Dragon Moon Read Free Page A

running down his arm. From the expression on his face, I’m not sure whether he’s showing me because he’s proud or because he needs my sympathy. “Poor you,” I mindspeak to him. “Do you want me to guide you, help you heal?”
    My son shakes his head. “No, Papa,” he mindspeaks. “I’m too big for that now. I’m almost four. Look, Papa!”
    He keeps his arm up so I can watch. Henri stares at the red puncture wounds on his forearm, frowns, knits his eyebrows and I grin at the concentration evident on his face. One day he’ll be able to heal an injury as minor as this with a moment’s thought.
    The bleeding stops. The wounds turn from red, to pink, to normal flesh color, and Henri smiles again. “See?” he mindspeaks. “I told you I could.”
    â€œYou’re growing up, son,” I say, frowning at the concept. A year ago he would have taken refuge in my lap and moaned while I nudged his mind toward the thoughts that could ease his pain and heal his wound.
    Ready to move on, Henri waves at me with a clenching and unclenching of his chubby right hand. I smile, wave and watch him go over the top of the dune to the beach on the other side. Then I turn and go back to my chores.
    It makes me chuckle when I think how many people assume it’s easy to live on an island. How idyllic they imagine such a life to be. But on an island such as ours, life is anything but simple.
    Sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and Miami’s Biscayne Bay, surrounded by salt water on all sides, our small island — Caya DelaSangre, as my family calls it, or Blood Key as it’s named on the charts — is in a constant state of erosion and decay. Wind and tide attack the shores relentlessly. Salt air penetrates everything.
    As I weed, I mentally catalog all my chores. Besides working in the garden, maintaining Elizabeth’s grave and straightening out the cavernous interior of our coral house every day, I have to spend my time going from machine to machine. I lubricate and repair generators and motors, fight rust where it appears and recharge batteries. Other regular chores include painting, replacing rotted planks of wood, making sure the well pumps remain primed, keeping the reserve water in the cistern fresh and servicing the twin Yamaha outboards on the boat so they function as they should.
    Keeping supplied presents its own difficulties. All materials have to be brought by boat from Miami, just over the horizon, to our west. Since I trust no one to visit but Arturo, I’ve taught only him the twists and turns of the narrow channel that leads to our harbor. He alone is responsible for bringing all of our supplies, including frozen meat, from the mainland.
    Since Henri’s far too young to help, fresh food is entirely my responsibility. Our kind prefers fresh meat and whenever we feel the need for it, I have to go off on a hunt. Not that hunting is ever a hardship. It’s what my people do.
    Just the thought of hunting fresh prey makes my stomach growl. I look up at the sun, frown when I see it hasn’t quite yet reached its apex. I sigh, swallowing saliva. If I could, I would go right now. But I’ll wait. I know the only safe time to hunt is at night, in the dark, after the world has turned quiet.
    I decide to wait until evening before I tell Henri of my plans. Otherwise, the day will go too slowly for my son.
    At dinner, I serve Henri only half his regular portion of rare steak, as I do every time before a hunt. I don’t want the boy to be too full to eat what I bring him. He looks at his plate, then at me. “Papa? Are you hunting tonight?” he says.
    I nod, put my own much larger serving of warm, bloody meat on the table.
    â€œCan I go too?”
    â€œYou know better,” I say. “Not until you’re older.”
    â€œBut I’m going to be four. ...”
    â€œOlder than that.”
    â€œNot fair!”