Alan Troop: The Dragon DelaSangre

"I can't, Peter. I can't move.…"

"I know," I say, feeling what she feels, knowing as she does how badly she's injured. I struggle to sit up, my body finally beginning to comply. "Don't give up. Your body can survive this."

She sighs. "He won't let me."

"It won't be much longer before I can move well enough to find my way out."

"It will be too late, Peter."

Together we watch Santos. He stares at her, shakes his head, mutters, "Son of a bitch." Then he crawls toward her, stopping by Casey, putting his lips on her forehead-a farewell kiss, I suppose. He lingers a moment, then continues on, stopping just out of Elizabeth's reach. Santos examines her again, shakes his head once more. "What are you doing with that?" he says, reaching forward.

"Oh, Peter," Elizabeth mindspeaks as the Cuban undoes the gold chain that I just this morning wrapped around her wrist.

Santos holds it in his fist. Still staring at Elizabeth, he scoots back to the wall and braces against it, pushing himself up with his legs. The Cuban pauses, inspects the gold clover charm, kisses it and fastens the chain around his neck. Never taking his eyes off Elizabeth, he sidles away from her, works his way to the arms room.

Tindall and Chen come out of the shadows. Chen stoops over, picks up an AK-47 lying by the side of one of his dead men. He checks the magazine, finds it's empty and reloads it. Then, chambering a load, he points it at Elizabeth.

"Don't bother," Santos says. "I have something better."

I try to change shape, but the Dragon's Tear remains too much with me. I look around the cell, try to recognize anything that might help me free myself. The dark defeats me. I tug at my chains. They resist me. "Try to escape, Elizabeth, " I say. "Before he comes back!"

"You know better, Peter. I can't."

"You have to force yourself to heal. You have to try, even if it takes your last bit of energy."

"No," she mindspeaks. "It might kill the baby."

"Elizabeth," I say, "Without you, what chance does the child have?"

"I won't risk hurting my baby! "

I try to think of something to say to inspire her, to spur her to act in her own interest. I worry that Elizabeth's injuries have weakened her ability to reason.

Santos returns carrying a cannonball under one arm, a canister of powder under the other. He ignores Elizabeth's scrutiny, goes about the business of loading the cannon.

Frantic, I struggle against my shackles.

"I couldn't let that woman harm the baby," Elizabeth mindspeaks.

"I understand."

Once the cannon's loaded, Santos looks at Tindall. "You could help you know," he says.

Chen laughs, keeps his rifle trained at Elizabeth. "Jeremy doesn't like to get his hands dirty," he says. "He's used to others doing his work for him."

Tindall scowls at him, walks over to Santos. "Just show me what to do," he says. He grunts and groans as he helps Santos inch the ship killer around, until the black, gaping maw of the cannon aims straight at Elizabeth's head.

Santos stares at her. "I don't know what the hell you are," he says. "But this should finish you." He walks away, toward the arms room.

"Peter, I don't want to die," Elizabeth mindspeaks.

I pull at my chains as best I can, knowing I lack the strength to escape yet. "I know, my love," I say.

"Your love… I like that. Peter, I was so young… I was learning. I would have made a good wife for you after the baby was born."

"I'm sure, love. I'm sure you would have." In the dark, I feel tears wetting my cheeks, do nothing to wipe them away.

"Promise me, you'll say good things about me to our son."

"Of course," I say, not quite sure she realizes what she's saying.

Santos returns with a torch he's taken down from the wall.

Elizabeth sighs, says, "I would have been a very good mother."

The Cuban lowers the torch's flaming end to the touch hole and the roar of the cannon penetrates the house, reverberating in my cell.

Rage alternates with sorrow. I know my bride is dead. For the first time since our marriage, I can't find her touch. I have no sense of her. It's as if I've lost my sight, or my hearing. I am truly alone now, without hope, my future shattered.

Jorge Santos is to blame. I imagine making him die slowly, in great agony.

I yank on my chains but still they resist me. The manacles cut into my wrists and I welcome the pain.

Tears come again and I welcome them too. I understand now how Father felt when Mother died. Like him, I've lost my life's companion. And my child before he's ever known the world. I want to howl and tear my hair. Damn Jorge Santos!

And yet I can't blame the man completely. I am the murderer of his sister. I have been his captor. His woman, if she isn't dead, lies dying on the veranda of my house, mortally wounded by my wife. If anyone has good reason to kill, it is Santos.

And I have no doubt he intends to kill me. I know the man. I calculate how long it will take him to come for me.

As he does when he plays chess, he'll hesitate before he proceeds, fret that his position might be insufficient. With me imprisoned, he'll think he has the time to take every precaution.

First he'll make sure at least two rail guns are loaded. He won't bother with more, the guns are too large, and more of them would burden him too much.

Besides he has Chen and Tindall as his allies. Though Tindall, I'm sure, will prove worthless. He'll lag behind, argue for caution. As a miliary man, Chen will urge a quick assault. He'll feel safe enough to proceed as long as he holds a loaded machine gun.

But Santos will insist only he knows the house. I'm sure he'll feel the need for further protection before he ventures inside. He'll tarry long enough to load a few pistols too, stick them in his belt. Only then will he search the upper floors for Elizabeth. Only when he doesn't find her, will he come for me.

In truth I'm tempted to let him. My wife and child are gone. I sigh and lie down on my cot. The thought of life alone on my island fills me with dread. Santos, at least, has a mother to return to. I have no one.

I let the dark envelop me. I become nothing lost in nothingness, air floating within air, time lost for all time. I would float away if my chains didn't weigh me down. I would sink if the cot wasn't underneath me. This, I think, must be how it feels to die.

Perhaps I will.

My breathing irritates me. I hate the sound of my heart beating. I want complete silence. I try to still myself, achieve total calm. And still, the quieter I become, the less I move, the more something tweaks at my consciousness. A lingering thought? An emotion my subconscious refuses to stop feeling?

No matter how I try to dampen my senses, it intrudes. Finally, unable to ignore it, I concentrate on identifying it, disregard everything else. The sensations I receive frustrate me with their vagueness. It's almost like mindspeaking but not quite-as if it's slightly merged with the type of closeness Elizabeth and I shared. No words, no images, just feelings-fleeting impressions of occasional movement, occasionally restricted by something soft (a wall?), sometimes flashes of content, always the overwhelming sensation of moist warmth.

Elizabeth must be dead. I know it. I feel it. Yet my heart races at the thought that some remnant of her consciousness may be left, that some possibility may remain for her resurrection. I reach out for her, mindspeak, "Elizabeth?"

The answer stuns me. No words to it, no thoughts, just the feather-light touch of another presence brushing against my mind-not my wife but my unborn son.

Henri! My child may yet be saved. The realization changes everything. If I fail, if I permit Santos and the others to win, not only do I die but so does my son. Time, which meant nothing a few moments ago, means everything now.