The Dragon Delasangre (10 page)

I bellow and ignore the pain of her bite, her scratches, as I continue to pin her beneath me. When she pulls her head back and opens her mouth to bite me again, I meet her mouth with mine, lock my teeth against hers, breathe her hot breath as she breathes mine—our bodies entwined, entangled, woven together as tightly as a mariner's knot.

When I can't hold back anymore, I pull my head back and roar into the cool night air. Elizabeth bellows, gyrates beneath me and we push each other toward orgasm, writhing, roaring, losing all capacity for thought or control until, at last, our bodies are overwhelmed by a frenzy of wracking, almost painful spasms—followed by unbelievable relief.

 

Afterward we lie apart, let the night air cool us, Elizabeth and I stroking each other with our tails.
“Peter?”
she asks.
“Was it what you expected?”

I laugh, say,
“More.”

“Good,”
she says, moving closer.

“Was it what you expected?”
I ask.

She pauses before answering and for the first time in my life I worry about a female's reaction to my performance. With human women I always knew I was good and rarely
cared. But Elizabeth is oh so different.
“I think it was,”
she says and then laughs at my frown.

“No, it was good . . . wonderful really.”
Elizabeth hugs me, strokes me.
“But you've had human women before, haven't you?”

I nod.
“None of them were anything like you.”

“I like hearing that,”
she purrs.
“But that means you had something to compare it to. I didn't. I only knew what Mum told me and, believe me, she left quite a bit out.”
Elizabeth giggles and I laugh with her.

She snuggles against me.
“Peter, really, I'm delighted. . . . I'm thrilled to be with you. I think we'll make each other very happy.”

I say nothing more, but silently thank the fates and Father for my finding her. Content for the first time in my memory, I hold her, listening to her breathing slow, feeling her body grow warmer against me as she falls off into sleep.

A cold wind blows into the cave and Elizabeth shivers and pushes closer to me. I embrace her, pull her toward me, then extend my wings and fold them over us, forming a warm cocoon for us both.

She sighs in her sleep and I grin, slowing my breathing to match hers, giving myself up to sleep just as willingly as, I realize, I've given myself up to her.

 

A flock of green parakeets, screeching and cackling in the trees outside the cave, wake me the next morning. The cool morning air surprises me when I open my wings, then fold them back. Beneath me, Elizabeth mutters, curls herself into a ball and sleeps on. I smile, nuzzle her gently, then get up and stretch.

I can't think of any part of my body that doesn't ache and that's just fine with me. Never in all my couplings with human women have I ever found one with even a hint of Elizabeth's passion. I walk to the mouth of the cave, stare at the mist blanketing the green treetops in the valley, marvel at the way we made love the night before.

All around the valley and beyond, other egg-top-shaped hills jut from the ground. In places where the mist has cleared, I can make out the deep holes in the ground, the ravines and sinkholes in between the hills—everything covered in thick, lush, green vegetation.

Cockpit Country, Elizabeth said. I wonder how she came to it. We've yet to tell each other anything about ourselves and I can't wait to learn about her.

If we were human, I think, this would have been a one-night stand and both of us would wake embarrassed and anxious to leave each other's presence. But somehow, I know with certainty that the sleeping female within this cave now belongs to me, as I do to her—for life.

Elizabeth awakens an hour later to find me sitting near her, admiring her in the light of the morning sun.

“Peter, you'll make me blush,”
she says as I continue to stare at her, marveling at how much more beautiful I find her than human women—the soft light green of her scales, the delicate arch of her back where it curves to her tail, the delightful, cream color of her underbody, flushed pink around her sex.

“I just think you're lovely.”

She laughs—the deep, rich tones of a woman who's sure of herself—turns and displays herself to me.
“Is this what you find so lovely, Peter?”

I shake my head, start to tell her I find so much more about her that's lovely, but my body betrays me.

“You poor dear,”
she says, drawing me toward her with her tail.
“Your mind says one thing”
—she touches me between my rear legs—
“and
this
says something entirely different.”

Afterward, we drift back to sleep. Elizabeth wakens me an hour later, pulling and pushing my body.
“I'm hungry,”
she says,
“Come hunting with me.”

“In the daytime? Isn't that too dangerous?”

She laughs, pulls me toward the cave's mouth.
“You forget, this is Cockpit Country. We don't have any roads here, barely any trails. Anyone who travels through has to contend with hill after hill—cliffs and ravines, lakes and rivers, caves and sinkholes, rocks so sharp they can slice through flesh, ground that collapses under foot, underbrush so thick no one can cut through it without a saw. Except for an occasional hunter, some old Maroons and a smattering of ganja farmers, most Jamaicans avoid this area and none of the others dare come this far.”

I follow her out into the morning air, dive with her toward the remaining morning mist and skim through it alongside her. The cool moisture of it counteracts the sun's hot
rays beating on me from above and I whoop from the pleasure of it, spiral and dive and zoom skyward, laughing.

Elizabeth lags below me.
“You'll never find prey up there,”
she says.

“I've never flown in daylight before.”
I swoop down beside her and let out a roar of pleasure.
“I've never felt so free!”

“Quiet!”
She drops lower, her eyes fixed on the terrain passing below.

An almost-perfect circle of water glistens a short distance in front of us and she says,
“Stay here,”
then contracts her wings and dives toward a small clearing on the edge of the lake.

I circle overhead as she crashes into the underbrush at the edge of the clearing, listen to the squeals of the wild boar she pins with her talons, watch the bushes jerk and sway from their struggle. In a few moments all grows calm.
“Come, Peter,”
she calls.
“There's plenty for both of us.”

For some reason the image of a television-sitcom mother, calling her family to breakfast, crosses my mind. I grin at the incongruity of it as I land and help Elizabeth drag the big boar into the clearing.

“Not as good as human meat,”
she says serving me the first taste of her kill.
“But we'd have to travel to the outskirts, near Accompong or Quick Step, where their farms and ganja fields are . . . and that's best done at night.”

We feed, side by side again, neither speaking, Elizabeth saving special parts for me, rubbing herself against me as we eat. Afterward, she runs toward the lake, leaps into the water and dives out of sight. I follow, dive after her.

When I surface, she's nowhere in view. I swim farther out and dive again. Still I find no sign of her.

I surface again. “Peter!” A voice calls from the shore.

Surprised to hear my name spoken out loud, I stop and turn in the direction of the voice, then gasp at what I see.

A young, naked woman, shorter than I would have expected, her mocha skin still wet and glistening from the lake's water, waves at me from the sandy beach.

I swim toward her, dive and change shape underwater just before shore.

“I thought you might like to see my human shape,” Elizabeth says as I approach her. She stares at me, her emerald-green eyes seeming to examine me from head to foot, and her voice goes deep and throaty. “I certainly wanted to see yours.”

Her accent surprises me. She looks like a light-skinned Jamaican woman and I expect to hear an island lilt to her words. Instead, her pronunciation is clipped and terse, like upper-class English enunciation.

Droplets of moisture shimmer in the short, dark curls that cover her head. She grins as I inspect her, turns and models so I can take in each delicious aspect, each curve of her thin, lithe form.

“Do you like?” she asks, cupping her small, brown, rounded breasts in her two hands, her dark nipples hard and thick—either from the chill of the wind or the excitement, I hope, building within her. “I could make them larger if you want.”

I shake my head, displace her hands with mine, kiss her full, soft lips then pull her warm, wet body close to me, enjoying the disparity in our height, the top of her head nestled under my chin. I lean down a little, whisper, “Do
you
like?” into one of her small, perfectly formed ears as I press myself against her.

Elizabeth nods, wrapping her arms around my neck, pulling me down with her, onto the sunbaked sand.

In human form, I have no need to rely on instinct. I know just what to do and I concentrate on showing her a more gentle way to make love—stroking, touching and teasing each part of her, teaching her to do the same.

* * *

Later, lying in the sand, her head resting on my right arm, one of her legs across mine, she says, “So that's how they do it.”

I laugh, gaze toward the sky, watch a pair of black crows fly overhead and say, “Do you think we'll ever stop long enough to have time to just talk—get to know each other?”

She runs a hand over my chest, and speaks softly, “We have time now.”

“For starters, how old are you?” I ask.

Elizabeth pulls away a little, makes a small pout with her lips. “You should know that, my just coming into term, your being my first, my only—”

“Bear with me, Elizabeth,” I say, sitting up, reaching for her, touching her protruding lower lip with one finger. “My parents sent me to school with humans. I even graduated from the University of Miami. But it seems they neglected to teach me very much about my own people.”

“I never went to school. Pa says it would be silly to bother with such things. My mum taught me everything I need to know—how to hunt to feed my family, which herbs to grow and how to use them, how to brew Dragon's Tear wine, even how to read and write a little.”

She pauses and looks away from me. “I'll be eighteen in three months. Mum says I came to term earlier than most.”

I nod. “My father said you'd probably be young. . . .”

“Is that bad?” Elizabeth frowns, looks down at the sand. “You're supposed to want to be with me from now on.”

“Of course I do.” I pull her toward me, hug her, kiss her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her forehead. “The question is, do you want to be with someone as old as me?”

She pulls back, and looks at me. “And how old is that?”

“Fifty-seven,” I tell her and she laughs.

“That's not very old. My father was a hundred and ten when he finally found my mother. My brother Derek's ten
years older than you right now and he hasn't found one of our women yet.” She grins. “He'll be as envious of you as my little sister will be of me.”

“So you want to be with me?” I ask.

“Of course.” She grins as if she thinks me slightly confused. “Is there any other choice?”

The flippant way she talks about us injures my pride. “You don't have to come with me,” I snap. “You could wait for someone else to come to be your mate.”

“You
are
my mate. You fought for me and took me.” Elizabeth shakes her head at me. “Why would I wait for anyone else when your child is already growing inside me?”

 

Elizabeth insists we circle north before we fly back to the cave.
“I want you to see Morgan's Hole, where I grew up,”
she says. She points out a formation of eight hilltops, slightly taller than all the rest in sight.
“That's almost in the middle of Cockpit Country.”

We soar over the egg-shaped hills and look down upon yet another valley, larger than most but still irregular in its vegetation-choked green terrain.
“Why would anyone want to live here?”
I ask.

“You told me your father chose an island to live on, for easy defense. My grandfather, Captain Jack Blood, chose to go inland for the same reason. The valley's almost impenetrable. They call it Morgan's Hole because the old reprobate granted it to my family when he was lieutenant governor.

“My father says the English were so glad to have someone willing to live in an area terrorized by the escaped slaves, the Maroons, they hardly asked for a pound in payment. The Maroons, of course, soon learned to keep their distance from us.”

I follow Elizabeth as she flies lower. To me, one hill looks like the other, each valley seems a repetition of the one before. I marvel she can find her way. Without her, I'm sure I'd never find our cave again.

“There!”
she says, and I look in the direction of her gaze.

In the far corner of the valley, after a series of cultivated fields, set into the side of a hill, almost hidden by an overhang, obscured by two immense, silk cotton trees growing in front of it, a stone house, similar, but larger than the one my father built, looks out over the valley.

“Are we going to visit your family now?”
I ask.

“Oh . . . no . . . not yet,”
she says, changing course, flying higher.

“But shouldn't they know about us?”

“They already do.”

Of course, I think. I should have realized my family wasn't the only one who could mindspeak over long distances.
“And?”
I ask.

“Mum is so excited. . . . She's already planning for the feast.”

Once again, I feel as if I've arrived in a completely foreign culture.
“Feast?”

“Of course,”
she says.
“That's when you'll meet my family—in a few days, when everything's prepared. You'll like them. Pa can be a little fearsome, but I know he'll like you.”
She laughs.
“After all, what choice does he have now?”

She clears a hill by only a few feet, drops into the next valley beyond and I follow close behind, thinking, this is my child bride, my life companion. Amazingly, she's soon to be the mother of my child. I want all these things, accept them completely, but they've come so fast. For a moment, I envy humans with their dating rituals and courtship, their endless confusion between love and lust, their constant conflict between desire and security.

With us it's almost too simple. Sex and procreation. She becomes fertile, gives off her scent and I have to have her. I have her, she conceives and she's mine. No shy glances across a room, no sharing of histories, not even any conversation.

Neither Elizabeth nor I have uttered the word “love.” I wonder how she would react if I did. Had another male arrived before me, or killed me in combat—she would be flying alongside him now with equal devotion.

Part of me wishes she were with me for more reasons than that I was the first to service her. But another part revels in the knowledge—now, no other male of the blood can approach her and hope to win her over, not as long as I live.

 

In our cave, Elizabeth and I curl up on our bed of branches and leaves.
“I made it as soon as I came in heat,”
she says.
“I'd already found the cave before . . . the last time.”

“I smelled your scent then—all the way up in Miami.”

“I cried when no one came. Mum said not to worry, someone was bound to find me eventually.”

As the afternoon sun settles and the day begins its slow journey into night, I tell her about my boat ride south and my quest for her.

“Peter, I'm so glad you're the one who found me,”
she says before we drift into sleep.

 

I awake, cold and alone, stare out into the darkness beyond the cave. Without such human things as watches or clocks, I have no way of knowing how long I've slept.

“Elizabeth!”
I mindspeak.

No reply comes and I get up and pace about the cave.

“Elizabeth, where are you?”

Her reply comes from far off, faint and strained.
“I'm hunting. I'll return later. Go back to sleep.”

With no light, no book, no television set, I see no other choice. I sigh, settle back into the bed my bride made for me, for us, and think of the logistics of bringing the Grand Banks to Jamaica, worry about Elizabeth's family and the
feast and carrying my bride back home . . . until sleep confuses my thoughts and steals me away.

A child's whimper wakes me. I sit up, stare around the cave, wait until my eyes adjust to the dim moonlit night.

The shadow I recognize as Elizabeth, stands near the mouth of the cave, facing me. Two much smaller shadows lie on the cave's floor in front of her. One moves a little and whimpers again.

“What a great night!”
she says.
“I flew all the way to Maroon Town and found these two, all by themselves, walking on an old trail. . . . One for each of us. It's such luck, the first night I go hunting to feed my man.”

“Oh, Elizabeth,”
I say, shaking my head.

She misunderstands the intent of my words, lifts one of the children, a boy, not more than ten years old, kills him with a single slash of her talons, and lays him before me.

I stare at his still small form and sigh.

“Is something wrong?”
she asks.

“I don't like to eat their young.”

“I don't understand. They're just humans.”
Elizabeth goes to the other one, another boy, slashes him open too.
“If I'd known, I would have brought you an older one, but I'm hungry now, Peter. I can't eat until you do.”

“Why?”
I ask.

She shrugs.
“It's our way.”

I force myself to feed, hating how much I relish the sweet taste of innocent flesh. What I leave, she finishes for me.

Later, she comes to me, lies beside me.
“Don't be mad at me, Peter,”
she says.

“You are what you are,”
I say to her.

“No, Peter, we are what we are.”

True, I think. I wonder if she'll ever understand how I feel.
“You've grown up in one world,”
I say.
“I've grown up in two. Sometimes it's hard for me.”

Elizabeth snuggles closer, places her tail across mine, rubs me with it—slow, rhythmic strokes.
“Soon you can show me your other world. But,”
she says,
“remember, you're in my world now.”

I nod.
“But,”
I say,
“when we return to my world, you'll have to learn to be much more careful. Taking children is just too dangerous. Humans are peculiar. They ignore it when others abuse their own kids, but if one disappears, they go crazy looking for it. If they think a child's been killed, they search heaven and earth for the murderer. Even my father, who loved the taste of the young ones, indulged himself very occasionally.”

“They're just humans, weak and soft,”
Elizabeth says.
“My Pa never worries about any of them.”

“Maybe so,”
I say.
“However, there are millions of them and they have guns and cannons and bombs that even we can't withstand. Here it may be safe for you to be brazen. In Miami, it could cost us our lives.”

Frowning, she pulls away from me.
“You're just trying to scare me.”

How little of the world she knows, I think. I look at her, my young dragoness, remembering what she confessed just this afternoon—she's never finished a book, never seen a movie.
“I've never been allowed outside of Cockpit Country,”
she said.
“I've only seen the ocean from high in the air, looking out across the land. It's very blue, I think.”

There will be so much I can show her. Her naïveté strikes me as adorable. I reach toward her.
“Oh, Elizabeth,”
I say.
“I never want to scare you. I just don't want anything to ever harm you.”

Elizabeth graces me with a small smile, sidles back toward me, begins to stroke me again with her tail. I shift alongside her as my body surrenders to the sensuality of its movements.
“Again, Elizabeth?”
I ask.
“Aren't you afraid you'll grow tired of it?”

She laughs and I smile at the silver-bell sound of it.
“After all, you're already pregnant and I haven't smelled your scent since the first time we joined. . . .”

“Peter, there's so much you don't know! As far as your questions—yes . . . again. Why not? And no, I'm not afraid of growing tired of it. Mum says it's a gift our people have. One to be used as often as we want.”

The room fills with the scent of cinnamon and musk. I roll back from her, face her, my nostrils flaring, my breathing growing rapid.
“Not fair!”
I bark.

“Isn't that what you wanted?”
she asks, and laughs again.
“I had no choice before we met. I had to spread my scent. Now it's different. Our women can do that at will, anytime after their first mating. But only for our mates.”

She displays herself to me and I suck in a deep breath at the sight of her.
“Peter,”
she says.
“It doesn't matter that I'm pregnant. It will be eleven months until our child is born. You wouldn't want to spend all that time without me, would you?”

I shake my head.
“I don't want to spend a day without you,”
I say, approaching her, breathing her scent, wishing the moments to come could be longer, even more intense.

Elizabeth sighs as I lay down beside her and entwine my tail with hers.
“Before we start, Peter, you have to know, this has to be our last time in the cave. I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. My parents expect me home tomorrow—to help prepare for the feast. It would be good for you to leave after this—to return to your boat tonight, bring it back for me. Mum says my brother will meet you in Falmouth Harbor when you arrive.”

“No,”
I say, pulling back from her, looking toward the dark interior of the cave.
“How will he find me, know who I am? You come fly with me. We can both meet your brother.”

“He'll find you,”
she says, reaches for me, strokes my
back.
“You're going to have me for a lifetime, Peter. Surely you can share me for the next few days. . . .”

I shake my head but allow her to pull me back, to lie down with her on our bed of branches and leaves, lose myself in the feel of her, breathe in the scent that overpowers me, give myself to the joy of belonging to someone who belongs to me.