Dragon Moon

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“What a brilliant idea! Troop takes the loneliness, angst, and eroticism so often found in the works of Anne Rice and weaves them into a new kind of misunderstood monster. Push aside the vampires and werewolves ... and enter the dragon.”

— *Christopher Golden, author of
The Ferryman

 

“Comparisons with
Interview with the Vampire
are almost inevitable.... However,
DelaSangre
ultimately carves out its own territory ... unabashed fun, with just enough moral ambiguity to raise it above the level of a pure popcorn book. A promising debut.”

—
Locus

 

“Any book that has us cheering for a human-eating dragon is definitely well-written.”

—
Chicago Sun-Times

 

“
The Dragon DelaSangre
is only as equally fascinating as the man who wrote it.”

—
The Miami Herald

 

“Alan F. Troop has done for dragons what Anne Rice has done for vampires and Laurell K. Hamilton has done for werewolves. ... An exciting fantasy.... Horror lovers will have a feast.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

“
The Dragon DelaSangre
is the most original fantasy I've read in years, its strength coming in no small part from Alan Troop's remarkable ability to deliver a sympathetic but distinctly non-human protagonist. Just when I thought there was nothing new in contemporary fantasy, along comes Alan Troop's terrific
The Dragon DelaSangre
to prove me wrong! I loved this book!”

— Tanya Huff

 

“An exciting, inventive, unique novel with, in Peter, a surprisingly sympathetic protagonist.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

 

“A very thoughtful and rewarding read.”

—
New Mobility Magazine

 

“The new book by Alan F. Troop you won't be able to put down.”

—
Aventura News

 

“Troop proves to be quite skillful at characterization. ... Light and fast-paced ... engrossing.”

—
The Davis Enterprise

 

“Troop paints his monsters in sympathetic colors, making us sympathize with Peter.... His dragons are wonderfully realized. ... A fascinating read.”

—
ZENtertainment.com

 

“Alan F. Troop tells an intense tale of more-than-human characters who can be quite human in their souls. Very intense.”

—
The Weekly Press
(Philadelphia)

 

“Troop never lets up, he never loses focus, and he never loses the reader's attention ... could lead to a great series. ... [He] might really be on to something big.”

—
Trashotron.com

 

“A powerful, passionate, gripping tale that brings dragons into the modern era. ... Just when you think dragons are overdone and nothing new can be said about them, this book comes along to challenge that notion and put it in its place. Don't ignore this one.”

— The Green Man Review

ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,
Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, April 2003

Copyright © Alan F. Troop, 2003

All rights reserved

eISBN : 978-1-101-49822-4

REGISTERED TRADEMARK — MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

 

 

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

For Susan, my mate, my love

Acknowledgments

To Rocky Marcus for your insightful reading, ongoing advice and enthusiastic cheerleading. To Steve Marcus for your occasional patience. To Pat Rosenbaum for your enthusiastic support. To all of the BMC — Jimmy Stinson, Bob Hollander, Rick Rosenbaum, Mike Fisher, Geoff Weisbaum and Dan Palmer — for your relentless teasing. To my mother, who's probably purchased more copies of my first book than anyone else. And to Delaney, Zoe and Aaron, who won't be allowed to read this book until they're much, much older.

1

It's been almost four years since my wife, Elizabeth, died. No headstone marks her grave. No bouquet of cut flowers lies on the grass that grows above her. I see little value in such things. I know perfectly well whose dead body I lowered into the ground. I need no letters carved in stone to remind me to mourn my poor bride's passage. I need no dead vegetation to honor her memory.

Because Elizabeth loved the garden just below our veranda, overlooking our island's small harbor, I buried her next to it. Because she often sat and relaxed under the shade of the ancient gumbo limbo trees that dot my island, I took a cutting from the largest of the trees and planted it at the head of her grave.

That skinny twig's rapid growth has made me shake my head. Now over twenty feet tall, the tree stands guard over Elizabeth's resting place, breaking the force of the fierce winds that sometimes blow in from the sea, shielding the grave from the driving rain, shading it from the burning sun.

Like all of its kind, the gumbo limbo possesses a thick glossy green-brown trunk that weeps strands of red bark, as if it's in permanent mourning. Its gnarled branches spread out and up in asymmetrical disarray, hugging the air, connecting Elizabeth's resting place to the sky above.

I like to believe that Elizabeth would smile if she could know such a mighty tree grows above her. It would please her too, I think, to see how much her son has grown.

“Papa?” Henri says, just after breakfast, as soon as we arrive at the grave, “Did Mama ever see me?”

“No. She died just after you were born,” I say, stifling a sigh. I dislike telling my son partial truths but I know better than to discuss something so complex with a young child. One day, I promise myself, when Henri's older, I'll tell him the full story of his mother's death.

For now I look at my son and ruffle his hair with my hand. Almost four, the boy's as large as most five-yearolds, far more precocious, already beginning to show the tendency toward muscularity, the wide shoulders that are typical of our people.

Not surprisingly, he's chosen to look like me, sporting the same middle-American appearance, the same blond hair, even the same cleft chin as I do. Had Elizabeth lived, I've no doubt he'd look much like her and — with the contrast of her dark skin and the emerald-green eyes all of our kind have — much more exotic.

Part of me wishes he resembled his mother more. But all he's ever known of her are the stories I've told him, the pictures he's seen on her passport and driver's license and the small grassy grave we visit each morning after breakfast, on every day the weather permits.