The Dragon Delasangre (3 page)

“It looks like a castle,” Maria says.

She walks through the coral archway and I shut the gate behind us. Outside the gate, dark forms scurry as the dogs retake possession of the night. Maria doesn't notice. Her eyes are focused in front of her, her mouth open.

I smile at her reaction, proud of the effect of my lighting. Before I started the electrification of the island, Father was content with torches, kerosene lanterns and open fires. At first I just ran lights at night with a single, noisy diesel generator. But over the years I added wind generators, solar panels and, finally, a new, larger, far more quiet generator. Now the house has all the modern amenities, up to and including air conditioning that we never use, and our own
satellite TV dish, which brings us shows Father refuses to watch.

Maria follows me up the wide steps, brushes her hand on the wall's rough coral blocks as we ascend. “Slaves did all of this?” she asks.

“Don Henri sent some of his slaves to work at a quarry in the Keys. They cut the coral blocks from the ground, chiseled them to shape and loaded them on his ships. On the island, other slaves carried the blocks ashore and mortared them in place.” I turn toward her. “My father told me he treated them well for the times, but still many of them died.”

She shakes her head.

“It was a long time ago,” I say. “A crueler time.” I don't tell her that the remaining slaves suffered an equally dismal fate once their usefulness was over.

Maria says nothing more until we reach the veranda and walk to the ocean side of the house. There the night wind greets us, rushes around us, tugs at our clothes and plays with our hair. The sound of the ocean welcomes us too and she walks across the ten-foot-wide veranda to the waist-high, coral-stone parapet and stares out at the slow procession of waves relentlessly attacking the island's shore.

“They've come a long way,” she says when I follow her and stand next to her. Maria moves closer so the side of her body touches the side of mine. “It feels like Miami's a thousand miles away.”

I nod and put my arm around her, savor the warm touch of her, the gentle beauty of the night. It feels almost dreamlike—a warm quiet prelude to the excitement we both expect.

A sudden gust of wind buffets us, carrying with it that aroma, that same smell which had surprised me before. The shock of it upsets my equilibrium and I take a step back to catch my balance.

“Are you all right?” asks Maria, hugging me.

Nodding, I struggle to regain my composure. The scent's still only a diffused hint of what it could be, but this time it's strong enough to sear my nostrils and set my heart to racing again. All I can think is, I want more.

Changes inside my body warn me I'm on the verge of shifting shape. I breathe deep, glad to find the smell gone again, yet mournful at its absence. I will myself not to change, but nothing can quench the fire that's overtaken me, the lust that threatens to consume me. It takes all my control not to throw the girl to the veranda's oak-beamed deck and have her now.

She doesn't help by pressing herself against my hardness and murmuring, “I'm glad to see you too.”

Feeling like an adolescent caught at school with an erection, I pull back, silently fighting against the forces raging within my body.

She giggles at my reticence, leans forward and kisses me on the mouth.

I return the kiss, all the while fighting for control of my runaway impulses. There's a sweetness to Maria. I like how she carries herself, her smile, the sway to her hips, the ready grin. I would hate to see fear take over her face.

Maria backs away from me, smiles, fidgets with the charm she wears on a thin gold chain around her neck.

I move close, take the gold charm from her fingers and examine it. “A four-leaf clover?” I ask as I turn the thin, delicate piece over, and admire the small, bright emerald inset in the center.

She nods. “My older brother, Jorge, gave it to me for my
Quince
—when I turned fifteen. We're very close.”

Only a few centimeters remain between us. The slightest movement by either of us will bring our bodies in contact. Somehow, my holding the charm and with it, the chain around her neck, heightens the intimacy of the moment. I sway forward, brushing her lips with mine.

Maria sighs, pulls back so the charm slips from my hand. “I know what part of the house I want to see next,” she says, her voice thick and husky with passion. She holds the gold clover between two fingers, runs it along the chain.

This girl is too full of life and joy to meet an early end, I think, as I lead her around the veranda to the two large, oak doors that open to my room. She deserves the chance to live her life, have lovers and babies, laughter and tears. I know Father will be disappointed, but no matter how he feels, I decide, I won't be the one to take that from her.

 

Maria sheds her clothes as we enter the room, dropping her jacket first, then her tube top, followed by her sneakers and socks and then her jeans—leaving a trail of clothing to the edge of my king-size bed. She turns toward me, naked except for a pair of yellow cotton bikini panties, cocks an eyebrow at my lack of nudity.

“Well?” she says.

“You're still wearing your panties,” I say, turning from her, walking away from the open doors, unbuttoning my shirt, pulling it off as I wander around the room, turning on the bedside lamps, opening the windows so the ocean air can caress us as we caress each other.

When I turn toward her again, the panties are gone. I face her, breathe deep at the sight of her naked body, her firm full breasts, the gentle swell of her stomach above the dark tangle of hair between her legs.

Likewise she stands and examines me as I kick off my shoes and pull down my pants. I can smell her wetness from across the room and, erect to the point of near pain, I shed my underwear too.

She drops back on the bed and I join her, both of us touching, grabbing, kissing, until Maria maneuvers herself below me and guides me inside her. It takes all my control to hold back and wait for her. Usually I'm the one to stroke and kiss—to tease and delay until my partner's ready. But this time I'm not always sure who's in command. Gasping
and thrusting, we ride each other, Maria leading as often as led, as wild as I've ever experienced.

Her orgasm, when it comes, catches me by surprise, and I hurry to join her. Afterward, both of us hug, tangled in each other's legs, the sea air blowing through the room, cooling our sweaty bodies.

 

Maria disengages, and looks around the room. “Was this place built by giants?” she asks.

“No.” I grin at her question. She certainly has good reason to ask. Both the pair of double doors that open to the outside from my room and the second pair of double doors that open to the interior of the house are ten feet high by ten wide. The bedroom itself measures bigger than most people's living rooms. How can I explain to Maria that the large doorways, the oversize rooms, the wide veranda and wide deep steps have all been built to accommodate a far different creature than any human giant?

“Don Henri built it the way he wanted,” I explain and kiss her nose. “Who knows what he had in mind?”

She reaches between my legs. “Well,” she says, her voice turning deep and throaty, “some things, sometimes do get big around here.”

I allow her to arouse me and, this time, I concentrate on her pleasure. Maria sighs as I move against her, smiles and writhes in tandem with me—follows my lead this time, the slow, languorous rhythm I've chosen to bring us to our eventual, inevitable release.

Her breathing, her heartbeat, her movements, give me signs as to what pleasures her most. When I duplicate a twist and thrust of my hips that I think will elicit a sigh and an enthusiastic response, Maria rewards me with both, as well as a satisfied chuckle.

If I were human, I think, I could fall in love with a woman like this one. I've never had a woman laugh in my
arms before, not during sex, and I find it endearing. I pull her closer, cover her face with kisses, even as the tempo of our movements quicken and our chests heave with our loud ragged breaths. We peak together, laughing, gasping for air. Sweat drenched, our bodies collide one last time before we both collapse back onto the sheets.

Remaining inside her, holding her from the rear as we lie spooned together, I nuzzle the back of her neck and kiss it gently.

Maria sighs, pushes back against me. The sea breeze rushes through the open windows, courses over us and she mutters, “Delicious.”

Moist from the proximity of the ocean, the wind smells of sea salt. Its humidity envelopes us, leaves our skins sticky with airborne salt.

I cup Maria's breasts with my hands and pull her close to me, listening as her breathing slows, feeling her body relax. She sighs and shifts in my arms, my skin cold where it's no longer shielded by her heat. Another flurry of wind passes over us and I gasp at the foreign scent that invades the room.

“Everything all right?” Maria murmurs.

Cinnamon and cloves—the smell fills my nostrils. My heart races, my nostrils flare, and I force myself to hug her gently, to whisper, “Sure,” in her ear. I wait for the aroma to fade away again.

But it doesn't. Each gust of wind seems to make it stronger. I breathe it in, savor it even as it overcomes me. This, I think, must be how a beast in rut feels. I grow hard again, painfully rigid, and Maria shifts position, and says, “Can't we wait awhile before we try again?”

I grunt assent and withdraw from her, but my lust only increases. The first twinges of change roil my body and I gasp when I realize that if the scent doesn't fade soon, I'll lose all control.

I feel as if I'm drowning in cinnamon and cloves. My
back tightens. My shoulders begin to swell. Maria tenses in my arms and I sigh. I can't bear the possibility that she'll see me as I truly am. I don't want to hear her screams, see the inevitable look of revulsion come over her face. And I don't want her to die racked with terror, sobbing and pleading for my mercy.

The change torments my body again. I sense the skin in the middle of my back begin to split, my jaw begin to widen and I hug Maria, one last time. She relaxes in my arms and I nuzzle the nape of her neck again, hold it lightly in my open mouth. She sighs and I embrace her like this for a few more moments . . . then snap my jaws shut.

Maria trembles once, then goes slack. Her blood fills my mouth and a loud sob fills the room. At first I think it's her, but then I realize she died instantly, as I wished. I hear the sob again and this time I know it's me.

My entire life I've wished I'd been born human, but this is the first time I've truly hated my heritage. Cinnamon and cloves consume me. I roll off the bed and surrender to what I am.

 

Pain and relief, shame and freedom. I try to howl my sadness to the night and find that I roar instead. My skin tightens, then thickens and ripples as it turns color and takes shape. Soon, deep green, armored scales protect my body everywhere but underneath, which is covered with beige scales, twice as thick.

Father has assured me that at eighteen feet from the tip of my nose to the end of my tail, I've grown to full maturity. My wingspan is more than two times that.

I stretch my wings, sigh at the relief of unfolding them. But even though I open them until they reach from wall to wall, I still can't extend them fully. The twelve-foot ceiling prevents me from standing to full height on my rear legs and
I approach the bed on all fours, examine Maria's still body and the blood pooling around it.

Grief overwhelms me and I roar again.

“Peter?”
Father mindspeaks.

“Go away!”

“Is it the girl? When are you going to learn not to care about them? You always get too involved. . . .”

“Leave me be, Father. I have things to do. I'll visit you later.”

“Peter? They're only humans.”

I roar and shut myself off from him. I know Father will be angry over that. It's something I've hardly ever done to him. But this time, I decide he'll just have to cope.

The cinnamon smell returns, intermixes with the scent of fresh blood and I pace the room, alternately consumed with lust and hunger. I approach the still body on my bed, then back away. At last hunger wins out, and closing my eyes, I approach again, nuzzle against the carcass and feed.

Finally, when I'm satiated, I stretch out on the floor next to the bed and allow myself to doze.

 

The night's still dark when I awake from a troubled sleep full of changing shapes and terrifying images. The air smells deliciously free of any taint of cinnamon and I breathe it in, take great gulps of it, as if to cleanse my lungs of all memories of that strange and wicked scent. I force myself to look toward the bed where Maria lies, her limbs askew, her body rent and torn.

A shudder runs through my body and I look away. Sadness and grief, guilt and shame fill my soul and I will myself to change back to my human form. As a man, at least, I can honor her with my tears.

I sit on the bed next to Maria's despoiled body and sob, tears flowing down my cheeks, streaking my naked bloodstained chest.

Just before dawn, I stop and turn my attention to what must be done.

Father has taught me to despise waste.
“We can live the way we want,”
he's told me many times,
“because we preserve our wealth.”

Even though we now have enormous investments on the mainland, treasury notes, real estate holdings, stocks and bonds, jumbo certificates of deposit—all of them earning more wealth every day, thanks to our human lawyers and advisors and the miracle of compound growth—Father still insists we maintain at least a portion of our riches ourselves.

Tears return to my eyes as I remove Maria's Swiss Army watch, her gold belly-button ring, her gold high school graduation ring, two other rings of questionable value, her two small diamond stud earrings and her gold necklace with the four-leaf clover charm and put them all in a small pile on a nearby night table. Later, I'll take them downstairs to the treasure room and add them to the gold and silver, gems and jewelry my family's been collecting as long as they've existed.

I gather up her clothes, breathe and cherish the scent of her they still carry, and place them in a pile near the door. Then I pick up her small cloth purse and search through it, removing any change, finding a surprising three hundred and eighty-six dollars in bills in her wallet.

The money goes in the top drawer of my dresser—the purse on top of the pile of clothes. I look through her wallet one last time before I drop it on the pile too, gaze at the pictures inside and wonder who the people are in the photographs she carried, whether they will mourn her passage too.

One picture catches my attention especially. Maria, in a bikini, a little younger than now, sitting on the deck of a Hobie catamaran, being embraced by a young man with piercing black eyes and a large, drooping mustache. The man also wears only a bathing suit and the boat's
yellow-and-white, diagonally striped mainsail is behind them. A rush of jealousy hits me and, for a moment, I hate that person. Then I realize how much the man looks like Maria and I think, this must be Jorge. I blush that I could be jealous of a brother's hug.

I drop the wallet and the pictures on top of the pile of clothing. All of it will be reduced to ashes before the end of day.

By now the sun has begun to burn its way into my room. Blinking at its brightness, hating the glare of it on the dead body on my bed, I scoop Maria up and carry her to my door. I shudder at her lifelessness and weep as I take her through the inner doors to the dim interior of the house.

Had she lived, I would have shown her the wide corridor that circles the great spiral staircase which services all the floors of the house. Now I barely glance up as I walk around the corridor to the massive heavy oak doors that open to Father's chamber.

Father's shades are drawn and, no matter the brightness outside, the room remains as dim and murky as the dark middle of the house. He is asleep when I enter, his breathing irregular and shallow. I can make out his form in the shadows of the far corner of the room, a dark shape sprawled on a bed of hay.

I shake my head at the sight of him. There was a time his mere visage could terrify me, but now, he seems to grow a little smaller each time I see him.

In his old age Father has given up shape changing, telling me his natural body is the most efficient way for him to live. And as the years have passed, he's embraced the old ways, refusing to converse out loud, insisting on hay for his bedding, refusing any trace of human craft in his stone-walled, furnitureless room.

“Father?”
I mindspeak.
“I've brought you something.”

The shape turns in my direction, coughs and scratches.
Two emerald-green eyes stare at me.
“You shut me off, Peter. There was a time you wouldn't have dared. . . .”

I return his stare. We both know he's no longer the imposing figure he once was. At best, Father can't be any more than eleven feet long. His color, once as richly green as mine, now has a sickly yellow pallor to it. Age has slowed his movements, buckled and rippled his scales. “I'm sorry, Father,” I say.

He hisses, mindspeaks,
“Speak properly to me!”

“I'm sorry, Father.”

“You should be.”
Father adjusts himself so he's sitting on one haunch, motions for me to approach.
“So, is that what caused you to make such a fuss last night?”

A flush burns my cheeks and I stare directly at this creature that sired me—that brought me into this world where I could never fit. I growl a warning, “Father!”

He waves one taloned claw, as if to smooth away my pain.
“Who taught you to be so sensitive? Bring her here. Let me see what you have.”

Father clucks with pleasure when I place the body on the hay next to him.
“So young. So fresh . . .”
He inspects the carcass, trying to decide, I know, just where to start his meal.