The Other Side (15 page)

I
tell Grackel my intentions. She thinks I should wait to make a decision until my head's clearer—telling me to kill emotion at least three times before she concedes that I can't—but she does agree that if I do this, I must cut all ties.

I should say good-bye to Baby, but I don't know how, so I just tell her I'll be gone for a while and to listen to Grackel.

Please don't leave me alone. You're the only human who talks to me anymore. Please don't leave me.

I'll be back. I promise.

I thought you loved me. I thought we were sisters.

Always. Forever,
I say, and disconnect before my resolve fails me.

Hello, Praxus, my name is Melissa Callahan. I'm a talker friend of James Everett, who is currently CENSIRed. We need your help.

Shutting out the sounds of James's haggard breaths, ignoring the percussive thrum of my heart, I listen.

My only previous experience talking with Greens was in Georgetown. I can't remember one that didn't threaten to kill me. I expect the same from Praxus, but when I hear the tiny ringing noise at the edge of perception that indicates he's picked up my call, there is only silence.

And the ghost eyes. Probing my mental blockade, searching for a way in.

A shiver runs through me. I clench my hands, but James intercepts me, slipping his fingers through mine. “If you fight it, Praxus will never accept you.”

His touch calms, his words provide clarity. Horrible, horrible clarity. This dragon is not my enemy, but my friend.

A friend full of death and destruction.

I must give that to him, I must embrace the one emotion I've managed to suppress. I must give him my rage.

So I think of Georgetown. I think of Major Alderson and the All-Blacks. I think of how they abused me for just being me. I think of how they threatened my family, how they convinced my brother I was a traitor. I think of how they tortured Baby. I think of Lorena, executed in the barracks
bathroom with all the other talkers.

Then the dragons came. Spouting hellfire and retribution. I didn't see my tormentors die, but I hope they did. Every last one of them. I imagine how they burned, how they screamed . . . imagine Lester and Patch drowning in flame . . . and it's not enough. They deserve more. They deserve to burn but never die . . . constantly burn and burn and burn!

Praxus begins to purr.

I think of Major Alderson, coming into the reconditioning chamber to kill me and Allie. I think of Allie, stabbing him to death with her dragon brooch, and I only wish I'd been the one able to do it.

My hands are clenched into fists, and I'm snarling and I can't stop it. I want to kill them all. Again and again. Kill them in brutal and beautiful ways—

A pressure ignites in my skull. I moan.

“Disconnect, Melissa,” James whispers. “Disconnect!”

I shake my head, clench my jaw. I must be strong—

An explosion of memories swarms me.

Not mine. Praxus's.

Swooping down from the cloudless sky into a frenzied crowd.

Attacking a day-care center.

Fighting another Green. Ripping it apart, scale by scale.

A thousand more like this, in a jumbled blur.

The pressure abates, then is gone.

The body of a scorched boy materializes in front of me. To my left, a Red screeches its death knell. To my right, an old woman cleaved in half gurgles a plea for salvation.

With every heartbeat, new victims appear. Faster and faster they come, bodies piling up all around. The smells, the screams, the tastes . . .

Death, death, death. Everywhere.

It is glorious.

More! More!

At some point I start laughing. “What would it be like to feel no guilt?” Guilt! Hah! In this world, where the end can come from any direction, what's the point of it? Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air's salubrity, and kill anybody who gets in the way.

No, not killing. Controlling one's destiny. Own or be owned. Dominate or be dominated. Two choices. Perish with the weak or flourish with the strong.

I sweep a hand at the memories around me and laugh louder.

Forget the weak.

I am strong.

I am powerful.

I am . . . being kissed?

I blink, and a black-haired boy is there among the dead. His lips are on mine. I try to pull back, but he overpowers me. He cups my cheeks in his hands, presses harder, full of fire. He bites my lip with such force that I cry out. But it is a good pain. I feel alive and whole and unstoppable. I bite back, drawing blood.

Harder and harder we go at each other. Kissing and biting and kissing some more. I tear off his jacket and shirt, grapple at his jeans, but whenever I attempt to proceed past his buttons, he deflects, whispers “Not yet,” then resumes kissing me.

His words incite me. A challenge. I bite harder to distract him, dig my nails into his scarred back. He groans in pain, in ecstasy, but still he keeps me at bay. I remove my jacket and shirt, press myself to him. I can feel his heart beneath mine, racing toward annihilation.

I want more. I want all of him. “I will win,” I whisper, and chew violently at his ear. I will win. I will dominate and own and control.

Praxus continues his slideshow of carnage, but it fades to the background, as does the rest of the world. It is just the boy and me, bound in our battle of savage lust.

Only to be interrupted by a guttural voice.

I will find you. You are mine.

The boy bites me once more, and this time the pain shooting through me holds no pleasure.

He notices my grimace, releases me, and backs into the shadows.

Cool air pricks my skin. My jacket and sweatshirt are next to me, but I only have a vague memory of removing them. Of kissing that boy. Of biting and groping . . . I hurriedly cover up, looking away from the darkness where he sits.

It takes me minutes to remember his name. I can barely remember my own.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I tried.”

I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. “You should have tried harder.”

“Tell you that they corrupt your memories, that they make you forget who you are?” he says from the darkness. He sounds a mile away. “Would it have mattered?”

No.

When I'm sure my voice won't tremble, I ask, “Why'd you do that, James? Why'd you kiss me?”

He doesn't answer right away. “There are worse addictions than wanting to be happy.”

He doesn't elaborate, but it doesn't take me long to figure it out. The memories of our kiss have already faded to wisps, but those of Praxus remain vibrant. The accompanying bloodlust, however, has diminished to a background itch. If not for James diverting my attention . . .

I close the gap between us. I can see little beyond his blue eyes and the stern outline of his jaw. I press my hands to his cheeks. He flinches, tries to pull back, but I don't let him.

You are mine.

But I'm not. Because of James.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and he relaxes.

I kiss him for real this time. Bodies sore, lips bloodied, it's an awkward and at times painful thing. But we carry on, and I am filled with a joy that only minutes ago I would have killed for.

Praxus
reintroduces himself bright and ugly in the morning with a flurry of images, the stench of burning skin, and the taste of charred flesh.

But he does not stay long. He lifts me up for a few glorious seconds, then lets me fall.

“Are you okay, Melissa?” the black-haired boy says. I have a strong urge to attack him, to drive my talons through his heart.

“Leave me alone,” I say. Over his shoulder, I see the soldier boy watching us with an incomprehensible look. I clench my claws and retreat to the alcove, where I eat my bloodless meal in silence. I catch them both eyeing me from time to time, but they remain safely distant.

Minutes pass before I remember myself, remember them.
A part of me still wants to kill them.

“We should be going,” Colin says from the cave mouth, binoculars pressed to his eyes. His manner is far too neutral for my comfort.

“How are you feeling?” James asks after Colin's disappeared up the rope.

Like when I need a kick of alcohol, but ten times worse. “Don't suppose you'd kiss me again.”

“It won't matter,” he says. “Praxus knows you're resisting. The challenge of breaking you excites him.”

Before I can respond, he leans in with a gentle kiss.

“I thought it didn't matter,” I say.

James gives me a humorless smile. “Doesn't.”

“I'll be fine.”

He doesn't say anything.

“Look, you've recovered from it, haven't you?”

He doesn't look at me. “Yeah.”

“That's why the government developed the CENSIRs in the first place, isn't it?” I snort. “Not as punishment. But protection.”

James shrugs.

Colin calls again.

“You better go first.” I push out a laugh. “Otherwise he might leave you here.”

“Yeah.”

Ten minutes later, it's my turn. I secure myself, give the rope a yank, and up I go. I'm nearing the top when the wall in front of me disappears. The rope, too.

We're amid the clouds, hovering.

Hunting.

There. The faint odor of sweat, the low thrum of a pounding heart. Our heartbeat accelerates. We descend.

In the distance, a climber scales a cliff.

We glide in. A soft green glow appears on the sandstone. The climber looks over his shoulder. The scent of urine overpowers the sweat one.

He freefalls down his rope. Fire warms our throat, but we do not release it. We swoop in wide arcs, ever downward, as if out for a casual flight and not an afternoon snack.

The urine scent dissipates. The climber reaches a ledge, scurries toward a small cave. We can almost feel the hope swelling in him. He thinks if he plays it right, maybe he can escape. He is a fool, but his false belief excites us, so we let him have it awhile longer.

A while passes. We give him warning with a full-throated roar. We could roast him in a second, but we want him to hold on to that hope. They are sweeter that way.

He sprints into the cave, and he thinks he's made it, but we are a lightning bolt. We dive at a steep angle, our wings scraping sandstone. We zip past his hideout, hear him exhale
in relief even as he continues to tremble.

Perfect.

We make a sharp U-turn, flipping upside down. Our eyes meet. His widen for the briefest moment before disappearing with the rest of him into our claw. He struggles in our grip, so we dig our talons into him. Blood flows; a divine aroma rises. We quiver as he cries out.

“Melissa, stop it!”

I blink and that soldier boy's there, teetering on the edge of the dragon hole. My fingers are embedded in his forearm. A black-haired boy stands behind him, arms wrapped around the soldier boy's waist, tugging him backward. They are strained with their efforts. Weakening.

“Fight it, Melissa,” Soldier Boy says. I hear the fear in him. “Think of something that makes you happy.”

“I make my own happiness,” I say, digging deeper, feeling Soldier Boy's blood pump around my talons. He winces. His feet slide an inch, then another. I could kill them with one quick jerk, prove to them that I am alpha. I smile up at them. “Does it hurt?”

“Remember when you played fetch with Baby?” the black-haired boy says. “You remember that?”

His words give me pause. “Baby?” The name is foreign to me.

Melissa.
Her voice crashes into my thoughts. An image
pops into my head of a young Silver chasing after a tennis ball.

I release my grip on Colin. He pulls me to the surface, dumps me there. He glares at James as he retrieves gauze from his backpack to dress his bloodied forearm.

“Sorry,” I say, though I'm not. I know I should be, but I just don't care anymore.

He nods, never looking at me. He finishes, spools up the rope, grabs his pack. “It's a long day. No point in delaying.”

What's wrong with you?
Baby asks as James falls into step beside me.

I ignore her. “If I get like that, stay away from me,” I say to James. “And never bring Baby up again.”

“I'm sorry,” he says, more in understanding than apology.

Baby continues to talk at me, grows more distraught by the second at my responding silence. The hollowness inside me swells in lockstep.

Why don't you talk to me anymore?

It's safer that way, I want to tell her, but I know she will never accept that. Unable to find a good answer, I finally say,
I love you and mind Grackel
.

Melissa, please don't go. Don't leave me. . . .

I listen a second longer, then block her out and push onward.

Sometimes Praxus waits fifteen minutes, sometimes an hour, but he always returns. It's only noon, and the boy at my side already wears a dozen fresh scratches and bruises thanks to me. More and more I find myself looking at his wounds and smiling.

Yet he stays close.

Soldier Boy does not. Except for a few directional commands and reminders to remain alert, he pretends to ignore me. But sometimes I see him glancing back, the hardness in his features ruined by the sadness in his eyes.

“Where are we going?” I say to Black Hair as we hike across another stretch of long-abandoned farmland.

“Somewhere safe. You'll be safe, Melissa.”

He uses that name whenever he addresses me. Melissa this. Melissa that. I hate that name. I leer at the gash in his shirt. “Safe? You can't even protect yourself.”

“You need to block him, just for a little while, Melissa. Find something happy.”

My gaze travels from the gash to his lips. Last night, this morning. I know the kisses happened, but I can hardly remember them. I remember the blood, though. The way I bit his lip.

“Kiss me, boy.” He shakes his head.

“Kiss—”

The world shifts.

Jaw spreading wide, fire bursting forth, we chase a noisy yellow Volkswagen down a suburban street. Humans flee in their chaotic way. Black houses ignite left and right beneath our flame. Trees explode.

The car continues to honk. Not in the panicked way of the weak, but in rhythm.

A war cry.

The warrior looks over her shoulder at us. The urine scent is thick in the air, but not from this one. She stinks of something different, something we do not have a name for. It sickens and enrages and thrills.

Then we are atop her, bathing her in our flame. She screams, her stench gone in an instant, swallowed by ours.

We are invincible!

Another scream echoes from the depths, the world returns to its pathetic normal.

I'm on my knees, cradled in the arms of a boy who reeks of impotence. I thrash in his grip as he pulls me to my feet. I break free and snap a side kick at him. He jumps out of the way.

“It's going to be okay, Melissa.”

I trace my tongue along my lower lip, gnash my teeth.

“It's going to be okay, Melissa.”

I lunge at him, he evades. “Coward!”

“Think of your family, Melissa. Sam, your younger brother.”

An image of a redheaded All-Black flashes through my thoughts. He sits on a pile of rubble beside a dead Green.

“Scale chaser,” I hiss.

“What about your father? He wrote you a letter. Preston delivered it. Remember the words, Melissa.”

Another image.

Cripple.

I feign contemplation, swipe at the boy. He is too slow this time, and I slash him across the face. He recoils. Desperation tinges his face, but he does not relent.

“Olivia Callahan. Army pilot. Looked just like you, Melissa. Bravest person I ever met. She loved you guys so—”

“Mom,” I whimper, remembering. The yellow Bug. Washington, D.C. I was not in the sky chasing her, but in a dragon shelter listening to her play hero, listening to her die.

Praxus stole the memory from me, twisted it around, had me kill her. I enjoyed it. Her screams linger, pained and wonderful. I bite hard into my lip to distract myself.

Too hard. The skin breaks, and I taste blood. My blood. Her blood.

And just like that, my tears are joined by laughter. Great, sobbing laughter.

“Melissa?” James says.

I get it together. Barely. “Praxus is reconditioning me, isn't he?”

He embraces me. “We will get through this, Melissa.”

I don't believe him, but I take small comfort in his “we.”

Soon enough, the small comforts vanish.

There is only desire.

Praxus slakes my thirst more often now. In between flying high, I'm stuck trudging across barren fields with this coward boy who calls me a name I do not recognize and begs me to remember things that do not interest me. I am sick of his soft words and soft looks. I want to strangle him, hear those words suffocate in his throat, watch those pathetic eyes bulge from his head. Yet he always hovers just beyond the reach of my talons.

The soldier boy doesn't simper or cower like this one. He's all confidence and fire as he plows forward. I smell the delicious aroma of condescension on him, along with a delightful dash of sorrow.

Near dusk, Praxus and I attack a new city. Black buildings, black smoke everywhere. Through the darkness, we hear a car honk at us. There! It honks again, beckoning. Another war cry. The driver emits that same scent as the previous one.

Our skin warms, our hackles rise, our breath comes faster. We move to intercept.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” We exalt in the heat that rises in our throat, but it sticks there, and the car disappears around the
corner. We crash through a building in chase and come face-to-face with another Green. The rider atop it launches a missile at us. Pain explodes through my chest, I fall to my knees.

Explain,
Praxus says, the first thing he's said to me all day.

I don't understand.

He zooms in on the flipped-over car, on the driver.

A girl. She looks familiar. She looks alive.

Explain
, Praxus repeats.

I don't understand.

He provides more images. A man in a red suit cuffed to a bike rack, along with four other humans. That girl from the car trying to shoot off their handcuffs. The girl fleeing the city, only to turn back around.

Explain.

I don't understand.

Explain.

I growl, tired of this mystery and his demands.
Why are we not killing them?

I feel him smile.
Soon.

The girl disappears.

Farmland returns.

The sun sets.

A green star rises with the gloaming.

Black Hair yells a warning to Soldier Boy.

Death comes.