The Dragon Delasangre (23 page)

“I won't punish you this time,” I say, massaging my swollen throat. “You haven't learned yet how strong we are.” I relax my muscles, will my flesh to heal. “No attack of yours will ever succeed.” I point to my neck. “This is why.”

His expression changes from defiant, to bewildered, to amazed as my neck narrows and the redness abates, then disappears. “What the hell are you people?” he asks.

“Your captors,” I say. I step off him, motion for him to rise. “All you need to know is that we have the power to do with you as we wish. Now stand and wait while we tend to your friend.”

He gets up, ignores the thin, red rivulet of blood running down the side of his face, dripping onto his wetsuit. “If you say so, Boss,” he says.

Casey Morton needs no prodding. She does whatever Elizabeth tells her, accepts her chains again after she showers, waits to see what else we require of her.

Jorge, too, now follows instructions. He makes no moves
when I unchain him, doesn't object to Elizabeth undressing and examining him. She runs her palm over his chest hair.
“He's much hairier than you,”
she mindspeaks.

I shrug.
“I thought you liked my bare chest.”

“I do.”
She grins.
“Remember, I haven't seen as many naked men as you've seen naked women.”
Elizabeth cups his testicles in her hand, makes no effort to hide her curiosity as she examines him. Santos endures it, looks away.
“You're larger than him. Still, I wonder how he would be—”

“Elizabeth!”

Her smile widens.
“Jealous? Why, Peter, you know I'm yours and yours alone. It's just that sometimes I wonder about human men. After all, he's not one of our people. It wouldn't really be cheating.”

“It would be to me,”
I say, wishing again we hadn't seized these two, realizing how many months we have to go before our child's birth and Santos's and Morton's demise. Far too long, I think, if Elizabeth intends to go on in this vein.

“Why, Peter”
—she giggles—
“your face is red.”

 

The evening news carries a report of Santos's catamaran being found, floating upside down, off the shore of Miami Beach. The commercial fishermen who recovered the boat repeat for the cameras that they saw no signs of anyone floating nearby. Both Jorge's and Casey's pictures are flashed on screen. Tapes of Mrs. Santos weeping over her missing son and the Mortons stoically appealing for boaters to help search for their daughter run for days on every broadcast.

At the office, Arturo gloats, and says, “Good riddance. At least that's one problem that's solved itself.”

Jeremy approaches me later, asks, “Peter? Did you have anything to do with their disappearance? Not that it matters, as long as they're out of the way.”

I give him a blank stare until he retreats from my office.

 

We keep our prisoners in the house while the search goes on, let them rest and heal in their cells. At first we dress them in my old clothes, Elizabeth's being far too small for Casey Morton. They look almost comical as they shuffle along, barefoot, in chains—my shirts and pants too baggy, too loose, too long for both of them.

Elizabeth grunts when she sees them.
“My slaves back in Jamaica were better dressed than these two. At least they had shoes,”
she mindspeaks.

“Your shoes are too small and mine are too large,”
I say.
“We'll have to buy them new ones and new clothes on the mainland.”

 

Casey continues to be the passive one, silently following orders, shuffling from room to room as she cleans, never complaining about her chains. But she proves useless in the kitchen. “I don't eat meat,” she explains when Elizabeth tells her to prepare steaks, blood rare for us and however Santos and she like for them. “And I hardly ever cook.” Morton points to Santos. “He's the one who's good at that.”

“You'll have to eat what we give you,” Elizabeth says. “You're too thin for your own good.” She instructs Santos on what to prepare, ignores his grumbling that the chains get in the way.

When the food is ready, she insists that Casey eat her entire steak, and sits next to her at the oak table in the great room, prodding her to continue eating.

“I wouldn't force her to eat so much,” Santos says. He needs no such encouragement, wolfing his meat down almost as quickly as Elizabeth and I do ours. Then we all three sit and wait as Casey takes one small bite after another.

Santos puts his feet on the chair across from him, slouching in his seat, like any other man relaxing after a good meal. He looks around the room, notices the blue ceramic pitcher on one of the shelves. “Hey, Boss, that's what your wife poured for us, when we first came here, isn't it?”

I nod.

“What is it? I've never heard of anything like that.”

“Peter, there's no need to tell him about it,”
Elizabeth mindspeaks.

“And there's no harm in it either,”
I reply.
“What good would the knowledge possibly do for him?”

She sighs and turns her attention back to Casey, nagging her to take yet another bite.

“It's a family recipe,” I tell him. “Elizabeth makes it herself.”

Santos knits his eyebrows, looks from the pitcher to me and back to the pitcher. “Why?”

I smile at him. “Sometimes it's useful. You saw what it did to you.”

He shakes his head grimly.

Elizabeth says, “Good. You're finished.”

We both turn to see Casey's plate empty. The blonde sits still, her eyes glazed, her white skin paler than usual.

“She hasn't eaten meat since she was twelve years old,” Santos says.

Casey nods, then belches, and leans over to her side and begins to wretch, spewing Elizabeth's hard work all over the floor.

Santos glares at Elizabeth. “See, I told you. If you hadn't made her stuff herself . . .”

My bride shakes her head, shouts, “Stop!” at Morton, who continues to empty her stomach.

“Do something,” Elizabeth says to me.

She looks so bewildered, so frustrated, I have to stifle an indulgent grin. I hold my hands up.
“We can't control their stomachs,”
I mindspeak.

“Clean it up!” she yells at Santos.

The Cuban gets up to do as he is told. He turns to me, says, “I warned her,” and I nod. Elizabeth glares at me. If she could, I'm sure she would make me clean it up too.

 

As the weeks pass, I become used to sharing our home, letting Santos and Morton lighten my burdens. Elizabeth and I go on shopping forays to Good Will and the Salvation Army, bringing home armloads of clothes for our prisoners. I let Jorge make up grocery lists and we stock the kitchen and freezer with all types of foods and condiments that would never tempt my bride or me.

Growing a little more tired of her pregnancy each day, Elizabeth spends more time in bed. She only ventures outside during the day to oversee Casey as she works in the garden or to accompany me when I go to the mainland. She takes to napping early, every evening, before we hunt.

I find I enjoy having Santos work by my side. The man likes to talk and, as long as we avoid any discussion of his sister, has a seemingly endless catalogue of stories about his coworkers and ex-girlfriends. To my delight, I learn he likes to play chess—the only human game Father deigned to play—and we fall into the habit of playing a game each evening, after dinner, before I lock him and Morton back in their cells.

Elizabeth and I never leave the two unsupervised outside their cells. It becomes routine for me to unlock their doors each morning and lock them again each evening. As time passes without any resistance on their part, my bride and I both decide to lessen the amount of chains Santos and Morton must bear. In their cells, I reduce their load to a single chain attached to an iron ring set in the wall, but long enough to allow them to range the width and breadth of their confines.

Casey learns to surrender control of her diet and finally eats as my bride wishes. Slowly her body thickens and curves appear where bones once were noticeable. Elizabeth too continues to grow bigger, the child strong and kicking within her. Even at night, after my bride has changed into her natural state, her new girth can't go unnoticed.
“Do you still desire me?”
she surprises me by asking one night.

“I thought you didn't want to anymore.”

Elizabeth shakes her head.
“I didn't before. I do now. Mum told me I might—for a while—after the baby grew some. Do you still want to, Peter?”

“Of course,”
I say and I find myself making love to her again as often as when we first met.

* * *

Sex, I find, is on Santos's mind too. He brings up the subject one afternoon, shortly before the end of January, when I have him follow me outside to help me do routine maintenance in one of the arms rooms.

Even though I can't imagine any way the man will ever have an opportunity to try to break into the room, I make Santos face away before I approach the narrow crack in the stone on the arms door's side. I check to make sure his eyes are elsewhere before I thin my arm and work it into the crevice, feeling for the release lever, smiling at the loud click as it opens.

After my arm regains its shape, I allow the Cuban to turn. Jorge whistles when I lift the crossbar and throw open the room's thick oak door. I watch as he examines the ancient weapons stored on the shelves, the extra cannons in the back of the room, the bags of shot, the sealed, lead canisters filled with gunpowder. “Did you once have an army out here?” he asks.

I grin and shake my head. “Not an army,” I say. “But my ancestor believed in maintaining a strong defense. That's why he kept so many rifles and cannons here.”

Santos picks up one of the longarms, examines it and puts it back in place. “Muskets, Boss,” he contradicts me. “These have smooth bores. That makes them muskets. If the barrels had grooves cut inside them, then they'd be rifles.”

“Oh,” I say. “I take it you know your way around these.”

The Cuban reaches for an old, massive, naval, blunderbuss, rail gun, and grunts from its weight as he lifts it. He nods. “Not that I'm used to handling real ones. Every one of these are collectors' items. You could make a fortune selling them.” He studies the piece, looks into the muzzle. “The ball this fires has to be as large as a child's fist.”

“Not quite,” I say, pointing to the golfball-size, lead balls stacked on a shelf a few feet away.

Santos hefts the piece again before he puts it down. “No wonder they mounted these on the rails. The recoil would knock even a large man on his ass.” He picks a flintlock pistol up, cocks it, sights it on me. “Tempting,” he says, laughs. “Too bad it's empty.”

I smile. “You'd just be wasting your time. It wouldn't kill me anyway.”

“None of it?”

“Maybe one of the big pieces . . . if you got lucky. But trust me, you could never aim it in time to get me.”

He grins too. “Boss,” he says, “you never know until you try.”

We spend the afternoon inspecting every piece, applying grease wherever needed. Santos tells me about the big guns in Saint Augustine. “They're easily twice as large as your cannons. One man couldn't move them. God, you can't believe how the ground shakes when they fire.”

“Maybe, one of these days, we'll fire the one I keep outside,” I say.

“I'd like that,” Jorge says.

We finish shortly before dark and linger on the veranda, watching Elizabeth direct as Casey weeds the garden. The woman's blond hair has grown out enough to permit a ponytail and it sways as she works. Her newfound weight has settled mostly to her breasts, hips and buttocks. Jorge shakes his head as he watches her. “Man,” he says, “this has to qualify as cruel and unusual treatment. Even prisoners in Raiford get conjugal visits.”

 

His comments come back to me later that evening, after Elizabeth and I have made love. Pregnancy has quieted much of her wildness and sex has become for us a gentle thing, a slow coming together of our bodies, a movement as measured as calm waves lapping at the shore. The very
gentleness of it somehow heightens our passion and makes our eventual orgasms almost painfully explosive.

Although I prefer my mattress to Elizabeth's bed of hay, I find it hard not to linger beside her afterward, tails entwined, feeling her warmth, waiting for the baby to move beneath my touch. I find it the most loving time we spend together, one of the few times my bride likes to talk.

“Jorge complained today that we give him and Morton no opportunity to have sex,”
I say.
“When I lie here with you and share with you what we share, it seems a shame to me to deny them the chance to experience something like this.”

She nuzzles her cheek against mine.
“Peter, they're just humans. When will you learn that how they feel means nothing?”

“I like Santos. I don't see anything wrong with keeping him happy. It makes it easier when he cooperates.”

“True,”
Elizabeth says.
“But Morton cooperates too—without any kindness from me. Fear can work every bit as well as friendship. . . . Actually, I think it works better.”

I think about it. Morton remains an enigma to me. She does as she's told, volunteers nothing about herself. Except for whispered conversations with Santos, she remains silent. For the most part, she answers to Elizabeth, who limits her involvement to as few brusque orders as necessary. I wonder if different treatment would bring the woman out.
“I prefer the other way. Even humans have value. The man entertains me.”

My bride sighs.
“Don't get too attached to him, Peter. The man will disappoint you. Even if he doesn't, he'll be dead before summer begins.”

I mentally count eleven months from impregnation, an unnecessary exercise, since Elizabeth's assured me many times she will deliver sometime in June. Then I calculate the remaining time.
“Only four more months,”
I say.

Elizabeth shifts in the hay.
“It feels like an eternity. I'm
so weary of carrying this extra weight, so fed up with being constantly hungry and tired. I hate it especially when I'm in my human form. I don't know how their women cope with the way their bodies bloat and sag. . . .”

“I know.”
I stroke her with my tail.
“But it will be ended soon enough, without hopefully much further aggravation,”
I say.
“Which gives us all the more reason to keep the humans content.”

Elizabeth laughs.
“You're shameless! If you want to let your pet have sex, do it. It doesn't matter to me.”

 

Santos raises his eyebrows when I tell him to forget taking the chess board out after dinner the next night. I grin at his uneasiness. “Something's come up,” I say. “I need to take you and Casey downstairs earlier than usual this evening.”