The Dragon Delasangre (22 page)

When I return a few minutes later, four frozen steaks in my hands, I find all three of them sitting at the oak dining table, a blue ceramic pitcher before them, Santos and Morton sipping from almost empty, large crystal mugs. I eye the pitcher.
“Elizabeth, the Dragon's Tear wine?”
I mindspeak.
“What the hell are you doing?”

“It's done,”
she says, then turns to them. “Finish the rest. You'll feel better.”

Casey Morton upends her mug and drains it. Santos sniffs at his, stares at the clear liquid. “It tastes a little greasy,” he says.

Elizabeth shrugs. “I'm sure it's not what you're used to. We live on an island. Our water comes from a cistern.”

He nods and drinks the remainder of the liquid in his mug.

Elizabeth smiles, motions for me to sit down next to her.

Santos looks around the room. “I have to tell you, I don't understand why you objected to my coming out here. There wasn't anything in the harbor. I haven't seen anything suspicious in the house. . . .” He smiles. “I mean it's odd in
here. I don't think I'd like to live the way you do . . . but I don't know what you were trying to hide. And I got to give it to you—if you wanted Casey and me out of the way, you certainly could've just sat on your hands and watched us drift out to sea. . . . Maybe the note was wrong.”

“Note?” I say.

Santos shrugs, looks at the floor. “I guess I'm trying to apologize to you both. . . .”

Casey Morton's legs give way. She slumps to the floor, in a sitting position, her eyes open. “Casey!” Santos says, kneeling next to her. She nods, staring into space.

He turns, glares at me, says, “What the hell?” then topples to his side.

I stare at him and the woman, wait for them to move, to make a sound, but neither one does.
“Now what?”
I ask Elizabeth.

She smiles, snuggles close to me.
“Now we keep them.”

Shaking my head, I move a few inches away from her. I think how much easier it would have been to let them float to their deaths, and wish my bride had consulted me before she acted.
“Keep them? For what?”

“For the child,”
she says. She takes my hand, lays it on her stomach.
“After I deliver, your son and I will both need fresh meat. These two were going to die anyway. We can keep them in the cells below. This way we'll have plenty of time to fatten the woman. We can use her and the man as servants until my time comes.”

“That's months and months away.”
I stare at her, realize how much rounder her stomach's become, remember how much her breasts have swelled, her nipples darkened and thickened.
“You won't be ready until May,”
I say, trying to reassure myself with how much more time we have before our responsibilities change.

“Until then I want someone to help me in the garden. . . .”

“I could do that.”

“As if you don't have enough to do,”
she says.
“I don't need you to do any more.”
Elizabeth stares at Santos and Morton slumped on the floor in front of the fire, like two mannequins abandoned by a careless window dresser. She grins.
“We have them now for that.”

 

Father told me that when he built this house, he took pains to make sure that sounds traveled very little.
“Especially from the cells on the bottom floor,”
he said.
“I found I always lost my patience with the noisy ones. There were times, I have to admit, that I dispatched some of them more quickly just so I could have some peace and quiet. You can't imagine how dreary it can be to have to listen to hours and hours of human tears and whining.”

Thanks to Father's foresight and the thick stone cell walls his masons built, Elizabeth and I both sleep late the next morning, undisturbed by any noise generated on the floor below us. As usual, I wake first. Leaving my pregnant bride still lost in her dreams, I stop outside our bed chamber, near the spiral staircase, when a few muffled sounds drift up from the cells.

Glad to know the effects of the Dragon's Tear wine have abated, curious to see the condition of our guests, I descend the stairs—the muted noises growing louder, taking form. Casey Morton sobbing and groaning.

When I near the bottom, she stops. I stand in the shadows, out of view of the cells, and listen to the rustle of bodies moving, the metallic clinking of chains. Jorge Santos murmuring in the darkness, “Casey, honey, relax. . . . We'll get through this.”

She shrieks instead, loud enough to make me wince, the scream fading only as she runs out of air. Then she begins to
moan again, ignoring Santos's assurances, her cries building in volume. Before she reaches another crescendo, I flip the wall switch, turning on all the ceiling fixtures at once—their bright lights erasing all the shadows, shining through the iron-barred doors of each cell. Casey throws one manacled hand over her eyes to block the glare, cowers on her cot and yowls.

I step into my captives' line of sight. Jorge Santos, still in his wetsuit, his left forehead covered by a purple welt from his accident the day before, sits on his bed, blinks from the light as he stares at me. Iron chains attached to an iron ring around his neck and iron manacles around each wrist and each ankle limit his range of motion to only a few feet on either side of his bed. He makes no effort to fight against his shackles. Not so Casey Morton in the cell next to him, separated from Santos by a two-foot-thick stone wall and similarly restrained. She jumps from her bed, tries to move as far from me as she can, tugging and yanking on her chains to no effect.

Already the manacles have rubbed her wrists red, almost raw. Before she hurts herself further, I yell,
“Stop!”

Casey freezes, staring at me, gasping air like a frantic animal, her blond hair tangled and spiked, her bruises and cuts from the day before covering her face in an irregular pattern of welts and scabs. Blood has caked on the side of her wetsuit where a gash in the black material offers a glimpse of the white skin and the dark red wounds beneath.

Fear, I decide, will do more to still her than any soothing talk. I almost growl my words. “Casey, I keep a pack of wild dogs outside. Do you remember seeing them chase your boat when you and Jorge sailed close to the island?”

She nods.

“If you don't quiet down, I'm going to have to put a few of them in the cell with you. Do you understand?”

She nods again, looks at the floor.

I move on, stand in front of Jorge's cell. “I think your friend will be quiet for a while,” I say.

“You're a prince,” Santos says, his tone acid. He examines his chains. “Is this what you did with Maria? You drugged her and held her here until you killed her?”

“No.” I fight the temptation to explain how I feel about his sister's death, to dismiss it as an accident. “I never drugged Maria. I never had her down here.”

“Maybe . . .” Santos shrugs. “At this point I guess there's no reason for you to lie.” He locks eyes with me. “But I know you know what happened to her.”

His eyes possess the same shape, the same color as Maria's. I find he reminds me too much of her. It irritates me that I still care about his sister's death, and it bothers me that Elizabeth has engineered events in a way that forces me to be reminded of her constantly. Better, I think, that he and the woman had died. I look away.

Santos irritates me more by adopting a smug expression, almost a smirk, as if he's won a point in a contest of wills. “I notice that you didn't deny that you killed her,” he says.

Sighing, I shake my head. “No, I didn't deny it. I didn't say I did it either. I don't think discussing Maria now serves either of us very well. . . .” I let my voice deepen, turn menacing. It's time, I think, to remind him his fate depends on my good will. “It certainly doesn't serve you.”

“Maybe not,” Santos says, refusing to be intimidated. “But it's hard to ignore that your sweet, young wife drugged my girlfriend and me. And”—he holds up his wrists to show off his chains—“I do have a problem with being locked up and chained to my bed.” Santos pauses, looks as if he's considering something, then nods his head. “As a matter of fact, I have to admit, I've already decided. I'm going to have to kill you both.”

I grin at the incongruity of my prisoner threatening me.
“And how do you plan to do that? Don't you think the chains and the locked cell will get in your way?”

“Well, I didn't say it wouldn't be a challenge.” Santos laughs.

His laughter catches me off guard and I let myself join him, wishing things could be different, wondering how hard it will be to control this man. Our mirth lasts only a moment, then fades into silence—Santos glaring at me, me returning his stare.

In the next cell Casey Morton grumbles, “How can you laugh? You know the bastard's going to kill us.”

“Are you?” Santos asks.

“Not unless I have to,” I say. I see no reason to explain their eventual fate. “Of course, the two of you are going to have to stay here. You'll be expected to help maintain the household and the grounds—”

Santos whoops and laughs. “You're fucking nuts! This is America. You want to make us slaves?”

I frown, consider rushing into the cell and striking him—beating him until he learns humility. “Enough! You need to speak and act with more respect. Look around you. Test your chains. You and your friend have no options. You're going to have to learn to accept that.”

“And if I don't?”

“There are dogs outside that would like the opportunity to meet you,” I say. “Or I could leave you locked up without food or water. I could hurt the woman or you dozens of different ways. I could kill her and let you live . . . or vice versa.” I shrug. “Or I could kill you both. Or you could co-operate and live fairly comfortable lives.”

Santos looks around his cell. “You think this is comfortable?”

“It could be made more so.”

“We need to get out of these wetsuits,” the Cuban says.

“It can be done,” I say. “But first, you mentioned a note yesterday.”

Santos grins as if he has the upper hand. “We need food and dry clothes. And Casey needs for her cuts to be taken care of.”

I nod. “First tell me about the note.”

“It came in the mail from the attorney that bailed me out, the one I didn't hire. He said it was from his client in California.”

Scowling, I say, “Go on.”

“There wasn't much to it. It said, ‘You're on the right track. Peter DelaSangre killed your sister.' Then it said, ‘If you ever need help bringing him to justice call,' it listed a number, a local one. . . .” Santos pauses, shakes his head. “I can't remember it now . . . and then it said, ‘Please call any time day or night.' There wasn't any signature or name.”

“Did you ever call?” I ask.

He smiles. “No, I wanted you to myself.” Santos pauses again, his grin turning smug, then says, as if he's earned some new concession, “Casey and I should stay in the same cell.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don't think so.”

“Okay, I guess you're in charge,” Santos says, his tone acid again. He holds his hands up, palms out, in a mock gesture of surrender. “So it's whatever you say, Boss . . . for now. Just don't forget . . . things can change. And when they do, you're dead.”

This time I chuckle. The man has no concept of my powers and abilities, nor of Elizabeth's. I have no doubt, if given the chance, he will attempt to slay me and I have no fear that he will succeed. “Whenever you think you can kill me,” I say, “Please feel free to try.”

“I will . . . later,” Santos says. But he cooperates when I unlock his cell and readjust his chains so I can lead him into the hallway. Morton surprises me by cooperating too,
shuffling out of her cell, waiting next to Santos while I chain them together. Santos whispers something to her, but she saves me the need to quiet them and stares away, saying nothing in return.

 

Father taught me that keeping humans captive calls for constant vigilance and careful technique.
“As weak as they are, they are most dangerous and most determined once they are taken captive. They become like rodents in a cage. They never stop trying. I've had ones who dug through stone; others who worried at their chains so much that the metal failed. You must always keep them bound in some way, alternate their cells on an irregular schedule, inspect their walls and floors, examine their locks for tampering. Never show mercy, never trust them. Whenever you do, they'll turn on you.”

I fetter Santos and Morton the way Father taught me—with only twelve inches of chain between their feet, their wrists bound by shorter chains, Santos's right ankle shackled to Morton's left, his neck ring connected by a short chain fastened to hers. They have no choice but to move slowly, shuffling in tandem with each other, their chains clinking as they ascend the stairs in front of me.

Their clangor precedes them, wakes Elizabeth shortly before we reach the second floor.
“Peter?”
she mindspeaks.
“Why are you bringing them up here now?”

“They're a mess. They need to shower and change. . . .”

“They're slaves. Take them outside and hose them down,”
Elizabeth says.

“That's unnecessary,”
I say.
“We've plenty of extra rooms, more than enough showers they can use. . . .”

“They're not our guests.”

“But it wouldn't hurt to treat them as well as possible.”

“Honestly, Peter, sometimes you make no sense. They're just humans.”

Elizabeth joins me as I lead them into one of the other bed chambers. I'm relieved to see that she's chosen to be both in human form and clothed. I doubt that Santos and his woman would be as cooperative if they saw either of us in our natural states.

“You,” Elizabeth says to the woman. Morton looks at her, then stares at the floor, waits to hear what Elizabeth wants. She remains still as my bride unchains her and helps her out of the wetsuit and the bathing suit beneath it. She stands naked before us, slightly trembling.

“So thin,”
Elizabeth mindspeaks. She holds Morton's empty chains in one hand, runs the fingers of her free hand over the cuts and bruises of the woman's face, then turns her so she can examine the long gash on Morton's side where one of the Hobie's wires cut into her. “After you shower, I'll put some herbs on this,” Elizabeth says. “It will heal quickly.”

Casey nods. The woman's docility surprises me. She accepts Elizabeth's continued inspection—Jorge and I watching them.

“Do you like her?”
Elizabeth asks.
“Would you want to make love to this blond woman? Or is she too thin for you, her breasts too small?”

Santos shifts beside me—clinking his chains, shaking his head—but I ignore him.
“I only want to make love to my wife,”
I say and turn my attention to Elizabeth, her swollen stomach.
“Maybe once I would have found one like this of interest. . . .”

“She isn't an animal!” Santos shouts. He whirls toward me, throwing his arms over my head, wrapping the chain between his manacles around my neck, choking me, grunting as he tightens his grip.

Instead of fighting off his attack, I immediately thicken my neck muscles, preventing the iron links from blocking my air or cutting my blood flow. Santos tries to tighten his
hold and groans when he finds that, no matter his effort, he can't. I almost feel sorry for him as he strains to no avail, wait for him to see the futility of his actions and give it up.

Morton, her eyes wide, watches our struggle, but provides no help. Not so Elizabeth. She quickly tires of waiting for me to end it. “This is stupid,” she says. Twirling Morton's empty chains over her head, she steps closer to us and crashes them into the side of Santos's head. His grip loosens and I push the chain from my throat, and knock him to the floor.

I put my foot on his chest to hold him down. “Look at this,” I say to him, my finger on the bright red bruise his attack left around my neck. He glances, then looks away. “No, I want you to watch.” I bear down on my foot, so all my weight presses on his chest and let up only when I'm sure I have his attention.