The Seadragon's Daughter Read Free Page A

it’s a terrorist plot. The rest of the news shows are calling whoever’s doing it the Nautical Killer. They think it’s some sort of serial murderer.”
    “Same pattern?” I say, turning to the windows that look east over Biscayne Bay toward the skylines of Coconut Grove and Miami. Barely a ripple shows on the calm blue water. Ordinarily this early on a March morning I wouldn’t expect to see more than one or two boats. Today I count five—two clearly marked with the orange angular slash of the Coast Guard, the others, I think, most probably Marine Patrol or news media.
    “The same. They found the boat floating. No one on board. No blood this time though.”
    “Damn! I’m tired of this,” I say, turning back. “Whoever’s doing it should move on. They’re just going to panic everybody more. The authorities already have more boats out patrolling today.”
    “I know,” Chloe says. “I looked before. They have a helicopter out there too. It passed by when you were downstairs helping Henri.”
    “Didn’t need any help,” Henri says. “I can get ready by myself.”
    I tousle his hair with my right hand and say, “If only you’d do it.”
    Henri grimaces and smooths his hair with his hand. “I was tired,” he says. He brushes past me, sits at the large oak table in the center of the room. The boy—almost eight now and finally large enough to sit without his feet dangling—stares at the TV. Elizabeth shouts, “Enee!” and toddles over to play on the floor near him. He continues to gape at the TV as if she didn’t exist.
    I look at my recalcitrant son and wonder why he’s recently chosen to rise late each school morning. Elizabeth babbles something incomprehensible and I turn my attention to her.
    Both children possess the emerald-green eyes and tendency toward muscularity and wide shoulders that all of our kind have. I say, “Well, there’s no denying these two are related.”
    Chloe nods. “They’d look even more alike if Henri had known his mother.”
    I can’t resist turning my head toward the north windows, which overlook the grave of my poor murdered first wife, Elizabeth—my daughter’s namesake and my wife’s older sister. “True,” I say.
    Henri shows no trace of his mother in his appearance. He’s chosen to mimic my blond hair, cleft chin and Scandinavian features. Our daughter Elizabeth, however, can’t be denied by either of us. On her, Chloe’s Jamaican features, full lips, wider nose and wiry hair combine with my chin and hair color. Even Elizabeth’s complexion is a mix—mocha only a shade darker than her half-brother’s well-tanned white skin rather than the rich milk-chocolate brown of her mother.
    “You have to admit they’re both beautiful children,” I say.
    Chloe sniffs. “Like beauty is hard for creatures like us?”
    I grimace at the remark. It reminds me all too well of my father’s disapproval when, in my youth, I chose to reshape my features using popular movie actors as my models. “We change our shapes for our survival, not to feed our vanities,” Father said.
    Not that my father or my mother or any of Chloe’s family ever chose to appear in their human forms as anything less than attractive.
    Joining Chloe in the kitchen, I take down plates and utensils for our breakfast and set the table while she warms the steaks in the microwave. The aroma of blood and near-raw meat fills the air, and Henri’s dog Max pads into the room and lies down near the boy. With black fur and a massive head and jaws, he, like his pack, looks more like a hyena than any domestic breed of dog.
    Chloe brings a full platter of meat to the table, puts a thick steak on each of our plates and puts another plate of meat on the floor for Max. Elizabeth grabs her steak with both hands and bites off a chunk just as quickly as the dog bites his. She barely chews before she swallows and rips off another chunk.
    “No Lizzie, wait, let me cut it for you,” Chloe says.
    Elizabeth nods,