Joshua McCune - Talker 25

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 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.”

Trishand the farmboys drop me off 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?”