Alan Troop: The Dragon DelaSangre

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 out-doors 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!"