Dragon Moon Page 7

  He nods solemnly, then holds up four fingers. “I’m four now.”

  “Yes, you are.” I smile. “Your grandfather was almost five hundred by the time he passed. He lived a long time — longer than he wanted, for my sake.”

  “Why, Papa?”

  “Because he didn’t want to leave me alone. He waited until he knew I could find a wife.”

  “Was that Mama?”

  I nod, think about the old creature, how much he must have loved me to hold on so long. “Anyway, a long time ago, Don Henri commanded a pirate fleet.”

  “And I’m named after him.”

  “Yes, you are,” I say. “Do you know what a pirate is?”

  “I saw it on TV. They have big sailboats and they shoot cannons.”

  I laugh, go about the business of lubricating the guns, fighting the rust that threatens to overtake them. “Yes, they do, Henri. Yes, they do.”

  Arturo comes out to visit us the next day. With my permission he brings along his oldest child, a daughter by the name of Claudia. “It’s about time my daughter comes to work for the firm,” Arturo said when he asked if he could bring her.

  “The tradition is that your eldest son is supposed to come to work for us, not your eldest daughter,” I said.

  The Latin sighed. “You try telling Claudia that. The girl has been set on going into the business since the first time she heard about old Evilio Gomez sailing with your father in his pirate fleet. She’s heard all the other stories too. She understands our family has always served your family’s interests. She knows we have a special relationship that’s never to be betrayed.

  “Believe me, my wife and I tried to talk her out of it. We’d both prefer for her to marry some nice guy and give us some grandkids. I’d certainly rather my daughter wouldn’t have to do some of the things I’ve done. But she has her own plans.

  “Anyway, my eldest son is eight. I don’t think he would be much help.” he laughed. “We have to get with the times, Peter. Claudia’s twenty-five now. She’s been preparing for this since she was a child. She knows everything about what we do. She understands when to look the other way.”

  “But do you think she can handle the job?” I asked.

  “She’ll be fine, Peter,” Arturo said. “She understands what a commitment this is. She knows she’s continuing a relationship between our families that’s gone on since the first Gomez came to work for your family in the New World. She’s perfectly able and willing to do anything you need done.

  “Besides, with you planning to be gone for God knows how long, I’ll be damned if I’m going to stay out here on my boat, baby-sitting your island, feeding your damned dogs. Let me bring Claudia out to the island. After you meet her, I’m sure you’ll be fine with it.”

  The dogs rush to the dock, baying and growling, before either Henri or I take notice of the approach of Gomez’s boat. We follow the pack to the dock — shoo them away, back from the dock and the house — just before the thirty-five-foot SeaRay cabin cruiser motors into our harbor with Claudia at the helm. The dogs take turns darting out from behind the bushes, howling and barking. Arturo’s daughter smiles toward us, and ignores the loud challenges of the dog pack as she expertly pulls the boat alongside the dock.

  She approaches me as soon as she steps off the boat. “Mr. DelaSangre,” she says, holding out her hand. “Thanks for letting me come.”

  I take her hand, admire her firm grip, the obvious ease she seems to have in my presence. Claudia turns from me, greets Henri with all the same courtesy as she greeted me.

  Stepping back, I examine her while she talks with my son. The girl only comes up to her father’s shoulders; otherwise, she could be a female clone of him. She possesses the same wide grin, the same square jaw, the same thick black hair, only longer. Fortunately for her, she seems not to have inherited her father’s tendency toward beefiness, though her wide shoulders and defined muscles give testimony to her dedication to working out.

  She looks up, catches my study of her. “Do I pass?”

  I nod, turn to Arturo. “Well, she looks like you. If she works like you, we’ll have no problem at all.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. DelaSangre,” Claudia says. “I’ll be glad to watch after things here. Pop promised to come relieve me every once in a while so I don’t go too island crazy, but I think I’ll enjoy it out here. As long as the fishing’s good and I have some good books to read, I should be okay.”

  “Papa, can I show Claudy my room?”

  “Claudia,” I correct him. “If she wants to,” I say.

  “Sure,” the girl says, allowing Henri to take her by the hand and lead her up the wide steps to the veranda.

  Arturo watches them a few moments, then says, “Bad news.”

  “You can’t break up Tindall’s Wayward Key deal?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But an offer was made that the Deering woman accepted and a fairly substantial deposit was given.”

  “Offer her twice as much,” I say.

  “We have, but she’s worried about getting sued.”

  “Indemnify her.”

  “We offered to, but she’s still dragging her feet.”

  “Threaten her.”

  “Peter, that’s for later — if we have to. I have other ideas. Trust me.”

  I cock an eyebrow at the man. “If I come back from Jamaica and find a resort being built at my doorstep, I won’t be very happy, Arturo.”

  He laughs. “It won’t ever come to that, believe me. By the way,” he says, “was the info I gave you on that speedboat useful? I don’t think the owner’s any threat to you. He’s just some retired pathologist.”

  “I’ve gone over your notes a few times. It’s exactly what I wanted,” I say. “Matter of fact, I plan to review all of it again before we leave for Jamaica. Maybe I’ll visit the good doctor, explain proper marine etiquette to him.”

  7

  The ensuing weeks seem to crawl by for me. I continue to take Henri to the mainland. He and I go to malls, movies, restaurants and museums. To get him ready for flying on an airplane, we even take a few rides on city buses and one on the Metrorail, the elevated train that runs alongside U.S. 1 from South Miami to downtown.

  At Henri’s request, Rita Santiago joins us for that trip as she does for some of our other outings. “I’m glad you still invite me to come out with you and Henri,” she says. “I like your son and enjoy your company. But don’t worry. I understand my position. The raise you gave me was more than generous. I intend to earn it and hopefully more.”

  To my relief, there have been no repeats of the kiss and embrace we had after our first outing. She no longer flirts with me. She never asks to visit my island. Even more important, she begins to give me a weekly report on all she observes happening at the office.

  Fortunately, nothing of much importance occurs. Tindall flies to Jamaica for a week to hire my help and make sure all will be in place for my trip. A lot of gossip goes around when Arturo brings Claudia into the company and assigns her to an office near his. But otherwise all proceeds as normal.

  My thoughts focus more and more on Jamaica and the bride I hope to win. I dream over and over of flying above the conical hills and deep valleys of Cockpit Country. Some nights I find myself chasing Elizabeth; other nights, Chloe. But where I sometimes catch Elizabeth, Chloe always eludes me. No matter how fast I fly, how well I maneuver, she almost always remains just beyond my grasp. In those dreams where I do come closer to her, when I reach out and grab her, I wake up before I can see her reaction.

  Finally, the last week of waiting arrives. Tindall calls to assure me all is arranged. “Claudia’s going to meet you at the island, ferry you to shore so we don’t have to worry what to do with your boat. Arturo will take you to the airport. He has passports for you and your boy. You’ll be met at the airport in Montego Bay by the man I hired for you, Granville Morrison. He goes by the nickname ‘Granny.’ He’ll have your car and the keys to your house. />
  “You’ll find Granny useful. He’s in charge of maintaining the grounds, the house and the car, but he knows everything about the area too. If you and Henri want him to stock your stable, he also can handle horses. His wife, Velda, will be managing the house staff.”

  “Staff?” I say.

  “Just two cleaning girls. Don’t worry, Peter, they all know you like your privacy. I told them they have to be off the premises by five at the latest.”

  I begin to think about packing and realize I have only Elizabeth’s one leather suitcase and Father’s ancient portmanteau. Arturo laughs when I tell him. “But I never had any need to own any,” I say. “The last time I went to Jamaica, I just threw my clothes on Jeremy Tindall’s trawler.”

  “Don’t worry,” Arturo says. “I’ll have Claudia take care of it.”

  The girl, by now able to negotiate our channel by herself, brings out the new suitcases the next day. “I got them at Dadeland this morning,” Claudia says as she takes them off the boat and places them on the dock. “Can I help you pack?”

  I shake my head. “I think I can handle it myself.”

  She shrugs. “Oh, I have something Pop wanted you to see.” Claudia jumps on the boat, returns in a few minutes with the local section of the Herald. She points to a picture in the center of the page.

  Taking the paper from her, I examine the photo. A man in shirtsleeves is addressing a crowd of protesters. I recognize him: David Muntz, a congressman from South Broward. My lip begins to curl just looking at his picture. I know all too well what a dunce he is, how incapable he is of any true reasoning. If it weren’t for his innocent face, his Jewish background and my money, the elderly Jewish residents of the region’s numerous condominiums would never have put him in office. But, I smile, at least he is my dunce.

  The protesters’ placards say, SAVE WAYWARD KEY, SAY NO TO DEVELOPMENT OF BISCAYNE NATIONAL PARK and SAVE THE BIRDS. The headline below the picture declares, CONGRESSMAN MUNTZ VOWS TO SAVE WAYWARD KEY FROM DEVELOPMENT.

  “Pop thought you’d like that. He said to tell you, ‘See there’s more than one way to stop Tindall.’ ” Claudia laughs. “I can’t wait to get to the office. I bet Ian is livid.”

  “I think he might be,” I say, laughing too.

  After Claudia leaves, I wander the island, go from floor to floor in the house, trying to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I recheck all the items that need to be maintained, especially the wells and the cisterns. Henri follows me. “Papa, can’t we do anything else?” he says.

  “You can go play.”

  “I’m bored. I want to go to the mainland.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “Not until it’s time to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are things I need to do.”

  “Can’t we do stuff with Rita?”

  I sigh. “No, but I’ll tell you what. How about if tonight, after it gets dark, we practice flying and then I’ll go on a hunt for us.”

  “Fresh prey?” The boy salivates at the mention of it.

  I nod, saliva flooding my mouth too. Just the thought of taking to the air and seeking prey awakens my hunger, speeds my heartbeat, makes me yearn for the dark to come more swiftly.

  “Tonight,” I say, thinking of Arturo’s note sitting on my dresser and the information it details — Dr. Sean Mittleman’s address, who lives with him, what their routine is.

  Well after dark, I enter Henri’s room. The boy is still wearing his daytime clothes, sleeping, his pink stuffed rabbit lying beside him. I turn on a dim lamp on his dresser, stare at him, shake my head. He looks so small, his bed seems so tiny and frail, dwarfed as they are by the dimensions of the room: the twelve-foot-high ceilings, the wide, double oak doors — one set leading to the veranda outside, and the other to the landing in the interior of the house.

  Father didn’t have children in mind when he designed this house. Every room of the house, every feature was fashioned to accommodate the most massive of our kind, in our natural forms. Toward that purpose all the sleeping chambers on this floor measure as large as an ordinary living room.

  “Plenty of room, Peter,” he chided me when I first took to sleeping in human form in an ordinary bed. “That’s all we need. A dry room and a good clean pile of hay.”

  Henri’s only recently taken to mimicking me — using his bed, sleeping in his human form. “I’m too big for straw now,” he told me. Still, I maintain a fresh bed of straw in the far corner of the room, for whenever he chooses to change his habits.

  I sit on the bed, rub Henri’s back to wake him. He remains lost in sleep until I whisper in his small, perfectly formed ear, “It’s dark out, Henri. Time for a hunt. Don’t you want to fly with me before I leave?”

  The boy burrows his head into his pillow, facedown. But I can see from his cheeks that he’s smiling.

  “So. Do you want to go flying, Henri?”

  He nods his head into the pillow.

  “Then let’s go!” I stand up, walk toward the doorway.

  Henri moves his legs over the side of the bed, lets their weight carry him down to the floor. He drags the rabbit after him.

  “Stop playing,” I say. “Leave the bunny on the bed.”

  He nods, carefully props the pink rabbit so it sits up against the pillow and then he runs for the doorway, giggling as he rushes past me onto the landing.

  I allow him a lead, chase after him as he scampers up the open, thick wood slats of the staircase that spirals through the center of the house.

  Henri shrieks when I catch up to him on the third-floor landing, laughs as I sweep him up in my arms and kiss him on the cheeks, his arms, the top of his head. “No, Papa,” he says between giggles. “Please let me down. Please, Papa. I want to do it myself. I want to show you.”

  Putting the boy down, I follow him into the great room, throw the lights on and watch as he sits down on the planked floor and pulls off one sneaker, then the other.

  “Do you want anything to eat?” I ask.

  Henri pauses midway from pulling off one sock and looks up at me. “Can I ... after I change?”

  “Sure. I’ll just get our meat ready now, while you undress.” I leave the boy, walk to the kitchen in the far corner of the room and open the freezer. I smile at the thick, frozen steaks packed within it. Father had never been impressed with most of the improvements I’d installed over the years. “Generators,” he’d snorted. “Air-conditioning, electric lights — who needs them?” But he’d never complained about my ability to keep fresh meat ready to be thawed in the microwave at a moment’s notice.

  I remove a huge steak and a smaller one, place both in the microwave and set it to run for a few minutes, just long enough to bring the meat to room temperature and eliminate the chill from its core.

  “Papa! Look at me!”

  Pressing the microwave’s switch, I turn toward my son, who is standing above the pile of his cast-off clothes. “Me first,” he says.

  I grin at his naked form, put my hands on my hips and nod.

  Henri’s eyebrows furrow, his lips purse and tighten as he concentrates on his body. Nothing happens. The boy frowns, his eyebrows furrow even more. Still nothing. The microwave dings and I step forward, reach to touch my son, ready to change with him, to make it easier for the boy.

  I don’t remember it being that difficult when I was little, wonder if I should make him practice more, every day, like my father made me. “Each of us has a size, both in our natural and human shapes, where our bodies are most comfortable,” he taught me. “That’s the simplest form of shapechanging. Once you know your human form, it will grow just as your natural form does — without your thinking about it. But there will be times you’ll want to force your form into other shapes and sizes. When you’re older and more practiced, I’ll teach you how.”

  Henri steps back from me, shakes his head. “No, Papa. I’m a big boy now.” His shoulders start to swell and a smile momentarily breaks out on his face. “Se
e?” he says, his skin convulsing, tightening, forming scales — his jaws enlarging, his face stretching to accommodate them, as his teeth lengthen and his hands and feet turn into claws.

  “Look, Papa!” He spreads his wings, fans me with a few quick strokes.

  I study the pale green creature in front of me. Twice as large as his human form, the only resemblance he has to the naked boy who just stood in his place is the emerald-green color of his eyes. Still, there’s no doubt he’s a child. I know eventually the pudginess around his jaws will go away, his light green scales will darken, the paunch of his cream-colored underbody will slim, his muscles will turn hard and bulge beneath his hide, his wings will lengthen and thin — and I have little desire to see any of it happen anytime soon.

  “You certainly are growing up,” I say. I go to the microwave, remove the lukewarm, raw steaks, put them on platters and place them on the massive oak table in the center of the room.

  Henri eyes the meat, sniffs the blood pooling on the platter. “May I, Papa?”

  I nod and the boy grabs the smaller steak, wolfs it down in only a few bites. I understand the boy’s hunger. To be able to change shape is a wonderful gift nature has given us. But I’ve long ago learned, nature rarely gives anything without extracting some sort of a price in return. For People of the Blood, the cost extracted is our energy. Feeding is necessary to avoid growing weak.

  Throwing off my clothes, I will my body to change, grunt with pleasure at the almost pain of my splitting skin, the itch of scales erupting to the surface of my body, the stiffness of my wings as they unfold and flex.

  I spread my wings out to their full span and sigh at the relief of stretching them. This is the only room of the house where I can fully extend them. Measuring eighteen feet from nose to tail, with a wingspan twice that, I dwarf my son.