Talker 25 Page 9

  I nod. Like the reporters, I found it odd a mining operation would be located that far from civilization. The drone zone, what most noninsurgents call the frontier, is a fifty-mile skirt of land that encircles the evac territories. Nothing illegal about living there, but most consider it an invitation to disaster via dragon. And that’s what the initial reports indicated. That the facility had been decimated by Red fire.

  “It was an off-grid army base, heavily fortified,” Preston says. “We’re the ones who destroyed it. We didn’t know there were talkers there until afterward.” He blows out a long breath. “We knew a couple of them. They’d gone off our radar months ago without a trace. And they’re not the only talkers the army’s using. Three weeks back, somebody contacted one of our scout dragons with a distress call. When he showed up at the rendezvous point, he was ambushed by the military. A few days ago, Grackel received one. Yesterday, Vestia—”

  “I get it,” I snap. If Preston’s right, it means the government’s rounding up talkers, enslaving them, means I might never be able to go home, might never see my family again. Two choices. Neither one mine. All-Blacks and BoDA agents on one side, dragons and insurgents on the other.

  James’s words from Dragon Hill leap to mind: “There’s another war coming, Melissa, and you must decide on which side of the fence you’ll stand.” I turn on my heel and make a beeline for Keith and the farmboy, who are sitting alone at a cafeteria table near the front of the cave.

  “Where are you going?” Preston asks.

  “When I first met James, he told me I’d have to choose sides.” I pick up my pace. “He knew what was going to happen, Preston. You all did. You should have warned us.”

  “It’s not like that, Callahan.” Preston grabs my arm and I cringe. “Sorry, but you should wait for a better time.”

  I shake free. “You mean when the war’s over?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  The Silver returns with the ball, nudges me into a stumble. “Not now!” She dims and retreats.

  “Keith should have told me. Somebody should have told—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Keith. You may be a coward, but I am not!”

  James’s shout rings through the cave. He shoves away from the table, heads for the dragons. Keith follows after him. Breaking into a quick jog, so do I. There’s a rapid exchange of words I can’t make out. Keith grabs him, pulls him into a hug. James’s features soften as tears well in his eyes.

  “. . . not easy, but it’s going to be all right,” I hear Keith say as I near. “Let it out.”

  “You don’t understand,” James says, his voice breaking. “You can’t understand. You don’t know what . . .” His gaze meets mine. He flushes and flees to Vestia. She looks at him for a few seconds before scooping him up with a talon. She places him on her bare back, and they fly from the cave.

  “You want me to go after him?” Preston asks.

  “He needs time.” Keith glances up. Dark circles shadow his eyes; he’s got a dozen new wrinkles. It must be hard holding on to all those secrets, living a double life.

  “You should have told me.” I chew my lip to calm myself. It’s all I can do not to yell, too. “About you and Mom, about Dragon Hole, about everything.”

  He nods, touches the swords tattooed to his neck. “I’m sure I’ve told you what these represent.”

  “Successful missions.” I try to bite my tongue, but can’t. “More deception?”

  His finger somehow finds the last sword in the chain. “Your mother gave me this one. We’re not supposed to take them preemptively, but she insisted, and she was a hard woman to refuse.” He looks away from me, his eyes pinched. “She wanted me to protect you. I’m sorry things have turned out so badly, Melissa.”

  He sounds defeated. The little girl in me wants to stay mad at him forever. The not-so-little girl realizes he’s like the rest of us. Fallible. Trying to do what he thinks is right, sometimes making mistakes. And I wonder if there is a right path from this darkness. Regardless of the answer, I know I want him by my side for the journey, so I bury my anger and embrace him.

  A knock awakens me. Two fourteen, according to the clock hung between two posters of leggy supermodels. The crate once belonged to a rider named Micah, one of Loki’s Grunts’ flight medics. It felt creepy taking some dead guy’s cot, but Preston assured me Micah would have been thrilled to have a pretty girl in his bed. It was either here or James’s crate, and I didn’t want to deal with that awkwardness.

  A second knock brings me to full alertness. By the third, I realize it’s for me. “Melissa, you in there?” Keith whispers as I clamber from the cot.

  I open the wall. Keith looks over my shoulder, squinting into the shadows.

  For a moment I’m offended. In the next, I’m worried. “James hasn’t returned?”

  “Neither him nor Vestia. I thought maybe she’d dropped him off and went out for a midnight snack. He turned his radio off, and Vestia’s not responding to any of our other talkers.”

  Vestia, I’m looking for James. . . . Can you hear me?

  No response. I repeat my question aloud. Nothing. Am I doing this right? She’s pretty much initiated all our previous conversations. When I ask Keith if there’s a proper dragon-talking protocol, he suggests I make my request with more deference. “Vestia’s a prickly one.”

  “Vestia, we’re worried about James. Please respond.”

  I repeat the call twice more before she answers in a tone well beyond prickly. The boy does not wish to be disturbed. Neither do I.

  He’s all right?

  No, he is anything but right. He is human.

  Why don’t you have him roar his grief away? I return with equal bite.

  You are hopeless creatures. I am hungry. I am tired. He knows this, yet he sulks about things he cannot control.

  Let me talk to him.

  I do not understand.

  Can you relay my words to him?

  I am no messenger. A moment later, an image pops into my head of a stone watchtower in the woods.

  “I think Vestia just sent me a . . . picture.” I describe what I saw to Keith.

  “Shadow Mountain lookout,” he says. “Ask her to bring him back. Right now.”

  “What’s wrong?” “It’s at the edge of the drone zone,” he says. His words invoke memories of news reports that show drone swarms taking down stray dragons who wandered out of the evacuated territories. And of Mom’s death.

  Vestia, bring him back. Please.

  You want me to pick him up and carry him like a little infant? she asks. I can’t tell if she’s amused or annoyed.

  If you have to. Tell him he needs to come back.

  You tell him, human. Definitely annoyed. He does not listen to me.

  She ignores further attempts to communicate.

  “We need to get him,” I say to Keith.

  “Absolutely not. You stay here.”

  I grab him by the wrist as he turns to leave. “Which one of us do you think he’ll listen to?”

  “Okay, Melissa. Ask if Marrick will take us to Shadow Mountain lookout. Tell him I’ve got five pounds of chocolate for his troubles.”

  “Chocolate?”

  “He loves Hershey bars.”

  Marrick ignores me until I mention the chocolate. Ten minutes later, we’re in the air. While Keith scans the sky for drones, I chew on peppermint leaf and search for Vestia. We find her hidden in the woods, gnawing on a felled tree. Keith unfurls the rope ladder tethered to the saddle and we dismount.

  The red light of the two dragons guides us to the watchtower, a dark column of stone that looms atop a hill. James appears little more than a shadow on the balcony that rings the tower.

  “What do you want?” he calls down.

  “I know you’re upset, but it’s not safe out here,” Keith whisper shouts, glancing skyward. Besides the rustle of trees, it’s silent. But unlike jets, drones don’t make much noise.

  “Hard as it is
for you to believe, I can actually take care of myself.”

  “Please come down, James,” I say.

  “Melissa? What are you doing here?”

  I look at Keith. “I got this.” I brace for an argument, but none comes.

  “Be quick. I’ll be with the dragons.”

  I head up the tower. James ignores me, hands on the railing, gaze fixed on the stars. I join whatever vigil he’s on, content to listen to him breathe while I watch the sky for drones.

  The far-off hum of insects, the vague scent of the trees, and this tower in particular remind me of my family’s trips to the Shenandoah Mountains. A place without TVs, internet, or phone service, without a connection to the real world.

  Upon arrival, Sam and I would race ahead of Mom and Dad to a prayer tower similar to this one, where I would imagine myself a damsel in distress while Sam played Saint George, stick in hand, protecting me from evil dragons (disguised as cows) that plodded within chasing range. But soon enough we grew tired of the bugs and strange smells. I can’t remember one trip where we didn’t spend the last several days holed up inside the rental cabin, listening to our iPods and trying not to kill each other.

  Here, in the wide, dark middle of nowhere, I finally understand why Mom and Dad kept taking us back to that cabin. It was for them, so they could forget about dragons and war and death.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” James looks at me, his eyes full of hurt. “I’m sorry this happened, Melissa.”

  “You’re freezing.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s peaceful.”

  “Mom brought me here when I was younger. She wanted me to learn the stars.” He turns away. He wipes at his eyes, then chuckles. “Old-school navigation. I thought it was silly. Just use GPS, right? Eventually I learned some of them. I can show you the major ones, and the oh-so-important North Star.” He pauses, collects himself. “Guess she just wanted to spend some time with me.”

  “Did she have a favorite?”

  “Deneb. The brightest star in Cygnus.” He looks up. “She liked swans. They mate for life.”

  “Which one is it?” I ask, though I already know.

  He gets behind me, reaches his arm over my shoulder. I can feel his breath on my neck, in my hair. “There. Next to Draco, my favorite,” he whispers.

  I turn around. He caresses my cheek, and electric adrenaline courses through me. He leans closer. I shut my eyes and smile at him, at this farmboy whom I misjudged that day atop Dragon Hill.

  Suddenly, dragon screams pierce the silence. Thousands and thousands. James grabs my hand, and we’re running, scrambling down the tower.

  “Hurry!” Vestia implores. She and Marrick emerge from the forest at full glow, smoke billowing from their nostrils. Keith, at full sprint, struggles to keep up.

  “What’s happening?” he asks as Vestia grabs hold of James and sets him on her back, then launches into the air.

  “The children . . . the children,” James shouts, his voice cracking. “They found the hideouts. They’re killing them. They’re killing the children.”

  We climb aboard Marrick and take flight. Faster and faster we go. Terrifying and brilliant. This must be what it’s like to ride a comet.

  Keith flips on the radio clipped to his belt. Dragon roars echo from the speaker. “Flash protocol. Converge on alpha location. I’ll meet you in the air.”

  In a matter of minutes, we’re back at the cave. The Reds are in fits and the Silver’s crying up a storm, but none of that compares to the agonizing wails playing inside my head.

  Keith helps me down, then looks to James, who’s got a machine gun strapped across his chest. “No, James.”

  “It’s not your call, Keith.” He waves at the Reds. “We’re going. Don’t try to stop us.”

  Keith tenses, but nods. “Okay, you better get your head straight.”

  “We’re all coming,” Preston says. “They need us.”

  “The injured stay behind,” Keith says.

  Preston unwraps the bandage from his head. Old blood stains his brow. “I’m not injured.”

  “I’m not injured,” somebody else calls.

  “I’m not injured.”

  Keith holds up a hand before everybody can discard their slings and bandages. “Fine, none of you are injured. And you better damn well stay that way. Follow my orders, know your limits. Preston . . .” He moves aside.

  Preston steps forward. “What are all you slackers waiting for? Let’s get our Jedi on!”

  It’s a motley crew, half the riders too wounded to walk straight. Except for Vestia, Syren, and a few others, the dragons aren’t in much better shape. Despite their handicaps, they ready themselves for war with quick precision. Saddles get hoisted onto backs, sometimes by winches, sometimes by other dragons. Harnesses and quivers full of missiles get hung around necks. Saddlebags are loaded with oxygen packs, grenades, and rocket launchers.

  Within minutes, they’re ready to fly.

  Keith kisses my forehead. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  “You take care of her for us, okay?” James says. I turn to find him staring at me. The Silver cowers behind him.

  “You better come back, farmboy. Don’t do anything crazy.”

  “I won’t,” he says, though his eyes suggest otherwise. He gives me a quick hug. “Let’s fly, Grunts! No mercy!”

  They mount their Reds and disappear into the night, leaving me alone in a cave with Gretchen, a few of the more seriously injured insurgents, and an anxious baby dragon whose screams soon overshadow the ones inside my head.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  14

  I mark time by pacing the cave’s perimeter, chewing my lip, clenching and unclenching my fists. I pause at the entrance, step onto the ledge, and peer into the darkness, where there’s nothing to see but imaginary shadows in a black abyss. When the cold and fear become too much, I return to the fire.

  The Silver follows me. If I don’t acknowledge her every few minutes with a smile, a touch, or preferably my voice, she starts crying again. I focus on the dragons inside my head, or the lack thereof. This worries me. My attempts to contact Vestia and the other Reds go unanswered, which worries me more.

  Every couple of laps, I ask Gretchen if she’s heard anything. No. But she’s got orders to remain off the airwaves. A couple hours in, she breaks the radio silence. Static. “They must be out of range,” she assures me, but keeps the radio on after that.

  I bandy names with my dragon tagalong. Tiny headshakes for Little Blue Eyes and Baby Silver. Shiny Lizard and Annoying Sasquatch result in frosty huffs. Smaug and Saphira draw blank stares. Two laps and fifty names later, I settle on Baby, promising her I’ll think of something better before sunrise.

  Dawn comes without inspiration or hope. I’m on lap sixty, maybe sixty-one—legs numb, lower lip chewed raw, hands stuck in fists—when the shadows outside turn real and begin to take shape. I move to the ledge, sit on the log, stroke Baby’s head as she lies beside me.

  Morning fingers of orange-blue light drag the curtain of night back to reveal the pristine landscape. Staggering mountain peaks high above, snow-capped evergreens far below. One way in, one way out. And whoever doesn’t have a dragon is screwed.

  Baby nudges me, nods toward the horizon. “See something?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, flaps her wings.

  “You want to fly? Go on. Just don’t go too far.”

  She snorts, rises, and rushes back into the cave. Moments later she returns with a saddle in her mouth.

  My flights last night left me queasy, but maybe it won’t be so bad if I’m driving. It would be nice to impress James, or at least show him I won’t go green in the face forever. Most important, it will help keep my mind off the fact that they aren’t back.

  It takes me a couple tries to figure out how to use t
he winch, a couple more to get Baby’s saddle cinched right. I throw on goggles and a jacket, then climb aboard. Her silver scales radiate coolness, but somehow I’m warmer atop her than I was by the fire. She gives a rumbling purr, flutters her wings with increasing vigor. On the fifth beat, we push forward out of the cave.

  Stone and snow disappear, and there’s nothing but sky around us. Baby banks left and right in slow, gentle arcs. She barely uses her wings, allows the wind currents to carry us in wide loops from one valley to the next.

  She’s careful, never turning fast or rising sharply. We learn each other’s rhythms in a matter of minutes. It scares me how easy this is. Soon I’m ready to kick my dragon-rider training up a level, and there’s something in the way she keeps glancing back at me that tells me she is, too.

  I tighten my grip on the reins. “Come on, Baby, let’s see what you got.”

  With a gleeful snort, she slingshots forward. Dives fast. Shoots up. Banks hard left. Right. Faster and faster, she follows the track of an imaginary roller coaster. Trees, mountains, sky mix together in a blur of greens, grays, and blues.

  We twirl into a sharp climb. Over the mountaintops. Higher still, almost vertical, into the clouds. Nausea swells in my stomach, blood rushes my head. Skin tingling, vision narrowing, sickness coming, I can’t stop laughing, drinking this wild air.

  She arcs over, rockets down, blisters through sparse clouds, races toward a sprawling landscape of miniature trees and hills. The earth grows larger, my stomach flips inside out. Wind floods my lungs, stings my face. Each time I blink, the fast-approaching world darkens further; fuzzy amorphous stars replace trees; jagged black spots replace hills.

  Baby swoops out of the dive. I tilt over, almost fall, and vomit into the valley, which could be a foot away or a thousand. The thrum of her purr subsides. She slows to a flying crawl.

  At some point later, when three dimensions become tolerable, my focus returns. And it’s cold. Frigid. I press tight to Baby, but whatever warmth she had is gone.

  A thunderclap shakes the sky. I glance over my shoulder. Clouds hover above the rim of a nearby mountain, but none of them look like storm bringers.