“So we’re all agreed tomorrow morning is the best time?” I ask.
Dominic purses his lips and nods. Sani says, “Yes.”
“We need to find somewhere to lay low for the night, then,” I say.
My cell phone rings. I jump, then pull it out of my pocket and frown at the screen. Another different unknown number. I’m getting so tired of this crap. I don’t even enjoy talking on the phone to people I like.
Sighing, I flip it open. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Kitty.” CINDY’s programmed cheer greets me. “I am just about to shut down for a few hours to run a diagnostic and wanted to make sure there wasn’t something I could do for you before.”
I do a quick scan of the immediate area, looking for cameras and microphones. I fail to find any, but I know well enough that doesn’t mean anything. “Were you listening to us?”
“Would you like me to?” she asks. “Wallace doesn’t have me listen in on the ones we know are friends.”
“You are seriously creepy, CINDY.”
“I apologize,” she says. “I’ve been monitoring the news feeds and, since the president’s son hasn’t been returned, I assumed your mission was not yet complete.”
I don’t respond. What am I supposed to say to that? For a second, I had almost forgotten I wasn’t talking to a real, live human.
“So you do not need anything?” She sounds almost sad.
“Actually,” I say, smiling. “We could use another hotel.”
“No problem.” A pause. “I found an available suite within walking distance of your current location. I will text you the address.”
I swallow hard. Knowing how accurately and quickly CINDY had tracked our location set my nerves to vibrating. “Thank you.”
When this is all over, Wallace and I are going to have a serious chat.
…
After the longest, hottest shower I’ve had in years and changing into a fresh set of badly fitting clothes from the hotel lobby’s gift shop, I meet Sani and Dominic in the living room of our suite at around two in the afternoon—five, D.C. time. This place is absolutely gorgeous with real wood furniture, carpets like clouds, and marble everything. I’m giving serious consideration to letting Wallace pay for all my accommodations in the future. If I pull off freeing the dragons, it will be the least he can do. Who knew the guy who wore ratty T-shirts with obscure computer references on them every day was this loaded? He could pay someone to dress him.
Sani’s sitting on a plush taupe loveseat that sits parallel to a mahogany coffee table with intricate scrollwork all around it. Dominic is sitting in one of two matching chairs on each end of the table. I hesitate, eying both the empty chair and the spot beside Sani. Emotions are running so high today, and we’ve been dancing around each other for so long, I don’t know where I stand. And I certainly don’t know where to sit.
He pats the spot next to him and smiles. My hesitation disappears. It’s like his smile is the sun, coming out from behind dark clouds and warming me to my toes. When I go to sit next to him, he puts his hands on my waist and pulls me into his lap. I lean against his firm chest and lay my head on his shoulder as arms of lean muscle wrap me in a cocoon.
Dominic raises an eyebrow at us. I don’t want to think about it now, but Sani and I are going to have to be careful about our relationship if things return to normal.
Rather, when they return to normal. When, not if. This is what I keep trying to tell myself.
I yearn for normal, my kind of normal, anyway. But I don’t want my mother sending Sani to Russia or Mongolia or wherever. Not now, when he’s finally opened up to me.
The flat-screen TV on the wall is on CNN and just loud enough that I can hear the reporter’s words. For once, we’re not the story. They’re showing a video of a cheerleader falling on her face at a pep rally. The same fifteen-second clip has been repeated at least five times. She’s not injured, so I don’t think it’s actually news, but who am I to judge? American media confuses me more than advanced cryptography.
Sani’s taken a shower too; the scent of lemongrass and mint flows from his skin with an undercurrent of something raw and robust that is just pure Bulisani Mathe. I inhale a deep breath, taking his scent into my lungs and holding it there.
“Just to clarify,” Dominic says testily.
I exhale in a rush, scowling at him from the corner of my eye.
He continues with measured words. “We’re about to break into a mafia stronghold to rescue a teenage boy who may or may not be there.”
“And interrogate and either rescue or capture the current slash former head of DIC,” I add with a “what’s your point” undertone.
“Exactly,” Dominic says. “So maybe you two should tone down the googly eyes for a few hours?”
I slice a glare at him, but slide to the seat next to Sani. “Okay, Mister Secret Service Man, what’s the plan?”
We argue about our plan of attack for an hour, but we make progress and come up with something we can all live with. It’s not a perfect plan—but they really never are, are they? Still, it feels like we’re missing something on this one, like a black hole in the middle of it all that we can’t even focus on properly.
We’re just about to break for the night—well, half the night—when a familiar face staring back at me from the TV screen stops me cold. Even in a copy of an official agency photo reproduced on this flat-screen, it feels like Director Bean is staring straight at me, admonishing me for not following orders. His gray eyes drill into me, nailing me to my spot on the couch.
“Turn it up,” I say to no one in particular. I have no idea where the remote is, but I can’t tear my eyes from the screen to look for it.
Sani focuses on the screen and pops up from the loveseat to turn the volume up on the TV manually. Who knew you could do that?
He rejoins me as the reporter’s high, clear voice fills the room. “It is unclear whether the former spy is in hiding of his own accord or if he has been detained by an unknown party. All we’re being told is that he has worked extensively with the dragons in the past and is wanted for questioning by the newly formed Senate Committee dealing with dragon affairs.”
Try to get the Senate to halt a war or fix the national debt, and they can’t be bothered to show up—but there’s already a committee to deal with the dragons. I suppose it doesn’t matter that we’ve been doing fine without a committee to oversee us for several millennia. The woman speaking has perfectly styled shoulder-length blond hair and the kind of face you think is pretty when you’re looking at it, but immediately forget about when you look away. She turns to face a different camera, and the screen seamlessly splits in two, with her face on the left side and what looks like a protest in front of the Capitol building on the other.
“In related news,” the woman says, “The NAACP, PETA, Amnesty International, and other civil rights organizations are calling for the release of any dragons who are being held without formal charges.”
“PETA?” I say, standing and moving closer to the screen. “Really?” They’re doing more harm than good. We’re not animals.
Another person appears on the right side of the screen, a man, a representative from Amnesty International according to the text on the bottom of the screen. “This is no different than any other concentration camp or racial segregation, another embarrassment to this country’s history of tolerance and acceptance. I’m receiving reports from trustworthy sources that some of these dragon shapeshifters have served this country for years, fighting against terrorist threats. At the very least, they’re victims of irrational prejudice. At most, they’re heroes.” His face is so sincere and sympathetic, a twinge smacks my hearts inside my chest.
The right side of the screen then shows a close-up of the protestors. There are only about thirty of them, but Gods bless them they’re energetic. And they have catchy picket signs, like: “Set the dragon-people free!” and “Dragons are people, too!” and “End Racial Segregation! Aga
in!” I’d laugh if the reason why those signs exist wasn’t so sad.
“See,” Sani whispers in my ear. I have no idea when he moved to stand behind me. “They don’t all hate us.”
The image on the right changes again to the security footage of Wallace’s change, still the only image of a dragon form available. I know the truth: that he was just panicking, scared and inexperienced. But even I’ll admit he looks dangerous and out of control, representing everything the CIA claims they’re trying to protect the American people from. If I were a mom sitting at home with little children in my quiet suburb, I’m not sure how I’d feel about the scene. Would I be scared enough to support the incarceration of an entire species? Being honest with myself, I can’t say I wouldn’t. And that, more than anything, terrifies me. When you can empathize with your enemy, you’re half lost.
The reporter continues to talk over the image, but I don’t hear her anymore. I’m watching Wallace change over and over again, hearing Cleft Chin utter “lizard” on repeat in my head. I was wrong. We are the monsters, at least as far as most Americans are concerned. We’re Frankenstein’s monster, misunderstood with the villagers lighting their torches and waving their pitchforks. The images scream inside my brain, rising to a fever pitch.
Dominic is sneaking off to his bedroom for the night. All of a sudden, I realize what our plan is missing, the lost puzzle piece. The clamor in my mind falls away.
“We’re changing the plan,” I snap, stopping Dominic in his tracks. He turns slowly, half annoyed, but half curious, too.
“Kitty,” Sani says gently. “We all agreed.”
“Yeah, but we had faulty parameters,” I say, returning to the loveseat. I sit cross-legged on the cushion with my elbows on my knees and fingers folded underneath my chin. “Sani and I are still thinking like it’s three days ago, like we still need to keep dragons a secret. The whole world knows we exist now. The game has changed.”
“I don’t believe it’s wise to throw away that caution; knowing and seeing are two different things,” Sani says, moving to sit next to me. He’s speaking from experience, I know, but this is too important to let fear of hurting his feelings get in the way.
“That’s because not revealing our dragon forms has been drilled into your head by your DIC trainers,” I say. There’s a warning in my voice. I don’t want to bring up his past, but I will if I have to.
Dominic stands back from us. He knows there’s more to this than what we’re both saying and, for once, is wise enough to butt out.
“You know what exposing yourself as a dragon could lead to,” Sani says, his voice cracking. “It’s too dangerous.”
I reach out and put a steadying hand on his arm. “Sani, this isn’t Uganda. We aren’t your parents.”
“I don’t see any difference,” he says.
I point at the television. “That’s the difference! They already know exactly what we are. They’re still trying to figure out what to think of us. Right now, the only image they have of us is a terrifying one that breeds hate and fear. They already know who and what I am. I want to give them another image.”
A terrible silence falls over the room. My eyes plead with Sani to see past his fear and his experience to the new world we could make.
“You want people to see you rescuing Jacob,” Dominic says from his dark corner. He understands, I can hear it in his voice.
“I want everyone to see me—a dragon—rescuing Jacob, taking on the deadliest criminal organization in the country to return their precious First Son safe and sound. I want to shove it in their faces until they can’t deny what it means. I want the president to watch me, on TV, cleaning up a mess that humans created and couldn’t fix themselves.”
“You’re a spy, not a PR person,” Sani says. “It’s not your job to change public opinion. Your job is kind of the opposite.”
I know that he’s only being so cautious because of what happened to his family, but he’s starting to get on my nerves. He’s so perceptive. Why can’t he see what the rest of the world is seeing at this moment? We’re so far out of the closet at this point nobody even remembers the closet exists, except for us.
“Who else is going to do it?” I ask him. “Like I said, the game has changed. We’re stuck in the middle of a war that’s being fought in the media. If you can think of any other way to counter the lies the CIA is spreading about us, I’ll gladly do it your way.”
“She’s right, you know,” Dominic says, looking at Sani. “I don’t know what happened to your parents in Uganda, but I can guarantee the dragons have never seen a situation like this.”
Sani shakes his head, but it morphs, and then he nods slowly. Look at Dominic being all reasonable and helpful. I’m so proud. My unlikely ally.
“If Kitty ever wants to go out in public again, or see her parents again, the American public has to rally behind her enough to convince the president to go against the CIA.”
Okay, so maybe I underestimated the guy. A faraway smile spreads across his face. Or maybe not.
I look at him with one raised eyebrow, figuring out the source of his enthusiasm. “And you’d be the guy who helped us do it.”
He grins. “I’ll definitely get a book deal. Maybe a TV show. The camera loves this face.” He strolls back to his chair, pointing at his face.
I roll my eyes as hard as I can. “At least somebody does.”
Why Dominic supports my plan is inconsequential, as long as he follows through.
I turn to my partner. “What do you say, Sani?”
He stares hard at my wide, hopeful eyes for several minutes. I can’t begin to imagine the scenes playing in his head right now. The government he worked for in Uganda killed his parents in front of him because someone found out they were more than human. It was a classic witch-hunt scenario, a burning stake and everything. I take his hands into my own and squeeze, pressing our clasped hands against my chest in an attempt to bring him back from that dark place. I need him here, in this moment. We all do.
His eyes finally refocus on the present and his tortured gaze meets mine. “I suppose I should at least hear your plan before saying no.”
Chapter Seventeen
I wake up for the fourth time since lying down. Why does my overactive mind refuse to let my exhausted body get some rest? I’ve tried reasoning with it, threatening it, even counting imaginary English dragons. Growling at the cool night air, I roll over to look at the clock: 1:20 in the morning. The green lines burn into my vision, searing the numbers on my brain, reminding me how tired I’m going to be in the morning. We’re leaving in less than five hours, and I’ve probably only stolen about an hour of sleep so far.
The mattress is incredibly soft and fluffy, but now it just feels like it’s sucking me in, partnering with the thick blanket to smother and incapacitate me. How can I be taking so many breaths and still be so short on air? I stare at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep until it becomes obvious that’s not going to happen anytime soon. I climb out of the suffocating covers and stare out the window at a city that has no idea what’s coming for it tomorrow. More cars than I would have expected still race down the highways, nothing but blurs of red and white lights from my view far above the city streets. I think about the protesters on the TV earlier and wonder how many Americans side with them—and how many would side with Cleft Chin. How many people on the street far below me right now would turn me in? How many would shelter me? I’m not a betting girl, but I’d wager the former far outnumbers the latter.
I check my pack, still stuffed to the brim with guns and grenades I hope I don’t get the chance to use. Despite our rather violent history, dragons aren’t generally fond of using human weapons. It’s completely unnatural and feels entirely wrong. It seems like something always goes wrong when gunpowder is involved. We’re messing with something we have no business messing with. Sometimes, though, you have to do things you don’t enjoy. In my line of work, those times come more often than not.
The door opens silently with a gentle push from me, and I pad almost silently across the soft carpet to the kitchen area. A high-calorie, high-fat, high-sugar feast lies before me—just the thing for the night before a big mission. A king-sized package of Reese’s peanut butter cups calls my name, and I tear it open. The rustling of the package is like a gunshot in the silence of the hotel room. As hard—and as slowly—as I try, I can’t get the wrappers to quiet down. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my vision hijacks my attention, and I spin toward it, dropping my snack on the marble counter. My hearts jump-start and pound at full speed.
A figure stands on the balcony on the other side of the living room, shrouded in almost complete darkness. The lights from the city below are just enough for me to tell it’s a man. Or maybe an incredibly tall, well-built, boob-less woman with no hair. I crouch low and watch it just over the top of the kitchen counter, but it doesn’t move for several seconds. My lungs ache against my ribs, but I keep my breathing under control with shallow, quick breaths.
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