The Dragon DelaSangre

Chapter 13

Derek leads the way up the steps to the veranda, rushing in front of me so I have to half run to keep up with him. "I'm always glad to get home," he says over his shoulder. "Too many humans out there. Bloody fools. Things make more sense here."

On the veranda, he stops in front of two massive wooden doors, throws them open and motions for me to enter first. I pause, look into the dim interior, take a deep breath, smell the mustiness inside, try to quiet and slow the thumping of my heart. "Come on, old man." Derek smiles. "It's just my family in there. Chances are, you'll survive meeting them. They might even like you."

"Chances are," I repeat, walking forward, not at all sure of Derek's assessment.

Elizabeth's family stands at the foot of a wide spiral staircase, the room lit only by the diffuse light filtering down from the great room, three stories above, and a series of large, circular iron chandeliers, each one holding at least three dozen burning candles-each fixture hanging from long metal chains anchored to the ceiling's wooden rafters.

The Bloods stare at us as we enter. I stare back, try to adjust my eyes to the room's irregular illumination, the dim light and half-shadows that obscure the family's features and make their pale visages look almost ghostlike. Elizabeth's father, mother and little brother all mirror Derek's pasty complexion and sharp, thin-lipped features. Only Chloe's fine full lips, her rounded Jamaican features and the mahogany hue of her brown skin-contrasted with the white linen shift she wears-allow her to survive the pallor the wan light inflicts on the others.

Elizabeth's parents show no expression, make no movement, their youngest children frozen in place beside them-Chloe next to her mother, Philip alongside his father.

My smile seems fixed on my face. I wonder if I should look as solemn as they, wonder if I could.

Derek introduces us. "My father, Charles Blood," he says. "His wife, Samantha." Each one nods as Derek says their name. Chloe, alone, returns my smile.

Elizabeth's father, tall enough to tower over all of us, thicker than Derek, but not appearing much older, dressed in a black, three-piece, Victorian suit, tugs at the collar of his shirt, and fiddles with the buttons below it. "Bloody stupid thing to walk around weighed down with all this cloth," he announces, and turns to his wife. "Look at them. They're dressed for comfort."

Philip, hardly more than eight, but obviously his father's son, fidgets with his suit too, nods agreement with his father.

Equally formal in an elegant, flowing white gown and equally youthful in appearance, Samantha Blood puts her hand on her husband's arm and says, "Charles, you promised…" She looks at me. "You'll have to excuse my husband. We rarely have company."

Charles Blood shakes his head, steps forward and extends his hand. "You needn't excuse me at all." He squeezes my hand, his grip tighter than Derek's. "You just have to endure me."

He locks eyes with me. For all the warmth that shows in his eyes, they could be true emeralds, cold and hard. I stare back without blinking, my hand held captive by his. "You're related to that old scoundrel, Captain Henry Angry?" he asks.

I'm well aware of the anglicization of my family name and like it no more than Father did. He told me, in the old days the English had called our island Angry Key just as they pronounced Caya Oeste as Key West-even though the Spanish words translated as Bone Key.

"Don Henri DelaSangre was my father," I say. "When he was alive, no one dared call him by any other name."

Charles barks out a laugh, slaps my back. "No offense intended, son. My father, Captain Jack Blood, sailed with him. The captain told me many stories… Made me wish I'd been born in those times when our people could do as we wished."

Near us a Jamaican woman busies herself sweeping the stone floor. I glance at her iron collar and say, "It looks like you recreate the old times fairly well around here."

He nods. "Just because the British were fool enough to release their slaves doesn't mean we had to follow suit. Whatever goes on outside Cockpit Country, Morgan Hole is our land. We rule it as we desire."

"Now," Charles says, tightening his grip on my hand, a smile appearing on his face for the first time. "Tell me, Peter, just what did you bring for us?"

He frowns and releases my hand when he sees the blank look on my face. I glance back to Derek, hoping he will explain.

"Sorry, old man." He shrugs. "I thought you had a reason for coming without gifts."

"Gifts?" Wishing again my parents had educated me more on our traditions, I dig in my pocket, bringing out the gold necklace I've brought for Elizabeth and hold it in front of me.

"I brought this for your daughter," I say.

"A trinket?" Charles Blood's face turns bright red as he stares at my outstretched hand. "You want me to exchange my oldest daughter for a bloody trinket? How dare you, sir!" He turns his back on me and starts to stomp away. Philip follows on his heels.

"Charles… for pity's sake, come back right now!" his wife says. She turns to me. "Please excuse my husband's temper. It sometimes gets ahead of his reason."

Elizabeth's father stops ten paces away, and glowers at us.

"Your daughter warned you he was brought up strangely," Samantha Blood says to him, as if I'm not in the room. "I'm sure if Peter had been aware of the custom, he would have brought an appropriate tribute."

For the first time in my life, I find myself empathizing with humans and their in-law problems. I'm tempted to tell them all just what they can do with their customs and their feast. Instead, I take a deep breath, think of Elizabeth and the life we can have on my island far away from these people. "If someone would tell me what the custom is, I'd be glad to try and work things out," I say.

When no one else speaks, Chloe throws an angry glance at her father, another at her mother, and says, "You're supposed to bring your bride's family gifts, expensive ones like gold and gems. I was taught, the more valuable your gifts are, the more obvious it's supposed to be-how much you care for your bride."

"Oh." I nod, picturing the chests of treasure crowding the underground vault at home, thinking how little of it I ever use. "I wouldn't want you to feel I didn't value your daughter," I say to Charles. "If I send you twice Elizabeth's weight in gold, once we return to my home, will that reassure you enough?"

"Righto!" Derek says. Chloe and her mother both beam at my answer.

Charles Blood grins, walks over to me, takes my hand captive again. "My apologies, son. The anger sometimes gets the best of me. Bloody good gesture that. Your gift is going to go a long way toward replenishing the family's treasure." He frowns at his older son. "Derek could learn from you. All he ever brings home are baubles, cameras, watches and pocket change. I think he lacks the piratical spirit we and our fathers had. He's certainly taken out more gold than he's put in the last few years."

"Sorry about my father," Derek says later, as he guides me to my room. "He likes to muck things up a bit, see who he can scare and who he can't. Honestly"-Derek's voice lowers-"there are times he still can scare me. Wait till you see him in his natural state. He can be most fearsome."

He pauses outside my door. "Mum said to tell you, we're to meet just after sundown, in the great room on the third floor. She'll have one of the servants ring a bell when it's time. Wear your jacket. I think they expect you to."

I pace the floor after Derek leaves and wonder how to pass the next few hours. I feel as if I've gone back in time. Nothing adorns the room's unpainted stone walls. I doubt there's any television, radio, books or magazines in the whole house. What little furniture graces the room-an oversize bed and a chest of drawers next to it-are made of rough-hewn wood.

Two wall sconces holding candles and a candelabra on the chest give testimony to the house's lack of electricity. A pile of hay on the far side of the room looks just as tempting to me as the lumpy, horsehair mattress and worn linens on the bed.

A gust of wind blows a few leaves into the room and I realize the window has no glass, only wood shutters to hold off the outside world. I shake my head, wonder why Derek, at least, doesn't do something to bring his family into the modern world.

Someone knocks on the door and I open it to find an old Jamaican woman, her face averted, carrying a wash basin, a pitcher of hot water, some homemade soap and towels. I allow her to carry it all in, and place it on top of the chest.

After she leaves, I undress and bathe, using a wet towel, standing up next to my bed.

By now I've calmed enough to be aware of the sensations of the place, the dank and musty aroma that seems to permeate every inch of the room, the ongoing murmur of the servants, the distant sobs of captives, held in cells, deep under the house, the faint whiff of their unwashed bodies. I shudder, tell myself it's the chill of the air on my wet skin.

It is full dark outside by the time the bell rings. I listen to the gong reverberate, wait for the sound of doors thrown open and footsteps upon the stairs before I venture from my room. I've no intention of rushing up to the feast, looking like a nervous suitor once again. As far as I'm concerned, Charles Blood has already had as much fun with me as I'll permit.

The bell rings once more and I take measured steps as I ascend the stairs, candlelight flickering around me, shadows blending into the dark.

Another gong rings as I reach the third floor, and I blink at the bright light that fills the room, candles burning everywhere, a fire roaring in the massive hearth that takes up almost one full wall.

I stop and smile at the sight of Elizabeth, waiting alone in the center of the great room-the light glowing around her, shining through the form-fitting, almost gauze-thin, white cotton dress slipped over her body.

My eyes lock on hers and I walk to her, oblivious to the surroundings, ignoring her family gathered nearby. "You look beautiful," I say, taking the necklace out of my pocket and fastening it around her slender neck, breathing in the fresh, clean smell of her, wanting to take her away this instant.

She moves closer to me, fingers the gold, four-leaf clover charm with her right hand, examines it and a wide grin illuminates her face.

"Elizabeth!" Samantha Blood says and my bride's smile disappears.

I turn toward Samantha and glare at her. Elizabeth stares at the floor.

"Sorry, Peter," Samantha says. "There are customs that have to be observed. Bear with us."

"Elizabeth can't communicate with you until you're joined," she says. She motions to Derek, then points to the far corner of the room. I follow her gesture and, for the first time, notice the Jamaicans huddled together, men and women, adults and children, none of them chained, all of them calm and quiet.

Derek walks over to them, culls a young, heavyset man from the group and leads him back. The Jamaican has a few fresh, deep gouges on his face and right arm, but otherwise appears unharmed. His blank expression amazes me. If anything, he looks indifferent to everything around him.

"Dragon's Tear wine," Derek says. "A few drops of it and none of them care a bit about anything. It's most humane, old man. And God's nectar for us when we're in our natural state."

"Enough!" Samantha mindspeaks. "Peter, do you want to have Elizabeth for your mate?"

I nod.

She motions for Chloe to bring a large, white porcelain bowl and set it in front of Elizabeth. Then Samantha walks to a long oak banquet table against the wall, and brings back a tall, green ceramic pitcher. Pouring a clear liquid from it, she fills the bowl half full. "This is Dragon's Tear wine," she says and carries the pitcher back to the table.

Samantha returns with each hand clasped shut. She opens her right hand to reveal a small purple rose. "Do you know what this is, Peter?"

"Yes," I say, out loud.

She frowns at me, and holds a finger to her lips.

"Yes, it's a Death's Rose. The petals are fatal," I mind-speak.

"They can be," Samantha says. She crumbles a petal into the bowl, mixes it with the Dragon's Tear wine. "Are you willing to risk death to have Elizabeth as yours?"

I look toward Elizabeth. She stares into my eyes and nods her head. "I am," I say.

Samantha opens her left hand over the bowl and releases a handful of what looks like dust. "They call it alchemist's powder. It should fight the poison."

Derek puts his hands on my shoulders, guides me to stand facing Elizabeth. "It's time to change, old man," he whispers in my ear. "If you drink that stuff as a human it will kill you."

Chloe and Samantha take positions on either side of Elizabeth and begin to unbutton her dress. I take off my jacket, watch as they lift my bride's dress over her head, revealing the lack of underwear beneath. I breathe in at the sight of her naked, human body, tear the rest of my clothes off, drop them at my side. Behind me, I hear the rustle of clothes as Derek and his father and brother follow suit.

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 mind-speaks. "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?"