Talker 25 (2 page)

“No.”

“Don’t be scared, Callahan,” Preston says. “The old man’s harmless.”

“Yeah, if earthquakes and gunfire can’t wake him, a little peck on the scales ain’t gonna do it,” Konrad says.

“I’m not scared. How would you like someone to come into your bedroom, jump on your neck, and kiss you while you’re sleeping?”

“Depends on who’s doing the kissing.” Konrad winks at me. “Come on, Melissa, lighten up. Look, Trish is doing it.”

Ah, farmboy logic. Beats real logic every time in Mason-Kline.

Trish appears as if she’d rather be tiptoeing through a field of scorpions as she edges toward the enormous Blue. Konrad laughs and swings himself onto the dragon’s snout.

“Did you see that?” I ask Preston.

“See what?”

“He brightened when Konrad jumped on.”

“Hey, Kon, the old man’s got his light saber up for you,” Preston says. He removes a pair of sunglasses from his jacket. “Put these on if it’s too bright for you, Callahan. We don’t want you squinting like you’re blocked up or something.”

I ignore him and march into place.

“Okay, ladies, we want this to be good. Wanna spark some fires,” Konrad says, and gives us his all-American smile. “How ’bout you lose the shirts?”

Trish shrugs at me, then wriggles out of her sweater. Guess she’s not worried about the dragon anymore.

“Very, very nice, Patricia Potter,” Konrad says.

She grins. “Your turn, dragon hunter.”

Konrad complies with farmboy enthusiasm. He flexes his biceps in various poses; Trish whistles her approval.

“Sometime this century, Callahan,” Preston says.

“You’re wearing a bra, aren’t you?” Trish whispers over the dragon’s snout, but from Konrad’s smirk, it’s obvious he heard.

“That’s not the point,” I hiss. “I don’t want Dad seeing this. Why don’t you ride the dragon? Konrad and Preston can kiss it, and I’ll take the picture.”

“I’m not getting on that thing.”

“Your dad won’t care,” Konrad says. “He knows what happens on these hunts.”

“She won’t change her mind,” Trish says. “She’s got that
stubborn look.”

Stubborn look? At least I don’t have the whore look.

“Actually, Callahan’s idea ain’t bad,” Preston says. “We’ll mean mug it, Jedi style. She already looks pissed anyway.” He holds up his sunglasses. “But you’ll have to wear these.”

“You mean Trish, right?” I say.

“If you won’t take off your shirt,” Trish says, “I won’t ride the dragon.”

Touché.

A minute later, Preston and Konrad have stripped to their boxers and I’m straddling Old Man Blue’s head. The dragon’s skin is harder than rock and smells of iron, and there’s a faint warmth to it, like I’m sitting on a stovetop with the oven turned on.

Trish directs her phone’s camera at us. “Two sexy studs and a sultry dragon rider,” she says, then snaps the picture. Good thing Preston’s sunglasses hide me rolling my eyes, otherwise I might ruin their work of art.

“So much sarcasm for one so young.”

I remove the sunglasses and glare at Trish. “What did you say?”

“Two sexy studs and—”

“No, not that. After that. You said ‘so much sarcasm for one so young.’”

Konrad shakes his head. “No she didn’t. You okay,
Melissa?”

“We’re not here to hurt you.” It’s the same voice as before. Sounds like Trish, but a bit deeper.

I slide off Old Man Blue and scan the hilltop. Nothing but darkness and shadows. Plenty of places for somebody to hide.

“Mel, what’s wrong?” Trish says.

“Stop it, guys. This isn’t cool.”

Preston’s smartass smile makes me think they’re up to something, but Konrad’s approaching me as if I were a feral dog. “Come on, Melissa, let’s get out of here.”

I don’t know what’s happening, but I allow them to herd me away from Old Man Blue. I look over my shoulder several times, but there’s nobody there. Except for a few brief exchanges between Trish and Konrad, everything’s quiet.

I’ve convinced myself I’m losing my mind when something tells me to check one last time. Squatting, I pretend to tie my shoes until Trish and Konrad pass. Preston stops beside me, but his attention is focused on the sparkling blue bodies winking back at us from Dragon Hole.

When I turn around, I expect someone to be standing next to Old Man Blue, but there isn’t. I smile uneasily, glad to have come, but much happier to be going. “Bye, old man.”

The dragon opens its eyes—giant brown orbs that bore into me. “Good-bye, Melissa.”

“Preston,” I say in a voice softer than a mouse squeak. “Preston!”

But he must he not hear me. He’s crouched a few feet away, staring into the sky. Two quick steps and I’m at his side, shaking his shoulder.

He grins at me. “What’s wrong, Callahan? Still hearing voices?”

“Old Man Blue’s awake.”

Preston’s grin fades as he glances over his shoulder, but returns a second later. “Almost had me there.”

My breath catches. The dragon’s eyes are closed. “He was awake. He looked right at me.” Preston regards me with a mixture of incredulity and concern. “I’m not crazy, Preston. I know what I saw.”

But what about what I heard? Did Old Man Blue actually speak to me?

“It’s probably a trick of the light,” he says.

“I’m not crazy,” I murmur.

“Maybe just a bit scared.” Preston grabs my elbow and leads me down Dragon Hill. “It’s okay, Melissa, these dragons aren’t going to hurt you.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Trish
and the farmboys drop me at home around midnight. I tiptoe to my bedroom. Dad’s light is on, but he’s snoring. Good. I just want to go to sleep and forget about my trip to Dragon Hill.

But sleep won’t come. I can’t stop thinking about Old Man Blue and his (her?) band of dragons. Was it all in my head, or can they really talk? If so, why did the old man talk to me and nobody else?

Those and a dozen more questions plague my thoughts. I’d text Trish, but she and the others already think I’m on the train to Crazyville. At some point I even consider waking Dad, but he’d schedule an appointment with my shrink the second after I finished a sentence with the words “dragon” and “telepathy” in it.

2:14.

3:06.

3:51.

4:34.

I look from the clock to the moonlit picture of Mom on my bedside dresser. Her arm’s wrapped around my shoulder. She’s smiling, flashing a peace sign. Two months before she died, happy and oblivious. It’s been more than three years, but it feels like I was sitting next to her only a minute ago, holding her heavy, limp hand as her coma went eternal.

All because of the dragons she loved, dragons she believed intended us no harm.

And then it’s eight o’clock and my alarm’s going off. No way I’m going to soccer practice today. Unfortunately, there’s also no way I’m going back to sleep.

I dress in my Saturday outfit of choice—sweatshirt and sweatpants—and throw my hair into a ponytail before trudging to the kitchen. I grab breakfast and sit at the table beside the window that overlooks the cornfield behind our house.

I’m wondering if Dorothy would trade me her twister for my dragons when Sam says, “What’s floggin’ your noggin, Mel?”

I glance up from my bowl of uneaten Cheerios to find my brother examining me, a hand stroking his chin and a spoon
balanced on his nose. As far as younger brothers go, Sam ranks pretty high on the nuisance list, but he’s always good for a cheap laugh.

“Floggin’ your noggin? What’s that even mean?”

He taps his head. “The hamsters are busy.”

I snatch the spoon from his nose. “Keep talking like that and wearing silverware and you’re never going to find a girlfriend.”

He grins. “Speaking of which, how’d your date go?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Touchy, touchy. You look like ass this morning, you know?”

I throw a Cheerio at him. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” He’s dressed in an MK cross-country sweatshirt a size too big and shorts that show too much of his skinny white thighs. “Run along, little man.”

“Sam, stop teasing your sister,” Dad says as he enters the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand, a computer tablet in the other.

“Why am I getting in trouble? She threw food at me.”

Dad smiles at Sam. “I’m sure you deserved it. You ready to go?”

“You’re driving him?” I say. “Don’t be lame, Sam. Run there.”

“It’s on my way,” Dad says. “Want a ride?”

I’m about to say no, but reconsider when I notice the foot-long dragon Taser tucked into his utility belt. “You’re going to the rez?”

He waves the tablet at me. “It seems another group of miscreants broke into the sanctuary last night. Can’t possibly imagine who that was. Did you get pictures?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You didn’t do anything stupid, did you, Melissa?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it, Dad.” Sam makes exaggerated kissing faces behind Dad’s back. I throw another Cheerio at him.

“See, completely unprovoked.”

“Sam, that’s enough.” Dad checks his watch. “If you want a ride, Mel, you’ve got two minutes to get your gear.”

I return a minute later with my tennis shoes.

“What happened to your cleats?” Dad asks.

“I’m not going to soccer today.”

After unloading Sam at the school, Dad steers the Prius onto the thoroughfare that connects Mason-Kline to the rez. Reservation Road, wide as a runway and unmarked by signposts or mile markers, is empty except for us. I keep my gaze fixed on the spears of golden corn blurring by the window.

“What’s going on, Mel? Why did you want to come to the sanctuary?”

I shrug.

“Something to do with your date last night?”

“It wasn’t a date. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Hopefully not all bad?”

“No.” I know he won’t drop it. Maybe I can divert his attention by asking one of the questions bothering me—a question that won’t get me in trouble. “Dad, how do you tell the difference between male and female dragons?”

“Once we’re back home, I’ll forward you some public literature.”

“There’s classified stuff on this?” Dumb question. If the army researched the mating habits of sheep, it would deem half the material top secret. “I’m sure it’s thoroughly boring. Could you just highlight it for me?”

“Since we’ve never seen them mate or reproduce, we have to dissect them.”

“Can’t you . . . um . . . just look at their business?”

He laughs. “They have no external business.”

“Aren’t there easier ways? X-rays or something?”

“Nothing like that works. We don’t know half as much as we think we do about them. What’s going on, Mel?”

“Nothing.” I glance at the blinking red light on the haft of his Taser. “You need to charge your Taser. You promised.”

“You know these Blues aren’t dangerous.”

“How do you know that? You can’t even tell the difference between boys and girls until you do an autopsy.”

“I just know.”

“Kind of like how Mom knew?”

“That’s enough. You know that’s different.”

“It’s not any different. Mom trusted dragons and they killed her.”

“It wasn’t their fault,” he says softly.

“No, Dad, it’s never their fault. They’re just animals that got out of control, right? It’s Mom’s fault she’s dead, isn’t it?”

Dad grabs my thigh and squeezes hard before letting go. “That’s enough, Melissa.”

“You’re angrier at me than you ever were at them.” I blink back tears and swallow a bitter laugh.

Five minutes later, Dad parks in the small lot adjacent to the rez’s guard post. He doesn’t say anything until he’s halfway out of the car. “You coming?”

I don’t answer.

He mutters something and slams the door shut.

Only after the crunch of boots on gravel fades to nothing do I open my eyes. Dad’s at the guardhouse, talking with a soldier wielding a machine gun. Moments later, the tank-wide gate swings open. Dad glances in my direction, shakes his head, and strides into the rez.

The lot’s a quarter mile from the entrance to Dragon Hill; Old Man Blue is little more than a glowing sapphire
at this distance. A couple of dragons have lumbered from their hole for a midday snack, which consists of wild grass and charred cow. One of them stands near the fence, lazily chomping a rib bone.

I watch the Blues graze for several minutes. Not once do they look my direction. Not once does a strange voice pop into my head.

After sufficient flirting, the guard opens the gate. The Blues pay me no heed as I pass, their attention drawn to the column of smoke rising from the nearby fire pit. The cows on the opposite side of the pit, separated from the rest of the rez by a twenty-foot-high electric fence, take turns mooing as one of their brothers is roasted whole in a giant hearth.

A man stripped to the waist and covered in soot takes a break from working the spit to wave. I wave back, blanch against the stench of burning flesh, and quicken my pace.

I’m almost to Dragon Hill when I see Dad. He notices me, goes from angry to all-out pissed. He thrusts his fist in the air and stomps over.

“What were you thinking?”

Before I can answer, he opens his fist and drops a decapitated toy soldier to the ground. He grabs my arm and drags me away from the hill.

“Dad, let go. You’re hurting me.”

“I can’t believe you did this.”

I shake free. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? This came into our system a few minutes ago. I expected more from you, Melissa Anne,” he says through clenched teeth, a dark hue spreading up his neck into his cheeks. He thrusts his tablet at my face.

Two dozen headless action figures—some standing wedged into the ground with arms akimbo, the rest kneeling with hands in prayer—are arranged in a semicircle facing Old Man Blue. Toy dragons of various colors loom behind each miniature soldier. I’ve seen some sold at Walmart, but except for the Green with its neck arched in attack mode, I don’t remember any coming with crimson driblets painted around their mouths.