Free The Dragon Delasangre by Alan F. Troop

thanks to the dog pack and their constant production of litters, there’s always more than enough live meat on the island.
    I smile for the first time since Father’s death as I stalk the pack, laugh when I single out my prey, a dark brown male which cowers, then runs while the rest of the pack still faces me and growls. It takes only minutes to bring him down. Afterward, I leave his remains for the pack and return to the house to lie down, rest and sleep the first true sleep I’ve had in weeks.
    The morning news wakes me and I’m surprised to realize the month of May has passed. I sit up at once, painfully aware that July will come in a few, short weeks. I have no more time to waste.
    Jamaica and Haiti lie too far to the south for a simple evening’s flight. I refuse to sit still, waiting until her scent surprises me and only then traveling toward it. I can’t risk losing her.
    Fortunately, Father kept the maps and charts from his pirate days. As I study the old parchment rolls, I immediately dismiss the possibility her scent might have traveled from an island as far away as Curaçao. She most likely comes from either Haiti or Jamaica.
    I weigh the speed of air travel—man’s, not mine—against the convenience of boating. Commercial flight will force me to stay in hotels, limit my ability to come and go without notice, change shape as I wish. Anchored offshore in my own boat, I’ll be almost as free as on my island.
    Logically, I think, I have to start traveling toward her before she comes into heat again. With Father gone, I feel free to leave the island. It will be the first time in my life I don’t sleep in my own bed and part of me can’t wait to rush away. I realize now that Father gave me a present when he choseto die. For the first time in my life, nothing, no one, holds me to this place.
    In the morning, I grin as I steer the Grady White across the bay, anticipating the reaction I’ll receive from my attorney and his associate. I haven’t called for an appointment nor would I. Jeremy Tindall and Arturo Gomez owe their fortunes and their lives to the beneficence of my family. They will see me when I want and do what I say.
    Â 
    In the Monroe building’s lobby, the security guard eyes my sneakers and shorts, sunglasses and tank top. I ignore him. The man’s obviously new and unfamiliar with my irregular comings and goings. He tenses when I approach the private elevator to LaMar Associates’ penthouse offices, rests his right hand on his polished, black leather holster. I smile at him, let his discomfort build for a few moments, then show him my key before I insert it in the elevator switch’s lock.
    Â 
    â€œMr. DelaSangre!” Emily, the receptionist, greets me as I exit the elevator. Her eyes don’t meet mine and her thin lips struggle to hold her smile. Ordinarily, I appear every Friday afternoon, to check my mail, see if anything’s needed from me. This time, five weeks have passed since my last visit.
    â€œMr. Gomez has been taking your mail,” she almost whispers, fluttering her hands, fidgeting with the papers on her desk. “I hope that’s okay with you. He, Mr. Gomez, told me you wouldn’t mind. It was okay for him to go through it. He said he had your permission.”
    Her smile broadens when I shrug, and say, “He does.”
    Emboldened, she stares directly at me, speaks up, “Also, a Mr. Santos has been calling for you . . . a lot. I finally referred him to Mr. Tindall. You might want to ask him about it.”
    â€œSantos?” I search my memory, shrug again. “Did he say what he wanted?”
    â€œOnly that he was looking for his sister.”
    â€œHis sister?” I say, remembering now the picture of the girl and her brother in Maria’s wallet, wondering how he found me. I hadn’t even known the girl’s last name. “How the hell did he get my office