The Dragon DelaSangre

Chapter 2

Maria answers her phone on the fifth ring, just after her machine picks up. I disconnect and wait a few minutes before dialing again. Recording our conversation would serve me no good.

This time she answers on the second ring. "Hello," she says, her voice small and heavy with sleep.

I smile at the sound of her, picture her lying askew, warm and comfortable in a rumpled bed. "Hi," I say. "You told me to call any time."

"So what time is it?" she murmurs into the receiver, then yawns. "And who are you?"

"Peter. The guy with green eyes… you gave me your number a few weeks ago. It's a little past one."

"Mierda. I just got to sleep." She yawns again, rustles her bed sheets. "Peter?" Her voice turns coy. "I remember you. I didn't think you were going to call."

"I told you I would."

"Yeah, guys tell me lots of things… sometimes they even mean it."

"Well it's a beautiful night and I was wondering if you'd like to go for a boat ride."

"Now?"

"I have to come across the bay. I can pick you up at the Dinner Key docks in about forty-five minutes. Is that a problem?"

She says, "No, not really."

The Chris Craft runabout hasn't been used for months. Its motors cough, sputter and die the first few times I try to start them. "Damn!" I shout at the boat, thinking I should have sunk the thing when I first saw it. I don't want to use my Grady White this evening. Too many people on the waterfront know who owns that boat. But then the Chris Craft's motors catch and settle into a purr.

Maria, I think, will like this boat better. It's a rich man's boat, all varnished wood, upholstered seats and gleaming brass-useless, of course, for fishing or serious boating. I chuckle. The boat was too pretty to ignore and the wealthy couple I took it from were just as pretty, just as useless and very, very surprised at their fate.

When I brought them home, Father had been so angry that I ignored his rules that he almost turned down his share. "You forget. Peter, that we only survive because of our anonymity. You must not put us at risk like this. Hunt over Bimini or Cuba instead. If the authorities here ever became aware of our existence, of what we are, they would never relax until we were eradicated."

Maria waits for me to tie up the boat and walk up the dock before she leaves the safety of her locked car. "Too many creeps around here," she says.

I nod, hug her and inhale the warm smells of fresh skin, bath soap and fruit-scented shampoo that surround her. She giggles when I stroke her hair. "It's not dry yet. I just showered and didn't have enough time to blow-dry it." Maria laughs again when I kiss her on top of her damp head, and hugs me back.

She smiles, striking a pose when I step back to admire her. She's come dressed sensibly for a late night on the open water. Still, even in baggy, long jeans and a windbreaker, Maria manages to be tempting. It helps that the jacket is open, showing off her tube top, exposed stomach and pierced navel. She fiddles with her belly-button ring. "So? You like?"

I nod and return her smile. But I wonder. Dressed as Maria is, she could be just another adolescent at the mall. "How old are you anyway?" I ask.

Maria laughs, gives me a bad-girl sort of look. "Don't worry," she says. "I just look young… I'm twenty-two." She walks to the edge of the dock, examines the Chris Craft. "Nice boat… How old are you?"

"How old do you think?" I step onto the boat's bow. It's low tide and the deck is a good three feet below the dock. Maria allows me to help her down, then makes an exaggerated show out of examining my face.

"I'd say about twenty-six."

"Twenty-nine," I tell her. I try not to look too pleased. If Father were nearby, he'd laugh at my vanity, point out that even he could look young if he wanted to expend the energy. I wonder how Maria would react if she knew I am almost twice the age she guessed.

I steer the Chris Craft from the docks, out the Fisherman's Channel. As we clear the last of the spoil islands that protect the marina, the boat rides up and down on lazy swells pushed north by a gentle southeast wind. Around us, on both sides of the channel, dozens of boats moored in the free anchorage bob in sympathy to the water's slow relentless dance.

"It's beautiful," Maria says. She shivers from the coolness of the night air and presses against me. The top of her head nestles under my chin. I feel her warmth, smell her excitement.

I have no doubt she plans to end the evening as I do-in my bed. I study her young, plump, ripe body and feel lust and hunger grow within me.

We pass the last channel marker and I jam the throttle forward. The Chris Craft's motors roar, its stern digs into the water, its bow rises high then settles and Maria laughs as we accelerate into the darkness of the open bay-the boat's props spewing white froth into our wake.

"Can I steer?" she asks. I let her take my place behind the wheel, show her how to guide the boat through the water and make sure she holds us on course for my island. The boat skitters across the water, seems to leap from wave to wave, barely slowing at each impact, spraying water to each side.

Near the island, Maria fails to anticipate a particularly large swell rushing toward us and slices through it, taking a solid slap of seawater over the bow. Saltwater spray fills the air around us, coats our faces. She laughs and I can't resist kissing her, mixing the salt taste on her lips with the sweet freshness of her mouth.

Overhead a jet drones its way toward Miami International, and a quarter moon dimly glows in the black sky. I take the wheel, slow the boat and turn into the island's channel. Behind us, Miami's lights glow on the horizon. The island, Blood Key, is a dark shadow to our front.

Maria points toward it. "Is that where we're going?"

I nod.

"It's so dark."

"We'll rum the lights on when we get there," I tell her and hug her close. "Sometimes lights attract the wrong sort of visitors."

She nods. "But… wouldn't it make it easier for you to guide the boat in?"

"No. I grew up on that island. I know the way." I slow the boat a little more. The motors' growls subside into throaty purrs and we glide through the water, rising and falling with the swells. A gust of wind rushes around us and I pull her to me, and press my lips to hers again.

Maria holds me, kisses longer than I'd intended, then backs off and smiles at me. "And just what are we going to be doing on this island of yours?"

I grin back. "Whatever two people do when they're deserted on an island together."

She sighs, leans against me. "It's so beautiful here." The wind gusts again, washes over us. Maria takes a deep breath. "I love the smell of the ocean!"

I breathe in too, savor the salt smell around us, the sharp scent of excitement building around her and then… another scent penetrates my nostrils, and makes my heart race. It smells of cinnamon and cloves, maybe musk and something else-pungent, almost rank, disturbing yet somehow familiar. I sniff the air, wonder whether I imagined it-disappointed to find only a memory of it in the air.

I cut the motors, let the boat wallow and I breathe deeply again.

"Is anything wrong?" Maria asks.

"No." I shake my head. "I thought I smelled something."

She frowns, watches me as I sniff the air. "Something bad? Fire?"

"Something strange," I say, finding no trace of the aroma remaining in the air. "Maybe…" I let the word hang, leave the thought unfinished. My shoulders suddenly feel tense and I flex my back, stretch my neck and push the Chris Craft's throttle forward. Maria presses against me as the boat regains its forward momentum. I hug her and guide the runabout toward shore.

Dogs bark and growl in the darkness as we enter the island's small harbor. I feel Maria tense beside me, smell the acid aroma of fear building within her. "Watchdogs," I explain. Two thick, dark forms pace and stare, snarl deep growls at our approach.

"Slash and Scar, the two alpha dogs. They lead the pack."

"Sweet names," she says, her sarcasm evident.

I smile at her. "There are at least fifteen others like them out there in the dark. We have them to keep the island private and prevent uninvited guests from disturbing our estate."

Slash and Scar continue to growl, and hold their ground as we approach the dock. I pick up the boat's searchlight and flash it on them. They pause a minute, two black, furry beasts frozen in the beam-their massive teeth showing stark white in the artificial light-then they bolt off, into the darkness.

Maria gasps. "They're huge."

I shake my head, cut the motors and let the boat coast to the dock. "They're no larger than German shepherds. They just have overly large heads and mouths," I say. I hop off the boat and tie the lines to the dock cleats. "But they've been bred to look like that, to guard this island. My ancestor, Don Henri, brought the first dogs to control the slaves he used to build our house. Over the years we've added others, eliminated the weak and timid ones, until we ended up with our own breed, all of them like the two you've just seen."

A chorus of growls comes from the dark shadows just inland of the docks. "Don't they scare you?" Maria asks.

"No." I'm tempted to laugh at the question. These creatures know who is the master of this island. They tuck their tails and cringe before my displeasure. I bring two fingers to my mouth and whistle three times-short, sharp bursts that pierce the quiet of the night. The growls cease, their sound replaced by the rustle of the underbrush as the pack scurries away.

Maria reaches up and I lift her from the boat and place her on the dock. She giggles at the ease with which I handle her, feels my biceps and mutters, "So powerful."

Something about the way she does it makes me feel boastful and I pick her up and cradle her to my chest. She looks up and we kiss.

"Peter," Father mindspeaks to me.

I sigh. "Father, I'm busy." I carry Maria down the dock toward the house. She snuggles against me.

"I heard your whistle… It woke me."

"Go back to sleep."

"Have you brought me something? Something young and sweet?" Father asks.

I heft Maria in my arms and she sighs. "I don't know if I have or not," I tell Father. "It's been a confusing evening so far."

"How so?"

"There was something in the air… a strange scent, like cinnamon mixed with other things… It disturbed me."

Maria shifts in my arms. "Can you put me down? Is it safe? I'd like to see your house."

"It's safe," I say and put her down.

"I knew you brought me something!"

"She's here for me, Father. Go to sleep."

"I may know what that smell was …"

"Tell me, Father, then go away!"

His chuckle fills my head. "Later," Father mindspeaks. "I'm an old man… tired and hungry… with an ungrateful and selfish son. Wake me when you have something to bring me and we'll discuss that strange aroma you discovered. "

"Father!"

"Later, Peter, didn't you tell me to sleep?"

I feel the emptiness around me and know he's closed himself off. Irritating old man.

"You said, 'we,' before," Maria asks. "You don't live here alone?"

"No." I shake my head. "My father lives with me. He stays in his room mostly. He's very old and very sick."

"Oh," Maria says. "Sorry." She takes my hand in hers, and squeezes it.

We walk to the end of the dock, neither of us speaking, the night silent except for the irregular slap of water lapping at the dock, the whisper of the evening wind rustling through the trees and the rhythm of the ocean waves' gentle rush.

At the end of the dock a massive iron gate, set into an archway made from coral stone, blocks access through the thick, high coral fence that guards the homestead. Maria and I stop in front of it and she waits while I take an ancient key from my pocket and unlock the gate's equally ancient lock.

Maria cocks an eyebrow at the darkness looming beyond the gate, then looks to me for reassurance.

"Wait," I say and step through the gateway, reach for the weatherproof switchbox inside the wall and throw the lever on the side of the box. Maria gasps as the lights come on, illuminating the stone pathway to the house, accenting the gardens my mother planted so many years ago. Floodlights shine on the house's coral walls, throwing shadows that make the three-story building look larger than it is. At the end of the walk, coach lights ascend the wall in tandem with the wide, deep, rough-hewn coral steps that lead upward to the veranda that surrounds the house.

"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.