Talker 25 Page 7

  I grin. “Number two: I have a tattoo of Canis Major on my left hip.” I point at my gunshot wound. “Only thing that hurt worse was this.”

  “Let’s have a look-see.”

  “She doesn’t look like that kind of girl.”

  “Truth number three: my father was the lead scientist on the research team that discovered dragons can’t see black.”

  “Truth!” I hear from the other end of the fire. “It was all over the news.”

  “Yes,” I say. ARMY OFFICIALS DISCOVER DRAGONS’ ACHILLES’ HEEL. “But are you sure he was the lead?”

  “She’s got you there,” James says.

  Unfortunately, an older guy remembers Dad’s interview on 60 Minutes.

  They debate, but end up split on the other two. Six think I’m not good enough to win the NoVa tae kwon do tournament. Six think I look too wholesome for a tattoo.

  “Everett, you’ve got to break the tie,” Howard says to James, who has stayed silent during the discussion.

  “No clue,” he says. “I abstain.”

  “Come on, man,” says one of the tae kwon do disbelievers. “You must know whether she’s tatted up. Don’t make us go wake Preston.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I whisper.

  “You were bleeding pretty badly back in Mason-Kline. We had to get your shirt off to apply a compress,” he whispers back. As I feign indifference, hoping the shadows obscure my embarrassment, he speaks up. “I didn’t get a good look. She did mention that she used to do tae kwon do.”

  Howard switches his vote, then retrieves the paper from his pocket and unfolds it. He scowls at James. “Lying bastard.”

  “Perhaps he’s not. Perhaps she’s lying,” somebody says. Calls for proof ring out.

  I lift my jacket and shirt halfway up my ribs. Sirius, the top star in the constellation, and a couple of connecting lines peek out over my jeans. I grin. “Your turn.”

  They strip, a few meekly, but most with farmboy merriment. Taunts and brags fly every which way.

  “You too, Everett,” Howard says. “Take off the armor, and show the damsel the bird-man’s chest.”

  “I don’t think so,” James says.

  “The knight’s gone chicken,” Howard says. The others turn their taunts on James until he relents.

  “Thank you,” I say as he slips out of his jacket.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I glance up from the fire, but his face is blocked by the sweater pulled over his head. Fading bruises yellow his stomach and an old scar runs at an angle from his clavicle into the furrow between his pecs. He’s got a tattoo of his own. Curled around his left bicep, it resembles one of those tacky barbwire things, but when he turns from me to strip out of his pants, the firelight catches it better.

  Letters, jagged and overlapping, circle around to form a phrase. Drink the . . . The last part’s out of sight.

  Then he’s off, falling in line with the other half-naked insurgents on a loop around the cave. Others step from their crates to watch. The men stationed at the cave entrance with binoculars and rocket launchers urge them on. The Reds ignore them.

  The Silver does not. She’s a sheepdog, and the runners are her sheep. She herds them at an enthusiastic gallumph, circling back to exhort the stragglers. Prosthetic Leg Guy, who scoffed at Howard’s plea to stay behind, limps along the best he can, but too slow for the Silver. After several nudges met by startled curses, she picks him up and races around the cave until she reaches the fire, where she sets him on his feet, shivering and a bit blue.

  “Thanks,” he mutters, but the Silver’s already rumbling off to help the next laggard. Everybody speeds up after that.

  James sprints to the finish ahead of the pack, then doubles over, clutching his knees. I covertly sneak a peek at the rest of his tattoo.

  Or maybe not so covertly, because he says, “Drink the wild air.”

  “The dragon-rider motto?” I ask.

  “Something like that.” He dresses. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I say, looking toward the far side of the cave. The Reds sit gathered in a circle, heads bowed together. James follows my gaze and tells me they’re praying for Myra, the faintly flickering dragon that lies in a dark corner.

  Religious Reds? I don’t touch that one with a ten-foot pole.

  “Pretty much the only time a dragon needs your help is when it’s having trouble seeing,” James instructs as we walk over. “Just talk to them. Describe the situation. Building at two o’clock, three hundred feet below—”

  “There’s really no need for this. They’re injured and—”

  “Vestia’s not. Anyway, flying heals the soul,” he says. “The easiest way to communicate with a dragon is to address them directly. They’ll often ignore you, particularly if they don’t like you. We can talk with them one at a time, but they have the ability to carry on multiple conversations at once. It’s quite interesting.”

  “Quite.”

  He fails to note my sarcasm. “Vestia believes it’s a clear indication of their superiority, but . . .”

  He keeps talking, but I’m no longer listening. The watching sensation has just bombarded me. Different from Dragon Hill. More aggressive. Evidently the Reds are done praying.

  The brightest breaks from the pack, green eyes narrowing on me. The sensation intensifies, the warmth swells, and I break into a furious tremble.

  I clench my fists, grit my teeth, but can’t control the fear that pulses through me. I tell myself these creatures are not monsters, but my body refuses to believe it. There’s too much history to overcome.

  Whereas the Silver reminds me of a five-ton puppy, these Reds remind me of my childhood. They were the primary color on the evening news most nights.

  “I can’t do it,” I say, backpedaling. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  James catches me by the wrist. “Vestia won’t hurt you.”

  “Vestia,” I mumble, pulling free. Give a monster a name, tell me it prays, does that make it any less a monster?

  “Give a human a name, listen to it pray and pray and pray, does that make it any less appetizing?” The shrill voice sends me stumbling back at a faster clip. I hit a wall. The dragon cranes her neck toward me. Thick swirls of smoke burst from her nose. An image of an enormous hawk scrutinizing a petrified mouse pops into my head.

  “You think me an animal, do you, human?” Vestia says. Her gaze narrows to slits, and she smiles to expose her teeth. “James is right. I won’t hurt you.” She chomps. “Doesn’t hurt a—”

  A snarl interrupts her. She turns, but too late. The Silver smashes into Vestia, sends her careening to the ground. The Red regains her feet with a quickness that belies her size. She extends her wings, arches her neck, and looses a terrible scream. The Silver adopts a similar position, its glow near blinding. As they circle around, screeching at each other, ripples of intense heat wash over me, followed by blasts of frozen air.

  I scramble into a nearby alcove, shallow, but too skinny for a dragon to squeeze into. Everybody else—dragons and humans alike—has also gone into full retreat mode.

  Except James. I yell for him to take cover, but either he doesn’t hear over the roars, or he’s too stupid to listen. He falls to one knee in front of the fuming Red, as if he’s a beggar beseeching a queen. Vestia lifts her leg and lets it hover a few feet over his head.

  James doesn’t budge. Instead, he makes an apologetic gesture for the Silver. I assume he’s using the same line of reasoning he did with me. “She’s a child; she doesn’t understand what she’s doing.”

  Vestia listens to him for five seconds at most, then stomps the cave floor beside him. The resulting quake knocks him off balance. The Silver bares its teeth. Growling, the Red sweeps James aside with her forepaw, gentle enough not to kill him, hard enough to send him flying.

  With a mighty bellow, the Silver drives a talon into Vestia’s chest. The Red recoils with a cry tha
t is more anger than pain. She rises to her full extent, opens her mouth. A fireball forms in the back of her throat.

  Stop it! I implore silently.

  Vestia prowls forward, her fire rolls to the front of her mouth.

  I direct my energy at the Silver, hoping James was right about her liking me. “Stop it!”

  She ignores me, too, bares her teeth in full attack mode. Vestia’s flames snap out, licking at the Silver’s snout. The Silver squeals but doesn’t retreat.

  “Stop it! Please!”

  “Melissa, stay back!” Gretchen calls. She and Howard are pulling James out of the way. I look around. There is no place to stay back.

  I must move or I will die. This is what I tell myself as I launch into a sprint. I can’t think of anything dumber than charging into a dragon fight, but that’s what I do.

  I deliver a sharp front kick to the Silver’s mammoth ankle. As a jolt of agony shoots up my leg, she lets out an earsplitting yowl. She couldn’t possibly feel anything more than a tiny poke, but her brightness subsides to normal and she draws in her wings. Vestia’s glow dwindles too, and she backs away with a triumphant snort.

  The Silver crouches so that we’re at eye level, regarding me with an expression of pained confusion.

  “You can’t do that,” I say, feeling a tad ridiculous scolding a dragon. “You’re gonna get us hurt.”

  She slumps down, goes almost dark, and suddenly she’s crying. High-pitched, almost inaudible. The screams of a child lost and alone. I press my hands to her icy temples, lean my head against hers.

  “I know how hard it is to be without your family,” I say. “I know you’re scared because I’m scared, too.”

  Her breathing softens, her whimpering subsides, and her heartbeat stills until I can no longer feel it pulsing. She brightens, slithers backward, and starts to wiggle.

  “Bath time,” Vestia says. “You might want to run, human.”

  The Silver bounds forward. I raise my hands, but not fast enough to block her giant pink tongue. She licks me again and again, covering me in cold slobber. I hear a rush of footsteps followed by a chorus of laughter.

  James pulls me free of the Silver’s affection to applause and more laughter, wraps me in his jacket. As he rubs a semblance of warmth back into me, I locate Vestia. Wings furled, fire swallowed. Smirking?

  “You are an idiot,” the Red says, but not really like an insult. “You know I wouldn’t have hurt her? You, on the other hand . . .” she says, almost a joke. Almost. “Be thankful she likes you.”

  Despite the craziness of it all, I smile.

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  12

  James cancels our flight plans for that day. Strangely, I’m disappointed. When I mention this, he laughs and blames it on adrenaline and altitude.

  “Drink the wild air, right?” I say as we limp toward the cave mouth. Well, he limps.

  “Maybe sip it for a while,” he says after tossing back a few painkillers. “At least until Vestia forgives me.”

  I snort. “Forgives you?”

  “Best you learn your place, too, human,” Vestia chimes in. “You should not meddle in dragon affairs.”

  “No problem there. Just trying to keep you from burning down the house,” I say.

  “You don’t have to talk aloud,” James says as Vestia says, “Picking up some backbone, are you? Good, I prefer you crunchy.”

  “I prefer you silent,” I say with a wary glance over my shoulder. Vestia and the other Reds surround the dragon in the corner, who flickered out five minutes ago. Their heads move in strange arcs, many of them keening as they mourn their loss.

  “You don’t have to talk aloud,” James repeats. “People will think you’re crazy.”

  “I am crazy. I’m talking to a dragon. A dragon who wants to eat me.”

  “She wouldn’t actually do it. She’s a vegetarian.”

  “Of course she is.”

  “You’ll get used to it. They’re not that different from us.”

  “Minus the flying and breathing fire and ice parts?”

  James grins. “Yeah, minus that. It’s not normally like this. Today’s been a bad day.”

  “Understatement of the century.”

  “I’m going to make it up to you,” he says, which is why we’re hobbling toward the cave entrance.

  We exit onto a ledge that faces east. James clears snow from a log for us to sit on. Snow-dusted evergreens and sky-spearing mountains extend in every direction. The wind swirls with a brisk bite, and I can almost forget everything.

  “It’s incredible.” I’ve never seen so much of the world untouched by war. Not a glimpse of civilization in sight. “Mom would have loved—” I cut off and glance toward James. He’s smiling.

  Not would have loved. Did love. When James first mentioned an apology and directed me this way, I assumed he was going the farmboy route. Show me a pretty vista in hopes of distracting me.

  It’s not the first time I’ve underestimated him.

  He indicates a spot between two peaks. “She would often look that way. Usually when she thought everybody was asleep.”

  His voice softens. “I didn’t want to bother her, but this one night she was out longer than normal. I was worried she might catch cold. When I tiptoed out here, she didn’t acknowledge me. I assumed she was in conversation with a dragon, but when I draped the blanket over her shoulders, I saw that she was crying.

  “There weren’t many of us then,” James continues. “We had big dreams but little success, and there wasn’t much to be happy about. Your mom, though, she could always find the sunshine through the clouds, no matter how thick they were.”

  “‘You got two choices, Mel. Laugh or cry. Always choose laugh,’” I murmur. Laughter doesn’t seem possible at the moment.

  He shifts position, closer by the sound of it. But I dare not check, dare not move, otherwise I will crumble.

  “She started talking about you and Sam,” he says, and I can feel his breath on my ear. It is the only warmth out here. “We all knew she had a family, but she never talked about you before. I thought it was because she wanted to protect you, and that was part of it, but . . . I don’t know, Melissa . . . I don’t know exactly what I’m saying. I guess I just want you to know how much she missed you.”

  James leans forward, grimaces when he sees my face. “Tell me those are happy tears.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Lie to me then. Or I’m gonna feel like a real jerk.”

  I finally find a laugh, a small one. “Weren’t you supposed to help me eliminate emotions?”

  “No,” he says. “I would never want that. Anyway, it’s only the negative ones that open you. Fear, guilt, anger. Nobody knows why, but nothing quite blocks the signal like joy.”

  “Terrific. Don’t suppose faking it works?”

  “That would be nice. You’ve got to find something to hold on to.”

  “What do you hold on to?” I ask. His own mother died a couple of days ago. Many of his companions were killed in the Mason-Kline battle.

  “I’m between happys right now,” he admits, and for a moment the curtain opens and he’s that boy I saw in Mason-Kline, haunted and lost. But it closes even faster, the sadness rolled away off stage, beyond sight and sound.

  Thinking of our mothers, I squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

  We go to his crate, where we sit on opposite ends of his cot and get to know each other in a more normal manner. It’s nice. Close my eyes to the glow that bleeds through the slats, close my ears to the occasional dragon snorts, and we’re just a boy and a girl in an anonymous bedroom somewhere.

  I learn he grew up in Calgary before ditching city life for the “friendly confines of stalactites and porta potties.” He’s never read a dragon book and likes Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  We swap signs. His Taurus to
my Aries. The ram and the bull, always butting heads, he jokes. I tell him he better really watch out, because my moon’s in Scorpio. And he says that’s okay, because his is too, but I’m pretty sure he has no clue about astrology beyond the basics.

  He’s a year older than me, working on a degree in military history via correspondence, though that’s on indefinite hiatus. I mention I was finishing up college applications—considering premed—and then get to thinking about how that might never happen now.

  Whenever I go glum, he notices and shifts course. This time he starts rambling about his favorite band, some alternative group from England. He plays me a sample. I move closer, under the pretense of wanting to get a better look at the background picture, a lonely red maple in an empty field. The tree is beautiful, the music’s awful. I ask if he’s got the All-Pinks on there, and it’s obvious what he thinks of that. He shuts the music off.

  Besides a few books on a caged shelf, there is nothing in the crate to provide me further insight into the boy behind the smile and deep blue eyes. He insists that he maintains a Spartan lifestyle because at any moment they might need to relocate, which they do via dragon. Pick up the crate, carry it somewhere else. Pictures and stuff like that would fall, he explains.

  So he keeps his life stored in a footlocker. Happens to be the only one with a padlock on it. “Everything’s all dusty and disorganized inside,” he says when I press him for a peek. “Anyway, I need to have an air of mystery. Otherwise you’ll realize I’m entirely boring.”

  We move on. Any time I touch on anything too personal—his parents, in particular—he changes the subject.

  The conversation finally comes around to dragons, starting with the big question. Where do they come from?

  “They don’t know. They say they can’t remember anything before they got here. But they’re here now, and we have to learn to live with them.”

  “You ever wonder what life would be like if they weren’t around?”

  “Boring.”

  I snort. “Boring?”

  He lies back, closes his eyes, takes a slow breath. “When you’re flying a dragon, everything else disappears.”