The Dragon DelaSangre

Chapter 29

Rage alternates with sorrow. I know my bride is dead. For the first time since our marriage, I can't find her touch. I have no sense of her. It's as if I've lost my sight, or my hearing. I am truly alone now, without hope, my future shattered.

Jorge Santos is to blame. I imagine making him die slowly, in great agony.

I yank on my chains but still they resist me. The manacles cut into my wrists and I welcome the pain.

Tears come again and I welcome them too. I understand now how Father felt when Mother died. Like him, I've lost my life's companion. And my child before he's ever known the world. I want to howl and tear my hair. Damn Jorge Santos!

And yet I can't blame the man completely. I am the murderer of his sister. I have been his captor. His woman, if she isn't dead, lies dying on the veranda of my house, mortally wounded by my wife. If anyone has good reason to kill, it is Santos.

And I have no doubt he intends to kill me. I know the man. I calculate how long it will take him to come for me.

As he does when he plays chess, he'll hesitate before he proceeds, fret that his position might be insufficient. With me imprisoned, he'll think he has the time to take every precaution.

First he'll make sure at least two rail guns are loaded. He won't bother with more, the guns are too large, and more of them would burden him too much.

Besides he has Chen and Tindall as his allies. Though Tindall, I'm sure, will prove worthless. He'll lag behind, argue for caution. As a miliary man, Chen will urge a quick assault. He'll feel safe enough to proceed as long as he holds a loaded machine gun.

But Santos will insist only he knows the house. I'm sure he'll feel the need for further protection before he ventures inside. He'll tarry long enough to load a few pistols too, stick them in his belt. Only then will he search the upper floors for Elizabeth. Only when he doesn't find her, will he come for me.

In truth I'm tempted to let him. My wife and child are gone. I sigh and lie down on my cot. The thought of life alone on my island fills me with dread. Santos, at least, has a mother to return to. I have no one.

I let the dark envelop me. I become nothing lost in nothingness, air floating within air, time lost for all time. I would float away if my chains didn't weigh me down. I would sink if the cot wasn't underneath me. This, I think, must be how it feels to die.

Perhaps I will.

My breathing irritates me. I hate the sound of my heart beating. I want complete silence. I try to still myself, achieve total calm. And still, the quieter I become, the less I move, the more something tweaks at my consciousness. A lingering thought? An emotion my subconscious refuses to stop feeling?

No matter how I try to dampen my senses, it intrudes. Finally, unable to ignore it, I concentrate on identifying it, disregard everything else. The sensations I receive frustrate me with their vagueness. It's almost like mindspeaking but not quite-as if it's slightly merged with the type of closeness Elizabeth and I shared. No words, no images, just feelings-fleeting impressions of occasional movement, occasionally restricted by something soft (a wall?), sometimes flashes of content, always the overwhelming sensation of moist warmth.

Elizabeth must be dead. I know it. I feel it. Yet my heart races at the thought that some remnant of her consciousness may be left, that some possibility may remain for her resurrection. I reach out for her, mindspeak, "Elizabeth?"

The answer stuns me. No words to it, no thoughts, just the feather-light touch of another presence brushing against my mind-not my wife but my unborn son.

Henri! My child may yet be saved. The realization changes everything. If I fail, if I permit Santos and the others to win, not only do I die but so does my son. Time, which meant nothing a few moments ago, means everything now.

I curse myself for wallowing in self-pity rather than recognizing the possibility of saving more than myself. By now they must be searching the floors above me. I must take action immediately. I turn my attention back to my surroundings, see nothing. Outside, at least, stars or a partial moon usually give me enough light to see through the darkness. But here in the cell with no lights on anywhere, blackness engulfs me.

The chains that bind me remain too strong to break, but for a creature who can change shape at will that hardly matters. I test whether the effects of the Dragon's Tear have abated enough, concentrate on narrowing my right hand and wrist.

My body seems almost indifferent to my wishes. It conforms to my shapechanging ever so slowly. I concentrate, ignore the pain the change requires and pray Santos's search of the house takes longer than my escape.

Finally, I'm able to slip my hand out of the right manacle.

My left hand and wrist go easier and I escape that fetter too, turn my attention to my ankles and feet. Only the slave collar remains. That proves the most difficult, as I elongate and narrow my head enough to slip free. I stand as soon as I throw the last chain off and almost topple back-the sudden rush of rising, coupled with the remaining effects of the Dragon's Tear wine and the total dark looming around me disorient and confuse me. I weave in place a few moments, focus my thoughts on where the cell door may be.

When I reach it, I find barely three inches of space exist between each thick iron bar. I almost cry when I think how difficult slipping my body out will be. Surely, I think, it can be done, but I've never attempted such a thing. I back up, pace a few steps. Taking deep breaths, steeling myself for the attempt, I pace a few steps more and walk headfirst into a wall that I didn't expect to encounter.

Then I remember Casey's insistence on putting me in a smaller cell. I grin, shake my head, take more deep breaths to clear my mind, then test my assumption by putting my back to the wall and walking forward until I touch the opposite wall. Just five steps! I almost laugh out loud. Santos will be so confused when he arrives to find the locked cell empty. I grab the end of the cot and yank on it, raising it, opening the passageway to the treasure room below and the door to the dock beyond it.

In their desire to place me in the smallest, least comfortable cell, Santos and Morton, who had no knowledge of the secret passage, unwittingly assured my escape.

Once on the stairs, I close the passageway behind me, take the steps two and three at a time. I waste no time turning on lights. I know the way. Rushing through the corridor, ripping my clothes off, I reach the door to the outside and throw it open. I wrinkle my nose at the stink of sulfur the expended gunpowder has left on the evening air, and change shape.

I leap toward the sky and travel from the dock to the veranda in a few wingbeats. My poor defiled Elizabeth lies broken and lifeless against the parapet. Casey Morton still lies a few yards away, amazingly still alive, gasping weak, ragged breaths.

Looking out to sea, I grin at the Grand Banks, pitching and bobbing at anchor, a quarter mile off shore. I knew Tindall wouldn't dare risk bringing it any closer.

I search for Santos and the others, make sure they're not lurking somewhere waiting to ambush me. But that is just caution. I'm sure they're still busy inside. Finding me gone will make them expect an attack behind every doorway.

My child remains my primary concern. I open my mind to him and thank the fates when I sense his presence. His mother's body has cooled and that change in his environment has sent the first tendrils of fear into his awareness.

"It's okay. You'll be fine," I mindspeak to him, knowing he won't grasp the meaning of the words, hoping he understands the love and reassurance behind them. "I'm your father, Henri. I'm here to take care of you."

I shudder as I slice Elizabeth open with my talons. If I could find another way I would, but my son must be saved. Reaching inside her, I search for the sac that holds the baby, find it and cut him free, lifting the slippery creature. My son mewls at the shock of open air.

Cradling him, trying to warm him against my body, I marvel how well-formed the child is-except for his tail, not much larger than a human baby. Henri moves his head and I find myself staring into his emerald-green eyes. I see him and sense everything he feels at the same time and the transfer of love between us makes my legs weak. Poor Elizabeth, I think, what a shame that she couldn't experience this.

I hold the child up to the sky and he mews, opening his mouth, clumsily opening and closing his wings. I feel his pangs of hunger, understand what is required for his sustenance. This was why my bride wanted our captives on hand, so the child's needs could be served.

The baby mews again when I place him on Casey Morton's chest. But soon he senses the live flesh beneath him and begins to feed. The woman trembles once, at his first attack, and then finally, thankfully, breathes her last breath. I let Henri feed alone a few minutes until, realizing how much energy I've expended, I begin to feast beside him.

A gust of wind blows over us and I wrinkle my nose at the stink it carries to me, the acrid aroma of human perspiration. I keep my head down as I stare upwind with one eye and spot Santos inching forward in the shadows, a rail gun in each hand, two ancient flintlock pistols stuffed through a belt on his waist.

He must have exited the house through one of the bedrooms on the other side, I think, and circled back toward us. I tense my muscles, but continue to feed, watching him, waiting to see where the others are, waiting for them to act.

Santos stops, lowers one gun to the floor, raises the other to his shoulder, aims and a takes a deep breath to steady himself before he tightens his finger on the trigger.

I grab Henri, leap away at that moment, and take to the air, the ball passing where I just was. A machine-gun blast goes off to my rear, Chen following my flight from the shadows, chasing me with his bullets until his clip empties.

"Damn! Fuck!" Santos yells. He throws the spent gun down, lifts the other, searches the dark sky for any sign of me.

But Henri is my first concern. I spiral around the house, wondering where best to put him. On my second circuit, I decide he'll be safest inside. Holding him close to my body, I crash through the picture window in the great room, grab pillows from the couch and use them to make a place for Henri in the far corner of the cupboard. Leaving him hidden there, I rush down the spiral staircase to my room.

I find the doors to the veranda still open, just as Elizabeth left them when she rushed out. I grin, thinking of the humans' faces when they see me. They'll be looking for me to attack from the sky, not to burst out from the room.

I linger, hidden in the room's shadows while I watch Santos, Chen and Tindall on the veranda, and listen to their conversation.

"Now what do we do?" Tindall asks.

Both Santos and Chen stare at him. "We?" Chen says. "Where's your weapon?"

"You know I don't use those things. I'm a lawyer. I fight with words…"

"So when that thing comes back, we'll stand back and watch you sue it," Santos says. Chen laughs.

"Laugh all you want. Remember, it's my boat that will take us away from here. Where would you be without me?" Tindall says.

"Don't remind me, Jeremy," Chen says, pointing his AK-47 in Tindall's direction. "Without you, my company would still be doing business with Caribbean Charm. Without you, my colleagues in China and I would never have lost so much money in the fire. Without you, my son, Benny, would still be alive. Without you, my men would be home with their families."

Tindall's face flushes. "Don't give me that shit. My son's dead too, you know. I didn't hear you or any of your colleagues object to setting up that company. You wanted to come after DelaSangre as much as I did. Without me, you'd never have known anything about his movements." He turns to Santos. "Without me, your ass would still be rotting in jail. Who the hell do you think arranged your bail?"

"I did," Chen says.

"But you never would have known about Santos without me."

"Shut up, both of you!" the Cuban says.

They turn, staring at him.

"We have to search the house again-and the island. We have to find that thing and the DelaSangres, kill them all." Seeing all three men so preoccupied in their conversation, I choose this moment to attack.

"Shit!" Santos shouts as I explode through the open doorway.

Tindall lets out a high-pitched scream, sees the other dead man's machine gun still lying on the ground, grabs it and runs away.

Chen stands his ground, fires at me, the AK-47 bucking in his hands, the muzzle flashing, almost every bullet striking the armored plates of my underbelly, penetrating them-each impact causing an explosion of pain.

I bellow, rush toward Chen. Santos raises his gun, tries to aim at me. But I'm too much a moving target, slashing out at Chen as I pass, taking to the air to swoop back and slash again. My talons rip flesh and muscle. Chen grasps his slit throat, gargling indecipherable words as he falls.

Santos follows my movements with his gun. Still flying, I veer, then circle away from him, leaving him to aim at an empty sky. Moments later, I return, approaching from his rear, swooping down and slashing his back open as I streak past. To his credit, he finally manages to get off his shot.

The massive lead ball strikes me in the back, between my wings. I bellow, struggle to maintain control of my wings, even as pain and weakness overwhelm me. I try to roar, but groan instead and crash to the ground-just feet away from Santos.

"Ha!" he yells. Then the pain of his injury strikes him and he sags to the floor.

We both lie still, man and dragon, side by side, moaning from our injuries.

Santos struggles to a sitting position first, glares at me.

"Fuck you!" he says, reaches for one of his pistols, pulls it from his belt and fires.

The ball hits, but hasn't the power to penetrate my scales. Before he can fire the other pistol, I whirl and smash him with my tail, throwing him across the veranda, stunning him.

While he lies on his back, dazed, a trickle of blood seeping from the side of his mouth, I drag myself across the veranda toward Chen's body. Once there I rip him open, take bite after bite, feeding on him, letting his meat nourish me and help me heal.

I keep an eye on Santos while I feed and concentrate on mending my wounds. He doesn't move, but he watches me, his eyes widening with each bite I take. Planning his next move, I'm sure, looking for any advantage he can find.

I've no intention to give him any. It is time, I think, to end this thing. Time for him to know just who and what I am. I flex my wings, stretch my limbs, feel the renewal of my energy and roar, breaking the night's calm with my sound. Santos winces, prepares for my attack. Instead I shift into my human form. Naked, I walk over to him, remove the remaining pistol from his belt and hold it in my right hand, pointing it at him.

The Cuban moans as he forces himself into a sitting position. "What the hell are you?"

"Tired," I answer. I have no desire to do a song and dance for this human. The glint of the torchlight on the gold clover-leaf chain around his neck catches my attention. I hold out my free hand. "Give me the chain."

"Sorry," the Cuban says. "I don't think I can do that. It belonged to my sister."

"I know. I took it from her after she died."

"After you killed her," Santos corrects me.

I look at the man, the human, and understand the loss he feels. But I no longer feel guilt for what occurred. I shrug. I am what I am, I think.

Tindall emerges from the shadows, comes into the torchlight, the AK-47 in his hands.

"Shoot him!" Santos shouts.

Jeremy points the machine gun at me. "I always knew you were some sort of monster, but I never imagined this."

I stare at him, wonder if he has any idea how to use the weapon in his hands, wonder how many rounds are left in the machine gun's magazine. "Put the gun down, Jeremy," I say.

He shakes his head. "Then you'll kill me. You put your gun down."

If I try to shoot him first and fail, I chance leaving my child in jeopardy. It's a risk I find myself unwilling to take. I know Jeremy. If he thinks there's a way out, he'll take it. I nod, lay my pistol on the ground. "Have I ever tried to kill you before, Jeremy? You've certainly given me reason enough to do so. Put the gun down."

Santos screams. "Damn you, shoot him!"

Tindall pauses, seems to reconsider, but then his eyes harden and he stares through the gunsight at me.

Before he can squeeze the trigger, I say, "Think, Jeremy. You've seen me survive wounds that would kill any man. What makes you think that your bullets are any more powerful than the others? Are you sure you want to risk this?"

"What choice do I have?"

"Jeremy, what good would it do me to kill you? Who can replace you at the office? You know I need you," I say. "We've always worked out our differences. Put down the gun. I promise I'll let you leave."

"You asshole," Santos mutters. "What good are his promises?"

"Have you ever seen me break my word?" I ask.

Tindall shakes his head, says, "I didn't want it to come to this, but you left me no choice. The Red Army owns Chen's factory. They were furious he lost so much money. Chen promised them he would take revenge and recover their investment. He threatened to kill me if I didn't help him. I had to. Besides, you killed his son and mine. You shouldn't have, Peter."

"Maybe so," I say. "But it's time now to put the gun down."

"Don't!" Santos growls.

Tindall takes careful aim again. I suck in a breath, wait to see whether his finger tightens or not.

No one speaks. Only the crash of the waves, as they rush and retreat from the shore, breaks the silence of the night. I stare at Tindall, at the rifle's black muzzle. Somewhere in the dark a dog whimpers. A gust of wind rushes across the veranda, sends the torchlight's flames into frenzied spasms, the shadows dancing all around us in sympathy.

Finally, I shake my head, deciding it's time to push this worthless creature, see if he thinks he can withstand my power, see if he actually possesses any courage. "Jeremy, shoot or put the damn thing down," I growl.

Tindall adjusts his position, seating the rifle butt a little more firmly into his shoulder. His eyes harden, his jaw clenches and I prepare to jump to the side as soon as I see the first twinge of muscle movement in his hand, wondering if I can move and change fast enough. But then sweat breaks out on his forehead, streams down his face and the rifle barrel begins to waver ever so slightly.

"Put it down, Jeremy," I say again. "We both know you're no assassin. It's time for you to go home."

Trembling, shaking his head, the thin man slowly lowers the AK-47 to the ground.

Santos groans. I smile at him, then look at Tindall. "Go back to your boat, Jeremy," I say. "We'll settle this later."

"Thank you, Peter," he says, backing away. "You won't be sorry. Thank you."

As he makes his way across the island, I hear the growls and barks of the few remaining dogs. Glad some have survived, I whistle them back, to make sure they allow him safe passage.

Once I hear the outboard motor cough to life, I turn to Santos. "Get up," I say. "I need your help."

He winces and moans, but still manages to struggle to his feet. "That man is a fool, isn't he?"

"Aren't you all?" I ask.

My child yowls loud enough for his wails to reach us outside. I glance at the third-floor windows, wishing I could rush upstairs to hug and reassure him. But there are things I still must do to make him safe.

"Jesus!" Santos says. "What is that?"

"My son," I say. I point to Elizabeth's remains. "And that's my wife. You killed her."

Jorge flexes his shoulders, grimaces at the pain the movement brings. "I don't suppose you're going to let me go, huh?"

I shake my head, then look seaward, follow the white foam trail of the inflatable's wake, calculate how long it will be before Tindall reaches the Grand Banks.

"Come on," I say. "We don't have much time."

"Why should I help you?" Santos says.

Why indeed? I think. I look at the man, standing upright despite his wounds, defiant even though he knows he has little hope. "You want to get away?" I ask.

He nods.

"After this is over, I'll give you the chance."

"Like the one you're giving Tindall? I told him not to trust your promises."

"You'll get a fair shot," I say. "I told Tindall he could leave and I let him. I told him we'd work it out later." I smile. "This is later."

Santos laughs bitterly. "Okay, DelaSangre, let's get this over. I can't wait to see what you think a fair chance is."

I bring the powder and ball and watch him load the cannon. Together we turn the old ship killer, aim it for where Tindall's inflatable will be in a few minutes.

"It's going to be a tough shot." Santos shakes his head.

"I thought you said you were good," I say. I go to the arms room, bring back Father's ancient spyglass.

"It would be easier to hit the trawler."

"No," I say, extending the telescope, studying the dark water, finding the white churn of the outboard's propeller, the silhouette of the motor, the dim form of Tindall's back slightly forward and above it. "A shallow trajectory should do it."

I hand the spyglass to Santos, go for a lit torch while he gets a sense of what I suggest. Finally he says, "I think you're right."

Santos checks the wind, sets the elevation on the cannon, shows me just where he thinks the ball will hit.

"I'll tell you when he comes into range," I say, taking the telescope, handing him the torch, both of us keeping our eyes seaward, following Tindall's movements.

Santos stands by my side, a flaming torch in his hand. He stares at the ocean, waits for my command.

I wait until the inflatable is within a few dozen yards of the trawler. By now I'm sure Tindall thinks he's reached safety. I smile. "Now!" I shout.

The cannon roars, belches flame. The ball, traveling almost parallel to the water, strikes the outboard motor first, turning it into a thousand flying metal fragments, sparking the fuel line and the gas tank at the same time as it strikes Tindall.

Tindall and the inflatable both disappear with one brief flash of fire.

Santos, still staring out to sea, whistles, then mutters, "Wow."

The night settles around us. The sea breeze washes away the sulfur stink of the cannon's smoke. In the house, Henri has quieted. I sigh and stare at the sea. Any time before this night, I know, I would have laughed and grinned with Santos, celebrating the success of our jointly executed cannon shot.

Santos turns to me. "Now what?" he says.

I sigh again. Death lies all around us, blood stains the veranda's floor and still, one more life has to be taken. I can think of no other way. Father was right. No human can ever be trusted. But as easy as it would be, I have no desire to simply execute this man.

"Go get one of the rail guns and load it," I say, walking over to the ancient flintlock pistol I placed on the deck, picking it up.

"You sure I can't get one of the machine guns?" Santos says.

"I'm sure."

He wanders the veranda, collects one of the spent blunderbusses, takes it to the arms room for ball and powder and returns to load it within my view. "We're having a duel, is that it?"

I nod. "I promised you a fair chance."

"What if you lose?"

"I won't," I say, thinking how easy it is to read his movements.

"You never know, DelaSangre, you never know. I almost had you tonight, twice, and you know it."

"Just load the damn thing."

When he finishes ramming the load home, he looks at me and shrugs. "Well, it wasn't all bad… Another time, another place, who knows? After all, you thought we were friends, didn't you?"

Santos cocks the rail gun, primes the flash pan and aims at me.

It shames me to realize I once thought some sort of friendship had formed between us. I raise the pistol, cock and aim it. "My kind and your kind can never be friends."

"And what kind are yours?" he asks.

I look into his eyes, wait for Santos to signal his intent. He doesn't turn away. He doesn't flinch. His bravery earns him the right to a response, I think.

But Santos doesn't wait for my reply. He sucks in a steadying breath and, sure of what that signals, I squeeze my finger on my pistol's trigger-just an instant before he squeezes his.

My gun flares at the same moment I spit out the answer to his question. "Dragons."