Dragon Moon (14 page)

Nude she looks less like Elizabeth, still pretty but thinner, her breasts smaller, hanging slightly, her belly button protruding. I sigh, give Chloe one last thought and do as Althea requests.

Afterwards, I lie on the bed, my eyes open, while Althea sleeps cuddled against me, her head on my left shoulder, her left hand on my crotch, holding me as if I were hers. My stomach rumbles a little and I shake my head. I won't harm this woman. I'll stay a little longer, then ease away from her and leave. It's bad enough she'll wake in the morning to find me gone, bad enough she'll never hear from me again.

What a pathetic creature I am to use this woman to relieve myself. If Father were here, how disgusted he would be with me. He'd be right to be so. I preach to my son how superior our kind is to humans. “Because we can control our bodies we don't have to be ruled by them the way so many humans are,” I say. Then I give in the same way one of them would.

I slip my shoulder out from under Althea's head, gently open her hand and move it from my crotch, then stand and dress. Whether it's from drink or from our sex, the woman hardly budges, continues to sleep. I look at the smile on her face and think, at least I made her happy. But for a creature like me — who can sense how a woman reacts to each touch and stroke and who can control his own body's reactions to her — that's not hard to do.

In fairness, she made me happy too, or at least ensured that I'll be able to sleep through the next few nights. Not that I plan to repeat such a tryst. This time, I promise myself, I won't succumb to any more temptation. I know I have no compact with Chloe yet, but I plan to wait for her acceptance or her rejection.

11

To my surprise, Henri hardly seems to miss our island home. Swimming in the pool becomes one of his favorite pastimes. He pesters me until I have a diving board installed. Granny, who turns out to once have entertained the tourists in Mo Bay with his diving skills, offers to coach my son.

Diving, for a child who knows how to fly, presents no great difficulties and soon Henri is calling me to come out of the house to see him performing swan dives and somersaults and his favorite: the cannonball. Within weeks, he begins to pester me to install a high dive too.

Within a few weeks also, Granny rides to work on a horse, three others and a pony tethered behind him. It becomes a ritual for us all to ride each morning, the Jamaican showing us which trails lead to where.

Some days we ride just to the river; others, we wander as far as Windsor, on the edge of Cockpit territory. At my request, Granny takes us to the caves one day, but Henri, after glancing into the dark maw of its entrance and feeling the strong wind that blows out from the darkness inside, refuses to go.

“I don't blame the boy, mon,” Granny says. “They say that cave goes all the way back into Cockpit Country. Cavers are always get lost inside it.”

Life settles into routine. Every night after dark, Henri and I change and take to the air and practice his flying. After the boy goes to sleep, I often venture out again. Sometimes hunting over the ocean off Falmouth or inland as far away as Ocho Rios; other times flying into Cockpit Country.

A few weeks after my arrival, two unshaven white men, in rumpled T-shirts and shorts, drive up to the house in a beat-up old Army salvage Jeep. They refuse to deal with Granny, insist on seeing only me, but have difficulty looking in my eyes, as they unload my wood chest and place it at my feet.

Arturo laughs when I tell him about them in our weekly phone conversation. “They're used to smuggling things into our country, not into any others. I couldn't get them to understand — sometimes there are things we don't want to ship openly to Jamaica.”

Rita reports regularly to me too. “I think Ian has a problem with me,” she says a few weeks after I get to Jamaica. “He's given instructions that only Helen, his secretary, can open his mail. But she's a friend of mine. She tells me Tindall and his friends are going ahead with their purchase of the island. She says he's begun taking a lot of his calls on his cellphone too.”

I call Arturo, tell him what Rita has reported. “No problem,” he says. From his tone of voice, I can picture him shrugging. “As long as the government won't issue any permits, they can't develop.”

“Then why would they complete the purchase of the island?”

“Maybe they had no choice. Maybe they think they have a way around it. But trust me, they don't.”

“Just handle it,” I say. “No more maybe's”

“Relax, Peter, it's under control,” Arturo says. “Just enjoy yourself. Everything will be here when you get back.”

As much as Tindall's machinations over Wayward Key irritate me, my focus remains on my life in Jamaica. Except for a few new activities and the daily presence of our household help, Henri and I live much like we did on our island. Perhaps because of that, neither of us suffers from any homesickness.

In early October, a thunderstorm catches me as I fly near Accompang, on the far side of the region. Gusts of wind grab me, toss me around in the air. Rain soaks and chills me. Lightning heats the sky. Rather than endure the abuse of the storm, I take the opportunity of each lightning strike to search the mountainsides for the telltale black opening of a cave.

I search from bolt to bolt, from hill to hill until a flash of lightning shows a large black hole near the top of a mountain. I fly to it, land as thunder rolls across the valley below. The cave is large enough to accommodate me and I back away from its rainy opening, spread my wings and beat them so I can shake the moisture from them, warming my body with the motion.

Someone mindspeaks nearby,
“Mum, the rain's too bad. I'm going to find shelter. I'll be home later.”

I freeze, thinking, Chloe?

Thunder booms again. I move closer to the cave's opening, strain to see the sky through the rain and the dark. A bolt of lightning sears the air, striking the hillside next to mine, illuminating the night for an instant — all the time I need to make out the creature flying so near to me.

I'm sure it's her. She's far smaller than her older brother, but longer than Philip, her underside paler. I want to see her again, compare her to my memory of Elizabeth. I hate the darkness that prevents it.

Another lightning strike. I see nothing. She can't be gone so soon, I think, knowing she may have found a cave of her own, to be protected and drying like me.

“Please do, dear,”
Samantha Blood mindspeaks.
“The rest of us are hungry. We're waiting for you to come back with your kill.”

I'm so intent on the conversation, I wouldn't have noticed Chloe's approach if not for another nearby flash of light. I scurry back into the darkness as she approaches and lands. Thunder fills the night and I take the opportunity of its cover to back up even more, until I feel the cold stone at the rear of the cave.

In the dark, without the benefit of any lightning flashes, all I can make out is her silhouette. She comes into the cave a few more feet from the opening, lays down something large — the body of her prey I suppose — and, like I did, she spreads her wings and beats them to dry.

The next lightning strike catches her in mid-beat. I suck in a breath at the image it leaves with me. She's a little smaller than Elizabeth, her lines a little more delicate, her scales the same light green, her underbody cream colored, her sex not yet swollen the way it will be when she reaches her oestrus.

My body begins to react to the sight of her. I want to rush forward and take her. I take small measured breaths, will my heartbeat to slow.

Chloe continues to beat her wings, continues to stare out at the storm until she dries. She turns then, sniffs the air, stares into the darkness at the back of the cave. I stay motionless, breathing as little as my body will allow, praying no sudden flash of lightning will expose me.

Finally, she turns her attention to her prey, feeding a little, then watching the storm, and feeding a little more again.

The rich aroma of fresh blood wafts back to me. Saliva floods my mouth and I can do no more about it than I can do with my need for sex. I want to join her and feed. Failing that, I want to howl.

Chloe lifts her head. Sniffs the air again as she turns toward me.
“Who's here?”
she mindspeaks.
“Philip, is that you?”

I hold my breath, close my eyes to slits to eliminate any possibility of their reflecting any light. The wind outside has calmed, the rain diminished to a light patter. Soon Chloe will realize it's safe to leave.

“Something's not right,”
she says, getting up, walking toward me.
“Is someone here?”

“Chloe! The storm's over. Come home now. Your father and brothers are hungry,”
Samantha Blood calls.

Chloe lets out an irritated growl, and says,
“Yes, Mum. Whatever you say, Mum.”
She turns around, goes back to her prey, picks it up and heads for the cave's mouth. Stopping, she looks back toward me.

After she flies away, I rush forward, stare out the cave's mouth at the sky, hoping for a last glimpse of her. But all I see is the night sky and drizzle. A final lightning flash illuminates the valley, revealing only dripping trees. The thunder that follows matches my mood.

Turning, I sniff the air, savor the fresh, sweet leathery scent she's left behind. The smell of her prey remains too and my stomach protests its emptiness.

I can't do anything yet with the need I have for Chloe's touch, but my bloodlust is a far easier thing to satisfy. It's most probably too late to find someone out around Cockpit Country, but I know some fool tourist has to be walking alone somewhere on the beaches around Montego Bay. There always are at least a few of them wandering like that each night.

Sometimes they make very satisfying meals.

12

I'm not sure whether having seen Chloe makes my wait easier or more difficult. I do know I continue to want her. I begin to go into Cockpit Country every night, taking much more care to avoid discovery, avid to see Chloe again, feeling almost like a combination of a peeping Tom and a stalker.

But while, over the months, I see Philip and Derek a number of times, even spy Charles and Samantha Blood once, Chloe manages to evade my scrutiny.

Early in the evening, the third week of April, Rita calls me. “Now I know what's going on,” she says.

“About Tindall?”

“Who else? I went out for dinner with Helen last night. She's been a little nervous to talk to me at the office. Tindall's sort of let it be known he doesn't like it when he sees us gabbing together. Well, we ordered some wine and after a glass or two Helen relaxed. It seems that your friend Ian has been very politically active.”

“He always is,” I say, thinking how his membership in the Democratic Party balances Arturo's support of the Republicans, both parties serving our interests.

“Sure, but not like this. He and his Wayward Key buddies have formed their own political action committee. Guess what congressman they're supporting for governor next year?”

I sigh, shake my head. “Not Muntz,” I say.

“Muntz.”

“Is he just too stupid to stay bought?”

Rita laughs. “Or too greedy.”

I call Arturo the next day, give him Rita's information. “What an asshole,” he says. “Don't worry, I'll have a conversation with him, remind him of all the scandals I can have my friends at the
Herald
investigate. When I'm through with him, he'll just be glad to be able to stay in congress. I'm sure he'll be more committed to saving the birds on Wayward Key than he's ever been.”

“Good,” I say.

“When are you going to let me do something about Tindall?”

“Rita will be through with law school soon. I'd like her to work with Ian for a while before we make any decisions. I should be back by then.”

“Can I at least transfer her to his legal department now? That way she can start learning and he'll be put off balance.”

Laughing, I say, “He'll crap!”

“He probably will,” Arturo says. “But this way I can arrange for a new receptionist before I go on vacation next month. I'll tell him today. He may call you, you know.”

“Let him know I'll be waiting to hear from him,” I say, but to my surprise Tindall never calls.

May arrives and Henri begins to pester me about taking him with me into Cockpit Country. “I'm almost five,” he says. “You said you'd take me after my birthday.”

“That's two more weeks from now.”

“No fair! You said I can fly better than you did when you were my age and you told me that Grandpa took you hunting with him.”

I nod, smile at my son. The boy stands a head taller than he did when we arrived in Jamaica. It seems as if I'm buying him new clothes every week. In truth, he is ready to accompany me. He no longer has any difficulty keeping up with me in the air and has been able to repeat most of my maneuvers without losing control. But if I take him now, what reward can I give him for his birthday? “After your birthday,” I say.

“Please?” he says.