Dragon Moon (11 page)

My father taught me this way and I can think of no way better.
“You don't have to flap your wings so much,”
I remind Henri.
“Let the air do the work. Watch how I do it.”

I grunt, say,
“Good,”
when Henri mimics my motions exactly. Soon, I know, the boy will master the technique enough and build sufficient stamina to follow me on a hunt.

The thought of hunting, the hunger that's building within me prompts me to call an end to the play. I guide Henri back to the island, circle the house and fly through the open window, into the great room. Henri follows laughing, half lands, half tumbles into me.
“You said we couldn't go through it,”
he mindspeaks.

I nuzzle him.
“And sometimes we can.”

Despite Henri's protests, I insist he go to bed before I leave to hunt. In return, he insists on remaining in his natural form and sleeping on his bed of hay. I wait for him to surrender to sleep and leave only after his breathing slows and his head slumps — leaving me with the improbable image of my dragon-child curled up in the hay, cuddling his cute, pink, stuffed bunny.

It's after midnight before I take to the air again and I've little patience to venture far to hunt and feed. I circle the island twice, discard the notion of flying to Cuba or the Bahamas, likewise decide against cruising the Straits of Florida in search of Cuban rafters. Safety be damned: I want both fresh prey and revenge.

Father would never have approved of my plan.
“Rich people are too visible. Leave them alone,”
he often said.
“The poor are easier to take. No one cares about them.”

I know he was right, realize he would have scolded me for such recklessness, but I can't let an injury to my child occur without retribution. Father would have given the task to Gomez. I want the pleasure of it myself.

Besides, thanks to Arturo's research, I know the risk is minimal. Dr. Sean Mittleman and his blond girlfriend live alone in a large house on a canal in Gables Estates. They rarely entertain and are usually in their bedroom by ten, as are most of their rich and elderly neighbors. Best of all, while guarded security gates restrict admission to the area, no guards patrol the waterways.

Flying low, I skim the water as I cross the bay and glide down the channel leading into Gable Estates. I've little fear of discovery. This is a rich man's enclave, with each mansion an exercise in excess. Security alarms protect each house from unwanted entry. I doubt such rich and protected people feel the need to scour the dark for potential attackers.

Except for an occasional dog's bark, no one, nothing reacts as I fly along the canals searching for Dr. Sean Mittleman's Cigarette speedboat. I find it docked on the northernmost canal, farthest from the bay where the homes, while still huge, are the smallest in the community.

Landing on the bow of the Cigarette, I study my surroundings. Except for the rustling of the leaves, the lapping of the water against the seawall, the night is still. No one is outside. Nothing makes noise. Without the few scattered windows glowing in the darkness, the area could be taken for deserted.

A large picture window on the second foor of the Mittleman house shows such a light. I mull my choices, consider if there's some way to lure Mittleman and his woman outside where they can be taken without fuss, without leaving traces of violence and blood for the police and the media to sensationalize.

Finally, I shrug, spring forward and take to the air. We are after all, I think, what we are.

The window explodes inward as I smash through it. A Klaxon horn sounds. In the king-sized bed the blonde, naked except for sheer white panties, screams. Mittleman, balding, the fat around his middle overlapping his muscle-man briefs, shouts, “Christ!” and dives for his nightstand drawer, pulls out a small black automatic.

With little time before the alarm brings the security guards, I strike the blonde first, stunning her with one blow from my tail.

Mittleman backs up to the wall, shooting as I approach, gunshots cracking round after round, the man unaware that the gun is too small of a caliber for the bullets to do more than slap at my armored scales. I growl at his insolence, seize his throat in one taloned claw and drag him to the window. “What?” he gurgles. “Why?”

If time permitted I would change to human form and explain the peril and pain he inflicted on my son. But that is not an option now. I continue to choke him. When he collapses in my grasp, I throw him out the window.

I do the same with the blonde, leaping out after them, spreading my wings, scooping up their crumpled forms, one in each claw, from the backyard lawn as I zoom over them, the door chimes of the house ringing moments later as the security guards arrive and press the front doorbell button.

“Henri?”
I mindspeak as I cross the bay. In my grasp Mittleman squirms and curses. The blonde remains limp.
“Henri?”

I sense that the boy is still sleepy, fighting to rouse himself from his slumber. I imagine him stretching in his bed of hay, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his claws.
“I'll be home in a few minutes,”
I mindspeak.

“Fresh prey?”
he mindspeaks.

My stomach growls and I realize how hungry I've become.
“Very fresh ... meet me on the veranda.”

As I near the island, Mittleman increases his struggles, yells, “Let me go!” and tries to unpry my talons from their grasp. Beating my wings I fly higher until the air grows cold, then I release both humans, thinking Henri is still too young to participate in the slaughter of a human — even one as vile as Dr. Sean Mittleman.

Mittleman lets out a high-pitched scream. The blonde falls in silence. I dive after them, slash out as I pass them, killing each with a massive rip of my claws. I catch their bodies before they strike the water and carry them home.

Henri joins me a few minutes after I lay the bodies out on the veranda's deck. He approaches both, sniffs the thick aroma of fresh blood in the air, waits for me to take the first bite before he begins to feed beside me, his snout so close that it rubs against mine.

Beyond the walls the smell has drawn the dogs and they yelp and bark and growl while they wait for the remains they know we will feed to them.

“Papa?”
Henri mindspeaks as he feeds.
“When can I go on a hunt?”

I pause eating for a moment, smile, nudge the child feeding beside me.
“Not big enough,”
I mindspeak.

“When?”
he asks.

“Don't be in such a rush,”
I say. I find a piece of meat that I know Henri will like and push it in front of him, watch him as he sniffs it.

He closes his eyes when he begins to chew, makes a mewing sound as he eats.

Mighty hunter, I think, and feed beside him.

8

I hardly sleep the night before we leave. Memories of Elizabeth flood my mind each time I close my eyes. I remember her touch, her wildness when we made love. No matter how I turn, no matter what thoughts I try to have, I can't pull my mind away from replaying scenes of our lovemaking. It brings me no pleasure to remember it now. It only sharpens a need I've tried to ignore for over four years.

Finally, before dawn, when I find myself wondering for the third time that night what sex with Chloe will be like, I give up any further attempt to rest and leave my bed. I dress and busy myself — wandering the house, making sure all is secure, going to the treasure room and bringing up the small wood chest filled with gold coins I plan to give to Chloe's parents. After carrying it to the dock, I make two more trips to bring out all our luggage too. I load all of it in the rear of the Grady White's cockpit, returning to the house, checking everything once more before I wake Henri.

He and I are done with breakfast, ready to travel before Claudia arrives to ferry us to shore. She finds us waiting for her on the dock.

I watch her maneuver the SeaRay alongside the dock, help her tie off the lines, noting the tight khaki shorts she's wearing, the white tank top with no bra. She steps off the boat and I struggle to keep my eyes off her. Shaking my head, I turn away. I should have no interest in this woman. I worry once again if I've gone too damn long without another's touch. Or is it the knowledge that I'll be in Jamaica before nightfall that's been flooding my mind with memories, weakening my self-control?

“Ready to go?” she says.

“Absolutely.” Riding as a passenger this time, I let Claudia take the helm of the Grady White, the girl guiding us out of the channel, speeding us toward shore, Henri wedged between us, clutching his pink bunny.

It's a perfect summer morning — the blue sky just a few shades lighter than the flat bay waters, the puffy white clouds just numerous enough to offer intermittent relief from a bright July sun, the wind just strong enough to take the edge off the day's heat. From the water, our island looks like a small green paradise and as anxious as I am to go, as tired as I am of waiting, I still feel an emptiness as I watch it recede behind us.

The last time I left my home, I left at night, alone, cruising for weeks on a trawler before I finally reached my destination. By then I had already found and won my bride. This time I'm leaving in daylight, with a small child to look after. After only a short boat ride, an equally brief journey by car and an hour and a half flight, I'll be in Jamaica with no certainty how much longer I'll have to wait or whether my trip will have been in vain.

Henri picks up on my mood. “I've never been on a plane,” he mumbles, hugging his bunny.

“It'll be fine,” I say.

Still, the boy barely whispers, “Hello,” when Arturo meets us at the dock, doesn't say “Good-bye,” to Claudia. He follows us in silence as we carry the luggage to the car, doesn't even smile when Arturo tries to lift the wood chest and grimaces in surprise when he finds it's too heavy for him.

“There's gold in this,” I say to Arturo as I pick up the chest, put it to the rear of the trunk. “I want you to arrange to have your agents deliver it to me in Jamaica.” The Latin nods. He knows better than to ask why.

Neither Henri nor I feel much like talking and our monosyllabic answers quell any attempts Arturo makes at polite chatter. He only talks to me again at Miami International, after the skycap has taken our bags. “Here,” he says, handing me a large envelope.

I open it, go through our tickets and passports, glance at the papers regarding Bartlet House, our new home in Jamaica. “Looks like it's everything we need.”

“If you need anything else, just call,” Arturo says. “Ian says someone called Granny will meet you at the airport?”

“Yes.”

“He'll have all your keys and stuff too.”

“I know,” I say. “Ian told me.”

Arturo grins. “Too bad you haven't be able to see him the past couple of days. He
is
pissed and taking it out on everyone. Wherever he goes in the office, people fall over each other trying to avoid him.”

I smile. “He'll get over it.”

“Or not,” Arturo says, shrugging.

Henri wastes no time claiming the window position as soon as the Air Jamaica flight attendant points out our seat locations in first class.

“That boy sure is anxious, isn't he?” she says, her island accent subdued, just hinting at her background. She flashes me a grin, fussing over Henri, fastening his seat belt.

“I'm anxious too,” I say, returning her smile. Her light brown, nearly mocha skin and her close-cropped hair remind me of Elizabeth — almost too much. I fight an impulse to touch her forearm, stroke her brown skin.

The flight attendant has no such compunction about touching me. She rests her hand on my shoulder and says, “First time?”

I shake my head. “Second time to Jamaica for me, first for him.”

“Vacation?” she says.

Pausing before answering, I think of Chloe and my quest. “Visiting family,” I say.

“Oh, is your wife already there?”

“She passed away years ago.”

“So young,” she says.

I shrug and her hand squeezes my shoulder. “If there's anything I can do for you, please let me know. My name's Althea,” she says.

Once in the air, Henri can't keep his eyes off the window. “Papa this is higher than we've ever flown!” he says.

{
Mindspeak to me,
} I say. {
Practice being private.
}

{
I don't like to. It feels funny.
}

{
I told you this is how we have to mindspeak once we get to Jamaica. You might as well get used to it,
} I say.

It's a disagreement we've had since I first started teaching Henri how to mask his thoughts. I understand how he feels. I felt the same way when my parents taught me — it was as if I were squeezing my thoughts through a strainer.

Father said to think of my mind as a radio that had to be tuned to different frequencies.
“It's sometimes painful learning new habits, Peter,”
he said.
“But there may come a time, if you're with others of the blood, that you won't want your mindspeaking to be heard by all.”

“I don't like it!” Henri says out loud.

{
Mindspeak to me — masked!
}

Henri looks at his feet. {
Yes, Papa.
}

{
In Jamaica there will be others like us. There's a chance they might hear us if we mindspeak too strongly. I don't want them to realize we're there until I'm ready for them to know. When you mask your thoughts the way I taught you, only I can hear you and only you can hear me.
}