Talker 25 Read online

  “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.

  To make matters worse, I’m on top of Old Man Blue. Arms crossed, sunglasses on, lips pursed, I appear quite menacing, like a judge who found the soldiers guilty and ordered their decapitation via dragon. My two farmboy sidekicks have been removed.

  Konrad can be a jerk sometimes, but I can’t see him doing something like this. That leaves Preston, a recent transfer to MK High who I’d never really hung out with until last night. He must have gone back to the rez to play some stupid joke on me. Set up some toys, take a picture, blend it with the earlier one, put the doctored version on the net. Now the military’s found it, and I look like some hardcore sympathizer or even an insurgent.

  No wonder Dad’s pissed.

  “Preston must have set me up, Dad. Honestly, I didn’t know.”

  “You need to find new friends, Melissa.” He shakes his head. “You know what? You’re going to clean it up. Wait here while I get a trash bag.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t do anything wrong.” I start toward the hill, but he grabs me before I’ve gone two feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going, missy? You don’t go near the old man without me.”

  “You wanna put me on a leash?”

  The redness reaches his temples. He’s beginning to resemble a beret-wearing lollipop. “Don’t push it,” he says in that deathly quiet voice he normally reserves for Sam. “Wait here.”

  When he’s past the fire pit, I give him the finger, turn around, and march right up Dragon Hill.

  The scene at the summit is identical to the one on Dad’s tablet, minus me and one headless toy soldier. Old Man Blue appears to be asleep.

  “Hello,” I whisper. N
o response. I step around the decapitated soldiers. “Old Man?”

  The Blue remains silent. I try a few more times. Nothing. Maybe it was just another prank. Preston had one of his buddies hiding behind a boulder or something, eager to mess with the girl afraid of dragons. How come Trish and Konrad didn’t hear anything then? How did they open its eyes?

  How did they read my mind?

  I’m kicking the toys into a pile when a shift in the shadows alerts me I’m no longer alone.

  Not Dad. I cover my eyes against the sun but still can’t make out more than an outline of the figure beside Old Man Blue. The trench coat makes me thinks it’s Preston or one of his farmboy friends.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” I say.

  “One of them?” There’s amusement in the question. The voice is unfamiliar.

  “Better scat before Colonel Callahan comes back and rips you a new one.”

  “Will he now, Melissa?”

  I squint at him. “Do I know you?”

  “No, Melissa.”

  “You know my name. Good for you. And you are?” I look over my shoulder. Dad’s at the edge of the fire pit. A minute ago I never wanted to see him again. Now he can’t get here soon enough.

  “James.” The voice pulls my attention back to the farmboy.

  He emerges from the shadows. The farmboy in front of me looks like no farmboy I’ve ever seen.

  Bronzed skin. Sweeping black hair. A slightly crooked nose, probably broken a couple of times. A strong jawline. And to top it all off, blue eyes that burn with intensity.

  If I weren’t so out of sorts, I might laugh at the rest of him. Beneath his black trench coat he’s wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, a studded black belt, and black combat boots.

  I hear my brother’s voice ringing like death bells in my head—“You look like ass this morning”—and my mind reconstructs a horrid mental picture of the monster I must resemble. I’m dressed in sweats, I haven’t showered since last night, I’m not wearing any makeup, I haven’t brushed my teeth since yesterday morning. And my hair’s in a freaking ponytail!

  Glowering at him, I nod at the pile of toys. “That was a real jerk move, setting me up like that.”

  “Wasn’t me. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He takes a step toward me. He smells of iron and pine trees. Strange. Another step and we’re so close I can feel his cool breath against my hair.

  I purse my lips and force myself to stare through him. There’s a soul-searing intensity to his gaze that has likely caused many a farmgirl to swoon. Not me. No, not Melissa Callahan.

  “Melissa,” he says. A shiver of anticipation runs through me. God help me, I am a farmgirl. “There’s another war coming, and you must decide on which side of the fence you’ll stand.”

  The spell vanishes. “You’re a real dip—”

  “Melissa Anne Callahan!”

  I turn around and spot Dad’s lollipop head emerging over the ridge below.

  “You better get out of here, James,” I say, but when I glance over my shoulder, he’s already gone. Typical. As Dad crests the hill, head ready to explode, I promise myself the next time I see that farmboy, I won’t be played for a fool again. No matter how cute he is.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  3

  When we get home, a black Escalade occupies our driveway. Inscribed on its passenger door are the words BUREAU OF DRAGON AFFAIRS. As Dad parks the car along the curb, a pair of men in black suits approach. BoDA agents, aka D-men. Neither looks to have smiled in years.

  “Stay here,” Dad says, getting out. He meets the D-men at the front of the Prius. I crack my door a hair so I can hear. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  The senior agent flashes identification. “Colonel Callahan, we have reason to believe your daughter is involved in the insurgency.”

  The younger agent looks at me and shifts sideways a step. A subtle maneuver, but one clearly designed to give him a heads-up should I decide to make a run for it. I try not to think about the fact that he’s also reached inside his jacket.

  Dad scowls. “What reason would that be?”

  Senior shows Dad a picture.

  “Those are toys.”

  “It’s propaganda typical of the Diocletians,” Senior says.

  Dad glances my way, then pulls the agent out of earshot to continue the conversation.

  Diocletians? Must be a new insurgency group. Most have funny names and short life spans. They rant against the continued slaughter of Reds and Greens “struggling to live a peaceful existence” in the evacuated territories and condemn the imprisonment of Blues in “research zoos.”

  Nobody really pays them any attention unless they turn violent or do something crazy, like attempt to fly a dragon out of the evac territories. Nobody except the Bureau of Dragon Affairs, which Mom always likened to the Spanish Inquisition. “So much as smile at a dragon, Mel, and they’ll call you a heretic.”

  Dad’s shouting. “I’ll make it simple for you then. You get out of here and hope you never see me again. If you come back to Mason-Kline—”

  “We’ll be back, Colonel. Just hope we don’t get you for obstruction.” The agent gestures to his buddy, and they get in the Escalade. Dad waits until they’ve driven away before returning to the Prius.

  “Killing toys is pretty serious stuff these days, huh?” I say.

  Dad stares off into space. After a moment of silence, he says, “They want to arrest you, but they’ll have to wait until Monday for a judge. They might try to get you at school. If they do, call me right away. Under no circumstances are you to let them take you. Not unless I’m with you. You understand?”

  “You’re scaring me, Dad.”

  He looks at me. “Do you understand, Melissa?”

  “Yes, sir. Who—”

  “Get in the house. You’re grounded until I decide otherwise.”

  Once I’m in my room, I Google Diocletians. The first entry talks about the Roman emperor who killed his enemies via decapitation, including Saint George, the famed dragon slayer. The second entry links to a video called “Retribution 01,” uploaded a month ago.

  I click on it. The screen stays black as a man begins to speak.

  “Hello, world.” Behind him, I hear the deep-throated growls of dragons and muffled whimpers. “Imagine this. Imagine that you wake up one day in a strange place. Imagine that you see a house in the distance, and you go there to ask where you are. Imagine that the person who opens the door greets you with a shotgun in his hands. Then, a second later, without provocation, you’ve got a hole in your chest. What would you do?

  “If you flee, they hunt you down. They put you on TV shows and execute you for entertainment. If you fight, they call you a monster. Better to be a monster than to be dead, isn’t it?”

  I roll my eyes. Standard insurgent propaganda. Dragons are the victims. Just happened to kill more than eighty million people worldwide in their struggle to survive. Never mind everything else they destroyed along the way.

  “You end your shows, world, and we’ll end ours,” the man says in conclusion.

  The screen fills with light. For a moment, I’m blinded. I recover, and a part of me wishes I hadn’t.

  Six Greens encircle six soldiers, each tethered to a pole and gagged. The dragons stomp back and forth, impatient. The soldiers struggle futilely against their bindings. A black man in a white cloak steps into the middle of the group, somehow unafraid. A wicked scar traces his jawline. Without preamble, he lifts an arm, then brings it down, as if starting a race.

  I shut off the video before the dragons commence their meal. I’ve seen a dozen or so insurgency videos in my life, but never anything like this. Not with execution, and most certainly not with Greens.

  Six!

  Reds and Blues are pack creatures, but Greens are solitary assassins—the T. rex in the dragon hier
archy. Bigger, scarier, angrier, they will kill anything on their radar, including each other.

  But this guy, this Diocletian, seems to have figured out a way to make Greens get along, to control them.

  I was hoping Dad was overreacting about all this, but there’s no doubt those BoDA agents will be back for me. Probably first thing Monday morning.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  4

  Monday arrives with a loud rumble. Today’s not garbage day, and it’s too early for one of Mr. Henley’s drunken tractor drives down Main Street. Stomping Blues? My bed’s quivering, not jumping from side to side. Plaster’s not falling, windows aren’t cracking. No, the dragons aren’t on the rampage.

  I stumble out of bed and shuffle to the window. Drawing back the curtain, I’m greeted by the sharp glare of sunrise reflecting off a bumper-to-bumper convoy of black Humvees and tanks. It’s the All-Blacks, the army’s dragon forces unit, not the Bureau of Dragon Affairs, but I half expect them to stop at our house to arrest me anyway.

  Thankfully, they roll right on by. It’s ten minutes before the last one passes, and it’s another five before the vehicular earthquake subsides to a dull thrum.

  “What’s going down?” Sam says from behind me.

  “No clue. Dad mention anything to you about Dragon Hill?” He’d spent the remainder of the weekend on the phone or at the rez. Besides reinterrogating me a couple of times about what happened Friday night, he’s given me the silent treatment.

  Sam taps his lip several times before flashing me his impish smile. “He said something about his stupid daughter doing stupid things with stupid people.” I kick a soccer ball at him, but it hits the doorframe.

  “You should have stuck to tae kwon do.” He flicks me off and flees down the hallway.

  After changing into jeans and a thin sweater, I tiptoe to Dad’s bedroom, where I find Sam with his ear pressed to the door.