The Dragon Delasangre by Alan F. Troop Page B

Sang,” he says, “If it matters to you.”
    â€œI’m Peter DelaSangre.”
    â€œI feel better,” he says. “Now I know who I’m killing.”
    â€œBut why?” I ask. “There are so few of us.”
    â€œThere will be even less of us if one of us doesn’t get the girl.”
    â€œSo let’s tell her to choose.”
    â€œAre you sure you’re of the blood?” He laughs. “None of our women would accept a male who wouldn’t fight for her. How can you smell her and turn your back?”
    I nod, think of Father’s words. “Sometimes,” he told me, “I think your mother ruined you with too much human nonsense. You have to learn to follow your instincts.”
    My nostrils flare and I allow her aroma to work on me. Cinnamon and musk envelope me, fill me, own my soul. If I must kill for the girl, then so be it. I leap into the air, shoot out the hole with a single beat of my wings. Roar my challenge as I regain the sky.
    â€œSurprise won’t be so easy again, my friend,” I say, circling in the air, looking for the approach of a moving, flying shadow.
    â€œDo you always talk so much?” he says, flying toward me, his talons extended.
    We collide in midair and fall together—a whirling jumble of flapping wings, slashing claws, whipping tails. I gasp as he sinks a talon into my right wing, ripping a long gash in its thin membrane. I strike in turn at him, my claw cutting a deep red wound down the length of his neck. The air fills with the sweet, thick aroma of our blood, resounds with the din of our roars.
    He disengages, wheels away, dives. I plunge after him, catching his tail, sinking my teeth into its soft meat. His roar changes pitch, almost to a scream, and he pummels my head and neck with his rear claws—slashing skin, tearing muscle, cutting tendons. The pain sears through me, but still I hold on, my jaws clamped tight.
    Finally he manages to graze my right eye with one of his talons, ripping the flesh just below it. Partly blinded, I bellow, release him and dive away. With injuries of his own to tend to, Sang wheels off in another direction. Once we’ve attained some distance from each other, I spread my wings, stopping my fall, then soar upward, wincing at the pain of my injured wing, my eye, my many cuts and bruises.
    I concentrate on controlling my blood flow and cell growth, clearing my vision, mending my other wounds. I glide in wide spirals as I heal, husbanding my strength, preparing myself for his next attack. But then the thought occurs—why should I have to wait for him?
    I strain my wings as much as possible as I beat skyward, gain altitude until the air becomes hard to breathe, thin beneath my wings.
    Far below me, Emil Sang circles, calling, “Peter! Where are you? Are you hiding from me again?” I hold back a roar, fold my wings, plummet toward him.
    I hit him with the force of a ten-thousand-foot fall. The impact stuns both of us, but I hold my position above him as we drop, pin his wings against his body, sink my teeth intothe back of his neck, penetrating his thick scales until I taste his hot blood.
    He struggles beneath me, but I only hold him tighter, bite him deeper.
    â€œYou know it will take more than your miserable bite to kill me,” he says.
    â€œI know,” I answer as we speed toward the ground. “But I think the fall should do it.”
    Sang laughs, tries once more to break free. “And you think you can let go of me in time to save yourself?”
    â€œNo.” I drive my claws and teeth even more into his flesh. “I only hope your body will shield mine from the impact.”
    He roars in rage just before we hit.
    Â 
    The deep tone of her laughter is the first thing I notice when I regain consciousness.
    â€œIs he dead?” she asks.
    â€œI thought you said the ground isn’t always as solid as it seems.”
    â€œSometimes it is,”