The Other Side (19 page)

“Yes,” he says, and I don't need access to his CENSIR to know he's lying. “You're sure you're okay?”

“A little cold,” I say. Praxus burns hot beneath me, but there doesn't seem to be enough warmth in the world to overcome the chill that's settled in me.

When
we return to the cage, Praxus gets shouts of adulation as a team of medics sets to work on his injuries with bullet forceps, morphine sprayers, and bandage rolls the size of hay bales. When I dismount, I get a CENSIR shock that drives me to my knees. Vincent applies a pair of handcuffs.

James lifts me to my feet, gently pulls down my oxygen mask. “What's my name, Melissa?”

“Again?”

Vincent strips me of my railshot. “Answer the question.”

“James,” I say as if it's an epithet. “And you're Vincent.”

The towering instructor shows me his phone, which has a picture of my father in his army dress blues. It's the publicity photo from when he led the research team that discovered dragons can't see black.

“Who is this?”

“My father, before he was paralyzed in Mason-Kline.”

Vincent scrolls back to his gallery—a folder labeled
Melissa Callahan
—and loads that picture of Mom, Keith, James and his parents, and Oren at Shadow Mountain Lookout. I identify everybody I know before he can ask. I point at James's parents. “I don't know their names.”

“Michael and Dianne.” James shakes his head at Vincent. “She didn't know.”

We go through a few more pictures. Sam, Uncle T, Aunt Susan. “Are we done? I'm not . . .” What was the term? “Surfing the scales.”

“How are you feeling?” James asks.

“Brilliant.”

James flinches. “Brilliant, huh? Was that intentional?”

“Yes.”

“Who said it?”

I can't help rolling my eyes. “Hector the director.” Brilliant. Everything was goddamn brilliant, particularly if it involved slaying a dragon.

James's look of concern turns to one of puzzlement. “She might be okay.”

“Maybe. T-Clef, Grizzly B.” Vincent waves over that pale girl with all those piercings and a skinny guy whose arms are cloaked in tribal dragon tattoos. Vincent looks to
James. “You're dismissed.”

“I'm sorry.
In nae
,” James whispers, and steps away to join the other bystanders.

Vincent says something I don't hear because I'm looking at James, wondering what he meant by that. But his expression's back to guarded. Then I hear Vincent say something about sending me back to detox, and my attention snaps to him.

“I'm okay. I don't have the itch.”

“Everybody says that.”

“Look at my CENSIR. I'm fine.”

“We keep her in cuffs, and we can handle this chica blindfolded,” the girl says. “Come on, Vince. Pretty sad state of affairs if we can't.” She hooks her arm through mine, gives this exaggerated smile, like we're besties about to go on a merry stroll. The skinny boy takes my other arm, though his smile's not quite so big.

Vincent grumbles something beneath his breath, checks his phone. “All right. Get her fed and cleaned up. Any misstep . . .”

“I got it,” the girl says. She looks at me, winks. “I can tell she and me are gonna be one good we. Ain't that right, Missy C?” She seems very pleased with her rhyme.

I nod.

“I'm T-Clef,” she says. “That's Grizzly B. Try to
remember our names. You'll probably be quizzed later.” She laughs, but I know she's not kidding.

She introduces the rest of the Diocletians in the cage, Praxus's other riders. I hear a couple of murmured congratulations, get a couple of nods of respect, but most everybody keeps their distance.

“I'm really okay,” I say as she and Grizzly B escort me into the causeway that runs beneath the wall. “You can let go.”

T-Clef grins. “We could.”

“But we won't,” Grizzly B says. His voice is surprisingly gruff.

“You just got out of detox,” she says. “Reconnecting you to Praxus so soon should have thrown you back down the rabbit hole. Yeah, you seem fine, but . . .”

“Unless . . . ,” he says. He and the girl exchange a look.

“Prax? You think?”

He shakes his head. “You're right. Not Praxus.”

“Unless what?” I demand.

“It's a possible explanation,” T-Clef says to him.

“Maybe Everett didn't throttle the connection very much. Maybe Praxus didn't have enough time.”

“Maybe. But they took out an entire squadron of DJs. And you know Prax doesn't need but a split second. You've been there. . . . Probably temporary lucidity.”

“Or she's playing us. Didn't Everett say he figured out how to beat the CENSIR in Georgetown?”

Beat the CENSIR? “What are you talking about?”

T-Clef and Grizzly B keep talking over me.

“Yeah. Perhaps Prax connects with her differently,” T-Clef says.

“Which makes her unpredictable,” he says, and tightens his grip on me.

I stop walking. “What do you mean James beat the CENSIR in Georgetown?”

“Don't worry about it,” Grizzly B says.

I glare at him. “I'm not worried.”

“Too many variables, Missy C,” T-Clef says. “Ride the wave until things calm down.”

I want to scream. “There is no wave.”

“Yeah, but seeing is believing, and we need to see a little more, you know what I mean? Don't worry, this is standard operating procedure.” She drops to a whisper, as if we're not the only people on this side of the wall. “In fact, you're getting it special 'cause we like you. So come on now, let's play nice.”

They tug me forward, keep talking as if I'm not there, conjecturing how I may or may not be under Praxus's spell, while I keep thinking about what they said about James and beating the CENSIR.

He was so cruel to me in Georgetown, but only when the CENSIR was on. When they allowed him to take it off for our
Kissing Dragons
scenes, he acted like he cared about me, acted really well. Said things and did things that weren't in the script that made me think he actually did care. Then they put the CENSIR back on him, and I was a glowheart dirt stain again.

After we escaped, he didn't talk to me in any substantial way except once, to apologize for the way he treated me. Head down, unable to look at me. Sincere and remorseful, or at least he acted it.

But why? Why would he have faked all that cruelty?

The only answer I can think of is—to earn our captors' trust. By proving that he hated me, he proved his loyalty to them, and thus earned time off from his CENSIR, which would have allowed him to communicate with other dragons.

Maybe Keith and Loki's Grunts didn't find Georgetown because of the tracker in my arm. Maybe James told them where it was. Maybe
Kissing Dragons
was reality, and everything else he did while we were there was the lie.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

And what about now? Who is he now? I shake my head. Doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. I repeat this to myself as we wend our way back through the tunnels to the parking lot of SUVs.

The same guard from before greets us at the blast doors. “She already fritz out?”

“We'll see,” T-Clef says. “But she's a pretty sick flier. She and Prax took out an entire squadron.”

“I'd keep that on the down low. Joto's major pissed.”

T-Clef laughs. “Doesn't take much. I'm surprised he's not here looking to get his ass kicked.”

“HQ sent their team down south on a supply run.”

As they continue chatting, I envision myself stealing an SUV and some of those railshots. Sneak into Oren's headquarters, rescue Allie, and make it home before dinner. Piece of pie. I snort.

The guard tenses, T-Clef gives me a worried glance. Grizzly B tightens his grip on me.

“I'm fine,” I say, but nobody believes me.

We move on. I want to ask them about HQ, but don't want to draw suspicion, so I go with something innocuous. “The guards, they're not talkers?”

“No.” T-Clef taps her CENSIR. “The Tatankaville talkers all have to wear tiaras.”

Grizzly B notices my confusion, grins. “T and her nicknames. My real name's Bryan. Guess how many people know that?” He makes a zero with his hand. “Lucky I've got it printed on my locker. Otherwise I might not know it.”

She waves her free hand toward the ceiling. “Sure, let's
call our cell G4N6C4. Rolls right off the tongue.”

“It's G4N8C4,” Grizzly says.

“Whatever. Tatankaville sounds much better.”

“Because of the Colorado Buffaloes,” Grizzly explains. I shrug. He shrugs back. “Yeah, I hadn't heard of them either. Used to be a college or something.”

“And tatanka is the Sioux word for buffalo,” T-Clef says with a proud smile. The smile vanishes faster than it came. “The people before us. You think the dragons'll remember us when we're gone?”

“Nobody'll forget you, my dear,” Grizzly says.

They load me into an SUV. T-Clef drives. Grizzly sits in back with me.

“Windows down, volume up,” she says, back to perky. She opens the windows, turns on the radio. She shuffles through her MP3 player, loads up a bass-pounding rock anthem that sounds like something Colin would like. I want to ask her to change it to something else but refrain.

She peels out and floors it. Shaking her head from side to side, wind whipping her hair across her face, T-Clef sings along. Grizzly B air drums it every which way and accompanies the deep-throated baseline. “Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow.”

The walls zoom past, the vehicle trembles beneath us. One slight twitch of the wheel, and the bass line will end
with a tremendous crash. I welcome the adrenaline that surges through me, distracts me from thought.

We pass the guard post and soon arrive at the main tunnel. After a stop at an infirmary so I can get my scrapes treated and an injection of morphine, we drive to the prayer center for Praxus's Posse.

“That's not cool,” Grizzly B says as we exit the SUV.

The graffiti picture beside the prayer center's entrance shows a hulking Green, smoke rising from its nostrils, wings spread around a cluster of cartoon teenagers brandishing weapons and sneers. The guy with the Confederate-flag bandanna has a streak of red along his neck to mimic a throat slash. Closer, I see it's ravioli sauce.

“I bet it was Joto,” T-Clef hisses, rubbing away the sauce with her hand. She looks at me. “It's really gonna steam his vegetables when we put you up there.”

“Isn't he your friend?” I ask.

Grizzly B chuckles. “They're practically married.”

“He's your boyfriend?” I look at her askance. “I thought you were ready to shoot him.”

“Gotta keep his macho ass in check,” she says. “We need more strong chicas in this joint. After Evie—”

“Evelyn?”

“Ah, that's right. Georgetown,” T-Clef says. “Don't get me wrong, the girl's a real two-faced bitch, but she knew
how to turn the screws.”

“Did she ever,” Grizzly B says.

“She dead?” I ask, trying my best to keep the hope from my voice.

T-Clef's smile says my best wasn't enough. “Nah. She got reassigned a few weeks back. Technically, it was a promotion. She's good with the Greenies. Crazy good. Has that rage.” She looks at me, laughs. “You Georgetownians.”

“Of course, the real reason is there was a little too much drama in Tatankaville,” Grizzly B says, pointing at the caricature of James on the other side of the graffiti picture.

T-Clef winks at me. “He's all yours.”

I want to tell her it's not like that—because it can't be like that—but it helps my cover, so I play coy. “We'll see.”

We enter the prayer center. A couple of crank lamps illuminate a room intended to accommodate maybe two dozen worshippers. On the stage, beyond the pulpit, there's an upright piano.

“You play, right?” T-Clef asks as we skirt the stage.

“Played,” I say. James must have told her that.

“Why'd you stop?”

“Lost interest.” Mom died. How much had she told James about me in all those years she spent as the clandestine leader of Loki's Grunts? What else does he know?

“Shame. She's got the fingers for it,” Grizzly B says.

Not quite as long as Mom's. Not when I quit.

They take me through a door in the back into a narrow hallway. Hung among the crosses, portraits of Bible characters, and scripture quotes are various score sheets. Stationary Marksmanship, Airborne Marksmanship, Speed and Agility . . . according to the date on the header of each, I've been here almost three weeks. I was in detox longer than I realized.

“We update them weekly,” Grizzly B says, “except for this one.” He jabs a finger at the last sheet. Kills. “This one's cumulative.”

T-Clef writes
Missy C
at the bottom, right beneath
Double T
. “How many jets you take out?”

“Eighteen,” I say as I scan the names on the list.
Jimmy E
is at the top of the list, with two hundred eighty-three kills. How many of those were from Loki's Grunts?

She puts
19
by my name. “Klyv counts, I'd say.”

At the end of the hall is a conference room or something that's been converted into a barracks with a dozen cots, three folding tables, and four industrial shelves—one with games, one with books, and the last two stockpiled with ravioli.

T-Clef retrieves a roll of paper towels and three cans. She uncaps one, tosses the lid into a trash can, and gives it to me. “Not that we don't trust you.”

“But we don't trust you,” Grizzly B says with a grin.
“Never heard of anybody going dragon on somebody with ravioli lids before.”

“Yeah.” I set the can on the table. “I'm not hungry.”

T-Clef scoops out a clump of sauce-encrusted ravioli and shoves it in her mouth. “Don't sweat it, Missy C, we've all been there. I tried to take out Joto's eyes with my fingers. Bastard was laughing at me the entire time. Like he wanted me to do it.”