Alan Troop: The Dragon DelaSangre

Maria points toward it. "Is that where we're going?"

I nod.

"It's so dark."

"We'll rum the lights on when we get there," I tell her and hug her close. "Sometimes lights attract the wrong sort of visitors."

She nods. "But… wouldn't it make it easier for you to guide the boat in?"

"No. I grew up on that island. I know the way." I slow the boat a little more. The motors' growls subside into throaty purrs and we glide through the water, rising and falling with the swells. A gust of wind rushes around us and I pull her to me, and press my lips to hers again.

Maria holds me, kisses longer than I'd intended, then backs off and smiles at me. "And just what are we going to be doing on this island of yours?"

I grin back. "Whatever two people do when they're deserted on an island together."

She sighs, leans against me. "It's so beautiful here." The wind gusts again, washes over us. Maria takes a deep breath. "I love the smell of the ocean!"

I breathe in too, savor the salt smell around us, the sharp scent of excitement building around her and then… another scent penetrates my nostrils, and makes my heart race. It smells of cinnamon and cloves, maybe musk and something else-pungent, almost rank, disturbing yet somehow familiar. I sniff the air, wonder whether I imagined it-disappointed to find only a memory of it in the air.

I cut the motors, let the boat wallow and I breathe deeply again.

"Is anything wrong?" Maria asks.

"No." I shake my head. "I thought I smelled something."

She frowns, watches me as I sniff the air. "Something bad? Fire?"

"Something strange," I say, finding no trace of the aroma remaining in the air. "Maybe…" I let the word hang, leave the thought unfinished. My shoulders suddenly feel tense and I flex my back, stretch my neck and push the Chris Craft's throttle forward. Maria presses against me as the boat regains its forward momentum. I hug her and guide the runabout toward shore.

Dogs bark and growl in the darkness as we enter the island's small harbor. I feel Maria tense beside me, smell the acid aroma of fear building within her. "Watchdogs," I explain. Two thick, dark forms pace and stare, snarl deep growls at our approach.

"Slash and Scar, the two alpha dogs. They lead the pack."

"Sweet names," she says, her sarcasm evident.

I smile at her. "There are at least fifteen others like them out there in the dark. We have them to keep the island private and prevent uninvited guests from disturbing our estate."

Slash and Scar continue to growl, and hold their ground as we approach the dock. I pick up the boat's searchlight and flash it on them. They pause a minute, two black, furry beasts frozen in the beam-their massive teeth showing stark white in the artificial light-then they bolt off, into the darkness.

Maria gasps. "They're huge."

I shake my head, cut the motors and let the boat coast to the dock. "They're no larger than German shepherds. They just have overly large heads and mouths," I say. I hop off the boat and tie the lines to the dock cleats. "But they've been bred to look like that, to guard this island. My ancestor, Don Henri, brought the first dogs to control the slaves he used to build our house. Over the years we've added others, eliminated the weak and timid ones, until we ended up with our own breed, all of them like the two you've just seen."

A chorus of growls comes from the dark shadows just inland of the docks. "Don't they scare you?" Maria asks.

"No." I'm tempted to laugh at the question. These creatures know who is the master of this island. They tuck their tails and cringe before my displeasure. I bring two fingers to my mouth and whistle three times-short, sharp bursts that pierce the quiet of the night. The growls cease, their sound replaced by the rustle of the underbrush as the pack scurries away.

Maria reaches up and I lift her from the boat and place her on the dock. She giggles at the ease with which I handle her, feels my biceps and mutters, "So powerful."

Something about the way she does it makes me feel boastful and I pick her up and cradle her to my chest. She looks up and we kiss.

"Peter," Father mindspeaks to me.

I sigh. "Father, I'm busy." I carry Maria down the dock toward the house. She snuggles against me.

"I heard your whistle… It woke me."

"Go back to sleep."

"Have you brought me something? Something young and sweet?" Father asks.

I heft Maria in my arms and she sighs. "I don't know if I have or not," I tell Father. "It's been a confusing evening so far."

"How so?"

"There was something in the air… a strange scent, like cinnamon mixed with other things… It disturbed me."

Maria shifts in my arms. "Can you put me down? Is it safe? I'd like to see your house."

"It's safe," I say and put her down.

"I knew you brought me something!"

"She's here for me, Father. Go to sleep."

"I may know what that smell was …"

"Tell me, Father, then go away!"

His chuckle fills my head. "Later," Father mindspeaks. "I'm an old man… tired and hungry… with an ungrateful and selfish son. Wake me when you have something to bring me and we'll discuss that strange aroma you discovered. "

"Father!"

"Later, Peter, didn't you tell me to sleep?"

I feel the emptiness around me and know he's closed himself off. Irritating old man.

"You said, 'we,' before," Maria asks. "You don't live here alone?"

"No." I shake my head. "My father lives with me. He stays in his room mostly. He's very old and very sick."

"Oh," Maria says. "Sorry." She takes my hand in hers, and squeezes it.

We walk to the end of the dock, neither of us speaking, the night silent except for the irregular slap of water lapping at the dock, the whisper of the evening wind rustling through the trees and the rhythm of the ocean waves' gentle rush.

At the end of the dock a massive iron gate, set into an archway made from coral stone, blocks access through the thick, high coral fence that guards the homestead. Maria and I stop in front of it and she waits while I take an ancient key from my pocket and unlock the gate's equally ancient lock.

Maria cocks an eyebrow at the darkness looming beyond the gate, then looks to me for reassurance.

"Wait," I say and step through the gateway, reach for the weatherproof switchbox inside the wall and throw the lever on the side of the box. Maria gasps as the lights come on, illuminating the stone pathway to the house, accenting the gardens my mother planted so many years ago. Floodlights shine on the house's coral walls, throwing shadows that make the three-story building look larger than it is. At the end of the walk, coach lights ascend the wall in tandem with the wide, deep, rough-hewn coral steps that lead upward to the veranda that surrounds the house.

"It looks like a castle," Maria says.

She walks through the coral archway and I shut the gate behind us. Outside the gate, dark forms scurry as the dogs retake possession of the night. Maria doesn't notice. Her eyes are focused in front of her, her mouth open.

I smile at her reaction, proud of the effect of my lighting. Before I started the electrification of the island, Father was content with torches, kerosene lanterns and open fires. At first I just ran lights at night with a single, noisy diesel generator. But over the years I added wind generators, solar panels and, finally, a new, larger, far more quiet generator. Now the house has all the modern amenities, up to and including air conditioning that we never use, and our own satellite TV dish, which brings us shows Father refuses to watch.

Maria follows me up the wide steps, brushes her hand on the wall's rough coral blocks as we ascend. "Slaves did all of this?" she asks.

"Don Henri sent some of his slaves to work at a quarry in the Keys. They cut the coral blocks from the ground, chiseled them to shape and loaded them on his ships. On the island, other slaves carried the blocks ashore and mortared them in place." I turn toward her. "My father told me he treated them well for the times, but still many of them died."