The Dragon Delasangre (20 page)

Most of the time I go about the necessary chores to keep up the maintenance of our household while Elizabeth divides her free time between the garden and the kitchen, planting and weeding in the former, processing herbs and potions in the latter. Sometimes I work in the garden alongside my bride, brushing against her, both of us smiling, enjoying the intimacy of quietly sharing the same tasks. She never mentions Jorge Santos's name and, while he remains in my thoughts, neither do I.

 

“I've just brewed my first pitcher of Dragon's Tear wine,”
Elizabeth tells me a few evenings after her first harvest, just before we're to venture forth for our nightly hunt,
both of us already in our natural forms.
“Here,”
she says, placing a blue ceramic pitcher and two large crystal mugs on the oak table in the great room. She pours the clear liquid into the mugs.
“Let's try it.”

I recognize the pitcher as one of my mother's and wonder if she used it for the same purpose. I pick up my mug, sniff the colorless liquid, then swirl it. It gives off no smell. Looks like simple tapwater.
“Should we, before we go out?”
I ask.

Elizabeth nods.
“Just remember, never drink this in your human form.”

“Why?”

“In that form you have no defense against its power. It will stun you the same way it stupefies them,”
she says, and waits for me to drink first.

I have a hard time believing it can affect anyone. The wine looks harmless, tastes as featureless as it appears. I drink two large swallows and then glance at Elizabeth.
“It tastes like water, maybe a little thicker, a little greasy. . . .”

She laughs, drains her mug with one long, sustained swallow.
“Finish yours and then tell me what you think,”
she says.

I shrug and follow her example. The warmth follows a moment later, radiating from my insides, tingling its way to my extremities. For a moment I feel dizzy. I have to readjust my stance, brace on my tail, to remain upright.

“Isn't it wonderful?”
Elizabeth asks, moving closer, rubbing against me with her body, her tail.

My senses explode wherever she touches. I feel nothing like on my wedding night when Dragon's Tear wine, mixed with Death's Rose and alchemist powders, enabled us to merge our minds, but I find myself unable to stop grinning and unwilling to defer any of my appetites.

We begin to make love in the great room, let our passion take us from its floor to the sky outside, soaring upward
until we consummate our union in the midst of a long dive toward the sea. Then we fly, side by side, in search of prey, the Dragon's Tear wine still warming our insides, making us hungry. I guide us offshore, thinking to take us to the island of Bimini, only sixty miles away.

Elizabeth, who has long complained about my insistence on our hunting over the waters, preferably far from home, asks again,
“Why fly so long for food when there's so much prey nearby?”

“Father always insisted we do most of our hunting far away from our island,”
I say.
“Even if we weren't spotted, too many missing people would make the humans too suspicious, too wary. Cuba and the Bahamas lie close enough and their people remain primitive enough to dismiss our acts with their superstitions.”

But Elizabeth turns back toward land.
“I'm hungry,”
she says.
“It won't do any harm to feed close to home this one night.”

“I don't like the homeless ones. It takes months holding them in the cells, feeding them, to make them edible,”
I say.

“Isn't there somewhere out of the way? Where we can find what we want now?”

Warm and content, my hunger a pleasant rumble in my stomach, I sigh, wishing she didn't have to puncture my mood. But either the wine or her enthusiasm makes me reckless. I guide us south, so we can approach the agricultural area west of Homestead from the Everglades.

By the time I decide on a white, two-story farmhouse, acres away from any other dwelling, I'm as ravenous as my bride. We burst through their windows, go from room to room, slashing, killing. I feed on the father, while Elizabeth feeds on the three small children and the mother.

We dispose of their remains over the ocean before we return home. Later, lying in each other's embrace on the hay
in my room, the wine still coursing in our veins, we make love again.

News reports flash the missing family's pictures on the TV the next day and for days afterward. I have to turn away each time they show the children.

 

When the middle of October arrives without our receiving a single new report on Jorge Santos's activities or any information on the shooter or the boat saboteurs' identities, I call Arturo.

“We have a problem,” he says. “I didn't want to call you until I had some solutions.”

“Do you?”

“Not yet. But my friends in the islands did find the two Bahamians who handled the shooting. The fools were flashing a lot of money at all the bars on Andros. On a poor island like that they were bound to be noticed. After some persuasion from my people, they admitted they had received a contract from an Italian gentleman in New York, Ralph Escalante.”

“With the Gambini family?” I say.

Arturo says, “Yeah . . . gave them ten thousand dollars down, promised them ten more on completion. Someone he knows wants you dead in a big way. . . .”

“I would think that's fairly obvious,” I say.

“Anyway, you know there's no way we can intimidate Escalante. Fortunately, some of our Italian friends are friendly with him. They were able to find out that he was acting as an agent for some Chinese guy in Los Angeles.”

“Has anyone talked to him?”

Arturo sighs. “No. No one's seen him for weeks. The word is, he may have gone back to China.”

“It doesn't make any sense,” I say. “Why would someone from China care about me?”

“I was hoping you'd tell me. And there's more too. . . . When Santos got out of jail, I wondered how he could make bail so quickly. The judge is a friend of ours, he set it for far more than Santos's family could afford. I had my people check into it. The lawyer that posted bail for him was acting on the behalf of an attorney in California. Neither of them knew the name of the principal who put up the money and issued the instructions. . . . And Santos didn't know any of them.”

“I just don't get it,” I say. “If Santos has so much help, then why hasn't he tried anything since he got out of jail? He's not the type to give up.”

“Maybe he is,” Arturo says. “He hasn't bothered anyone about you since his arrest. My operatives say his restaurant, Joe's, just opened for the season. He has to work again, five nights a week. He may be too tired to do much more on his days off than sail or hang out with the Morton woman.”

“In the meantime your people need to find the Chinese guy,” I say. “Ask him some questions.”

The Latin says, “I've already given those instructions.”

 

As the days pass, Santos remains on my mind. What plan can the man have that he's waiting to spring? It bothers me to remain passive, waiting to see what may happen. As usual, Elizabeth's counsel is short and direct. “My father would never let a human take up so much of his thoughts,” she says. “Kill him.”

“No,” I say. “Not yet. I don't see any need for it. But I do think I'd be more comfortable if I saw him again. I need to get a sense of how he's feeling, get a look into his eyes.”

Elizabeth stares at me. “I think you're worried he's given up. Whatever game you think the two of you have, you don't want it to end.”

I look away from her emerald-green eyes. “Maybe,” I say, shrugging. “I don't know.”

 

We arrive on Miami Beach early, but not early enough for Joe's. Even though it's just six-thirty and a weeknight, cars pack the parking lot. I let the valet take the Mercedes and escort Elizabeth into the Mediterranean–style building, newly redone to blend in with all the other new and remodeled buildings taking advantage of the resurgent popularity of South Beach.

Inside the cavernous room, a line of people wait to talk to an indifferent maître d'.
“It's too crowded, too noisy,”
Elizabeth mindspeaks.

I nod. At every table people dine or wait for food, tuxedo-clad waiters bustling around them, carrying large trays laden with beige-and-orange stone crab claws, the restaurant's specialty. Other patrons crowd the lobby and the bar, waiting for tables that might not become available for an hour or more.

It takes me fifteen minutes to get close enough to talk to the maître d'. He barely reacts when I say my name, but after I say, “Arturo Gomez said I should tell you we're good friends of his,” he looks up and smiles, reassures me it will be only a few minutes and suggests we wait in the bar.

Three bartenders, each wearing red brocade vests, rush around the U-shaped, mahogany bar. At first I worry that Santos has the night off, but then I see him pouring a scotch for a red-faced man at the far end of the bar. I force our way through the waiting crowd, push toward him and have the fortune to find a seat for Elizabeth at the bar and a space for me to stand next to her.

Santos freezes, then frowns when he first notices us. Another bartender comes over to see what we want, but he interrupts. “I know them. I'll take care of them.”

“Mr. and Mrs. DelaSangre,” he says as if we were old
friends, his hard eyes belying his wide smile. “What brings you here?”

“Dinner.” I grin too. “I thought you said we should be less formal, Jorge.”

“Yes.” He nods, places both of his hands on the bright wood surface of the bar. “I did. But that was awhile ago, Peter. I guess I forgot.”

“It has been quite a while. . . .”

He nods again. “Too long,” he says. “But, you know how it is, Peter, work and other things get in the way. Then again . . .” He looks at me. “You don't have to work, do you?”

“No,” I say.

“But I bet you know how to play real hard, don't you? I bet guys you play don't win very often. But enough of that . . .” Santos motions toward the bottles behind him. “I have a job to do here. What would you like tonight?”

“Just Evian for both of us,” I say. “We don't drink.”

“Really?” he says. “Me neither. I gave it up after Maria disappeared. Funny thing though, the police arrested me a few months ago. . . .” He shakes his head. “Peter, they charged me with DUI even though I was cold sober. I can't imagine why they'd do something like that. Can you?”

I shrug. “Sometimes stuff happens.”

Jorge narrows his eyes, growls, “You're a profound guy, aren't you?”

Before I can answer, the maître d' calls my name.

“You must know someone big,” Jorge says, bantering again. “Barely anyone gets a table that fast. I bet someone with that much drag could get someone transferred from their job. You think so, Peter?” He motions us away. “Go ahead, don't worry. You don't have to wait. I'll send your drinks over to you.”

“Happy?” Elizabeth asks me once we're seated at our table.

I am, but I'm not sure I want to admit to enjoying my exchange with Santos. Elizabeth would hardly understand my curiosity about the man. I hardly do myself. But, whether it's because I liked his sister and I see something of her in him, or just that he tickles my curiosity—I find myself wishing I could know him better. “Well,” I say, “I think it's obvious he still plans some sort of response to our last meeting.”

“Especially after you've gone out of your way to tease him.”

A waiter brings a tray bearing two filled glasses. He places one in front of Elizabeth, the other in front of me. “Jorge said to tell you, it's with his compliments,” he says.

I nod, pick up my glass, catch a strong whiff of alcohol before I take my first sip. “Is this Evian?” I ask.

The waiter grins. “Jorge said you'd kid with me. It's Ketl One vodka, just like you like.”

“We don't drink. . . .” I shake my head, hold the glass out to him.

“Jorge said you'd say that.” The waiter ignores my outstretched hand, chuckles as if we're sharing a joke. “He told me, if you said that, I should tell you, ‘You might want to think about starting real soon.' ”

 

The next Tuesday, I wake to find the morning air changed, shed of the last remnants of summer's warmth. I breathe in deep, savor the crisp, clean smell of fall—the lightness that the air takes on when it casts off most of its humidity. It invigorates me, makes lingering in bed impossible and I rush upstairs to the great room and throw the windows open so the north wind can fill the room with autumn's first chill. Smiling, wishing Elizabeth had wakened with me, I stand by the windows facing north, toward Miami, and let the cool air wash over me.

My smile fades when I notice the sail far to the north—the tiny yellow-and-white triangle bobbing on the bay's blue waters, too far away to make out the shape of the boat. At first it seems not to move, but slowly, inexorably, it travels in the direction of my island. I shrug, try to ignore it, but find it impossible not to watch its progress, not to wonder why it's sailing toward me.

Finally I force myself to walk away from the window. I can't think of any reason this one boat should catch my attention. I know the most westward channel in the bay lies a half mile to the east of Caya DelaSangre. I realize that, a quarter mile offshore on the ocean side, the water remains deep enough, even at low tide, for almost any pleasure boat to pass. Certainly, I think, no day goes by without at least a few boats cruising near my island. Still, this craft bothers me.

Frowning at my uneasiness, I return to the window every few minutes to check on its progress. Within an hour I can make out the cut of the boat's sails, the small triangular jib and the larger main sail—both made of alternating, diagonal strips of yellow and white sailcloth.

“It may be Santos,” I tell Elizabeth when she wakes and joins me in the great room, the Hobie cat now large enough for us to make out its twin hulls and the “H” insignia in its main sail.

She shrugs, says, “You taunted him. You must have wanted this,” and goes downstairs to work in her garden.

I maintain my vigil as the sailboat approaches, then passes by on the bay side, close enough for me to see Santos alone on the boat's canvas deck, the man wearing only cutoffs and a sleeveless sweatshirt, his gaze fixed on my island. Walking from window to window, I follow his progress, admiring the way he handles his boat.

The man circles the island, finally letting his sails go slack, the boat stalling, bobbing in place while he reaches into a small blue bag lying on the canvas next to him and takes out a pair of binoculars. On his knees, constantly shifting his balance to counter the pitching of his stalled boat, Santos scans the island.

I back away from the window when he turns the glasses in my direction but still, before he sails off into the open bay, he waves, as if he's sure I'm watching.

He repeats his visit the next day, disappears for almost a week, then visits us again, this time with the Morton woman on board. It becomes a pattern, a few times each week for him to sail around us—sometimes alone, sometimes with the woman. At each circumnavigation of the island he sails closer, always staring at the land, studying the house.

 

October passes, then November. During that time my pregnant bride's body progresses from slightly rounded to
moderately swollen. Elizabeth complains about her human form, insists on buying new clothes each week. She gives up driving her Corvette and switches to the more comfortable seating of my Mercedes. Our lovemaking, once a daily affair, diminishes to random, occasional couplings. Elizabeth spends less time in her garden, asks less often to go to the mainland and, when we do go, complains that bumping across the bay jostles her too much.

Food, always important to her, becomes her primary interest. While we continue to hunt and feed each evening, it no longer suffices for her. I begin to defrost steaks each afternoon. Elizabeth accepts them without uttering a single complaint.

No matter the weather, Santos manages to continue to visit the waters around us at least once each week. Elizabeth ignores his presence completely. When I point out his boat to her, she says, “It's in your power to stop him.”

It is. Arturo wants to eliminate him, requests I let him do it each time we speak. Unable to get my permission for that, he offers to have the Marine Patrol harass him or to arrange for the police to arrest him again for DUI. “I finally had the opportunity to talk to the manager at Joe's,” he tells me. “The man assured me that for the right sum of money, Santos will be fired any time we request it. And one of the governor's aides has promised me the state will be glad to offer him a ranger's job at the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine in the event he needs a new job. If you want”—Arturo grins, obviously proud of his ability to manipulate events—“we can get the
Herald
to transfer Casey Morton to their Jacksonville office too.”

I refuse all of it. “He's harmless,” I tell Arturo. And I repeat to Elizabeth, “Nothing's happened since October. If the man could do anything, he would have done it by now. If he wants to serve his dead sister by sailing around my island a few times each week, so be it.”

* * *

Still, whenever his boat arrives, I stop whatever activity occupies me and turn my attention to his movements. Some days, when the wind and water collude to provide safe passage for him, I envy his time on the boat. I've sailed Hobie Cats myself and know the pleasure of skimming across the water before a stiff breeze.

On the days that the weather turns bad, the wind punishing Santos with its gusts and shifts, the waves leaping around him, threatening to engulf him, I wonder at his perseverance, wonder if I would be so constant, so willing to risk injury for a lost cause.

“I admire him,” I say to Elizabeth when she refuses to look at the catamaran cruising off the island's shore.

“Why give the fool any recognition?” She shakes her head. “What he does accomplishes nothing. One day he'll realize that and go away.”

She harumphs and walks from me when I say, “At least he'll be able to tell himself, he tried his best for his sister.”