Free Talker 25 by Joshua McCune Page B

tattoo.
    Or maybe not so covertly, because he says, “Drink the wild air.”
    “The dragon-rider motto?” I ask.
    “Something like that.” He dresses. “You ready?”
    “As I’ll ever be,” I say, looking toward the far side of the cave. The Reds sit gathered in a circle, heads bowed together. James follows my gaze and tells me they’re praying for Myra, the faintly flickering dragon that lies in a dark corner.
    Religious Reds? I don’t touch that one with a ten-foot pole.
    “Pretty much the only time a dragon needs your help is when it’s having trouble seeing,” James instructs as we walk over. “Just talk to them. Describe the situation. Building at two o’clock, three hundred feet below—”
    “There’s really no need for this. They’re injured and—”
    “Vestia’s not. Anyway, flying heals the soul,” he says.“The easiest way to communicate with a dragon is to address them directly. They’ll often ignore you, particularly if they don’t like you. We can talk with them one at a time, but they have the ability to carry on multiple conversations at once. It’s quite interesting.”
    “Quite.”
    He fails to note my sarcasm. “Vestia believes it’s a clear indication of their superiority, but . . .”
    He keeps talking, but I’m no longer listening. The watching sensation has just bombarded me. Different from Dragon Hill. More aggressive. Evidently the Reds are done praying.
    The brightest breaks from the pack, green eyes narrowing on me. The sensation intensifies, the warmth swells, and I break into a furious tremble.
    I clench my fists, grit my teeth, but can’t control the fear that pulses through me. I tell myself these creatures are not monsters, but my body refuses to believe it. There’s too much history to overcome.
    Whereas the Silver reminds me of a five-ton puppy, these Reds remind me of my childhood. They were the primary color on the evening news most nights.
    “I can’t do it,” I say, backpedaling. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
    James catches me by the wrist. “Vestia won’t hurt you.”
    “Vestia,” I mumble, pulling free. Give a monster a name,tell me it prays, does that make it any less a monster?
    “Give a human a name, listen to it pray and pray and pray, does that make it any less appetizing?” The shrill voice sends me stumbling back at a faster clip. I hit a wall. The dragon cranes her neck toward me. Thick swirls of smoke burst from her nose. An image of an enormous hawk scrutinizing a petrified mouse pops into my head.
    “You think me an animal, do you, human?” Vestia says. Her gaze narrows to slits, and she smiles to expose her teeth. “James is right. I won’t hurt you.” She chomps. “Doesn’t hurt a—”
    A snarl interrupts her. She turns, but too late. The Silver smashes into Vestia, sends her careening to the ground. The Red regains her feet with a quickness that belies her size. She extends her wings, arches her neck, and looses a terrible scream. The Silver adopts a similar position, its glow near blinding. As they circle around, screeching at each other, ripples of intense heat wash over me, followed by blasts of frozen air.
    I scramble into a nearby alcove, shallow, but too skinny for a dragon to squeeze into. Everybody else—dragons and humans alike—has also gone into full retreat mode.
    Except James. I yell for him to take cover, but either he doesn’t hear over the roars, or he’s too stupid to listen. He falls to one knee in front of the fuming Red, as if he’sa beggar beseeching a queen. Vestia lifts her leg and lets it hover a few feet over his head.
    James doesn’t budge. Instead, he makes an apologetic gesture for the Silver. I assume he’s using the same line of reasoning he did with me. “She’s a child; she doesn’t understand what she’s doing.”
    Vestia listens to him for five seconds at most, then stomps the cave floor beside him. The resulting quake knocks him off balance. The Silver