The Dragon Delasangre (13 page)

I look away as Chloe and Samantha undress, then worrying they'll think me even more peculiar for avoiding the sight of their human nudity, I turn my gaze back, taking in the pale white body of my mother-in-law—thin and muscular, perfectly taut, even her full breasts impervious to the aging effects of gravity. I study the adolescent form of Elizabeth's younger sister, Chloe—a darker, not yet filled-out copy of my bride.

Chloe giggles when she notices my scrutiny and a blush
heats my throat and cheeks. “We aren't human, Peter,” Chloe says. “Nudity has no meaning here.” She turns slowly, showing off all sides of her young, budding body. “See?”

“Chloe, stop teasing!” Samantha says.

Derek and Philip, both naked now, take places on either side of me. Chloe, fighting a grin, stands to the right of Elizabeth. Charles Blood, looking even more muscular in his nudity, places himself to the left side of the bowl, between Elizabeth and me; Samantha moves to the right.

Chloe waits until the last moment to undo Elizabeth's new necklace, taking it off my bride's slender neck and placing it carefully on top of her folded dress. Elizabeth stares into my eyes as I gaze into hers.

“It is time,” Charles says.

Elizabeth begins her transformation—her skin tightening, outlines of scales appearing as her face elongates, her features sharpening and her body growing larger. I follow her lead, turning my thoughts inward, commanding my body, welcoming the almost pain of altered cells, groaning a low growl as I stretch my muscles, my bones, my skin—grateful to leave behind the awkwardness of my human shape, the shame that seems to come with its nudity—glad to embrace the strength and grandeur of my natural state.

All around me others grunt and growl as skin gives way to scales, as hands and feet grow claws, as wings sprout from backs. I realize, if I wasn't completely involved in the process surrounding me, I'd be amazed to be in the midst of so many of my kind—all different sizes, shapes, and ages, from Philip's small, immature frame to Charles's immense, overwhelming bulk.

My heart pounds as I wait for my next instruction. All my life I'd been warned to avoid the Death's Rose, cautioned to not even touch its petals. Now I know I have no choice but to trust that Samantha Blood knows what she's doing. I look
at Elizabeth, take in the brilliance of her eyes, the wide flare of her nostrils, the cream color of her underbelly and think, whatever is asked, I'll gladly do.

“Listen to me carefully, son,”
Charles Blood mindspeaks.
“In a few moments, you and Elizabeth will be offered the opportunity to drink from the bowl before you. What you drink won't kill you, but it will change both of you forever. It will bind you to each other in a way neither of you have ever imagined. . . . Peter, knowing you have to do this, do you still want Elizabeth?”

I look into his cold, hard green eyes and nod.
“Of course,”
I say.

Samantha says to her daughter,
“Elizabeth, knowing you have to do this, do you still want Peter?”

She tosses her head back, grins and says,
“Of course!”

“Both of you please drink at the same time,”
Samantha says.
“Make sure you finish it all.”

Elizabeth's jowl brushes the side of mine as we drink, the clear liquid almost as tasteless as water, slightly bitter from the Death's Rose and alchemist's powder. At first, I wonder if all this is just tradition, like the sip of wine at a Jewish wedding, but then a warmth starts spreading inside me and a fog starts to settle over my thoughts.

My awareness centers on Elizabeth and me—as if we're in the middle of a photograph with everything and everyone else around us out of focus. Somehow I notice when we've finished the last of the potion and I pull my head up as Elizabeth raises hers. We both stare into each other's eyes and gasp.

“Peter! I can see how I look to you—through your eyes! It makes me dizzy.”

I laugh, staring at her, seeing my dragon face as she stares at me.
“It makes me dizzy too.”

“Oh Peter, can you hear every thought I have? What will you think of me? Do you feel everything I feel too?”

I nuzzle her and feel her sensation of being nuzzled at the same time.
“Yes . . . I feel what you feel . . . I think. But I only hear what you're thinking as you think it. I don't think I can read your memories. . . .”
I stroke her tail with mine, sigh at the double experience of it.
“Do you feel what I feel too?”

She sighs, and says,
“Yes, Peter.”

Somewhere, from the haze surrounding us, Samantha Blood's thought penetrates my, our, consciousness.
“Peter? Elizabeth?”

“Yes,”
we answer.

“Listen carefully. Death's Rose never completely leaves your system. After tonight, any more potion, just the slightest sip, will turn your blood to poison. Only the correct mixture of Angel Wort and alchemist's powder, taken the right amount of time before drinking the potion, can neutralize it. Otherwise death is certain. You must swear, unless one of you dies and the other remarries, you'll never take the risk of drinking any more potion, ever again.”

Elizabeth and I both push away any thoughts of death or separation. We can hear each other's heartbeat, feel the air rush in and out of each other's lungs. We're too vital, too young, too strong for such fears.
“I swear,”
we say.

“I know you're inside each other's minds and souls now,”
Samantha says.
“But that will fade by the time the morning sun arrives.

“Remember, this potion can only be taken by you this once. You'll always be changed by having experienced it, always be connected to each other, but you'll never be inside each other as much as this again. Enjoy this night. Enjoy each other.”

“Peter,”
Charles Blood says.
“Elizabeth is now yours. Protect her.”

“Elizabeth,”
Samantha Blood says.
“Peter is now yours. Make sure he never suffers for lack of sustenance.”

Derek brings over the Jamaican man he's selected, shoves him in front of us, pushes him to his knees.

“Our tradition, Peter, calls for the wife to hunt for her husband and give him the first opportunity to feed on her kill. Elizabeth caught this one in preparation for the feast tonight. Once you feed, you will have signified your acceptance of her as your mate.”

I feel Elizabeth's heartbeat quicken. Mine speeds up in sympathy to it. Together we realize the hunger that's been building within us. Elizabeth slashes the man's throat open with one sweep of her right arm and he crumbles to the floor, his blood spilling out, the hot, rich aroma of it filling our nostrils.

Ravenous as I am, we are, I pause, waiting for Elizabeth to feed at the same time.
“No, Peter,”
she says and I feel her form the words just as I hear them.
“You must feed first—please.”

Charles and Samantha grunt approval as I lower my head and bite into Elizabeth's kill, tear off a chunk of meat and devour it. Then Elizabeth joins me, feeding at my side.

We're vaguely aware of the rest of the family choosing others from the group huddled in the corner. Feasting on them, drinking Dragon's Tear wine from the green flagon, laughing, boasting about their hunts. Charles tells stories as he feeds—about Captain Jack and other ancestors. Derek tries to speak, but is being talked over. Human blood is everywhere.

Elizabeth and I take our bites at the same time, press against each other as we eat. As our hunger abates, we become more and more aware of other urges.

“Peter?”
she says.

“Elizabeth?”
I say at the same time.

We both giggle.
“I know what
you
feel like now,”
I say.

“And I can feel
you
like that,”
she says.

“For pity's sake, spare us your drivel and take it to your room!”
Charles Blood mindspeaks.

 

Not quite sure how we get there, unaware of how much time has passed, Elizabeth and I lie side by side on the bed of hay in her room and touch and explore each other, everything felt, everything shared, everything magnified by our duality of feeling.

“Peter, this is how it feels for you?”
Elizabeth rubs against me and sucks in a breath as the sensation rips through both of us.

I feel her readiness for me build, just as my hardness intensifies until it becomes almost painful.

“Now!”
we say at the same time. Both of us gasp as I enter her.

She resides inside every molecule of my being as I do in hers. We press against each other, move in perfect rhythm to each other's needs, stroke and buck and slow and speed up again in unison, roaring at the same time, growling in tandem, scratching, biting, all thought gone, lungs pumping for air, hearts racing—everything, every sense strained to the point just past ecstasy until we reach one, last great explosion of feelings, senses, movements—together, truly united as one.

Afterward, we lie smiling, her head next to mine—our tails, our legs entwined, our breaths mixed. I allow myself to feel her satisfaction, the pleasant aches that run through her from our exertions. She stretches and arches her back and I feel the lazy pleasure of her movement . . . and something else.

The faintest sign of a heartbeat, a tiny glimpse of an unformed thought.

“Our son, Peter,”
Elizabeth says.
“Your child growing inside me.”

We doze off together, the cool evening wind blowing
through our window, prompting us to press closer together. Elizabeth's dreams intermix with mine. Images of her valley overlay memories of my island. Her family's faces float in and out with images of my mother and father and her/my memories come and go of oceans, hunts, laughter, love and flying.

 

Elizabeth nudges me awake shortly before dawn. Already I can sense the distance starting to return between us. I pull her close, as if that act could stop the inevitable separation her mother promised us the morning would bring.

“Peter,”
Elizabeth says.
“We were dreaming such nice things together and then, then something you dreamed scared me.”

“What was it?”

“I'm not sure . . . I can't quite remember. But it was something . . . someone, who bothered you, threatened us.”

“And?”
I ask, stroking her.

“I'm not sure. I can't picture any image. I don't know why we felt threatened but I remember you wanted to protect me.”

“Of course,”
I say.

“There was something else but . . . I don't know.”
She shrugs, turns quiet, snuggles against me and I listen to her breathing slow, let mine slow in tandem with hers.

Just before we both escape into sleep again, she half awakens, turns in my arms and murmurs,
“Peter, who is Jorge Santos?”

 

“Why don't you just kill him?”
Elizabeth says, when she feels me stir next to her in the morning.

Her words jar me from that state of half-sleep, that warm dreamy place our minds occupy when we first resist the necessity of awakening. I stretch and yawn and try to delay answering—Jorge Santos an unwelcome presence in my thoughts.

I would prefer that Elizabeth half doze beside me, but she turns over and says,
“Why don't you?”

The last vestige of sleep escapes me. I sigh.
“Jorge Santos is simply a human who doesn't know when to stop pestering me. When we get back to Miami, I'll meet with him, answer a few of his stupid questions and send him on his way. That will be the end of it.”

“I don't understand,”
she says.
“You say he's only a human. Why bother with him at all?”

Why indeed? I think. One simple phone call to Arturo would ensure the man's rapid disappearance and demise. But what I can't tell Elizabeth is that I possess no appetite to eliminate Maria's brother.

Had the girl just been prey, had Maria been as anonymous to me as the hundreds of others I've killed over the years, I would give her and her brother no thought. But she had laughed in my arms and I had resolved to let her live and then I had failed her. If Jorge Santos is stupid enough to trespass on my property and Arturo kills him—so be it.
Otherwise, the least I can do for the girl is to meet with her brother, steer him away from me.

“We'll see what happens,”
I say.
“If he continues to be an irritant after the meeting—then I'll follow your advice.”

 

I'm anxious to leave, to be on the way home. I want to walk the corridors of my house again, sleep in my own bed with my new bride beside me. I miss the sea breeze, the ocean's constant song outside my windows. I ache to cruise Biscayne Bay in my Grady White, show Elizabeth the dolphins racing alongside our bow. But when she asks me to stay another day—so she can spend some last moments with her sister and mother—I have no heart to refuse.

Her father finds me on his veranda in the late afternoon, warming myself in the rays of the waning sun. Charles Blood has retained his natural state while I've changed into my human form. The elder dragon towers over me.
“Lost track of your wife already, have you?”
he asks.

“She's upstairs with her sister.”
I smile, knowing Charles has to be perfectly cognizant of my ability to sense where Elizabeth is at all times. Though the image is, at best, obscure, I picture her upstairs with Chloe, both of them in their human states. Both I guess giggling and whispering, talking of her future.

I'm conscious of Elizabeth's whereabouts and well-being in almost the same way as I know the placement and condition of each of my limbs. This, I think, must be what Elizabeth's mother meant when she said we'd always be connected. We may no longer share the intimacy of our thoughts, but we still share a permanent awareness of each other.

“Actually, I'm glad to find you without her. I wanted to have a word with you before you take her away from us,”

Charles says.

I cock an eyebrow, wait to hear what he wants to say.

“For some reason, when it comes to our people, you've been given a regrettably inadequate education.”
He motions with a taloned paw, as if to wave away the statement.
“But that has to do with the past. What's important here is that you understand what you have on your hands.”

“Which would be?”
I ask, reminding myself that this is my bride's father, resisting my impulse to turn my back on his lecture.

“Which would be Elizabeth,”
he says, staring at me with his cold green eyes.
“I know what our young men do and I have no doubt that you're well-experienced with human women. But what you have now is a woman of the blood. She may belong to you, but don't think for one minute that she'll be controlled by you. . . .”

“Father said our women can be impetuous and headstrong.”

Charles laughs.
“Especially your bride. Of all my children, she takes after her mother the most. You can take this from one who's lived with it. There are times it's like bedding with a tiger.”
His tone turns stern.
“But it's your responsibility to make sure she doesn't bring harm on herself. I want you to know I expect that from you.”

I nod and promise him that he doesn't have to worry. Yet, after he leaves, I wonder just how I'm supposed to control this supposedly half-wild creature.

 

The next morning, Derek wakes us by honking his car's horn. By the time I've finished dressing, he's honked three more times. Elizabeth, in her human form, naked, still lounging under the sheets, sighs, and says, “I haven't even finished packing. Please go outside and keep the fool company. Tell him I'll be down soon.”

“Soon?” I say, having already learned that, for my bride, soon can be measured in anything from minutes to hours.

She shrugs, gives me an innocent look. “Not too long. I promise.”

I find Elizabeth's parents and younger brother, in their natural states, basking in the morning sunlight on the veranda by the front door, waiting to say their good-byes. Chloe in her human form—barefoot and adorable, in cutoff jeans and a skimpy red halter top held up by two thin straps tied behind her neck—sits on the hood of the Land Rover. She waves and jumps off when she sees me.

Derek, also in human form, sitting in the car, the engine running, the windows down, frowns, glances at his watch. “Damn it, old man, it's bad enough I have to run you two all the way to the coast. Do you have to keep me waiting like a common taxi? The least you could do is let me leave in time to make it home before dark.”

“Don't pay any attention to him,” Chloe says, running up to me. She kisses me on the cheek, straining on the tips of her toes to reach. “Derek's just jealous that Elizabeth's getting to leave before he can.”

“Elizabeth said she'll be down soon,” I say.

“I've heard that before,” Derek says.

Chloe giggles, and grabs my hand. “Come to the stables with me while you wait. I'll show you my horse.”

I let her tug me along.

“Do you see many movies?” she asks. “TV shows? What books do you like?”

My answers just invite more questions. Smiling at her interrogation, I find myself wishing we could bring this girl home with us. Of all the members of Elizabeth's family, my bride included, this girl seems to have the most curiosity, the most willingness to experience human things.

“I named him Atticus,” Chloe says at the stable as she leads a small white horse out of its stall. She giggles. “Pa asked why. I told him I named him after someone gentle and Pa said, ‘But you never knew anyone by that name.' You
see, Pa doesn't like me to read very much. I didn't have the heart to tell him I named him after the lawyer in
To Kill a Mockingbird.

“You read it, didn't you?” Chloe says.

I nod and she rewards me with a wide grin, then leaps on the horse, riding him bareback, nudging him forward with her bare brown feet, walking him beside me as we head back to the house.

As we approach, Elizabeth, now downstairs, waves from the veranda. I wave back, grinning at the sight of my bride in her human form standing in the midst of three dragons, each one, even her younger brother, towering over her. But then I notice the single leather suitcase and small, wooden box placed on the floor beside her.

“Is that all she's bringing?” I ask.

“That's all she has,” Chloe says. “Here at Morgan's Hole, we don't have much need for large wardrobes.”

“And the box?”

“Seeds and herbs. Mum wanted her to bring them so she can start her own garden.”

I nod, thinking of my mother's garden back on Blood Key, thinking how good it will be to see someone care for it again.

 

Once we're in the car and on the way, I tell Elizabeth, “I think we'll get you some new things as soon as we get to Montego Bay.”

Chloe insists on riding her horse alongside our car. She keeps pace with us, leaning forward on her horse, urging him to go faster, moving in unison with him as if she were melded into his back. She waves her farewell only after we reach the pass out of Morgan's Hole.

Elizabeth waves back. “I'll miss her,” she says, frowning. She turns her attention to the passing scenery and says
nothing more, quite clearly lost in her thoughts. Derek also makes the trip in silence.

Just before he leaves us at the marina at Oyster Bay, Derek presses a piece of paper into my hand. “Claypool and Sons—our agents in Kingston, old man,” he says. “Pa said to remind you that is where to send the gold you promised.” He drives away without a word to his sister.

My impulse is to prepare to leave immediately. Only the knowledge that Elizabeth lacks the proper papers stops me from rushing us away.

 

I rent a convertible the next morning, take Elizabeth north to Montego Bay. The stores and crowds of tourists leave her wide-eyed and openmouthed and I find myself smiling at her behavior, taking vicarious pleasure from her reactions to a world that's fresh and new to her. “Wait until you see Miami,” I tell her.

Elizabeth darts into every store we pass, tries on almost everything she can. By early afternoon she's bought enough new clothes to fill two more suitcases. When I insist we stop shopping and seek out a photographer—to arrange for ID pictures of Elizabeth to be expressed to Jeremy Tindall's office in Miami—she pouts, but finally humors me.

“This way,” I explain, “by the time we leave Jamaica, you'll be an American citizen.”

She's less tolerant afterward, when we stop at a bookstore and I spend a half-hour selecting five paperback books. “What do you want those for?” she asks.

“I like to read them.”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “I tried to read one once but it bored me. Chloe gets Derek to buy them for her. Pa doesn't like it. . . . He says, ‘Why bother? They're just stupid stories about humans.' I think he's right.”

Back at the boat that night, she shakes her head again, when I tell her I don't want her to go hunting. “In a few
days,” I say. “After Tindall sends your papers back and we put to sea. Then we can hunt every night, feed as much as you want.”

“But I'm hungry now. . . .”

“And we have meat in the freezer. This isn't Cockpit Country. There are lights here. People have powerful guns. You have to be more careful around civilization.”

Elizabeth sulks but accepts a defrosted steak, nibbles at it, leaves it half finished. “I'm going to bed,” she says, and goes to the cabin without waiting for me to accompany her.

I join her later, lie down beside her, pull her toward me. She wiggles away and I accept her rejection.

Later that night I awake to find the bed empty beside me. I sense that she's miles away, on a hunt, and think of her father's words. Once again I wonder—if she won't listen to me, how can I hope to protect her?

 

Elizabeth seems content to hunt and feed at night, sleep through most of each day. I refuse to accompany her, continue to ask her to stop until we're away from land. She ignores me but, as a good mate, returns with her prey each evening to share with me.

Some nights she carries her fresh kill to the boat; other nights she lures men home and slays them below deck, in the salon. “Human men are so easy,” she says. “They'll follow me anywhere, do anything I ask if they think it will lead to sex.”

While I frown at her, scold her for the risks she's taking, I neither turn down the fresh meat she brings me nor the lovemaking she offers after we feed.

I watch her sometimes as she sleeps, marvel at her innocent countenance, wonder at her seeming contentment. Even when Elizabeth awakens, late in the afternoon, she moves about the boat with the same fluid motion, the same air of
absolute indifference to her surroundings cats possess. She rarely bothers engaging me in conversation.

“Don't you want to know more about me?” I ask her one night before we surrender to sleep. “Isn't there more about you, you want to tell me?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Why do you always want to talk about everything? We have plenty of time for all that, Peter. Why not just enjoy each day we spend here? They don't have to be anything more than they are.”

But the hours go by too slowly for me. I pace the deck, worry about each new person who approaches the docks. I call Jeremy Tindall the next morning, demanding to know where the papers are.

“For Christ's sake, Peter,” Tindall snarls. “My youngest son Tyler was just burned to death. The business he built is nothing but cinders. I think you
know
that. My wife is a wreck. And you're bugging me about some stupid damn papers?”

Thank God for Arturo and his efficiency. “Too bad you couldn't have helped him find a safer business,” I say, choosing my words, speaking without inflection. “Hopefully you'll be more careful about yourself and the rest of your family. Hopefully you'll remember your commitments . . . including your promise to rush the papers to me.”