"And I'm used to the other."
She helps me make a bed of hay for her on the far side of my room, lies down and motions for me to join her. I take in the soft green hue of her scales, the gentle curve of her tail, her delicate beige underbody and almost accept her invitation. But I refuse to revert to the thoughtless pattern of life that I've lived the last few weeks. After dark, there will be more than enough time for me to take my bride for her first hunt in the waters near my homeland, ample opportunity to let her taste fresh meat once more. For now I have other things I must do. Setting foot on my island, wandering the halls of my home has reminded me of my responsibilities.
"You're powerful enough to do what you want and take whatever you wish in your life," Father taught me. "But so what? We live to build a future and only die when we have no future left. Each of us has to find something more-a reason to our lives. In the end, the best of it is always about our families."
I lean over and kiss her scaled left cheek-running my hand over her underbody as she adjusts herself, thinking of the child growing within her, feeling the need to protect each of them. "I'll wake you later," I say, then leave the room and climb the spiral staircase to the third floor where Jorge Santos's file remains unread on the oak table in the great room.
Picking up the manila folder, I carry it over toward the windows facing the bay. I glance out at the water-squinting at the last rays the late-afternoon sun gives off as it rides lower in the sky, preparing to set over the mainland. I notice a large, white, cigarette-style speedboat floating just a few hundred yards off my island's shore.
I wonder why it's stopped…
The impact spins me away from the window. Falling, the manila folder flying from my hand, I finally hear the crack of the rifle, the splintering of the middle window's glass, followed by the throaty roar of the speedboat's engines as they come to life, the drone they make as the boat races away. Pain sears through me and, "DAMN!" I yell, realizing a bullet has torn through my chest, just above the right corner of my heart, ripping flesh, muscle, ligaments-shattering a small part of my right shoulder blade.
"Peter?" Elizabeth mindspeaks.
"I've been shot." I breathe deep, turn my mind inward, concentrate on narrowing blood vessels, slowing my heart, limiting blood loss.
Roaring, my dragoness bursts into the room, rushes to the shattered window. "Was it a boat? A white one?"
I grimace. "Later," I say. "Help me move away from all the damned glass."
"But I still can see them!"
"That boat can do at least sixty miles an hour. You'll never catch it."
"I might."
"And then you'll be seen and then we'll both be dead. Help me!"
After Elizabeth carries me to the oak table and lays me on it, she changes to her human shape. She picks glass shards from my hair, my clothes, my skin, while I go through the process of healing, guiding my cells to rebuild, working the bullet to the surface where Elizabeth can pluck it out.
The sun has set by the time I'm able to sit up-the room dark, my bride sitting near me. "Who did it?" she asks.
I shrug. "Who knows we've returned?" I say, getting up, walking to the wall switch, flicking on the lights.
"Arturo does," Elizabeth says.
"And Emily and Jeremy and anyone else any of them told, including our friend, Mr. Santos." I take a broom from the cupboard and begin sweeping up the glass fragments.
Elizabeth gets up to help and I motion her back. "You'll cut your feet," I say, reminding her of her now-human vulnerability.
"What are we going to do about it?"
"Not much right now. I'll call Arturo, have him run a check on white speedboats, but there are probably hundreds of them, like the one they used, within cruising distance. If he's the one, or Jeremy, my call will at least alert them to the fact that I'm not so easily eliminated. After that, I guess the main plan is to avoid standing near windows whenever boats are near… until someone shows their hand and we can get things resolved."
Elizabeth frowns. "You named four humans. If each of them were dead-I doubt we'd have to worry about any windows…"
I shake my head. "My father said, 'Know your enemies before you try to destroy them.' I won't kill people who are useful to me without knowing they acted against me."
"But Santos? He's nothing but a bother…"
Tired of Elizabeth's questions, furious that someone would have the nerve to attack me in my home, I glare at my bride, spit my words at her. "But I don't know enough yet." Elizabeth grimaces and looks away.
"Damn it, Elizabeth! What good will it do us to kill the wrong people? I promise you, whoever caused this will die. We will find who it was." I sit and upend the envelope. A handful of newspaper photograph clippings flutter out, followed by a few sheets of paper stapled together.
I study each picture, then pass them to Elizabeth.
The first shows a woman holding the hands of a young boy and a younger girl as they attend a funeral. In the next, Jorge Santos, no older than eighteen, is pictured handcuffed, being guided into a squad car by two policemen. Santos is pictured alone in the third, older this time, grinning, standing in front of his Hobie Cat accepting a trophy. In the fourth, a group of men pose, dressed like Civil War soldiers with Santos brandishing an antique rifle in their midst. And the last presents a different image, another gathering, but everyone dressed this time in eighteenth-century military garb, Santos lighting the touch hole, firing a cannon in front of an old fort.
I've no doubt the children in the first clipping are Maria and Jorge. Even the old black-and-white picture shows their shared resemblance, especially around their eyes and mouths. The woman, their mother I assume, has the same features. She and the boy look in pain. The little girl seems merely confused. I shake my head and sigh, no longer quite so angry, realizing the further anguish I've brought them all.
I turn my attention to the report. Typed double-spaced on plain paper it bears no letterhead, no salutation, no indication for whom it's intended or who has created it. Not that I would expect Arturo Gomez or Jeremy Tindall to want those things. I pass each page on to Elizabeth after I finish it.
CONFIDENTIAL REPORT
SUBJECT-JORGE SANTOS
TYPE: COMPLETE
DATE: 7/15/98
Full Name: Jorge Miguel Lario Santos
Address: 1213 Drexel Avenue, Apt. 13B, Miami Beach
32128
Phone: (305) 555-7312 Fax: NA E-maiclass="underline" NA
Age: 27 Height: 5' 10" Weight: 165 Ibs. Eyes: Brn Hair: Blk
Birthdate: 11/16/71 Race/Heritage: Cuban
Education: Coral Gables High School (graduated 1988) Miami Dade Community College (one year)
Occupation: Bartender
Employer: Joe's Stone Crabs (1993-present)
Military Service: None
Family: Father, Emilio (killed 1978 in raid on Cuba) Mother, Hortensia (never remarried) Sister, Maria (reported missing in March of'98)
Relationship(s): Casey Morton (eight months)
Organizations: Hobie Fleet 36, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Tucker's Brigade
Hobbies/Interests: Sailing (Hobie Catamarans), Black powder shooting, Reenactor (Volunteer cannoneer at Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine)
Note: This report was compiled through both document searches and personal interviews. While we are relatively sure of the precision of our findings, due to the short period of time we had to accumulate the information and the understandable secrecy we had to maintain during the investigation, we can't guarantee all of our conclusions to be 100% accurate.
History: Jorge Santos, the son of Cuban exiles, was born and raised in Miami. When he was 7, his father, Emilio, died while participating (it's unclear whether he was killed in action or captured and executed) in an exile raid on Cuba. His mother, Hortensia, subsequently raised Jorge and his sister, Maria, by herself, supporting the family by working as a bookkeeper at Joe's Stone Crab restaurant on Miami Beach (where she is still employed).