Dragons vs. Drones (2 page)

Dree was just going to retrieve the toy when the glowing fire in the dragonfly's heart suddenly flickered and went out. It dropped out of the sky, thudded loudly off of Francis's head, and smashed into the ground. One of the beautiful latticework wings snapped off, and Dree forlornly watched it skid across the stone floor of the shop.

Francis gasped and grabbed his head, wincing as blood flowed through his manicured fingers. The two cabinet members rushed to help him, throwing Wilhelm dirty looks, and then all three men quickly exited the shop, with Francis managing one last forced smile and a “thank you for your contribution to Dracone” before disappearing through the
door. Master Wilhelm turned on Dree, his clenched fists shaking like leaves.

“Out,” he whispered.

Dree frowned. She had expected yelling and screaming and maybe at least a mention of the fact that her toy was just
flying
, but not this. He couldn't mean it.

“I'm sorry—” she said.

He pointed to the front door, his whole body trembling with rage. Dree had embarrassed him in front of his hero. She had never seen him so livid.

“Get out,” he said. “And don't come back.”

Dree felt her stomach drop into her boots. “You're firing me?”

“That's right,” he snarled. “Leave the gloves and apron and get out of my shop.”

She snuck a glance at Sasha, who at least looked a little sympathetic, and then slowly put her gloves and apron on the closest table. What was her father going to say? They didn't have much money as it was, and the family depended on her weekly wage from the forge. How were they going to get by now? Her mother would be absolutely furious—she'd have to work even longer hours at the steel mill.

Dree grabbed her old leather pack and shuffled toward the exit, trying not to meet Wilhelm's eyes. She'd worked dutifully in his shop for two years, and he was just throwing her out like a beggar at the door. She couldn't believe it.

“Take the bug,” he growled.

Dree tenderly picked up the broken dragonfly and its
wing, tucking them into her pack, and then heaved the door open, stepping out into the fading sunlight. It was a beautiful, clear evening, and the streets of Dracone were as packed and chaotic as ever.

The door slammed shut behind her with a last fiery gust of smoke, the smell wafting over her nostrils.

The city had many pungent scents of its own. It was a world in transition: Half-constructed buildings stretched toward the azure sky, bordered by shops and houses that were as old as the dirt they were standing on. Metal and wood joined together haphazardly in horse-drawn carts, while towering brick smokestacks spewed black clouds into the air. Dree stepped around a stray dog darting along the cobblestone street, chased away by raucous merchants selling beef and potatoes alongside dragon fangs and scales and hearts. Rich, young Draconians stood there, matching white fangs to fire-resistant armor they'd never use, all with scorched-off eyebrows, elaborate painted designs on their faces, and half-shaven heads.

Dree thought it was all garish and bizarre, but that was the new Dracone.

She looked across the sprawling city, to where her house was nestled in a maze of overcrowded dockside shacks overlooking the lake. That was where her father and three younger siblings were waiting. She pictured Abi's face. She had let her sister down too.

Dree suddenly turned the other way, toward the towering wall of mountains to the east. There was no way she
was going home right now, she decided, pushing through the crowd toward the outskirts of the city, her eyes locked on one snowcapped mountain in particular, where a hidden cave sat perched on the slopes. She needed some time to think of a story to tell her parents about why she'd been fired.

And more importantly, there was someone she needed to see.

Chapter
2

M
arcus felt something bounce off the back of his head. He sighed deeply. Judging from the relative size and weight of the object, he suspected it was an eraser, which meant Justin and Ian were throwing things at each other from across the back of the classroom as usual. He heard muted snickers, but that was probably more of a “fortunate coincidence” kind of laugh than the result of a deliberate attempt. He hoped, anyway.

Marcus wasn't generally the target of any bullying, but he wasn't the kind of guy they would apologize to either. He was stuck somewhere in between popular and completely invisible, which was fine by him. Actually, fully invisible would have been great too—he'd had more than enough attention growing up.

When you were part of the most inexplicable disappearance in state history, you learned to live with questions and cameras and closed curtains. Marcus had even learned to live with the constant stares and the laughter and the older kids pushing him into walls and lockers. But Marcus had never learned to live with the names they had for his father: spy, turncoat . . . traitor.

Students had spat the names at him as he walked down the hallway, and while the teachers of course didn't say anything, even they looked at him like he was a product of something corrupt and contagious. Eventually his uncle Jack—a close friend of his father's who had taken over custody of Marcus—had moved Marcus across Arlington to a new school for a fresh start. He had been able to slip into relative obscurity here, and Marcus liked it that way. He could continue his research in private.

Brian, Marcus's best friend, glanced over and smirked. He was slightly more popular than Marcus—though that wasn't really saying much—because he played football, which his dad insisted on despite Brian's strong preference for video games. His sandy blond hair was always artfully messed up, which wasn't fooling anyone, and he had a strong fondness for monochrome golf shirts. Brian was on an unending quest for total popularity, but he was held back by the fact that he was a little chunky and had a bit of an ongoing acne issue. Not to mention he—like Marcus—was completely useless with girls. Brian usually got hives whenever he was near a girl, and Marcus never got close enough to any to find out how he'd react.

Their high-strung math teacher, Mrs. Saunders, was droning on in the background about multiplication tables, while Marcus lazily stared out the window, barely hearing a thing. He knew all that stuff anyway: Math and science were definitely his strong suits. He was a three-time winner of the State Physics Bowl and had won the Math Bowl twice. In the last Physics Bowl, he had presented a quantifiable theory to explain the spatial distortions in a wormhole—the second- place participant had built an electric conductor. Needless to say, it was a short deliberation. Most of the judges didn't even fully comprehend Marcus's theory—they just knew that it was well beyond anything they understood. He got a ribbon.

Too bad that didn't impress girls. If Marcus could catch a football, maybe they would talk to him. But considering he had string bean arms and the general athleticism of an armchair, he doubted that was going to happen anytime soon. Not that it mattered.

He had more important things to worry about.

Marcus gazed out the window at the ominous tide of storm clouds approaching on the horizon, bubbling and bursting with electrostatic power as they swept across the sky. The October air was warm and muggy, even in the air-conditioned classroom, and he knew that they would probably get a heavy shower in the next hour or two.

But will it actually be a full thunderstorm? Will it happen again?

Today was the first of the month . . . the end of the line. If
it
happened, he would finally know.

Marcus fiddled with the old watch on his wrist, the faded gold polish revealing dark chrome beneath. It didn't even work—it hadn't in almost five years. But Marcus still wore it every day as a reminder. He stared at it thoughtfully, wondering as always why his father had left it behind. He'd only ever taken it off once in Marcus's entire life.

The night he left.

Marcus was just turning back to the front of the class when he accidentally met eyes with Lori Tarmen, a quiet brunette whose style fell somewhere between emo and hipster, and who had been in Marcus's class every year since he'd gotten to his new school. Her eyes were big and dark and framed with the longest eyelashes he had ever seen, and Marcus felt himself flush with embarrassment. He quickly turned away again.

But when Marcus snuck another glance a minute later, she was wearing a wry smile, keeping her eyes locked on the board. Marcus wondered if Lori knew about his dad—about the yearlong investigation and the allegations and the label that Marcus was stuck with for life: a traitor's son.

His arms started to prickle, the hairs rising, and he felt an intense heat pressing on his skin from the inside out. He knew he needed to calm down . . . and fast. But the anger and resentment were always there, waiting to erupt.
Traitor. Deserter.

They were all liars.

“She definitely has a thing for you,” Brian whispered.

Marcus rolled his eyes. “How did you even see that?”

“I see everything.”

Mrs. Saunders glanced back from the chalkboard, and they both fell silent just long enough for her to return to her notes. Three people were actually copying them.

“I'm sure she's just being nice,” Marcus said.

He doubted any girl would have a crush on him—especially a girl as pretty as Lori. Girls liked football players and musicians and rebels, not gangly science geeks. And even if she did like him, Marcus could never talk to her anyway. Just the thought of talking to a girl made his stomach tighten. Better to avoid the humiliation.

Brian snorted. “Because you're so good at reading women.”

“I read them fine,” he replied quietly.

“You're a quitter.”

“And a survivor. Now if you'll excuse me, I have daydreaming to attend to—”

The words were barely out of his mouth when an announcement came over the loudspeaker, eliciting groans and sighs as a deep voice boomed out across the classroom.

“Attention, classes.” The familiar Texas drawl of Principal Fedak came through the speakers, sounding concerned. “We have just had a call from the school board, and it seems the storm today is going to be a bit . . . stronger than expected. Severe thunderstorm warnings have been posted, and so we have decided to end classes an hour early today so that everyone can get home before it hits.”

The groans instantly turned to high fives and cheers. But not for Marcus. He turned back to the classroom
window, his gray eyes widening.

Brian saw his intent expression and took up the groan. “Don't start.”

“Teachers,” Principal Fedak continued, “please ensure that all students leave in an orderly manner. Class dismissed.”

So much for orderly. The class rose like a tidal wave, conversations erupting in every corner. Justin started doing a jig at the back, and Ian threw an eraser at him. But despite the uproar, Marcus was completely quiet. Another storm. And another big one. The countdown was over. Eight years . . . eight storms. But why?

Brian stood up and started packing his books, eyeing Marcus carefully.

“You're looking a bit . . . agitated again,” Brian murmured.

Marcus waved a hand in dismissal and shoved everything into his backpack, already starting for the door. Students were quickly filing out as Mrs. Saunders sighed and cleaned the blackboard, her equations long forgotten. Brian scurried after him.

“Remember what we said about staying calm—”

“I am calm,” Marcus snarled, jostling through the doorway.

A few weeks earlier there had been a little incident with Marcus's Xbox. He had been playing a shooter, waiting for Brian to come over and join him, when a particularly annoying online gamer had managed to kill Marcus's character yet again. By the time Brian had actually arrived, the Xbox was little more than a pile of scrap metal.

Of course, what Marcus didn't explain to Brian was that he had only smashed the Xbox up
after
to cover the fact that the entire game system had sort of caught fire and melted at the same time as Marcus's character died. He would have blamed it on a system defect or something, but he couldn't help but notice that the controller had completely melted in his hands as well . . . and he hadn't even felt it burn. That did not seem normal.

And it wasn't the first time either. Something was very wrong with Marcus, and it was getting worse. But he wasn't going to tell Brian that. He wasn't going to tell anyone.

Marcus hurried to his locker. He had to get home and check the dates. He wanted to know for sure. Snatching his beat-up skateboard out of his locker, he turned to Brian.

“I am not going to break anything,” he promised.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Vids tonight?”

“They just said there was a severe thunderstorm coming,” Marcus replied, throwing his backpack over both shoulders and tightening the straps.

“Oh yeah,” Brian said. “Well, we'll play it by ear.”

Marcus snorted and headed outside. Brian took the bus, since he lived on the outskirts of the school district, but Marcus lived just a little too close and was stuck walking—or more often, skateboarding. It was still muggy, but a strong wind was gusting across the city now, blowing hot air that felt like it was flying straight out of the Sahara. Marcus took a worried glance at the sky. The storm clouds were coming faster now. He had to hurry home or he was going to get soaked.

He threw his skateboard out in front of him and hopped on, turning out of the parking lot and onto the adjoining sidewalk. Marcus looked like a skateboarder, though he didn't hang out with that group: his raven hair was unkempt and bordering on too long, almost reaching the top of the matching thick-rimmed glasses that sat perched on his lightly freckled nose. He had a whole closet full of faded graphic Ts and plaid button-downs, as well as jeans that were probably a bit tight, if only because he hated shopping too much to buy new ones. He also wore his favorite shoes like usual: orange-striped Adidas that were definitely due for replacing.

He was pretty good on the board by now, and he raced down the sidewalk, fixated on the brooding gray clouds that were sweeping across the sky.

Marcus was just about to turn the corner when a green sedan drove by with a familiar face staring out the window: all curling lashes and full lips and dark eyes. Marcus knew he should probably keep his own eyes on the sidewalk, but he met her gaze for just a moment, and as she drove away his skateboard rode up on the grass and abruptly stopped. Unfortunately, Marcus didn't.

He went flying, his arms flailing everywhere, and then he thudded onto the grass. His right cheek smacked against the dirt. As he watched the car drive away, Marcus hoped she hadn't seen that pathetic display. A group of seniors driving by certainly did though, all of them laughing uproariously. Marcus groaned and picked himself up. He knew girls all right—he knew they were bad news. For him, anyway.

Marcus was soon on the board again, which was a good thing because the storm was moving impossibly fast. It was already dark out, and a flash of lightning lit up the sky above him. This was going to be a particularly bad one. A haze rolled in, obscuring the Arlington skyline, and Marcus picked up his pace. He was going to get drenched.

He was just turning onto his street when a fork of lightning split the sky, momentarily breaking the haze and illuminating a tumultuous cloudscape. Marcus looked up, bracing for the rain, and then almost toppled off his skateboard again.

There was something in the clouds.

It was there for just a moment—as black as night and sharply angled like a massive bird of prey. It was gone almost immediately, but Marcus thought he saw a blazing red eye at the front, gazing downward. Marcus stared up at the swiftly moving clouds with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. What was that thing?

With a giant clap of thunder, the rain broke in a great, freezing sheet, and Marcus quickly jumped back on his board and started for home. As he rode, he felt an uncomfortable tingle moving up his spine.

Whatever that thing was, it was still watching him.