Dragon Moon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
About the Author
PRAISE FOR ALAN F. TROOP’S “BRILLIANT”* DEBUT, Named by Booklist as One of the Top Ten Horror Novels of Recent Years ...
The Dragon DelaSangre
“What a brilliant idea! Troop takes the loneliness, angst, and eroticism so often found in the works of Anne Rice and weaves them into a new kind of misunderstood monster. Push aside the vampires and werewolves ... and enter the dragon.”
— *Christopher Golden, author of The Ferryman
“Comparisons with Interview with the Vampire are almost inevitable.... However, DelaSangre ultimately carves out its own territory ... unabashed fun, with just enough moral ambiguity to raise it above the level of a pure popcorn book. A promising debut.”
— Locus
“Any book that has us cheering for a human-eating dragon is definitely well-written.”
— Chicago Sun-Times
“The Dragon DelaSangre is only as equally fascinating as the man who wrote it.”
— The Miami Herald
“Alan F. Troop has done for dragons what Anne Rice has done for vampires and Laurell K. Hamilton has done for werewolves. ... An exciting fantasy.... Horror lovers will have a feast.”
— Midwest Book Review
“The Dragon DelaSangre is the most original fantasy I’ve read in years, its strength coming in no small part from Alan Troop’s remarkable ability to deliver a sympathetic but distinctly non-human protagonist. Just when I thought there was nothing new in contemporary fantasy, along comes Alan Troop’s terrific The Dragon DelaSangre to prove me wrong! I loved this book!”
— Tanya Huff
“An exciting, inventive, unique novel with, in Peter, a surprisingly sympathetic protagonist.”
— Booklist (starred review)
“A very thoughtful and rewarding read.”
— New Mobility Magazine
“The new book by Alan F. Troop you won’t be able to put down.”
— Aventura News
“Troop proves to be quite skillful at characterization. ... Light and fast-paced ... engrossing.”
— The Davis Enterprise
“Troop paints his monsters in sympathetic colors, making us sympathize with Peter.... His dragons are wonderfully realized. ... A fascinating read.”
— ZENtertainment.com
“Alan F. Troop tells an intense tale of more-than-human characters who can be quite human in their souls. Very intense.”
— The Weekly Press (Philadelphia)
“Troop never lets up, he never loses focus, and he never loses the reader’s attention ... could lead to a great series. ... [He] might really be on to something big.”
— Trashotron.com
“A powerful, passionate, gripping tale that brings dragons into the modern era. ... Just when you think dragons are overdone and nothing new can be said about them, this book comes along to challenge that notion and put it in its place. Don’t ignore this one.”
— The Green Man Review
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
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Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, April 2003
Copyright © Alan F. Troop, 2003
All rights reserved
eISBN : 978-1-101-49822-4
REGISTERED TRADEMARK — MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Susan, my mate, my love
Acknowledgments
To Rocky Marcus for your insightful reading, ongoing advice and enthusiastic cheerleading. To Steve Marcus for your occasional patience. To Pat Rosenbaum for your enthusiastic support. To all of the BMC — Jimmy Stinson, Bob Hollander, Rick Rosenbaum, Mike Fisher, Geoff Weisbaum and Dan Palmer — for your relentless teasing. To my mother, who’s probably purchased more copies of my first book than anyone else. And to Delaney, Zoe and Aaron, who won’t be allowed to read this book until they’re much, much older.
1
It’s been almost four years since my wife, Elizabeth, died. No headstone marks her grave. No bouquet of cut flowers lies on the grass that grows above her. I see little value in such things. I know perfectly well whose dead body I lowered into the ground. I need no letters carved in stone to remind me to mourn my poor bride’s passage. I need no dead vegetation to honor her memory.
Because Elizabeth loved the garden just below our veranda, overlooking our island’s small harbor, I buried her next to it. Because she often sat and relaxed under the shade of the ancient gumbo limbo trees that dot my island, I took a cutting from the largest of the trees and planted it at the head of her grave.
That skinny twig’s rapid growth has made me shake my head. Now over twenty feet tall, the tree stands guard over Elizabeth’s resting place, breaking the force of the fierce winds that sometimes blow in from the sea, shielding the grave fr
om the driving rain, shading it from the burning sun.
Like all of its kind, the gumbo limbo possesses a thick glossy green-brown trunk that weeps strands of red bark, as if it’s in permanent mourning. Its gnarled branches spread out and up in asymmetrical disarray, hugging the air, connecting Elizabeth’s resting place to the sky above.
I like to believe that Elizabeth would smile if she could know such a mighty tree grows above her. It would please her too, I think, to see how much her son has grown.
“Papa?” Henri says, just after breakfast, as soon as we arrive at the grave, “Did Mama ever see me?”
“No. She died just after you were born,” I say, stifling a sigh. I dislike telling my son partial truths but I know better than to discuss something so complex with a young child. One day, I promise myself, when Henri’s older, I’ll tell him the full story of his mother’s death.
For now I look at my son and ruffle his hair with my hand. Almost four, the boy’s as large as most five-yearolds, far more precocious, already beginning to show the tendency toward muscularity, the wide shoulders that are typical of our people.
Not surprisingly, he’s chosen to look like me, sporting the same middle-American appearance, the same blond hair, even the same cleft chin as I do. Had Elizabeth lived, I’ve no doubt he’d look much like her and — with the contrast of her dark skin and the emerald-green eyes all of our kind have — much more exotic.
Part of me wishes he resembled his mother more. But all he’s ever known of her are the stories I’ve told him, the pictures he’s seen on her passport and driver’s license and the small grassy grave we visit each morning after breakfast, on every day the weather permits.
On each visit Henri asks me dozens of questions about his mother — all asked and answered more times than I care to remember.
“Yes,” I answer today, “she was pretty.... Of course, she loved you very much.... No, she didn’t expect to die. ... Sure, one day I plan to find another wife.... No, I won’t forget your mommy when I do. ...”
Something slaps the water in the harbor — just loud enough to catch our attention. Henri turns, as do I, both of us staring at the fresh concentric rings of ripples expanding across the small harbor’s surface. A few moments later, a gray fluke rises from the water and slaps down again. The manatee it belongs to pokes its snout above the water and blows out air in a single huff.
Henri looks at me. “Can I, Papa?”
Just as glad not to explain any more this morning, I nod, smiling as my son runs toward the dock.
The manatee has visited us before but this is the first time I’ve allowed Henri to greet the beast by himself. I sit down next to the gumbo limbo tree, lean against its trunk, let the sun-dappled shade beneath its branches cool me as I watch my son begin to unravel the hose I keep coiled on the dock near where my boat is tied.
I have to will myself not to interfere as Henri grabs the top coil with both hands and yanks, barely budging more than a few coils. The hose curls into a spiral as he pulls, resisting his attempts to straighten it, but the boy jerks and yanks until enough is free to make it manageable.
Henri gives it a final tug, looks up at me and smiles, then turns his attention to the spigot. Holding the hose nozzle with one hand, he attempts to turn the valve with the other. It refuses to give. To my son’s credit, he just bites on his lower lip and tries again, struggling with the stubborn valve until it too succumbs to his attentions and begins to rotate.
Water flows, then shoots from the nozzle, the hose becoming alive, twisting and flexing. Henri holds on to it with both hands, tries to point it — first splattering water on the dock — then wetting the bow, the cockpit, the outboard motors of the boat.
For a moment I wonder whether the hose or Henri is in control. I start to get up but, before I can, the boy manages to direct the stream toward the manatee, the water shooting up, forming a shallow arc, splashing into the surface of the calm harbor.
The beast swims toward the dock, putting its head directly into the flow. Henri smiles. Crouching by the edge of the dock, leaning over the water, he offers the hose end to the ugly thing. It nuzzles and slurps at the nozzle like it’s nursing. Almost taking it into its mouth as it drinks the fresh water, the manatee accidentally nuzzles my son’s hand too and he giggles loud enough for the sound to reach me.
I grin. Too bad, I think, that Elizabeth never had the opportunity to hear him laugh. I shake my head as I lament the short time she and I had together — the emptiness I feel without her.
Henri’s a beautiful boy, a worthy subject for my devotion. Still, it’s been almost four years since I’ve felt any female’s touch, almost four years since I’ve ventured to the mainland.
Arturo nags me constantly to leave the island. I’ve never explained that Henri lacks the necessary self-control to be around ordinary people or to have anyone but me watch him — nor would I. The man’s paid to run my business and to do my bidding, not to offer personal advice.
Still, just the other day, he said again, “I admire your dedication to the boy. But you need to get out some. You need to have some sort of life.... At least let’s arrange to bring you a woman. ...”
I sighed into the phone. “Let’s not. When Henri’s four, he should be old enough for me to take from the island. I can wait till then.”
Not that the waiting has been easy. I long to fill the void that Elizabeth’s death has left in my life. But, as Arturo so obviously can’t understand, no ordinary woman will do. I want, I need, one of my own kind.
I know whom I plan to pursue. I know where to find her. And as time passes, I think about her more and more.
At first, I felt twinges of guilt when I allowed such thoughts to intrude on my mourning — so soon after my bride’s death. Time has eased that burden. After all, Elizabeth would have understood my need for a new mate. She certainly would have approved of my quest for one. Whether she would have been pleased with my choice of her sister, Chloe, is another matter entirely.
Chloe was hardly past thirteen when I last saw her, in Jamaica, when I first met Elizabeth. I still carry an image of her in my mind — ayoung thin dark girl with sparkling emerald-green eyes and a mischievous smile. I know she’ll look older now, but she can’t be more than seventeen. That gives me plenty of time yet, I tell myself, to leave my island and to travel to hers. She won’t reach her maturity until after her eighteenth birthday.
True, if I could, I would have traveled to Jamaica long ago. But I’ve had to wait for Henri to be able to travel, for him to grow old enough to control his natural impulses.
For almost four years I’ve bided my time, taken care of my son and made my plans. For almost four years, I’ve thought of no women but Elizabeth and Chloe. The boy should be ready soon. As soon as I see he can behave, I plan to take him with me to Jamaica.
I’m sure there will be more waiting then. The moment must be right before I dare approach Chloe. If it is, I know she can’t refuse me. Still, late at night, when I picture the girl in my mind, I worry that maybe, just maybe, I have waited too long.
Henri tires of the manatee — or the beast tires of him — and my son rejoins me just as I begin to weed the garden Elizabeth so lovingly restored. He studies me as I kneel and search the ground between the green stalks of the exotic herbs Elizabeth had planted, follows me as I look under the yellow-green flowers of the Dragon’s Tear plants and the deep purple petals of the Death’s Rose bush — seeking invading parasites, yanking them out, roots and all.
Finally, the boy pulls on a few green stalks of his own, slaughtering some innocent herbs and one deserving weed in the process. Henri holds them out for me to inspect.
“Good job,” I say, and take them from him.
Henri beams. But rather than return to weeding, he looks away, toward the island’s ocean side. “Papa?” he says. “Can I go to the beach?”
I yank another weed, and mutter, “Damn!” when its stalk snaps, leaving its roots buried in the dirt.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say, digging in the dirt for the roots, wondering if letting him watch movies off our satellite dish has been a good idea. The few PG-13 ones I’ve let him see have certainly led to endless discussions about which words are good or bad.
“Can I go, Papa?” Henri says.
There’s no reason I can think of why the boy has to stay with me. If I could, I’d avoid weeding too. I pull out the last of the weed’s roots and frown at the rank, thick aroma of the broken vegetation around me. Standing, I turn my back on the garden, study the clear, light blue sky above us, the powder-puff clouds, the bright sun, its heat surprisingly strong for May. I can understand why my son would rather play on a day like this than do chores.
“Go ahead.” I add, “Just be careful,” even though I doubt that anything on the island can inflict any injury he can’t quickly heal.
“Yes, Papa.” He rushes off.
Brushing my hands on my jeans, I wait a few minutes, then follow the stone path from the garden to the wide, deep stone steps that lead to the oak-decked veranda encircling our three-story-tall coral house. Taking the steps two at a time, I get to the bay side of the deck just in time to check on Henri as he begins to scamper up one of the dunes across the island on the ocean side.
Barks and yelps break the morning quiet. As soon as Henri reaches the light brown slender stalks of the sea oats crowding the dune’s top, better than a dozen of our dogs, all furry and thick framed, with overlarge heads and mouths, appear from the other side of the dune.