Read Online The Dragon Delasangre by Alan F. Troop - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan F. Troop
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where I always dispose of my familyâs secrets.
Besides, I find Iâm enjoying myself, fighting to keep the Grady White under control, steering my way from wave to wave. Fear isnât a possibility. Should the boat founder or I get knocked overboard, I can always change shape and take to the air.
On the edge of the Gulfstream, the waves tower over my boat, threatening to crash down on me. I wait until the Grady White clears the top of one giant wave, then I rush back and cut the Chris Craftâs line before we hit the bottom of the trough. The boat disappears behind me, sinking as I guide the Grady White to the top of the next wave.
I repeat the maneuver two waves later, this time throwing the burlap bag containing Mariaâs bones into the angry sea. Iâm too busy to watch it sink and very glad to have my attention required elsewhere.
Â
The run back to the island goes easier. With nothing to tow, the Grady White responds to the lightest touch. Running with the wind behind us reduces its ferocity, lessens the impact of the driving rain and I have time to think of Maria and allow myself to mourn her passing.
Against the reality of her gruesome death, the image of a faraway loveâs embrace seems even more illusory to me than before. Had Father not confirmed the probability of herexistence, I would probably now be assuming that what happened wasnât the result of an airborne scent but rather a momentâs madness. It wouldnât be the first time I felt my existence was insane. Certainly no human would think it otherwise.
Near the island, the shock of Fatherâs words sink in and, for the first time in my life, I consider living without him. It makes me ache inside, a hollow empty pain that tears at me and sears my brain. I want to cry out against any thought of it but I know Fatherâs right. For the love of me heâs lived longer than heâs wanted and, in return, I must let him go without complaint.
I must focus instead on finding the woman, the mate my blood requires. The thought of her brings back the memory of the scent of cinnamon and musk floating in the evening air. My heartbeat quickens and my nostrils flare. To my shame I forget about the undeserved death, so recent, so sad, of an innocent girl.
For the moment I forget Fatherâs words too, his imminent and desired demise. The recollection of the distant femaleâs scent overtakes me andâno matter the rain, the wind, the tousled, frothing seas that batter meâI give in to the fantasies the remembrance brings.
5
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Father chooses to die in May. Even though weâve discussed his impending death many times, I still gasp when I open his chamber door, the first morning of the month, and find him lying still and open-eyed on his bed of hay.
My nose wrinkles at the stale musty smell his dead body gives off and, for an instant, I feel like running from the room. Instead, I pivot in the doorway, stare into the interior of the house and take a few cleansing breaths.
Just the night before, Father had regaled me with stories from his past, laughing and boasting of the victories heâd won, the enemies heâd defeated. I shake my head as I approach him now. Iâd laughed with him, taken a vicarious thrill from his tales, marveled at the strength he seemed to keep summoning to go forward, the sparkle still shining in his emerald-green eyes. Now a dead carcass lies in his place, green scales turning opaque, those bright eyes turned milky and glazed.
I sit on the floor next to his bedding and stare at his remains. I envy humans and their ritual approach to death. If this were a human household, I could wail and gnash my teeth, busy myself calling priests and ambulances, friends and relatives. There would be a funeral to be planned, food and refreshments to order for the well-wishers and afterward, meetings with attorneys and accountants to see what could be salvaged from the estate.
If only, I
Besides, I find Iâm enjoying myself, fighting to keep the Grady White under control, steering my way from wave to wave. Fear isnât a possibility. Should the boat founder or I get knocked overboard, I can always change shape and take to the air.
On the edge of the Gulfstream, the waves tower over my boat, threatening to crash down on me. I wait until the Grady White clears the top of one giant wave, then I rush back and cut the Chris Craftâs line before we hit the bottom of the trough. The boat disappears behind me, sinking as I guide the Grady White to the top of the next wave.
I repeat the maneuver two waves later, this time throwing the burlap bag containing Mariaâs bones into the angry sea. Iâm too busy to watch it sink and very glad to have my attention required elsewhere.
Â
The run back to the island goes easier. With nothing to tow, the Grady White responds to the lightest touch. Running with the wind behind us reduces its ferocity, lessens the impact of the driving rain and I have time to think of Maria and allow myself to mourn her passing.
Against the reality of her gruesome death, the image of a faraway loveâs embrace seems even more illusory to me than before. Had Father not confirmed the probability of herexistence, I would probably now be assuming that what happened wasnât the result of an airborne scent but rather a momentâs madness. It wouldnât be the first time I felt my existence was insane. Certainly no human would think it otherwise.
Near the island, the shock of Fatherâs words sink in and, for the first time in my life, I consider living without him. It makes me ache inside, a hollow empty pain that tears at me and sears my brain. I want to cry out against any thought of it but I know Fatherâs right. For the love of me heâs lived longer than heâs wanted and, in return, I must let him go without complaint.
I must focus instead on finding the woman, the mate my blood requires. The thought of her brings back the memory of the scent of cinnamon and musk floating in the evening air. My heartbeat quickens and my nostrils flare. To my shame I forget about the undeserved death, so recent, so sad, of an innocent girl.
For the moment I forget Fatherâs words too, his imminent and desired demise. The recollection of the distant femaleâs scent overtakes me andâno matter the rain, the wind, the tousled, frothing seas that batter meâI give in to the fantasies the remembrance brings.
5
Â
Father chooses to die in May. Even though weâve discussed his impending death many times, I still gasp when I open his chamber door, the first morning of the month, and find him lying still and open-eyed on his bed of hay.
My nose wrinkles at the stale musty smell his dead body gives off and, for an instant, I feel like running from the room. Instead, I pivot in the doorway, stare into the interior of the house and take a few cleansing breaths.
Just the night before, Father had regaled me with stories from his past, laughing and boasting of the victories heâd won, the enemies heâd defeated. I shake my head as I approach him now. Iâd laughed with him, taken a vicarious thrill from his tales, marveled at the strength he seemed to keep summoning to go forward, the sparkle still shining in his emerald-green eyes. Now a dead carcass lies in his place, green scales turning opaque, those bright eyes turned milky and glazed.
I sit on the floor next to his bedding and stare at his remains. I envy humans and their ritual approach to death. If this were a human household, I could wail and gnash my teeth, busy myself calling priests and ambulances, friends and relatives. There would be a funeral to be planned, food and refreshments to order for the well-wishers and afterward, meetings with attorneys and accountants to see what could be salvaged from the estate.
If only, I
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