The Seadragon's Daughter Read Free Page B

swallows saliva as she watches her mother cut the near-raw meat into bite-size pieces. As soon as Chloe finishes, our daughter grabs a piece, devours it and then does the same to another. My wife laughs. “So much for using our fork today.”
    Chloe begins to eat her steak, and I cut off a piece of mine and put it in my mouth. I close my eyes at the rich taste of raw flesh and blood. When I open my eyes I see that Henri has yet to eat a bite of his breakfast.
    Henri glowers at his meat, the blood puddled around it. “We always have meat,” he says. “I want Froot Loops. Brian Edelstein told me his parents always give him Froot Loops for breakfast!”
    I sigh, glance at Chloe. She stifles a grin, busies herself with her food. { Not really fair, } I mindspeak, masked so the children can’t hear me. { You’re the one who insisted we send him to school on the mainland. I told you how difficult it was for me when my mother sent me there. }
    { And you’re the one who can relate to how it feels. I never went to school with them. Don’t you think you’re the one who should handle it? }
    Henri, who’s noted our silence and watched our expressions says, “I hate when you guys do that!”
    “Don’t you mindspeak to Lizzie sometimes so we can’t hear you?” Chloe says.
    The boy shrugs, pushes his plate away.
    I frown at him. “You’re not going to get Froot Loops. Eat your breakfast.”
    “But Brian . . .”
    “Forget what Brian eats or doesn’t eat,” I say. “He isn’t of the blood and you are.” I pause, shocked to hear how much I sound like my father.
    “I wish I wasn’t!” Henri says.
    “Put out your hand!” I mindspeak, glaring at my son.
    The boy’s lower lip trembles but he holds out his right hand. I hold mine out too, so our fingertips almost touch. “Watch!”
    Willing the bones of my hand to lengthen, I smile at the small thrill of pain that shoots up my arm as they grow, my hand’s flesh turning to scales and my nails lengthening and hardening into sharp talons. Henri stares at my hand, pulls his back as mine grows to its natural shape and length.
    “Now you,” I mindspeak.
    We both watch his hand as the skin contorts and hardens, as the fingers grow, as the nails thicken and extend. I make a clawed fist and then open it, and he mimics the movement. “It feels good doesn’t it?” I say.
    Henri nods.
    “We are what we are boy. Don’t ever forget it. We eat meat. We hunt. We kill,” I mindspeak. “We are People of the Blood. Our kind once ruled this earth. Men called us dragons and were right to fear us. Any one of us can kill any one of them with a flick of a claw. Your grandfather built this house that we live in. He built the company that keeps us rich.
    “What did your friend Brian’s grandfather build, a law office? Brian can’t mindspeak. He can’t change shape. He can’t fly. He can’t hunt. . . .”
    “We don’t do any of that anymore either!” Henri says, his arm still extended, his hand still in its natural shape. “You promised I could go with you when I’m eight but we don’t practice anything anymore. We never eat fresh prey . . . not ever.”
    I draw in a breath and look at my son. It hadn’t occurred to me that our self-imposed abstinence from hunting would weigh as heavily on Henri as it does on Chloe and me. Other than saying, “It isn’t safe right now,” I haven’t explained why we haven’t flown or hunted in the last few months. Nor did I think it important to share how much surveillance the authorities have placed in the waters near our island or what danger that would bring to us should any of them discover any of us flying overhead.
    Willing my hand to return to its human shape, watching as Henri does the same, I wonder if I’ve been too cautious. When I was little my father always repeated, “Peter, no one ever died from taking too much care.” But I doubt Don Henri would have chosen to go so long without fresh meat just because some humans