"Alan F. Troop - Dragon Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Troop Alan F)

Just the thought of hunting fresh prey makes my stomach growl. I look up at the sun, frown when I see it
hasn't quite yet reached its apex. I sigh, swallowing saliva. If I could, I would go right now. But I'll wait. I
know the only safe time to hunt is at night, in the dark, after the world has turned quiet.

I decide to wait until evening before I tell Henri of my plans. Otherwise, the day will go too slowly for
my son.

At dinner, I serve Henri only half his regular portion of rare steak, as I do every time before a hunt. I
don't want the boy to be too full to eat what I bring him. He looks at his plate, then at me. "Papa? Are
you hunting tonight?" he says.

I nod, put my own much larger serving of warm, bloody meat on the table.

"Can I go too?"

"You know better," I say. "Not until you're older."

"But I'm going to be four...."

"Older than that."

"Not fair!" he says, folds his arms and pouts.

I smile at him. "When you're bigger, we'll hunt together. For now, eat your food. There will be more
later, when I come back after you're asleep."
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Henri, still pouting, looks away from his plate.

I ignore his momentary food strike and make a show of cutting and eating my meat. In only a few
minutes the heavy aroma of the blood on his plate and my feeding in front of him makes him too hungry to
resist eating any longer.




After Henri falls asleep, I go out on the veranda and walk over to its ocean side. In the darkness, a dog
barks. Otherwise, only the waves rushing at the shore, the wind rustling through the trees break the
silence of the night.

A southeast breeze, I think, normal for this time of year. My mind turns to Chloe, living on that island so
far south of mine. There's little chance the girl has come of age so soon. Still, I turn my face toward the
southeast, sniff in the salt smell the wind carries. If Chloe has reached her maturity, her scent will surely
be on the air. Thankfully, the breeze carries no hint of cinnamon and musk, the telltale aroma of a female
of my kind in heat.