The Dragon Delasangre (24 page)

The Cuban shows no expression. I've no doubt he's trying to figure out what I have in store for them and how he can resist it. It makes it hard for me to stop smiling. I follow them down the spiral stairs, Casey in the lead, Santos behind her. As usual the woman begins to march into her open cell as soon as we reach it. “No, Casey, not tonight,” I say.

She freezes, takes in an audible gulp of air. Santos turns and stares at me. Both of them look so apprehensive I break out laughing. It only changes their expressions to puzzlement. When I regain control of myself, I undo Casey's chains and say, “I thought it might be nice for you two to have some time together, alone, in Jorge's cell. . . .”

A big grin breaks out on Santos's face. “Boss, you son of a bitch! You had me going. I thought something terrible was going to happen.” He laughs. “Son of a bitch! You actually listened to me.”

Grinning too, I nod.

Casey Morton glares at us both. “You're giving me to him?” she asks, frowning. “First this man almost drowns
me, then you take me prisoner. You make me a slave and that bitch of a wife of yours makes me eat all types of shit. Look at me!” She stamps one foot. “Look how fat she's made me! Now you expect me to fuck whoever you want, whenever you want? Fuck you, you pig!” She looks at Jorge. “Fuck you too, you bastard!” The blonde spins on her heels and stomps into her own cell.

Santos chuckles. “That's the first time she's acted like herself since we got here,” he whispers. “I appreciate what you're trying to do here. Really, Boss. But I think it will go better if you lock me in her cell. I need some time to talk her down.”

I undo his chains before he enters her cell. “You have two hours before I come back,” I say, locking the cell door behind him. “After that you'll have to be in your own cell.”

“Don't worry, Boss,” he whispers to me, beaming. “When I have to, I can work really quick.”

 

The next day Casey smiles as she goes about her work. For the first time since her capture, she speaks openly with Santos as they toil together. She even mutters, “Sorry for my tantrum last night,” to me.

“See,”
I tell Elizabeth.
“Isn't her behavior better this way?”

Elizabeth grimaces, humphs.
“I don't know. I think I like it better when they're sullen. You're like my sister, Chloe. You always want the humans to like you. No matter how they act, they never will.”

I wish later on that my bride could see how grateful Santos is. Elizabeth may be right, but the man certainly beams when he sees me. He grins even more when I say, “From now on, as long as you two continue to do everything as you should, I see no reason why you shouldn't visit each other a few times each week.”

“That's good, Boss,” he says. “Real good. To show you
how much I appreciate it, I want to cook you something special tonight—an old family recipe.”

“I don't know, Jorge,” I say. “You know I prefer plain meat.”

“Sure, Boss, I know that. But you've never tasted my mother's
Carne' Diablo.
Trust me. You'll love it.”

 

Elizabeth wrinkles her nose at the smell of it while Jorge toils at the skillet on the stove. I understand her reaction. The great room reeks from the aromas of cooking spices and seared meat. My eyes tear from the acrid smoke his cooking produces.

“I can't believe you're going to eat his food,”
my bride mindspeaks.
“I'd rather eat dirt.”

“I don't want to hurt his feelings, Elizabeth. I'll taste the dish, then take my regular steak.”

“What if he's done something to the food?”

I look at her.
“Poison? He makes food for us each day. . . .”

“He takes the chill off our meat. We would know if he altered it. With all those spices he's using, you wouldn't be able to tell if he poured battery acid over the whole concoction.”

“I think you're being overly cautious,”
I say.
“Still, there's an easy way to allay your suspicions.”

When Santos brings the skillet to the table, he holds it in front of me first.
“Carne' Diablo,”
he announces, and begins to shovel some onto my plate with a fork.

I hold up one hand, stop him and make a show of examining the contents of the pan, the thick reddish-brown sauce still bubbling from the heat—fumes rising as I stir my fork around the simmering strips of beef. “You and Casey first,” I say.

He grins. “Sure, Boss. You want to make sure I didn't slip any ground glass into it, huh?” Santos takes the fork, stabs a
piece of meat and chews on it as he serves Casey. “Eat,” he tells her. “The man wants to see that it won't kills us.”

He spears another piece, chews on it. “That enough, Boss? You feel safe now?”

I nod, look away as he serves me and wait for him to sit down before I taste the dish.

“Come on,” he says after he sits. “It's only food. Give it a try.”

The aroma almost overwhelms me. I harpoon a small piece of meat with my fork and nibble on it. Even in such small quantity, the flavor explodes in my mouth. “Delicious,” I say, stab another piece and wolf it down. I consume bite after bite, Jorge smiling as I eat—and I wonder why I've never tried anything but plain meat and fish my entire life.

Santos cautions me. “Take it easy, Boss. It's spicier than you think.” But I don't stop until just sauce remains on my plate. Only then do I feel the heat that's building inside my mouth, my throat, my stomach. I grab my glass, drain the water in one sustained gulp then, momentarily speechless, motion for more.

Casey and Santos both guffaw at my antics, even as they run to the kitchen. Elizabeth rolls her eyes. I gasp and wait. Thankfully, the Cuban and the woman soon return, each carrying a large flagon of water. I grab one from Casey, drain it at once. When I grab the other, a look passes between the two of them and I pause before I drink it down. But the heat begins to return and I dismiss my suspicions and gulp down that water too.

“I told you to take it easy,” Santos says.

“True.” I nod. “You did.”

“Next time you'll know how to pace it out.”

“If there is a next time,” I say.

“Come on, Boss. You liked it. You know it was good.”

Now that the heat has subsided, the aftertaste seems to penetrate every tastebud I have. “It was good,” I admit.

“And you'd like me to make it for you again. Wouldn't you, Boss?”

I smile and nod.

The winter wind, surprisingly gentle this year, blows in small huffs against the windows. The hearth remains cold, the evening too warm for a fire. Momentarily full, relaxed, I stay in my seat and watch while Casey clears the table and Jorge sets up the chess board. Elizabeth rises, kisses me and goes downstairs to nap.

Later, I know, after the humans are locked in their cells, my hunger will return. Elizabeth and I will take to the sky to hunt and to feast on fresh meat and warm blood. But for now I'm content. Casey turns on the television, settles down near us to watch a game show. Jorge chooses the white pieces, as he does each evening. Opens with his queen's knight to the queen's rook's right.

I smile. The move never works for him. The man opens aggressively then invariably turns timid, playing a defensive game, predictive and routine. Checkmate is already in my sight. In truth, I beat him each night. I wonder why he never loses heart.

 

February passes, then March, with Elizabeth growing larger and more moody each day. By the beginning of April, she refuses to change into her human shape at all.
“It's too uncomfortable,”
she tells me, lying in her bed of hay.
“When I take that form, my back hurts, my bladder feels as if its going to burst.”
She pats the scales on her swollen midriff.
“At least in my natural state, there's more than enough room for our son.”

I see no reason to argue with her or to try to bring her out of our room. Whatever oversight Casey requires, I can give. She knows well enough by now how to tend the garden. Because of the help Santos and his woman provide, I have more than enough time to maintain our bedchamber and to tend to Elizabeth's needs—bringing her food from the kitchen, changing her hay.

It shames me to admit neither I nor the humans miss her presence very much. Santos cajoles me into buying rods and reels and we begin to set aside a little time each day for fishing in the harbor.

“My father used to take me fishing with him,” Jorge says. “I was still little when he died. He used to swap rods, give me his when a fish took his hook. He always made a big deal saying he couldn't reel them in like I could. Sometimes at the end of the day, he'd build a fire for us and we'd cook our catch and eat it before we went home. Then, when we got home, we'd pretend at first to my mom, that we hadn't
caught anything. I always giggled and gave it away.” The Cuban shrugs. “Every time I fish, I think of him.”

I nod, and think about my father. It surprises me to realize he did much the same thing. “When I was little, mine used to take me hunting. He would pretend he didn't see the prey, let me take it down first. Or sometimes he would make believe he needed my help, call on me to finish the kill. . . . My proudest day was the first time he sent me out alone, knowing he trusted me.”

Santos asks, “What did you hunt?”

“Just game,” I answer.

 

I begin to delay returning the humans to their cells at night so they can join me when I watch movies or other shows on the TV. Even when they don't like the broadcasts, they're never as indifferent as Elizabeth can be. I find that their company somehow enhances my enjoyment.

One night when there's nothing we want to watch, Santos suggests we play music. “Not that classical stuff,” he says, turning on the FM radio, finding a Cuban station, dancing with Morton. When he sees me watching them, tapping my foot in time to the beat, he motions for me to join them, teaches me the steps. To my surprise, Casey allows me to take turns dancing with her, even joining in with Jorge and me when we laugh.

Except for going for food and other necessary supplies, I stay on the island. I tell myself, I don't want to have to lock Santos and Morton in the cells any more than needed. But I know the truth. I've never felt less lonely in my entire life.

 

Arturo calls a few days later, and asks, “Peter, is everything okay? You hardly ever come in anymore. Jeremy keeps asking when you're coming to shore. He complains he can never plan when to see you.”

“Everything's fine,” I say. “I just don't see much reason to leave the island these days.”

“We need you here. There are decisions that need to be made.”

“You can always call me.”

“Peter, it's not the same. You know that. Jeremy's already made comments that, since we never resolved the attacks on you, you may be scared to come to the mainland.”

I laugh. “Jeremy wishes I would be scared.”

“Yes, he does,” Arturo says. “I'm worried, with you gone so much, that he may try something again.”

“Have your people watch him.”

“They already are.”

I shrug. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

 

Arturo calls again the next day. “You can start worrying now.”

“Why?” I ask.

“My California friends inform me, your Chinese buddy is back in the country. They say he may be on the way to Florida.”

“Can't they take care of him?”

“They don't know where he is.”

I sigh. Life has been too pleasant for me to allow it to be roiled by threats. “Well, let me know when there's something to be done.”

“Peter, there's more—”

“Damn it, Arturo, what?”

“My sources came up with a name, Xian Lo Chen. On a hunch I went back and read the newspaper reports on the fire. One of the people burned to death was listed as a Benny Chen, an executive with a Mainland Chinese fan factory. I think Xian Lo may be a pissed-off relative.”

I shake my head. “Arturo, I want you to take care of this
for me. I don't want to have to deal with some crazy Chinese bastard right now.”

“What the hell's come over you? This isn't how you usually handle things.”

I sigh. “And you usually take care of what I want. If you need me to hold your hand so badly, I'll come in next week.”

“That would be good,” Arturo says. “I'll let Jeremy know we're having a meeting.”

“Do what you think is best. Just get rid of Chen for me.”

I hang up, irritated that I let Arturo pester me into leaving the island. I wonder how he would react if he knew what my life has become. I smile at the thought. He'd be shocked to find who I spend my days with—and so much of my nights.

My preoccupation with Santos and his woman still concerns Elizabeth.
“I shouldn't care. They're going to die soon enough,”
she says.
“But you need to harden your heart to them. I've seen Chloe weep for days when Pa killed one of the servants. I don't want your humans' deaths to hurt you so.”

The thought of their imminent demise weighs on me. I hate that the joy of my son's birth will bring on the sadness of their deaths. I turn inward, try to find a solution which can leave me happy. None presents itself.

 

I wake early the next Friday morning to a day without a cloud in the sky, without a ripple on the ocean. Rushing outside to the veranda, I luxuriate in the sun's mild warmth, glance from ocean, to bay, to sky—take in the shades of blue, the streaks of green, the almost-purple of the deep water offshore. I breathe in deep, savoring all the varied, salt-tinged smells carried by the morning breeze. Then I remember my promise to Arturo and groan.

The day is too splendid to waste inside an office. Arturo and Jeremy will have to understand. I have better things to do than to spend the day in their company. I'd rather sit
outdoors and talk with Santos. Certainly, I think, he won't object, if I tell him to forget his chores and join me for a day of fishing in our harbor.

I call the office. Emily answers. “Oh, Mr. DelaSangre,” she says when I ask for Arturo. “You know Mr. Gomez doesn't come in this early. Mr. Tindall's here, of course. He's in a meeting but if you want him, I'm sure he'll come out.”

“Not necessary,” I say. “Just tell them something came up. I can't make it today. Tell them I'll call next week.”

“Too bad, sir, we were all looking forward to seeing you.”

“Another time.”

“Mr. DelaSangre . . . before you get off, I think you'd like to know a letter came for you yesterday. It's marked personal and confidential. I thought it might be important. . . .”

I shake my head. “I doubt it. It's probably a sales pitch. Open it, read it to me.”

“If you think it's okay, sir,” Emily says. “Just one second.”

I wait, listen to the rustle of paper, the opening of a drawer. Picture her getting her letter opener, sliding it into the flap.

She mutters, almost to herself, “No return address. Postmarked from Malibu . . .”

California! I think. Before I can say, “Stop!” I hear the rip of paper. A blast sears across the phone line, half deafening my ear. Only silence follows. “Emily!” I yell into the dead phone. “Emily!”

Nothing.

“No. . . No,” I mutter, dialing the office. The phone rings. No one picks up. I call Jeremy's private line. That too goes unanswered.

I dial Arturo's cell phone, try him on and off for fifteen
minutes before he finally picks up. “I was talking to Jeremy. He called me on his cell phone. All the regular lines are out at the office. We have a problem,” he says. I've rarely heard his voice so somber.

“I know, I was on the phone with Emily.”

“Oh, Peter, sometimes things are really shitty.”

“Emily?” I ask.

“She's dead, Peter. Jeremy says it was one hell of a letter bomb.”

“Damn it, Arturo, all she was doing was opening a letter for me. She's no part of what you or I do. . . .”

He sighs. “If it wasn't her, it could have been you or one of us. These people seem very determined.”

I think of the couple locked in the cells beneath my house. “At least we know it isn't Santos.”

“You might wish it were. This Chen character seems to have a good idea of your comings and goings. That letter was timed to arrive just before our meeting.”

“If Chen is the one.”

“Whoever it is seems to know a hell of a lot about you. Peter, Jeremy says maybe we were wrong to push you to come to shore. I think he's right. I think you'd be better off staying on your island until we get all this resolved. You call me with what you'll need. I'll bring it out to you.”