The Dragon Delasangre by Alan F. Troop Page A

and I blush at his reaction, feeling like a young boy all over again. “Peter, with our women nothing’s easy. Remember, they’re the true hunters among us, fearless, impetuous and far too daring.”
    He shakes his head. “Even your mother, who loved gentle pursuits, who cherished her music, books and arts. She was the one who insisted on your being educated like a human. Even she could be unmanageable and headstrong. . . .” He pauses and coughs. “If she listened to me, she wouldn’t have gone off hunting that night. I told her, with the war going on, the seas were too dangerous. But she insisted on crossing the Florida Straits to hunt over Cuba. On her return she flew too close to a surfaced German submarine. I doubt their gunner realized what she was. The night was too black for him to make out more than a large shadow passing in the dark. But he sprayed the sky with machine-gun fire, striking her with one of the bursts, doing too much damage for her to repair.
    â€œShe tried though, flying until she found a deserted key thirty miles west of Bimini.”
    I nod, knowing the story, remembering her last few thoughts calling to us so faintly from so many miles, so far away. Father and I had traveled to that island—no more than a glorified sandbar really—and had buried her body there, that night, before there was any possibility of its discovery.
    Father senses my thoughts and says, “I want you to bury me next to her.”
    â€œOf course,” I say, experiencing once again the loss of her, wondering how devastating the loss of him will be.
    The old creature studies my expression and cackles anew. “Don’t be so morose, Peter. I’m not dying tonight or tomorrow night either. Think of the young bride you’re soon to have. Dwell on that and the creation of new life rather than this old creature in front of you. Go now. You’ve plans to make and things to do. I have memories I want to visit before I sleep again.”
    Â 
    The wind and rain slam against my closed windows when I return to my room. The large exterior oak doors creak and rattle with each gust. I look out the window and see only the dark sky and the white crests of the breaking waves. For a moment, I question whether I want to go out in this. To do otherwise would be to dwell on all the things Father has told me and, just now, I’d rather put my mind elsewhere, worry and plan another day.
    I grab my foul-weather gear from the closet, bundle it under one arm. The gold glint of Maria’s jewelry catches my attention and I realize I’ve forgotten to put it away. I scoop that up and drop it in my pocket, then leave my room and bound down the wide steps of the great spiral staircase.
    At the bottom, I pick up the burlap bag containing Maria’s bones, sling it over one shoulder and walk to the sixth and smallest cell. Inside, it looks like all the rest except that the stone walls remain unmarred. No prisoner has ever had the opportunity to draw or gouge messages on its wall. No captive has ever slept in this room.
    I put down the burlap bag and seize the end of the wood cot bolted to the stone floor. It creaks and rasps as I pull up on it, refusing to budge at first, then rising slowly, floor and all, on hinges hidden underneath, speeding up as the lead counterweights hanging below take effect, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.
    Once again slinging the burlap bag over my shoulder, I enter the passageway. The black surrounds me as I descendthe stairs. At their end, a dangling rope slaps my face. Once this surprised me but, after all the trips I’ve made through this dark passageway, it’s as familiar as the ocean sounds outside my window. I give it a hard tug and grin at the groan of the moving floor above, the crash as it slams shut.
    I proceed forward in the dark, my shoulders brushing against the cool stone walls of the passageway, my hair