Dragon Moon

He shouts, "ENDRIAGO!" an instant before I strike.

I grab him with my back claws, jerk him from the raft and cut through the back of his neck with one bite. His body goes limp in my grasp, his warm blood fills my mouth. Beating my wings, gaining altitude, I swallow, then roar into the night.

Tearing flesh from the carcass as I fly, mindful of leaving enough meat to share with my son, I mull over what the man had yelled. Endriago, a Spanish word for dragon.

That the man identified me for what I was in the few seconds before his death, in the half lit gloom of the night, earns my admiration. Most of his kind merely scream.

Still, dragon is only a term that humans chose for us long ago. We call ourselves the People of the Blood. Part of me wishes the man could have known what kind of creature took his life. Not that it would have comforted him or changed anything about his demise. But at least he would have known his life wasn’t taken by some fairy tale monster, that he didn’t die from the attack of some mindless beast.

I take another bite from my prey, savor the sweetness of the fresh meat. Henri will like this, I think, picturing how my son will rush to join me once I arrive home and place my kill on the veranda. We’ll feed together then, father and son, both in our natural forms, side by side.

Chloe comes to mind too. I wonder whether she’s flying this night over the rugged terrain near her home. I wish she were here, flying beside me. Soon, I promise myself. Henri’s birthday is only days away. We should be free to leave for Jamaica within weeks after that. Then, there’s only the final wait.

I sigh, wish that was over too.