me to take my bride for her first hunt in the waters near my homeland, ample opportunity to let her taste fresh meat once more. For now I have other things I must do. Setting foot on my island, wandering the halls of my home has reminded me of my responsibilities.