Dragon Moon (16 page)

“I like that about you,”
I say.
“My mother was different too. She insisted on sending me to human schools.”

“Which is why I'm here now,”
I say.
“It was only her scent that lured me here then. I had no choice, you know that. But I did notice you and I did remember how much you and I had in common. I don't think you've changed so much you can't enjoy those things with me. I know I haven't changed, Chloe.”

“Of course, you have! You buried my sister. You're raising her son. That has to have affected you. If it hasn't, I certainly want nothing to do with you.”
She flies away, toward the cave.

My body torments me. I can't imagine Chloe feels no needs of her own. Whether she does or not, I'm as drawn to her as the moth is to the flame.
“May I follow you, come to the cave and talk with you more?”
I say.

“Just go,”
she says.

“I won't come too close. I just want to talk,”
I say.

“Do what you want,”
Chloe says.
“But don't think you can simply take me. No matter how I feel, I will fight you. I doubt my family has heard us, but if I call for help, they will come. Once they know you've been waiting for me, they'll be furious.”

Chloe lands before me, immediately busies herself separating the branches and twigs in her bundle, intertwining them with the others in the partially finished bed. I land, stay by the cave's mouth, watch her as she works.

Her sides heave with each breath she takes. When she bends over to work, her tail raises and exposes her sex, pink and swollen and maddening to see.
“This is as hard for you as it is for me,”
I say.
“Isn't it?”

She keeps her back to me, doesn't glance in my direction.

“Harder. You've done this before. You've had God knows how many human women too. I've never done any of it. I just came to term today and you show up — my sister's mate!”
She stomps one foot, throws down the branches she's weaving.
“I haven't even had time to finish the bed.”

I growl at her sarcasm and bitterness. Abduction is as taboo among our people as incest is to humans. Only the lowest of our kind would stoop to such a thing.
“Goddamn it, Chloe! I already told you why I came early. I would no sooner abduct you than I would rape you. I've been on this island since last July, waiting for you. If I wanted, I could have spent that time searching for a mate in Curaçao or Haiti, where I know others of our kind settled, or back in Europe where my father found my mother.

Chloe continues to weave the branches and twigs in her nest, continues to keep her back to me. I'm tempted to grab her and turn her toward me, but I keep my distance.
“How many males of our kind do you think there are that are interested in sharing such interests with you, Chloe?”

She stops her weaving but still doesn't turn.

“I know what it is to be mated without such fortune,”
I say.
“Do you want that for you? When I met Elizabeth, she didn't understand any of the things I cared about. The notion of being in love confused her. She thought it something only humans do. I hoped you might understand it better.”

Chloe whirls around, stares at me.
“I understand it, Peter. But I don't know if I ever expected it.”
She looks down at the cave floor, says nothing for a few minutes. Finally, she says,
“How did my sister die, Peter? It wasn't childbirth, was it?”

I shake my head, take a deep breath. The jolt from the sudden intake of cinnamon and musk instantly makes me regret that I did.
“She was killed by a human, Jorge Santos,”
I say.
“My fault. I thought he was a friend and he betrayed me. Humans are such treacherous beings. I never should have trusted one.”

“Poor Elizabeth,”
she says.
“Poor Peter.”

“At least I have Henri,”
I say.
“I wish you would meet him. You'd love him.”

Chloe's eyes flick down toward my swollen, rigid cock and then back toward my eyes.
“You could get that thing under control,”
she says.

She shrugs, smiles.
“I sort of like knowing I have the power to drive you crazy.”

I sigh.
“But now what?”

How unfair to Chloe and me that biology alone dictates how our kind mates. How much I wish that we could meet and grow to know each other, the way humans often do.
“I know how much I love my son,”
I say.
“I think my mother and father loved each other. Before she died, your sister said she loved me — though I'm not sure she really understood what it meant.”

“I don't think my mother or father ever loved anyone,” Chloe says.
“I always hoped I would find someone who could — like in the books.”

Chloe shakes her head.
“This is too sudden. I need to — I want to finish my bed, prepare the cave. I need some time to think. ...”
She gestures with one claw.
“Why don't you go away for now, come back in two nights? By then the cave will be ready. I promise I'll have my mind made up. You just have to promise if I say, ‘No,' you'll leave Jamaica.”

I stare at the woman I want to have as my mate, both of us breathing hard, our bodies quivering. I know the merest touch from me would make her self-control collapse. But I don't want to live a lifetime with a mate who resents my presence. “I promise,” I say, though just the thought of leaving Jamaica without her tears at my heart.

I find if I fly just inches over the treetops, where the evening mist is dense and cool, I can avoid smelling Chloe's scent. By the time I reach Windsor, my body has surrendered to my control again.

Not so my mind.

My unsatisfied lust combines with Chloe's rejection and turns to rage. My night of frustration also leaves me ravenous. I search the countryside for any late-night wanderers. Find none.

Farther toward home, near Bunker's Hill, I spot a car's headlights. Ordinarily, I would ignore such a thing, but tonight I find the car's lights to be an insolent challenge to the dark sky.

I turn toward the car, fly over it as it lurches and bumps along the country road. It's a Porche Boxster, a rich man's sports car and it's traveling far too fast for the road beneath it. A white man's at the wheel, another beside him, both men taking turns drinking from a bottle. Tourists, I assume.

Diving toward the car, I fly across the hood, skimming the metal, blocking the driver's view only for an instant, but long enough for him to yank on the wheel, lose control.

The Boxster shoots off the road, mowing down small bushes, caroming off a low stone fence, racing into a field, crashing finally into a silk cottonwood tree, the headlights beaming in different directions. Both men sit motionless and I land in the dark behind them.

Finally the man on the passenger side gets out of the car. “Jack. You okay?” he says.

The driver nods, groans. “This is going to cost a fortune,” he says. “I sure hope the insurance will cover all of it.”

The passenger walks around the front of the car, the headlights shining on him, showing him to be young, muscular, a little beefy. I swallow the saliva that flows in my mouth.

“Damn it, did you see that thing that flew by us? It almost hit us. What the hell do you think it was?”

I roar. I want both men to see me. They turn in my direction and I rush toward them, lashing out at the driver with my right foreclaw, killing him with the one blow. Famished, I let the passenger run off as I rip flesh from the driver — the smell of his blood blossoming around me. I gulp down a chunk of meat, breathe in the rich aroma around me and roar again. Then I take to the air and search for the passenger.

He tries to hide in the tall grass at the end of the field but the quivering movements of the blades around his trembling body, and the acrid sweat his fear produces, betray him. Landing, I flush him from his hiding place — block him with my body each time, in each direction, as he attempts to flee.

Finally he realizes the futility of any escape. To his credit he rushes at me, pummels my scales with his bare hands. I let him wear himself out on my body, then back-hand him with one foreclaw, knocking him down. When he works his way to his feet, I twirl, strike him with my tail. He tries to crawl away and I follow him, wait until he stands once more.

The man faces me, his chest heaving, his fists clenched.

“What the hell do you want?” he yells. “If you're going to kill me, do it!”

What I want is to rid myself of the fury that fills me. I swivel, strike him with my tail again, the impact throwing him at least ten feet.

He lies facedown, groans. I walk over to him, flip him on his back with my clawed foot. He stares at me and groans again. “Haven't you had enough yet?” he says, barks a short laugh. “Do I have to teach you another lesson?” He turns on his stomach, struggles to rise, pushing up with both arms, weaving in place when he finally gets on his feet.

“So come on now.” He motions me toward him with both hands. “Let's get it on.”

The anger that has been boiling within me fades. I look at his feeble resistance and feel only shame for tormenting him, rather than finishing him quickly. If I could, I'd let him go. But such a thing is impossible. I slash out, kill him with a simple swipe across his neck before he can realize what I'm doing. The man crumples before me, silent, un-moving.

Slashing him open, I feast on him until my hunger abates. Then I take up his and the other's remains and bring them home so my son can feed too before the sun rises and this terrible long night ends.

14

I lie in bed, my eyes open, aware of every gust of wind, every breeze that comes through my windows, fearful that one of them will carry traces of Chloe's scent. Finally, I get up and go around the house, closing every window, turning on the air-conditioning, even though I have to put it at its lowest setting so it can overpower the cool air outside.

Still sleep eludes me. Staring at the ceiling, I think of Chloe, of her effect on me. If she refuses me, I think, I'll take Henri to Europe. Possibly there I'll find another female. But I doubt I'll find another like her.

Granny and Velda and the other Jamaicans arrive about seven, shortly after daybreak. I listen to them bustling around the house, Velda chiding her cousins about some overlooked dust, Granny telling stories and laughing.

Around ten, someone knocks on my door. “Mr. DelaSangre, are you okay, mon?”

No, most definitely not. My life is in upheaval. My heart may be broken in another day. “Just tired, Granny,” I say.

“The boy's in bed too. Do you want me to get him up, take him riding or something, mon?”

“You can see if he wants to. Tell him I'll see him later, in the afternoon.”

“Sure, mon.” The Jamaican's silent for a moment, then says, “Oh, Mr. DelaSangre, the women are complaining. ...” He chuckles. “Not that they do much otherwise. But they asked me if they can turn off the air-conditioning and open the windows. It is nice outside.”

“I want the windows closed and the air on. Tell them if it's too cold, they can go home.”

“No, mon. No need to be so harsh. I'll tell them you like it this way for now.”

By noon, I've had my fill of sulking and self-pity. I get up, shower and dress. Even with the windows closed, the spring of the diving board and the splashes that follow tell me that Henri is busy practicing his dives.

Going to the window in the upstairs family room, I watch my son execute a wobbly forward flip, Granny applauding his efforts. Smiling for the first time today, I watch him repeat the effort, improving each time. The thought that, no matter what Chloe decides, the boy and I will always have each other, comforts me.

“Life goes on,” I say out loud, wishing I believed the words. But a weight still hangs on me. I pick up a book, try to read it, but the words are only black marks on paper for me today. Rifling through the CDs, I try to find some music that will raise my mood, but all of it sounds like noise to my ears. I go through the library of videotapes and DVDs, choose a film and find myself staring at it while I think about Chloe.