The Dragon Delasangre (25 page)

 

What does a hunter do when he's hunted? How does an attacker cope with being attacked? Every fiber of my being now cries out for me to take action, to take revenge, to strike and slash and kill. I no longer want to stay put on my island while others solve my problems.

I call Arturo each morning, but Chen remains a ghost, a rumor, a name with no details, no history. One day he's reported in Chicago; the next, he's seen in New York.

“My friends say he's unreachable, deep in Chinatown,” Arturo says, after a week's gone by. “The Chinese gangs are very protective of him. We'll have to wait until he shows himself down here. If he does.”

Elizabeth wants me to travel north and take care of it myself. As much as the idea tempts me, I reject it.

“Father said more have died from action without thought than from sensible defense,” I tell her. “He always lectured me, ‘Know your enemy before you attack.' I don't know anything about this man or his friends. Until I do, I'll wait for him here. No matter how much I'd rather be out hunting for him.”

Arturo agrees, encourages me to turn my attention to my island, my home. Jeremy calls, saying, “Don't worry, Peter. We'll handle things here. Arturo will take care of your problem. Just relax and enjoy.”

I frown. “I want that man dead,” I say. “I want to know where Chen is—where he's going.”

“Trust us, Peter,” Jeremy says. “Arturo and I will handle everything. Let us do the worrying. You just stay put, take care of yourself.”

Jeremy is hardly ever solicitous of my needs. I find I prefer his normal surly self. “What makes you so nice all of a sudden?” I ask.

Tindall barks a short, harsh laugh. “I think we're all safer when you stay away, Peter. You know how close to Emily's desk my office is? When that letter bomb went off, I thought I was dead meat. Hell, my ears are still ringing from that damn bomb blast. The truth is, Peter—the next time someone tries to kill you, I don't want to be anywhere near you. As long as this bastard is out there, let us watch your back for you. Stay on your damn island, enjoy yourself—please.”

I laugh and hang up. No matter Jeremy's reasons, the advice is good, I think. Father chose this island and built this house to be able to withstand any attack. I can't think of any place on the mainland where Elizabeth and I would be as safe.

Resolving to follow Jeremy's advice, I decide to live as normal a life as possible while I wait for the mysterious Mr. Chen to show his hand. Certainly I won't pass any window or go outside without examining the water for suspicious boats. And I'll pay more attention to the barks and growls of the dog pack, listen for any sign that intruders may have tried to land on the island's shore. But Elizabeth and I will still hunt each night and I'll still tend to my chores each day.

 

My cell phone rings a few weeks later, while Jorge and I are in the midst of servicing the Grady White's Yamaha engines. I put down my wrench and answer it.

“Peter? I've got good news,” Arturo says.

“Chen's dead?” I ask.

“No, not yet. But he is on the move. My people managed to find out he was flying down here yesterday. They missed
him at Miami International by only a few minutes. Our sources say he's hiding somewhere in South Miami now. It's just a matter of time before we locate him.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive,” Arturo says. “I have the surveillance films from the airport. Only one Asian got off that flight. Two others met him at the baggage claim. We know what all of them look like. I gave their pictures to our people and to our friends at Metro Dade police. The cops have a bulletin out on all of them. If any of them goes anywhere, does anything, either the police or one of our people should spot him.”

“Good,” I say, grinning, relieved that something's finally being done. “Call me when you know anything further.”

I hang up and turn to Santos.

He stops lubricating one of the outboard's prop shafts, stares at me, grease streaked on his face, and studies my expression. “Good news?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “If I were a drinking man I'd break out a bottle.”

“So what
do
you do to celebrate?”

Turning my head toward the veranda, I stare at the cannon pointed seaward and remember my late-night celebration a few days before I left to find my bride. “Jorge,” I say, “it occurs to me, we've never fired the cannon like I promised.”

“No, Boss, we never have.” He resumes greasing the shaft.

“It occurs to me that we should.”

“Sounds good to me.” He pauses, then says, “Why don't we do it late tomorrow afternoon? Afterward, I'll make
Carne' Diablo
for you again.”

I wonder why he's being so thoughtful. Still the man cooks food for me all the time. It's not so unusual a suggestion. So I smile and say, “Good idea.”

* * *

That night Elizabeth surprises me by inviting me to her bed after our hunt.
“Gently,”
she cautions me and we make love as lightly as two feathers rubbing together. Afterward, she sighs and pulls me close to her. Her stomach contorts as the child rolls and kicks within her.

She smiles.
“Your son wants to come out,”
she says.

“So soon?”
I ask.

“Silly, it's less than two weeks until June. Your son could come any time after that.”

So soon, I think, picturing the looks of terror on Casey's and Jorge's faces when they realize their fate.

“Aren't you happy?”
Elizabeth asks.

“Of course I am,”
I say.

“We'll have the house to ourselves again. No more humans to bother you. Just me, you, and our son.”
Elizabeth grins.
“I can't wait. I'll get my old body back and we can begin to enjoy ourselves again.”

I nod.

“I know in some ways I've been a disappointment to you, Peter. But I hope not too much.”
Elizabeth strokes me with her tail.

I look at her. Even swollen as she is, I find her beautiful.
“You've never disappointed me,”
I say.
“We were brought up differently. We've just had to learn about each other.”

“Peter,”
she says, looking into my eyes,
“do you remember, on the boat, when we talked about love?”

“Yes.”

“I told you then I wasn't sure what love was.”

I nod.

“I've been thinking a lot about it these past few months. The child's nearness has made me examine things. I'm sure now, Peter. I love you.”

They are words I never expected to hear from her. Momentarily, I wonder if I've been disloyal to her, spending so much of my time with Santos and Casey, enjoying it as
much as I have. But just being beside her, hearing her words, reaffirms her importance to me.
“I love you too,”
I answer.

We lie side by side, in that netherworld between consciousness and sleep, listening to the rhythm of each other's breaths.
“Peter?”
Elizabeth rouses me. I move enough for her to know I'm listening.
“In the morning when you wake, would you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“The gold clover necklace that you gave me before we married is on the dresser top. I know it's silly. I know it doesn't fit me in this form but I'd like to wear it. Could you fasten it around my wrist so it won't fall off? Promise me
?
”

“I promise.”

We drift toward sleep again and I remember my other promise, the one I made to Jorge Santos.
“Santos and I will be firing one of the cannons tomorrow afternoon. I don't want the sound to surprise you.”

“It won't, Peter,”
she says, snuggling against me.
“Just be careful playing with your silly toys.”

 

In the morning I wake and change to my human shape. Leaving my bride's side, I immediately look for the gold clover necklace. I carry it back to Elizabeth, kneel beside her and carefully wrap it, twice, around her right wrist, just above her taloned paw. It makes me smile that she wanted to wear it and I take my leave, kissing her on the snout, taking care not to wake her.

I pause before I leave the chamber, watch her sleep, let the love I feel for her well up inside me. Resisting the impulse to wake her and pledge my love aloud, I go out the door. Later, I think. There will be plenty of time for that.

Santos and Morton both seem somewhat subdued when I release them from their cells, as if their thoughts remain elsewhere. I think nothing of it, my mind on Elizabeth and
the child. I don't permit myself to think of the humans' impending deaths. I decide to confront that when necessary.

 

In the late afternoon I go out to the veranda, survey the sky, nodding at the low gray clouds, the gusting wind—smiling at the roiled surface of the sea. No boats are anywhere in sight nor, in this weather, would I expect them to be.

Sure our activities will go unheard and unobserved, I open the arms room, then fetch Morton and Santos. The woman sits on the wall and watches while Santos and I roll the cannon back. I let him prepare and load the charge. We both stand by to let Casey light the fuse.

They both shout when the cannon fires, belching flame and smoke. I join in their hurrahs when the ball strikes, sending up a white plume of water a quarter-mile offshore.

Jorge grins, and asks, “Again?”

“Why not?” I say and we take turns loading the ship killer, then firing it. I run Santos back to the arms room six times for more ammunition, all of us turning giddy, laughing as we load the cannon, our ears ringing, our faces smoke blackened.

“Peter,”
Elizabeth mindspeaks to me.
“Don't you think it's time to stop? If you keep this up, some passing boat will surely notice and inform the authorities.”

I think of all the bribe money the marine patrol takes and laugh.
“As if they'd care,”
I tell her, sending Santos to the arms room one last time, thinking how tired he must be when he takes longer than usual to return and load the cannon.

After Casey lights the fuse and the cannon fires, I send Santos and Morton inside. I close and lock the arms room out of their sight. Then, still grinning from the pleasure of firing the big gun, I follow the two humans indoors.

* * *

I insist that Jorge prepare Elizabeth's steak first. When it's ready, I leave him and Casey in the great room to prepare our dinner while I bring my bride hers.

“Did you have a good time?”
she asks as she sits up.

“Very good,”
I say, sitting in the hay next to her, placing her plate between us.

“I missed you.”

Her confession surprises me.
“I thought you liked to be left alone during the day.”

“Until recently I have. But the baby's making me feel so many things now. I find I want you near me.”

“Then I'll come down right after dinner,”
I say.

“Can't you just stay?”
Elizabeth asks.

I shake my head.
“Jorge's making
Carne' Diablo
especially for me tonight. I wouldn't want to disappoint him.”

“You and your pet human.”
Elizabeth holds up her arm, and admires the necklace wrapped around it. She sighs.
“If you think you have to go, then do so. Just be careful with that food. Remember what it did to you last time.”

 

“Hey, Boss! You ready for your dinner?” Santos greets me as soon as I walk into the great room.

I sniff the acrid smell of spices and meat sizzling in his skillet, grin and sit at the table. “Bring it on,” I say. “Let's see how I handle it this time.”

“Indeed, Boss,” he says, smiling, serving me first. “Let's see if you can take it tonight.”

He and Morton sit across the table, eat in tandem with me. This time, I space my bites, sip water between every few. Still I feel the heat building as I proceed. One bite strikes me as particularly hot, scalding my throat, making me cough. I take a gulp of water, say, “It's delicious. But did you make it spicier tonight?”

Jorge and Casey exchange glances. Both smile at me. “Not so you'd notice, Boss,” he says.

I return to my meal, take bite after bite, sip after sip. By the time I finish, my mug sits empty and the heat still burns inside me. I shake my head, say, “It's still too damn hot. I need some more water.”

“No problem, Boss. Coming right up.” Santos and Morton both rush to the kitchen.

To me it feels like it takes forever for them to return. The heat builds, sears my throat, eats at my insides. Finally, they come back, each carrying a flagon as before. I rip them from their hands and gulp the entire contents of one, then the other.

“Better?” Santos asks.

I sigh and nod, the heat abating, a calming glow growing within me. My mouth feels greasy and I run my tongue against my teeth, wondering why they feel so slippery. A thought crosses my mind and I shudder, then look toward the shelves on the wall. I can't find Elizabeth's blue ceramic pitcher anywhere on them.

My mouth falls open. I struggle to close it. Santos's face and Morton's loom in front of me, studying me. Both grin as if they've won the lottery. I want to ask them if it was the Dragon's Tear wine, but I can't form the words.

“Did it work?” Morton asks.

“Test it,” Santos says.

She picks up my fork and jams it into my right forearm. I try to scream, will myself to change. Nothing. Casey yanks the fork out, studies the blood on its prongs, the red liquid flowing from the four puncture wounds on my arm.

“Well, Boss,” Santos says, “you can't say I didn't warn you.” He forms a fist with his right hand and strikes my face with all his force. The impact throws my head to the side, turns my vision blurry. Still, I can't move or make any sound.

I concentrate on my thoughts, but even they seem to form and dissolve of their own accord. I ignore the sound of Jorge and Casey talking, let their words wash by me.

“. . . kill him,” Jorge Santos says and I return my attention to the world around me.

“I don't think you can,” Casey says. She points to the wounds on my arm, now mostly healed. If I could, I would laugh. Even drugged and near comatose, my body still possesses the ability to heal itself.

“Son of a bitch!” Jorge mutters. He walks to the kitchen, returns with a long carving knife, stands behind me. “You killed my sister, you prick,” he growls, grabs my hair, yanks my head back and slices through my neck.

Even dulled as my senses are by the Dragon's Tear wine, the pain that sears through me—as intense as if he had used a red-hot blade—brings tears to my eyes. But I can't even gasp.

When he releases me, my head sags forward. I watch as my blood gushes onto the tabletop. Within a few moments, the flow stops. Casey says, “I don't like this. He's already healing. Let's just get out of here.”

“No,” Jorge says. “Not before we kill them both.” He saunters to the far wall, takes down Father's cutlass and returns.

“What makes you think that will do any better than the knife?” Morton asks.

“I don't.” Santos takes an exaggerated fencing posture, lunges forward, runs the blade through me once, twice. Cleans my blood from the cutlass by wiping it on my pants leg. Watches as my wounds close in minutes.

“We just don't have the right weapons,” he says, smirking. “I know where we can get them.”

“Let's just leave,” Casey says again.

“You forget the dogs,” Santos says. “We'll have to do something about them too. Kill them all.”

“How?”

“Some help wouldn't hurt,” Santos says. He looks around the room, points when he sees my cell phone. “Casey, honey, please get that for me.”

He looks into my face as he dials the phone. “Oh,” he says, “I guess when we talked about the note, I neglected to tell you one thing—I remembered the number after all.” Then he walks away, says into the mouthpiece, “This is Santos, I'm calling about Peter DelaSangre. . . .”

His voice drops and no matter how I strain, I can't hear any more of the conversation.

Later, they help me up and lead me out of the room to the spiral staircase. To my surprise, I shuffle forward on
command and continue moving as long as I receive constant attention. Jorge provides this, prodding me along the way with the cutlass. “I should just push you down the stairs, you evil bastard,” he mutters in my ear.

Casey shushes him. “We don't want to wake the bitch up,” she whispers and we proceed past the second floor in silence.

I try to call to Elizabeth, but can't form any sounds. I attempt to mindspeak to her, but the thoughts escape me. I lose track of where we are, only regain awareness when Santos slaps my face.

“Get in the cell!” He guides me forward, but Casey grabs my arm.

“Not mine,” she says. “It's too large and comfortable for him.” She pulls on me, makes me walk farther. She stops, points. “This one, it's smaller.”

“Fine,” Santos says. He shoves me, knocking me to the stone floor next to the cot. The Cuban holds me down while Casey rifles through my pockets and produces my keys. I pay no attention to the clank and jangle of chains and manacles as they undo their fetters and bind me in them.

Jorge slaps me again. I realize I'm on the cot—my neck, my wrists, my ankles chained. I make no effort to test my fetters. The Dragon's Tear wine shackles me more completely than they ever could.

Casey Morton looks down at me, spits in my face. “I hate you!” she says. She begins to cry and pummels my face with her fists, striking again and again, saying, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

Jorge pulls her back. “Casey, honey, stop,” he says. “We don't know how long we have until the wine wears off. Let's get what we need from the arms room and finish these creatures off.”

“How can we get through the door? You told me yourself,
there's no visible lock. No way you can see to release the crossbeam.”

“That was before.” Santos beams. He puts his face to the bars, directs his words at me. “Today, when we were firing the cannon I finally had a chance to examine the mechanism.” He clangs the cutlass blade against the steel bars. “There's a release lever that can be reached through a crack in the stone. You just need something skinny and strong to reach it.” Santos laughs, thrusts the cutlass through the bars. “This will do, I think.”

They turn off all lights on the floor, leaving me in total darkness. Without the slightest glimmer of light, even I can't see through the blackness. I'm tempted to sleep, but I fight the impulse. Elizabeth is in danger. I concentrate on reaching her. To my amazement, I do, finding myself in her dreams, her mind more open to me than any day since our wedding. The Dragon's Tear wine, I think. I try to call her name, but can't form the word.

Dogs bark outside. I hear them with her, see her room as she does as she blinks her eyes open. I feel her confusion too as we hear the sound of metal scraping stone, the metallic click of the crossbeam lever releasing, the groan of the arms door being yanked open, the clank of heavy objects being moved on the veranda.

“Peter?”
Elizabeth mindspeaks.
“I hear things. What is happening?”

I try to tell her. The words almost form, but slip away before they gel. “Danger,” I want to say. “Save yourself.”

“Why don't you answer me?”
Elizabeth asks.
“Peter, please!”

She rises and I watch through her eyes as she walks to the bedchamber's outside door.
“No!”
I imagine myself yelling, but no sound, no thought escapes me. Elizabeth opens the door and Casey Morton screams.

Elizabeth roars and I see Casey's horrified countenance just as my bride does.

“Casey! Move!”
Jorge Santos shouts and the blonde jumps to one side. He lifts a massive weapon to his shoulder and aims it at Elizabeth. She stares at the barrel's black muzzle and I recognize the weapon as a rail gun. I try again to warn my bride, but she rushes forward without hearing me.

The gun explodes before her, Jorges Santos flying back from the recoil. Elizabeth screams as the ball rips through her right eye socket. Her mind goes blank.

Cut off from her, I lie motionless in the dark, alone with my thoughts. Grief engulfs me. I attempt to move, to curl into a fetal position, but even that is refused me. I can't blink an eyelid or moan. It is wrong, I think, to be denied the ability to weep.