The Dragon Delasangre Read Online Free

used for months. Its motors cough, sputter and die the first few times I try to start them. “Damn!” I shout at the boat, thinking I should have sunk the thing when I first saw it. I don’t want to use my Grady White this evening. Too many people on the waterfront know who owns that boat. But then the Chris Craft’s motors catch and settle into a purr.
    Maria, I think, will like this boat better. It’s a rich man’s boat, all varnished wood, upholstered seats and gleaming brass—useless, of course, for fishing or serious boating. I chuckle. The boat was too pretty to ignore and the wealthy couple I took it from were just as pretty, just as useless and very, very surprised at their fate.
    When I brought them home, Father had been so angry that I ignored his rules that he almost turned down his share. “You forget, Peter, that we only survive because of our anonymity. You must not put us at risk like this. Hunt over Bimini or Cuba instead. If the authorities here ever became aware of our existence, of what we are, they would never relax until we were eradicated.”
    Â 
    Maria waits for me to tie up the boat and walk up the dock before she leaves the safety of her locked car. “Too many creeps around here,” she says.
    I nod, hug her and inhale the warm smells of fresh skin, bath soap and fruit-scented shampoo that surround her. She giggles when I stroke her hair. “It’s not dry yet. I just showered and didn’t have enough time to blow-dry it.” Maria laughs again when I kiss her on top of her damp head, and hugs me back.
    She smiles, striking a pose when I step back to admire her. She’s come dressed sensibly for a late night on the open water. Still, even in baggy, long jeans and a windbreaker, Maria manages to be tempting. It helps that the jacket isopen, showing off her tube top, exposed stomach and pierced navel. She fiddles with her belly-button ring. “So? You like?”
    I nod and return her smile. But I wonder. Dressed as Maria is, she could be just another adolescent at the mall. “How old are you anyway?” I ask.
    Maria laughs, gives me a bad-girl sort of look. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I just look young . . . I’m twenty-two.” She walks to the edge of the dock, examines the Chris Craft. “Nice boat. . . . How old are you?”
    â€œHow old do you think?” I step onto the boat’s bow. It’s low tide and the deck is a good three feet below the dock. Maria allows me to help her down, then makes an exaggerated show out of examining my face.
    â€œI’d say about twenty-six.”
    â€œTwenty-nine,” I tell her. I try not to look too pleased. If Father were nearby, he’d laugh at my vanity, point out that even he could look young if he wanted to expend the energy. I wonder how Maria would react if she knew I am almost twice the age she guessed.
    I steer the Chris Craft from the docks, out the Fisherman’s Channel. As we clear the last of the spoil islands that protect the marina, the boat rides up and down on lazy swells pushed north by a gentle southeast wind. Around us, on both sides of the channel, dozens of boats moored in the free anchorage bob in sympathy to the water’s slow relentless dance.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Maria says. She shivers from the coolness of the night air and presses against me. The top of her head nestles under my chin. I feel her warmth, smell her excitement.
    I have no doubt she plans to end the evening as I do—in my bed. I study her young, plump, ripe body and feel lust and hunger grow within me.
    We pass the last channel marker and I jam the throttleforward. The Chris Craft’s motors roar, its stern digs into the water, its bow rises high then settles and Maria laughs as we accelerate into the darkness of the open bay—the boat’s props spewing white froth into our wake.
    â€œCan I steer?” she