Dragon Moon (13 page)

Later, Henri follows me downstairs. Together we inspect the cavernous dining room, the enormous glossy slab of finished wood that serves as the table, the ten chairs lined on each side, the two others at each end. “Are we going to eat here, Papa?” my son says.

Shaking my head, I go through the kitchen door. A plain white table sits off to the side, six metal chairs around it. “There,” I say, pointing to the table.

Visibly relieved, Henri sits down, swings his feet while I take two steaks out of the freezer and defrost them in the microwave. We eat together in silence.

After dinner, I remember the satellite dish on the side of the house, the TV in the upstairs family room. “Do you want to watch?” I ask Henri. He shakes his head and instead comes upstairs with me to the screened veranda overlooking the swimming pool. I sit in a rattan rocking chair. He sits in another beside me and together we rock and stare as the day darkens.

“Can we fly tonight, Papa?” Henri says.

I shake my head. “I need to learn more about the area before you can fly,” I say. “It will be best if I go by myself first. Make sure you'll be safe.”

“I'll be safe.”

“No, son, I want to make sure. I'll go tonight after you're asleep.”

“Will you hunt?”

“I doubt it,” I say, looking past the trees to the hills behind. “First I have to see where we can go.”

The air turns chilly as it darkens. Soon fireflies begin to wink in the dusk, stars appear, lizards and frogs croak in the gloom. The wind picks up and rustles the leaves, moans as it rushes through the branches. A sliver of moon shows itself. Henri puts his hand on my forearm. “I liked it better at home, Papa,” he says.

Henri falls asleep in the rocking chair. I carry him to his room, place him in bed, undress him, put him in one of the overlarge T-shirts he likes to sleep in and tuck him under the covers. Then I go out to the veranda, turn on the pool lights and descend the stairs to the deck.

An owl hoots somewhere in the dark and I smile at it and the other night sounds that seem to greet me — the whistling of the wind through the trees, the chirping of the crickets and the low croaks of a lone bullfrog. I undress and change, glad to be shed of my human form, anxious to assume my natural shape, eager to explore my new domain.

Taking to the air, I ascend in a tight spiral over Bartlet House, studying the lit pool beneath me, the lights glowing through the upstairs windows. How embarrassing it would be to lose my way back to my own home. Once I'm sure I can recognize the Bartlet House, I spiral higher, widening my circles, recognizing the Martha Brae river by the small glints of moonlight it reflects.

The smell of a barbecue reaches me and I soar over the Good Hope Estate, look down on an open fire, at least a dozen guests gathered around it. As secluded as my ten acres are, these beings stay too close for my comfort. I know I can't fault Arturo or Ian. They chose as well as they could. How could they know that some fool tourists would prefer to vacation so far from the beaches?

I turn inland, glide over a dark terrain intermittently lit by a single home's lights. The town of Windsor shows itself by the illumination coming from dozens of scattered homesites and then I reach the darkness of the edge of Cockpit Country.

My heartbeat accelerates as I fly over the first hilltop. I want to roar but don't dare risk being overheard. I want to hunt. I want to find a woman of my own kind to make love to — not an imitation like Althea. I dive into the small valley that follows the hill and soar over the next hilltop, keeping close to the dark ground in case any members of Chloe's family are about.

Flying this way, so from above my form is masked by the darkness below, I'm sure, if I wanted, I could make my way to Morgan's Hole, their home, without their detecting. Part of me wishes Chloe would discover me now. But I know no good can come of it.

Father explained it to me before I went off to find my first mate.
“Among our kind,”
he said.
“To try to take a female as a mate before she reaches her first oestrus is forbidden. The female would resist and her family would be duty bound to stop and kill whoever tried to take her. Our females can only be approached after they've reached maturity and then, only when they're in heat.

“Don't worry, son.”
he chuckled.
“Once our women mature, before they mate, they come into heat every four months. During oestrus, they have no choice but to accept the first suitor who reaches them and that one becomes their mate for life.”

I sigh and turn away from the direction that would lead me to Morgan Hole. Until Chloe comes to term, she must remain unapproachable for me.

Banking left, halfway to Troy, I stay low, brushing treetops as I see if I can find the homes at Barbecue Bottom near where Elizabeth's brother Derek first took me off the road into the true wilds of Cockpit Country. But either the homes with lights still burning are too few, or it's been too long since I flew over there for me to be sure of what I see.

I pass over a man leading a goat down a path, a thin cord tied around the animal's neck. Circling, I wonder if I should take him. Henri would be pleased if I returned with such a treat. The man's oblivious to my surveillance and I land a few hundred yards past him, hiding in the bushes by the path while I weigh my hunger against the caution my parents taught me to always take in new surroundings.

A dark shape hurtles over me — too fast, I think — flattens its trajectory just moments before it crashes to earth, striking the Jamaican from behind, yanking him into the air, the rope falling behind him, the goat bleating into the night. The man lets out one anguished cry before he goes silent, slumped in the creature's grasp.

Knowing what it is, but not who, I back farther into the shadows, under the trees, my heart racing.

“Got one!”
someone mindspeaks.

“You bloody well got mine,”
another replies.
“At least get the goat too.”

I move closer to an opening in the tree covering so I can get an unobscured view of the sky. Even with the moonlight so dim, I can make out the forms of two of my kind circling overhead, one of them large — the other, smaller, burdened with the weight of the now dead man.

If I didn't recognize the larger one from his form, I'd still have no doubt from hearing his mindthoughts — Derek, Chloe and Elizabeth's older brother. The dead Jamaican carried under the smaller one blocks me from seeing who it is.

It must be Philip, Chloe's younger brother, I think, smiling. The boy has to be twelve or thirteen now, certainly old enough for hunting. He's large for his age. Another five or six years and Derek better watch out for how he talks to his younger brother.

“It's bad enough Pa makes me take you with me, you whelp.”
The larger form descends, passes directly over me, close enough that I can feel the wind from its passage.
“I told him you should have gone with Chloe instead, or Ma. You're too bloody young to tag along with me.”

“I'm the one who saw him first,”
Philip says.
“Not the one who's too old to see anything that's not standing still and waving for attention.”

Derek circles to pass over the goat one more time. As he does so the smaller creature starts to fly away.
“Let me know if you catch the goat!”
Philip laughs, increases his speed.

The larger male changes direction, follows the smaller.
“Damn you, slow down! You better remember to leave me my share this time. Not like before.”

Philip laughs again.
“See if you can catch me, old man!”

I stay in the shadows, grinning, until they race out of sight. I really hadn't spent much time with Philip the last time I was in Jamaica. The boy seems to have grown up well. I'll be glad for Henri to meet this uncle. I think he may learn some things from him.

The goat bleats again and I turn my attention to it. I may have to return home without human prey tonight, but that doesn't mean I have to go back empty-handed.

The animal watches me as I emerge from the shadows and walk down the path toward it. Too frightened to run, it shivers in place, bleating every few seconds. I check overhead, see nothing but the dark sky, the clouds and stars and moon. Part of me wishes Chloe were near. I scan the sky for any sight of her, strain for any sound of her thoughts, hear snatches only of Philip and Derek's banter.

If I persist in coming here, I know it's just a matter of time until I encounter her. Henri and I will have to take our flying elsewhere. I'll have to hunt over other parts of the island, maybe off the coast, like at home. Still, I know I'm not going to be able to resist flying over Cockpit Country some nights, risk or no risk.

I take a breath, will my heart to slow. I know part of my excitement was over the possibility of being discovered, but the rest was overhearing others of my kind again.

Picking the trembling goat up, I hold it with one claw, careful not to injure it as I take to the air. When I get home, I'll wake Henri, let him join me behind the house, let him be the one who handles the killing before we feed. It's time for him to begin to learn. I think of his uncle Philip. With proper instruction, when Henri's that age I expect he'll be every bit as good a hunter, if not better.

10

Being in Jamaica does nothing to ease my nights. In fact, I'm more plagued by nightmares and desire than I was at home. After two more evenings of restless sleep, I surrender to my impulses, open Althea's note and dial her parents' number.

“Lucky you called. Another day and I'd be gone,” she says.

“Then I'd just have to ask your mother to fix me up with someone else,” I say.

We make plans to meet in the evening, shortly after Henri's bedtime, at Good Hope Estate's main house. I find her sitting on the building's steps, waiting. She stands when I pull up in the Land Rover, gives a small wave with one hand as I get out.

Dressed in a light yellow silk dress that hugs her trim athletic body, she could almost pass for Elizabeth. Only her brown eyes, a larger mouth, thicker nose and slightly bowed legs differentiate her from my memories of my bride. I can't resist hugging her as we meet, lightly kissing her on the cheek.

She pulls back a little, touches her cheek, straightens her dress. “I don't usually do this, you know,” she says.

I nod, say, “Me neither. If you'd rather, we can go someplace else. Or — if you want — we can both go back to our homes.”

“That's not what I meant.” She takes me by the hand. Leads me to the door. “I just didn't want you to think I asked men out all the time.”

“I wouldn't think you'd have to.”

The bar's mostly empty, just an elderly white-haired Jamaican serving drinks to the few white couples still up after ten. Althea orders a Gibson, frowns when I order only water.

“Alcohol's a problem for me,” I say, knowing she'll take that as an indication that I have a substance-abuse problem rather than realizing that alcohol plays havoc with the systems of creatures like me.

“I understand,” she says. “My last boyfriend — the son of a bitch — couldn't ever turn down a drink, or another woman.” She tells me about her family, about growing up in rural Jamaica, asks about my family, what I do, why I'm not attached, finishing her Gibson, ordering another, moving her chair closer to me, touching me as she speaks.

I answer her questions, tell her about my life, some of the answers true; others, like my occupation, stockbroker, entirely fabricated. I can't help but keep staring at her, thinking about Elizabeth, wondering how much Chloe might look like the two women.

Althea smiles at my gaze. “You like the way I look, don't you?” she says.

I nod.

She sips at her drink, takes a deep breath, breathes out her words. “Too bad we don't have a room here. Who knows what you might get to see.”

For a hundred-dollar bill the desk clerk finds an available room in the rear of a guest cottage a few dozen yards from the main building. Althea drains the last of her drink, kicks off her shoes as soon as we enter the cottage. Outside the door of our room, she puts her arms around my neck, kisses me on the mouth.

I hold her close to me, feel her warmth, smell her perfume, her scent. I can sense the excitement that's building within her. I know, if I let myself, it will build within me too. But the alcohol taste in her mouth reminds me all too well of her humanity. I pause before opening the door.

“Anything wrong?” she murmurs, pressing herself against me, kissing my neck.

How can I tell her I don't want her? I think. That no matter how good she is in bed, she can never equal any of our women? That sex with her will serve only as a poor release for my frustrations? That already I feel guilty I would stoop to such a thing. “I haven't been with anyone since my wife,” I say, though my thoughts are more of Chloe than Elizabeth.

“You poor dear.” She takes the key from my hands, opening the door herself, clicking on the light. I linger in the hallway, watch as she undoes the back of her dress, lets it fall to the floor. Althea wears no underwear. Naked before me, her small dark nipples hard, her breathing already quickening, she says “Come here, Peter, please,” she says.