Dragon Moon by Alan F. Troop

we reach the veranda. “Me first!” he mindspeaks, running forward, extending his wings, flapping them just a few beats before going airborne.
    â€œStay low!” I warn him. Following behind, flying slightly above him, I study the sky. Dark thick clouds obscure what little moon there is this night. I welcome the darkness they ensure. Scanning the waters around the island for boaters, I make sure we’re safe from human eyes, then fly higher, surrender to the pleasure of gliding through the evening’s air.
    Below me, Henri skims over the beach, waking the dog pack, leaving behind a pandemonium of growling, barking dogs as he flies out over the ocean, just barely over the tips of the waves. “Watch Papa!” he mindspeaks, wheeling around, gliding back to the beach, inches over the sand, in a collision course with the dogs.
    He laughs as their barks and growls turn into yelps. They scatter before him and, with a few beats of his wings, Henri rises far above them.
    I match his altitude and speed. Together we fly south over the Raggeds, then east over the ocean, then north, then west, making wide circles around our island — the lights in the windows of our house, warm and bright against the gloom of the evening sky. Henri follows me as I gain altitude and dive. He giggles when I chase him. Yelps with delight when I allow him to tag me.
    My father taught me this way and I can think of no way better. “You don’t have to flap your wings so much,” I remind Henri. “Let the air do the work. Watch how I do it.”
    I grunt, say, “Good,” when Henri mimics my motions exactly. Soon, I know, the boy will master the technique enough and build sufficient stamina to follow me on a hunt.
    The thought of hunting, the hunger that’s building within me prompts me to call an end to the play. I guide Henri back to the island, circle the house and fly through the open window, into the great room. Henri follows laughing, half lands, half tumbles into me. “You said we couldn’t go through it,” he mindspeaks.
    I nuzzle him. “And sometimes we can.”
    Despite Henri’s protests, I insist he go to bed before I leave to hunt. In return, he insists on remaining in his natural form and sleeping on his bed of hay. I wait for him to surrender to sleep and leave only after his breathing slows and his head slumps — leaving me with the improbable image of my dragon-child curled up in the hay, cuddling his cute, pink, stuffed bunny.
    It’s after midnight before I take to the air again and I’ve little patience to venture far to hunt and feed. I circle the island twice, discard the notion of flying to Cuba or the Bahamas, likewise decide against cruising the Straits of Florida in search of Cuban rafters. Safety be damned: I want both fresh prey and revenge.
    Father would never have approved of my plan. “Rich people are too visible. Leave them alone,” he often said. “The poor are easier to take. No one cares about them.”
    I know he was right, realize he would have scolded me for such recklessness, but I can’t let an injury to my child occur without retribution. Father would have given the task to Gomez. I want the pleasure of it myself.
    Besides, thanks to Arturo’s research, I know the risk is minimal. Dr. Sean Mittleman and his blond girlfriend live alone in a large house on a canal in Gables Estates. They rarely entertain and are usually in their bedroom by ten, as are most of their rich and elderly neighbors. Best of all, while guarded security gates restrict admission to the area, no guards patrol the waterways.
    Flying low, I skim the water as I cross the bay and glide down the channel leading into Gable Estates. I’ve little fear of discovery. This is a rich man’s enclave, with each mansion an exercise in excess. Security alarms protect each house from unwanted entry. I doubt such rich and protected people feel the need