The Dragon Delasangre (8 page)

Father, if he were alive, would be annoyed by my soft-hearted decision to let the Cuban live. He always insisted that I be wary of humans, whether they number one or a hundred.
“They're weak but treacherous,”
he taught.
“To underestimate their power is as bad as arming them. Always
be vigilant. Remember, it's always better to eliminate a problem than deal with it later.”

But the man is only a human, as weak and powerless as any of the others. Try as I might I can't imagine any way this one man can do me any harm. Finally I push him from my mind, concentrate on breathing in time to the surge of the waves as they rush at my island's shore.

Fading off, I picture myself gliding through a cinnamon-scented sky, spiraling in slow ascent toward the distant shape of my future love.

 

Three nights later, Jeremy Tindall meets me at the dock behind his twelve-bedroom stucco home in exclusive Gables Estates.

He wrings his hands as I carry my bags to the Grand Banks and fling them onto the boat's polished teak decks. “I wish you would at least take my captain along with you,” he says. “It's a big boat for one man.”

I shrug. “Don't worry, Jeremy,” I say. “Worst thing happens, the boat sinks and I die. If that occurs”—I glance at the house behind him, the surrounding multimillion-dollar estates—“I'm sure you'll be able to afford another boat.”

He grimaces, follows me onto the boat, wipes the brass rails where I've touched them. He also insists on reviewing every system on board.

Halfway through, I groan. “By the time we finish all this, the night will be over.”

“I'd rather you were leaving in daylight anyway,” Jeremy says, motioning for me to follow him below decks and inspect the provisions with him.

In spite of him, I'm under way before eleven. I raise the boat's steady sail as soon as I turn into the channel out of Gables Estates, start grinning when the trawler reaches the Biscayne Channel and begins to motor past the few stilt homes whose owners have been able to withstand the constant storms and the government's attempts at confiscation and demolition.

The ocean swells start to affect the boat and I listen to the drone of the twin diesel engines, adjust my stance to the boat's movement, the dance it's begun with the sea—the roll and tilt, pitch and rise as we pass through each swell.

After the last marker, I turn the wheel south, set the autopilot for Key West and allow myself the luxury of going below deck to lie down and rest in Jeremy Tindall's bed. I think of the anguished expression on his face as I pulled away from his dock and smile as I slip, naked, between his very expensive sheets.

A storm overtakes the boat sometime shortly before dawn. The change in the ship's movements, from gentle rolling to pitching and slamming from wave to wave, awakens me. I rush to the bridge, without bothering to dress, take the trawler off autopilot and turn the wheel so the Grand Banks slices through the roughened seas more easily.

I remain at the wheel until the sun rises and the storm fades away. When the sea calms, I reset the autopilot, check my position and study the charts. Originally my intent had been to cruise to Key West, stop there for a few days then head toward the Cayman Islands. But now, studying the maps, I can't shake the desire to get closer to her, as soon as I can.

From the Caymans, Jamaica lies a few hundred miles to the southeast, Haiti another few hundred miles beyond. I have weeks to wait before she comes into term again. I know, even cruising as slow as the trawler does—eight to ten miles per hour—Cayman sits only days away. I reset the coordinates on the autopilot, to bypass Key West, and wonder how I'm going to fill the days and pass the nights.

I go about the boat, opening windows, letting the ocean air wash through the innards of the trawler, hoping the salt smell will lessen the odors of wood polish and Brasso that seem to emanate from the carefully shined surfaces of the cabin.

Something about being alone, off on a journey to find a woman of my blood, begins to work on me and I find myself loathe to get dressed, reluctant to eat anything but fresh meat. I spend hours watching the water, daydreaming about the woman.

 

As soon as dark comes, I change shape and take to the air. I calculate that Key West now lies behind me but not so far that the waters aren't crowded with pleasure boaters out for an evening's cruise.

Time hardly seems to be an issue so I fly wide, lazy circles around the Grand Banks, admiring the lines of the craft, the way it cuts the water. I memorize the dark shadow shape of it, the placement of its lights, the throbbing rhythm of its engines before I leave it and fly off to hunt.

All my appetites seem increased to me now. Hungry, I search the horizon, hoping to spot easy prey—the shadow of a raft bearing Cuban escapees or the lumbering form of a hand-built wooden Haitian freighter smuggling illegal aliens. I fly high into the sky, sniff at the air, hoping, but knowing it's too soon to catch her scent. I roar from frustration, fold my wings and plummet toward the sea—spreading my wings again at the last moment, cheating death, laughing as I catch the air beneath me and skim above the cresting waves.

The white glow of a mast light, twenty miles in front of my ship, catches my attention. The nearness of fresh prey makes my stomach growl. Saliva fills my mouth. Unwilling to fly any farther to find food, I glide toward it, circle the sailboat from above, study it, and decide on my angle of attack.

A lone man handles the helm, sitting on the stern of the left hull of the ship, his right hand resting casually on top of a gleaming aluminum wheel. The sailboat, a catamaran, has another wheel just like it on the stern of its right hull. From
above, the wide boat with its white genoa and white mainsail puffed out, filled with wind, looks like a low-flying cloud gliding over the water.

I hate the thought of disturbing the gentle scene below, and think of Father's admonition to avoid attacking the rich, but my empty stomach aches. The man stands up, as if to go below, and I strike, landing on the boat, pinning him below me as I bite through his neck.

The impact of my landing rocks the catamaran, raises the bow slightly and the now unheld wheel spins, turning the ship into the wind. The sails go slack, then shift and slap and crack before the breeze. I ignore the change in the sailboat's momentum, concentrate on feeding.

“Honey?” A woman's voice calls from below deck. “Jim, is everything all right?”

Hunger has me and I ignore her calls, continue to gorge myself.

She shrieks and I look up from my meal. Frozen in the cabin hatch, her mouth open, her eyes wide, she stares at me while I examine her. Only a short-cropped T-shirt and a pair of bikini panties cover her and I feel my loins stir as I study the curves of her—her body running slightly to fat but still enticing.

She shrieks again, and ducks into the cabin. I resist the urge to assume my human form, to follow her below and take her. I shake my head. I will not do that—ever. I'm a hunter, not a rapist. It's one thing to kill in order to eat and quite another to terrorize a woman for a moment's sexual gratification. I have no desire to inflict any further distress on this woman. I will only do what I must.

But I know there must be a radio below. And I can't risk a distress call being heard. I force myself from my kill, half leap, half fly to the top of the mast and rip the antennae from its mount. Biting through the wire, I toss the now useless instrument into the sea.

Back on deck, I return to my dead prey, ignore the woman's shouts as she tries in vain to reach someone, anyone on her radio. Soon enough, I know, something must be done about her. I can't leave her or her boat for anyone to find. Father has taught me well that the careless hunter can easily become the hunted.

The woman makes it easier by rushing back on deck and pointing a stainless-steel, twelve-gauge, pump shotgun at me. She screams as she fires round after round, almost at point-blank range. The pellets bounce off my scales and I stifle an indulgent grin, wait until the gun's emptied, then leap toward her and end her terror.

Her fat-laced meat tastes better than the male's and I sate myself on her carcass, throwing the remains of both overboard when I'm finished. Before I leave, I open the sailboat's seacocks, shake my head at the necessity of having to sink such a fine craft.

I find the Grand Banks before dawn, go below and sleep most of the next day away.

 

The pattern of my life concerns me as I sleep through each day, hunt each night on the way to Cayman. I never dress, never sit down to the ship's table to eat, never take the ship's wheel unless it's absolutely necessary. Instead, I wander the deck, watch the waves and think of her. Hunger and lust fill my waking hours. To avoid alarming the authorities, I alternate my attacks, one night sweeping away a Bahamian as he walks alone along the shore on Bimini, feeding another night on a Cuban farmer in the fields neighboring Guantanamo—avoiding any more luxury craft but gorging on rafts full of Cuban escapees, plucking men and women at will from the decks of Haitian smuggling boats.

My hunger seems to grow each night. I realize if I continue at this pace that I will eventually put myself at risk, yet I do nothing to modify my behavior.

The memory of cinnamon and musk, the promise of a mate of my own kind overpower any thoughts of caution. The closer I come to her, the more my loins ache, the more sleep eludes me, the more I need to take to the air. Only the night and the hunting its darkness allows provide any relief. Then, at least, while I search for prey I can forget my need for her. Then I can lose myself in the kill. Then, after I gorge myself on fresh meat and blood, I can finally sleep.

 

When the low island of Grand Cayman finally rises on the horizon, I consider mooring in its busy harbor, but then decide to bypass it for the lesser island of Cayman Brac. Anchoring in an almost deserted cove, I resolve to go no further until I meet the girl.

I continue the pattern of sleeping through the day, hunting after dark. Some nights I see how far I can roam, trying to fly a wide arc between Jamaica and Haiti, attempting always to catch her scent.

Days pass, evenings go by. I sleep. I fly. I hunt. I search. And I sleep again.

 

When July first comes and goes without any sign of her, I worry that I may have miscalculated. Maybe, I think, I should have concentrated on Curaçao. Maybe I should have waited in Miami.

A storm front comes through and for three horrible days I pace, caged in the cabin of my small ship, my mind filled only with thoughts of her.

The weather clears the next day and I take to the sky the moment the sun sets. The air rushes around me, rain-cleansed, fresh. I allow myself to hope again as I fly far to the south and curve north, then sweep back again.

Nothing.

I gain altitude and repeat the sweep once more. Toward the southern end of the arc something tickles my nostrils—
a hint of an aroma, a possibility of cinnamon. I spiral in the air, breathe in, over and over again.

Nothing once more.

Widening the spiral, I circle down to the water, then rise back into the sky. A whiff of cinnamon and musk attacks my nostrils. Surprised, I roar into the evening air, roar again when I lose track of the scent. I reverse the path of the spiral, desperately sniffing the air, searching, hoping.

My nostrils flare when her scent hits me. Unbearably strong, its effect courses through me the way a drug must affect an addict. My heart races as I continue to follow its trail, my loins ache with want for her. I speed forward into the dark night air, her aroma growing more intense as I fly nearer.

The lights of a city pass underneath me and I realize I've reached land. Jamaica, I think; the time hasn't been long enough to reach Haiti.

Shortly after that the land goes dark below me, barely a light glowing anywhere in sight, only the stars and a half moon to light the countryside.

By now I'm mad with lust, lacking any care or caution, any thought of anything but finding this female, this temptress, and taking her, having her, using her until I'm spent.

The aroma intensifies. I wonder if I can endure it.

Something passes in the air, over and behind me and a delightful sound of laughter, a noise like silver bells ringing, fills my mind.

“Where are you?”
I mindspeak.

“Look down,”
she says, her thoughts touching me, smooth and cool as velvet against skin.

I look below and see a dark shadow skim over the equally dark landscape. Suddenly the shadow turns and the pale, cream-colored underbody of her shows in the moonlight.

My breath escapes me. I realize she's flying upside down
to display herself to me and the pleasure of it is almost unbearable.
“You like?”
she asks. The pealing of silver bells fills my mind again and I fold my wings, plummet toward her.

She turns and swoops out of my way, flies between two hills, then another two—each one a dark mound jutting from the ground, looking like a half-buried giant egg. I follow and she drops out of sight. I descend until the treetops scrape my underbelly, follow her course without catching sight of her. Only her scent remains.

“Where are you?”
I call as I regain altitude and spiral in search of her.
“Where are you?”

No answer. No laughter. Only the sky scented with her aroma. I continue my search, strain my eyes to see into the irregular shadows of the terrain below me, unaware of any other presence nearby.

Something hard, heavy, hits me from above, five thousand feet in the air, wrapping around me, folding my wings. Stunned by the impact, I struggle to regain the use of my wings. I can't understand what holds them in place, why they won't unfold. Frustrated, desperate, I twist and turn and roar as I fall, trying to break free.

A deep roar answers mine and I freeze, finally recognizing my attacker as one of my own kind, his body above me, his wings wrapped over mine, riding me as we plunge toward earth.