Dragon Moon Read online

  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.”

  “You want it? Get it yourself.”

  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.

  “Damn it, boy. Can’t you learn to pay me any respect? If Pa were here, he’d give you a good thrashing. You know how he hates anything to go to waste.”

  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.

  “I’m the one who has prey to bring home, Derek. You sure you don’t want to hunt some more by yourself?”

  “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.”

  “Damn your hide. I saw it the same time you did. I just thought we’d discuss which of us would attack. That’s the polite way of doing it, you know.”

  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 t
he 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.

  Nude she looks less like Elizabeth, still pretty but thinner, her breasts smaller, hanging slightly, her belly button protruding. I sigh, give Chloe one last thought and do as Althea requests.

  Afterwards, I lie on the bed, my eyes open, while Althea sleeps cuddled against me, her head on my left shoulder, her left hand on my crotch, holding me as if I were hers. My stomach rumbles a little and I shake my head. I won’t harm this woman. I’ll stay a little longer, then ease away from her and leave. It’s bad enough she’ll wake in the morning to find me gone, bad enough she’ll never hear from me again.

  What a pathetic creature I am to use this woman to relieve myself. If Father were here, how disgusted he would be with me. He’d be right to be so. I preach to my son how superior our kind is to humans. “Because we can control our bodies we don’t have to be ruled by them the way so many humans are,” I say. Then I give in the same way one of them would.

  I slip my shoulder out from under Althea’s head, gently open her hand and move it from my crotch, then stand and dress. Whether it’s from drink or from our sex, the woman hardly budges, continues to sleep. I look at the smile on her face and think, at least I made her happy. But for a creature like me — who can sense how a woman reacts to each touch and stroke and who can control his own body’s reactions to her — that’s not hard to do.

  In fairness, she made me happy too, or at least ensured that I’ll be able to sleep through the next few nights. Not that I plan to repeat such a tryst. This time, I promise myself, I won’t succumb to any more temptation. I know I have no compact with Chloe yet, but I plan to wait for her acceptance or her rejection.

  11

  To my surprise, Henri hardly seems to miss our island home. Swimming in the pool becomes one of his favorite pastimes. He pesters me until I have a diving board installed. Granny, who turns out to once have entertained the tourists in Mo Bay with his diving skills, offers to coach my son.

  Diving, for a child who knows how to fly, presents no great difficulties and soon Henri is calling me to come out of the house to see him performing swan dives and somersaults and his favorite: the cannonball. Within weeks, he begins to pester me to install a high dive too.

  Within a few weeks also, Granny rides to work on a horse, three others and a pony tethered behind him. It becomes a ritual for us all to ride each morning, the Jamaican showing us which trails lead to where.

  Some days we ride just to the river; others, we wander as far as Windsor, on the edge of Cockpit territory. At my request, Granny takes us to the caves one day, but Henri, after glancing into the dark maw of its entrance and feeling the strong wind that blows out from the darkness inside, refuses to go.

  “I don’t blame the boy, mon,” Granny says. “They say that cave goes all the way back into Cockpit Country. Cavers are always get lost inside it.”

  Life settles into routine. Every night after dark, Henri and I change and take to the air and practice his flying. After the boy goes to sleep, I often venture out again. Sometimes hunting over the ocean off Falmouth or inland as far away as Ocho Rios; other times flying into Cockpit Country.

  A few weeks after my arrival, two unshaven white men, in rumpled T-shirts and shorts, drive up to the house in a beat-up old Army salvage Jeep. They refuse to deal with Granny, insist on seeing only me, but have difficulty looking in my eyes, as they unload my wood chest and place it at my feet.

  Arturo laughs when I tell him about them in our weekly phone conversation. “They’re used to smuggling things into our country, not into any others. I couldn’t get them to understand — sometimes there are things we don’t want to ship openly to Jamaica.”

  Rita reports regularly to me too. “I think Ian has a problem with me,” she says a few weeks after I get to Jamaica. “He’s given instructions that only Helen, his secretary, can open his mail. But she’s a friend of mine. She tells me Tindall and his friends are going ahead with their purchase of the island. She says he’s begun taking a lot of his calls on his cellphone too.”

  I call Arturo, tell him what Rita has reported. “No problem,” he says. From his tone of voice, I can picture him shrugging. “As long as the government won’t issue any permits, they can’t develop.”

  “Then why would they complete the purchase of the island?”

  “Maybe they had no choice. Maybe they think they have a way around it. But trust me, they don’t.”

  “Just handle it,” I say. “No more maybe’s”

  “Relax, Peter, it’s under control,” Arturo says. “Just enjoy yourself. Everything will be here when you get back.”

  As much as Tindall’s machinations over Wayward Key irritate me, my focus remains on my life in Jamaica. Except for a few new activities and the daily presence of our household help, Henri and I live much like we did on our island. Perhaps because of that, neither of us suffers from any homesickness.

  In early October, a thunderstorm catches me as I fly near Accompang, on the far side of the region. Gusts of wind grab me, toss me around in the air. Rain soaks and chills me. Lightning heats the sky. Rather than endure the abuse of the storm, I take the opportunity of each lightning strike to search the mountainsides for the telltale black opening of a cave.

  I search from bolt to bolt, from hill to hill until a flash of lightning shows a large black hole near the top of a mountain. I fly to it, land as thunder rolls across the valley below. The cave is large enough to accommodate me and I back away from its rainy opening, spread my wings and beat them so I can shake the moisture from them, warming my body with the motion.

  Someone mindspeaks nearby, “Mum, the rain’s too bad. I’m going to find shelter. I’ll be home later.”

  I freeze, thinking, Chloe?

  Thunder booms again. I move closer to the cave’s opening, strain to see the sky through the rain and the dark. A bolt of lightning sears the air, striking the hillside next to mine, illuminating the night for an instant — all the time I need to make out the creature flying so near to me.

  I’m sure it’s her. She’s far smaller than her older brother, but longer than Philip, her underside paler. I want to see her again, compare her to my memory of Elizabeth. I hate the darkness that prevents it.

  Another lightning strike. I see nothing. She can’t be gone so soon, I think, knowing she may have found a cave of her own, to be protected and drying like me.

  “I know where there’s a good cave, Mum. I’ll let you know when the storm’s over.”

  “Please do, dear,” Samantha Blood mindspeaks. “The rest of us are hungry. We’re waiting for you to come back with your kill.”

  “As soon as the storm stops.”

  I’m so intent on the conversation, I wouldn’t have noticed Chloe’s approach if not for another nearby flash of light. I scurry back into the darkness as she approaches and lands. Thunder fills the night and I take the opportunity of its cover to back up even more, until I feel the cold stone at the rear of the cave.

  In the dark, without the benefit of any lightning flashes, all I can make out is her silhouette. She comes into the cave a few more feet from the opening, lays down something large — the body of her prey I suppose — and, like I did, she spreads her wings and beats them to dry.

  The next lightning strike catches her in mid-beat. I suck in a breath at the image it leaves with me. She’s a little smaller than Elizabeth, her lines a little more delicate, her scales the same light green, her underbody cream colored, her sex not yet swollen the way it will be when she reaches her oestrus.

  My body begins to react to the sight of her. I want to rush forward and take her. I take small measured breaths, will my heartbeat to slow.

  Chloe continues to beat her wings, continues to stare out at the storm until she dries. She turns then
, sniffs the air, stares into the darkness at the back of the cave. I stay motionless, breathing as little as my body will allow, praying no sudden flash of lightning will expose me.

  Finally, she turns her attention to her prey, feeding a little, then watching the storm, and feeding a little more again.

  The rich aroma of fresh blood wafts back to me. Saliva floods my mouth and I can do no more about it than I can do with my need for sex. I want to join her and feed. Failing that, I want to howl.

  Chloe lifts her head. Sniffs the air again as she turns toward me. “Who’s here?” she mindspeaks. “Philip, is that you?”

  I hold my breath, close my eyes to slits to eliminate any possibility of their reflecting any light. The wind outside has calmed, the rain diminished to a light patter. Soon Chloe will realize it’s safe to leave.

  “Something’s not right,” she says, getting up, walking toward me. “Is someone here?”

  “Chloe! The storm’s over. Come home now. Your father and brothers are hungry,” Samantha Blood calls.

  Chloe lets out an irritated growl, and says, “Yes, Mum. Whatever you say, Mum.” She turns around, goes back to her prey, picks it up and heads for the cave’s mouth. Stopping, she looks back toward me.

  “If anyone is back there, you better pay attention to what I’m about to say. My parents live near here. So do my two brothers. If anyone should harm me or attempt to abduct me, not one of them would rest until that person dies. So go back to wherever you came from. I won’t come to term for another six months. If that’s what you’re here for, come back then.”

  After she flies away, I rush forward, stare out the cave’s mouth at the sky, hoping for a last glimpse of her. But all I see is the night sky and drizzle. A final lightning flash illuminates the valley, revealing only dripping trees. The thunder that follows matches my mood.

  Turning, I sniff the air, savor the fresh, sweet leathery scent she’s left behind. The smell of her prey remains too and my stomach protests its emptiness.