from a footlocker bolted to the floor.
“Good thing we’re flying tandem then.” He props open the lid to reveal a miniature thrift store of worn clothes, musty books, and random baubles. He retrieves a pair of jeans and tosses them to me.
“I still don’t see how this is necessary,” I say. “What’s flying have to do with talking to them?”
“Nothing and everything.” He chucks a basketball toward the Silver. The dragon bounds after it. The floor trembles. I’m monitoring the stalactites overhead when James says, “Cartha told me that you think I’m cute.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him. “Who the heck is Cartha?”
“The dragon you called Old Man Blue.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. Strike that, I am, but not because I care whether you think that. Not that I don’t care.”
Frowning, he returns his attention to the footlocker. “We’re kind of like antennae, you and I. If the dragons know our frequency, they can talk to us. That’s baseline. But if we’re in a state of upheaval—scared, angry, that sort of thing—the signal’s amplified and your thoughts become visible. Dragons become a lot more interested in you.”
I think of Dragon Hill. “The watching sensation.”
He nods. “Ghost eyes.”
“So you give me a dragon wake-up call and want me togo fly around the block a few times to get over my fear?”
“The thing is, most dragons won’t violate your thoughts if they respect you.” He digs out a sweatshirt, a jacket, and a pair of thick-rimmed goggles. “Show them you can handle yourself in the sky, it gives you some street cred. Or cloud cred, I guess.”
I change in another crate, which belongs to Gretchen and a dark-haired woman sedated on a cot. Hooked up to machines, she’s recovering from her own gunshot wound. While I slip into my new clothes, Gretchen offers advice. Hold on tight, recognize storm clouds, stay within the perimeter, listen to James, don’t disrespect your dragon, hold on tight (I get this one—quite unnecessarily—at least three more times) . . .
Dressed, I meet James outside the crate. The Silver’s with him, frozen basketball between her lips. She drops it at my feet, looks at me expectantly.
I squat down slowly, my gaze never leaving the Silver. She tracks me with growing impatience. I grab the ball and hurl it. Off she goes. Wings pulled tight to her body, she barrels around insurgents and dragons with no concern in the world but retrieving that ball. On the list of things I thought I’d never do, playing fetch with a dragon ranks right near the top.
“It’s really a child, isn’t it?” I say.
“A baby, a beautiful baby,” James says as the Silver returns with the ball.
“What about the others?”
“We saved some of them, but she’s the only one big enough to fly yet.”
He steers me toward a group of insurgents eating breakfast around a fire. As we walk, James plays tour guide. The crates that line the back of the cave are for the medics, those with serious injuries, and guests. He points out one in the middle. “That’s mine.”
“You’re a medic?”
“No. I’m kind of grounded. Keith has gotten particularly paternal with me.”
Over there, supply crates—food, water, drugs. We take a detour past a clothesline, a washbasin, and a couple of bathtubs to an alcove ringed with porta potties. We pass dragon-riding equipment and a couple medics tending the reds’ injuries.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but the reds don’t seem to like people.”
“Most dragons aren’t fond of humans.”
“So why exactly do you help them?”
James regards me with a fierce expression. “Everyone thinks they’re giant cockroaches who need to be exterminated.” He taps his temple. “But they hurt and suffer asmuch as we do.”
“They’re the ones that showed up out of nowhere and attacked us,” I remind him.
“You condemn an
“Good thing we’re flying tandem then.” He props open the lid to reveal a miniature thrift store of worn clothes, musty books, and random baubles. He retrieves a pair of jeans and tosses them to me.
“I still don’t see how this is necessary,” I say. “What’s flying have to do with talking to them?”
“Nothing and everything.” He chucks a basketball toward the Silver. The dragon bounds after it. The floor trembles. I’m monitoring the stalactites overhead when James says, “Cartha told me that you think I’m cute.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him. “Who the heck is Cartha?”
“The dragon you called Old Man Blue.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. Strike that, I am, but not because I care whether you think that. Not that I don’t care.”
Frowning, he returns his attention to the footlocker. “We’re kind of like antennae, you and I. If the dragons know our frequency, they can talk to us. That’s baseline. But if we’re in a state of upheaval—scared, angry, that sort of thing—the signal’s amplified and your thoughts become visible. Dragons become a lot more interested in you.”
I think of Dragon Hill. “The watching sensation.”
He nods. “Ghost eyes.”
“So you give me a dragon wake-up call and want me togo fly around the block a few times to get over my fear?”
“The thing is, most dragons won’t violate your thoughts if they respect you.” He digs out a sweatshirt, a jacket, and a pair of thick-rimmed goggles. “Show them you can handle yourself in the sky, it gives you some street cred. Or cloud cred, I guess.”
I change in another crate, which belongs to Gretchen and a dark-haired woman sedated on a cot. Hooked up to machines, she’s recovering from her own gunshot wound. While I slip into my new clothes, Gretchen offers advice. Hold on tight, recognize storm clouds, stay within the perimeter, listen to James, don’t disrespect your dragon, hold on tight (I get this one—quite unnecessarily—at least three more times) . . .
Dressed, I meet James outside the crate. The Silver’s with him, frozen basketball between her lips. She drops it at my feet, looks at me expectantly.
I squat down slowly, my gaze never leaving the Silver. She tracks me with growing impatience. I grab the ball and hurl it. Off she goes. Wings pulled tight to her body, she barrels around insurgents and dragons with no concern in the world but retrieving that ball. On the list of things I thought I’d never do, playing fetch with a dragon ranks right near the top.
“It’s really a child, isn’t it?” I say.
“A baby, a beautiful baby,” James says as the Silver returns with the ball.
“What about the others?”
“We saved some of them, but she’s the only one big enough to fly yet.”
He steers me toward a group of insurgents eating breakfast around a fire. As we walk, James plays tour guide. The crates that line the back of the cave are for the medics, those with serious injuries, and guests. He points out one in the middle. “That’s mine.”
“You’re a medic?”
“No. I’m kind of grounded. Keith has gotten particularly paternal with me.”
Over there, supply crates—food, water, drugs. We take a detour past a clothesline, a washbasin, and a couple of bathtubs to an alcove ringed with porta potties. We pass dragon-riding equipment and a couple medics tending the reds’ injuries.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but the reds don’t seem to like people.”
“Most dragons aren’t fond of humans.”
“So why exactly do you help them?”
James regards me with a fierce expression. “Everyone thinks they’re giant cockroaches who need to be exterminated.” He taps his temple. “But they hurt and suffer asmuch as we do.”
“They’re the ones that showed up out of nowhere and attacked us,” I remind him.
“You condemn an
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