Dragon Moon by Alan F. Troop Page A

to scour the dark for potential attackers.
    Except for an occasional dog’s bark, no one, nothing reacts as I fly along the canals searching for Dr. Sean Mittleman’s Cigarette speedboat. I find it docked on the northernmost canal, farthest from the bay where the homes, while still huge, are the smallest in the community.
    Landing on the bow of the Cigarette, I study my surroundings. Except for the rustling of the leaves, the lapping of the water against the seawall, the night is still. No one is outside. Nothing makes noise. Without the few scattered windows glowing in the darkness, the area could be taken for deserted.
    A large picture window on the second foor of the Mittleman house shows such a light. I mull my choices, consider if there’s some way to lure Mittleman and his woman outside where they can be taken without fuss, without leaving traces of violence and blood for the police and the media to sensationalize.
    Finally, I shrug, spring forward and take to the air. We are after all, I think, what we are.
    The window explodes inward as I smash through it. A Klaxon horn sounds. In the king-sized bed the blonde, naked except for sheer white panties, screams. Mittleman, balding, the fat around his middle overlapping his muscle-man briefs, shouts, “Christ!” and dives for his nightstand drawer, pulls out a small black automatic.
    With little time before the alarm brings the security guards, I strike the blonde first, stunning her with one blow from my tail.
    Mittleman backs up to the wall, shooting as I approach, gunshots cracking round after round, the man unaware that the gun is too small of a caliber for the bullets to do more than slap at my armored scales. I growl at his insolence, seize his throat in one taloned claw and drag him to the window. “What?” he gurgles. “Why?”
    If time permitted I would change to human form and explain the peril and pain he inflicted on my son. But that is not an option now. I continue to choke him. When he collapses in my grasp, I throw him out the window.
    I do the same with the blonde, leaping out after them, spreading my wings, scooping up their crumpled forms, one in each claw, from the backyard lawn as I zoom over them, the door chimes of the house ringing moments later as the security guards arrive and press the front doorbell button.
    â€œHenri?” I mindspeak as I cross the bay. In my grasp Mittleman squirms and curses. The blonde remains limp. “Henri?”
    â€œPapa?”
    I sense that the boy is still sleepy, fighting to rouse himself from his slumber. I imagine him stretching in his bed of hay, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his claws. “I’ll be home in a few minutes,” I mindspeak.
    â€œI’m hungry, Papa.”
    â€œMe too. I have food for us.”
    â€œFresh prey?” he mindspeaks.
    My stomach growls and I realize how hungry I’ve become. “Very fresh ... meet me on the veranda.”
    As I near the island, Mittleman increases his struggles, yells, “Let me go!” and tries to unpry my talons from their grasp. Beating my wings I fly higher until the air grows cold, then I release both humans, thinking Henri is still too young to participate in the slaughter of a human — even one as vile as Dr. Sean Mittleman.
    Mittleman lets out a high-pitched scream. The blonde falls in silence. I dive after them, slash out as I pass them, killing each with a massive rip of my claws. I catch their bodies before they strike the water and carry them home.
    Henri joins me a few minutes after I lay the bodies out on the veranda’s deck. He approaches both, sniffs the thick aroma of fresh blood in the air, waits for me to take the first bite before he begins to feed beside me, his snout so close that it rubs against mine.
    Beyond the walls the smell has drawn the dogs and they yelp and bark and growl while they wait for the remains they know we will feed to them.
    â€œPapa?” Henri