Joshua McCune - Talker 25

“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.

Whenwe 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.

I choke out a laugh. “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 hierarchy. 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.

Mondayarrives 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.