Talker 25 Read Free Page B

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.

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3
    When we 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 tothink 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.
    “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