Talon the Black
Book 1 of the Dragonwall Series
Melissa Mitchell
Copyright © 2018 by Melissa Mitchell
Cover design © 2018 Melissa Mitchell
Map © 2018 Melissa Mitchell
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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978-1-79219-433-7
For my mom, Tresha, who shares my love and enthusiasm for Dragonwall.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Dragonwall Appendix
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Preview
About the Author
1
Battle Ground, Indiana
Dragons are distinguished creatures. They come in a vast array of colors, with nostrils that breathe fire when you make them angry, and bodies closest in size to a Tyrannosaurus rex, so there was no mistaking the one catapulting towards Battle Ground, Indiana. Unlike its name suggested, nothing exciting happened in this tranquil little town, not until the beast crash landed into Claire Evans’s corn field. Everyone knows that dragons do not simply fall from the sky. As it turned out, this one had a very good reason for dropping into Claire’s life, but she wouldn’t discover why for some time.
Minutes before it happened, she was speeding up the gravel drive towards her parents’ farmhouse. Plumes of dust fanned out behind her. It was nearly three in the morning—a popular time for people her age to get into trouble—but that wasn’t the reason for her rebellious driving.
The stereo speakers in her Honda Civic blasted Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album. It was the perfect ending to a terrible night. The album was an old favorite, and she knew all the words.
This occasion warranted one song in particular titled “You Oughta Know.” She played it on repeat after leaving Shannon’s Bar to help her get over the jerk who left her for another woman. His name was Jake, and as far as she was concerned, he was a complete and utter ballbag.
Seeing Jake was something she dreaded after moving back home, that and returning to work at Shannon’s Bar. Bartending in Battle Ground wasn’t exactly where she saw herself at twenty-two. No kid grows up saying, “Someday I want to serve booze to hicks and has-beens.” To make matters worse, Jake’s parents owned Shannon’s, which he enjoyed lording over her. He especially loved showing up unexpectedly to put her on edge. Tonight, he had appeared with his new girlfriend Tiffany.
In high school she and Jake were a thing. After she left for college, the relationship hit tough times. They broke up, got back together, broke up again. It was a vicious cycle of hurt feelings and shattered hearts. When she was ready to end it, to sever ties once and for all, Jake begged her to take him back. He promised to make it work this time. That was spring break. He made it work alright, she angrily thought, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. He made it work right into Tiffany’s pants. As far as she was concerned, there was a special place in hell reserved for cheating boyfriends.
Now, her only solace was coming up with violent ways to make him suffer. As she drove home, she pictured him in a snake pit—he hated snakes. No, that wasn’t nearly good enough; she shook her head and moved on to the next idea. How about death by scarab beetles, you know, like the ones from The Mummy? Yes, that earned a malicious smile. Better yet, maybe a zombie could eat his face off. He didn’t deserve his good looks anyway.
Each scenario was better than before, and she could have continued like this all the way up the driveway, but these scenarios were swept from her mind in an instant. Dragons have that effect on people. The moment she saw this one, her brain skidded to a halt, and the world turned into slow motion. She blinked in disbelief.
Bathed in moonlight and spewing red-orange flames, the creature streaked across her line of sight like a meteor. “I’m completely crazy,” she muttered, “absolutely effing crazy!”
It took seconds for the impossible sight to disappear into the field. Shocked and distracted, she didn’t notice her car drifting away from the gravel drive. A whack-whack-whacking sound got her attention. She brought her gaze downward to find her poor Civic plowing corn like a turbocharged tractor.
Her breath caught in her chest. Aggressively, she jerked the steering wheel to the left. Her car veered back onto the gravel lane and spun around in a half circle before sliding across the lane and into the corn field on the opposite side. She came to a halt in the dirt mere feet from a utility pole.
“Good going, Claire,” she muttered, blowing a few locks of hair from her face before peeling her fingers from the steering wheel. “That was a close call.”
Her mind snapped into focus. Was it real? Of course it was! A dragon had just crashed into her corn field. It was as likely as finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, or a leprechaun tap-dancing over said pot.
She looked out over the field, squinting into the darkness. Wisps of smoke snaked upwards from the corn. The beacon said, “Come and find me,” and she intended to.
She tore off into the field, her feet squishing and sinking into the soft dirt. When she stumbled, she kept going. It was worse than running on the beach: On the beach, you don’t have stalks of corn slapping you in the face. Her side cramped up, but that didn’t matter because dragons were more important than side aches. The field fought her in every way, but she fought back. As she went, she kept her gaze just above the tassels, looking for the large shape she expected to see. The closer she got, the further her hopes fell.
When things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This is especially true when it comes to finding a dragon who just happens to fall from the sky. But, Claire was determined to hope.
Without w
arning, her foot caught itself on a mound of earth. She flew through the air before falling flat on her face. “Why me?” she groaned, pushing herself up on her forearms. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as her tongue started to sting.
Collecting what little dignity she had left, she got up and brushed herself off. Only then did she look up. “I don’t believe it!”
Had she stumbled upon the set of a science fiction movie? An impact-crater larger than a dragon stretched out before her. Stalks of corn stood bent and strewn in all directions. Small fires flickered around the perimeter with feeble yellow flames. She rushed to stamp them out.
But where was the dragon? By now she was certain of its existence. She would’ve stuck to her guns had she been dragged kicking and screaming to the loony bin. People landed themselves in nut houses all the time for seeing stuff like this.
The only problem was, there wasn’t any dragon. What she did see was nearly as unexplainable. Lying face-down and unmoving in the center of the basin was a man. Her eyebrows knitted together. Turns out, someone was having a crappier night than she was.
Her gaze fell upon a large sword glittering at his waist. The weapon was half the length of his body. This was no mere costume sword!
It appeared as though King Arthur himself had stepped out of Howard Pyle’s tale. He wore beige leggings, knee-high black boots, a long tunic, and a black leather vest. The man was straight-up Ren Fair. Was this really happening? She pinched herself. Yep. It was.
She climbed down into the crater and went to him. Anxiously, she checked his neck for a pulse. His heartbeat was faint, but he was alive. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was bad juju to find a dead guy in your field.
A heavy metallic scent met her nostrils—the scent of blood. “This can’t be good,” she whispered. Ren Fair guy weighed as much as a sack of bricks. She flipped him over then immediately regretted it. There was blood everywhere: in the dirt beneath him, on the front of his clothing, and covering her hands. The moonlight made it eerier.
She held up her bloody hands in alarm; she hated blood, it made her woozy. As long as she didn’t stare, she would be okay. But, how could she not stare? Her first breath was deep and slow. Each breath thereafter was shallower and faster, until she was hyperventilating.
“What would Dad do?” she asked herself. That was it—Dad! She called out for him at the top of her lungs. It was instinctual. She screamed for him the same way she did when Simon (her first real crush) fell off the barn roof and broke his leg, and also years later when James (one of the farmhands) carved his arm open on a piece of equipment, and the time Ronald (her cousin) cut off his finger, spraying blood all over the barn. Yes, she’d cried bloody murder for Dad those times, but this time, her dad wouldn’t come. It took a few moments to realize this.
“Think, Claire. Think,” she gasped in between breaths, panicking anew.
She took hold of the man’s shoulder and shook him. He didn’t respond. The slice on his left side ran from his breast to his hip. Wounds like this did not happen by themselves. Something dangerous was afoot.
Filled with fear and suspicion, she looked up from his body, squinting into the darkness of the corn field. Where was his assailant? “To hell with this!” She stood up. The memory of every horror film she’d ever watched flashed through her mind. Meanwhile, the field loomed around her with its ominous walls. Anything could be hiding within.
For a second, she considered bolting. She could run back to her car, forget this ever happened. Whatever this man was tangled up in, it wasn’t worth her life. Was it worth his? She gritted her teeth, deliberating. There was no other choice. She knew she had to save him. It was like some invisible force was pushing her to. At any rate, he was losing too much blood. If she didn’t act fast, he would die.
What did people do in situations like this? It took but a moment to realize the answer: they called the police. How simple! The only problem was, she didn’t have her phone. She’d left it in her car with a dead battery. Ugh! She could have kicked herself! “Of all the times you forget to charge your phone, Claire Evans, you choose the worst!”
Fortunately, there was a landline in the house. Without another thought she dashed off, taking about ten steps before she froze. If she left him now, the stranger would die. She needed to staunch the bleeding first.
With a bit of quick thinking, she removed her bartending apron and stuffed it under the man’s tunic, hoping the pressure of his vest on the balled-up fabric would slow the blood. He remained unconscious. Then she sprinted away.
As she ran, a discouraging thought came to mind. She couldn’t call in the emergency. Ambulances never came out this far. The nearest hospital was almost an hour away, in Lafayette. Even if they made an exception, he wouldn’t last long enough. That’s why everyone went to her dad first. If she was going to help, she would have to do it herself.
Immediately something came to mind. It was a long shot, but she had to try.
It took her nearly five precious minutes to make it to the barn. When she entered, the familiar smell of sweet hay and damp wood greeted her. She began throwing equipment around haphazardly, looking for something she could use. Tilly and Joe grew agitated. They mooed loudly. Poor things, they weren’t used to seeing her this frantic.
“It’s okay, Tilly. It’s okay, Joe,” she nervously cooed as she passed their stalls.
At last, she had worked out a plan. Her keys were still in the car, so she grabbed a spare from the hanging flower pot on the porch. Then she ripped through her house like a tornado, and left a mess of similar magnitude. When she gathered all she needed, including her dad’s medical bag from his upstairs bedroom, she grabbed one of the farm’s John Deere Gators. After throwing the stuff into the bed, she hit the gas and took off. A minute later she was at the crater.
The man was still unconscious, so he gave no complaints when she stripped away his bloodied clothing and belongings. Undeterred by his nudity, she cleaned the wound. The skin along the gash was the color of tar. It hissed and protested. Black smoke sizzled up from the depths of the exposed flesh. She didn’t have time to question the abnormality of it.
The lights from the Gator were a big help. Even still, her hands trembled. She turned away often to regain her composure, especially when she began to close the wound. The sight of the needle passing through his skin made her nauseous. She never wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps.
At last, she got it. The job was far from easy. His skin was incredibly tough, tougher than she would have imagined. It was necessary to use the largest needle in the kit, the one intended for cow and horse hides. But eventually the skin pulled together. A hospital would have done a much better job, especially since small amounts of blood still crept from between some of the sloppier parts.
She used Super Glue to coat the length of the wound for safe measure. The blood stopped as quickly as it dried. Certain kinds of Super Glue were often used during the Vietnam War to prevent excessive bleeding. It did the job well.
She finished by taping gauze over the length of the injury. Using a blanket, she covered his nudity by tying it around his waist. Next, she rolled him onto a seven-foot plank from the barn, propped it onto the bed of the gator, and managed to shimmy it onto the back. Her muscles were shaking with weakness by the end.
After securing it with tie-downs, she departed the crater. This time she drove slowly, taking some time to think. It was a little past four in the morning. She was physically and mentally exhausted. But that didn’t stop the gazillion questions from popping into her mind like firecrackers.
She parked in front of the porch and took a good look at her patient. He would have died had it not been for her. With tired fingers, she undid the ties holding him in place. She had no intention of moving an untrustworthy person into the safety of her home, so she left him where he lay. Perhaps he would wake before she did, and take himself home.
“One less thing to worry about,” she muttered, thinking about
her problems with Jake.
She gathered the man’s sword, his belongings, and the bloody clothes from the back of the gator. She planned to take them with her inside for further investigation. The clothing was going straight into the garbage. The other stuff she was especially curious about.
Once more she leaned over him, watching his chest rise and fall. His breathing was no longer staggered. He looked much better. The worry lines on his face were gone. He was resting easier.
She inhaled deeply. He smelled peculiar, like pine and eucalyptus. She noticed faint traces of smoke, too. Smoke, like the smoke from dragon-fire, perhaps? He was certainly suspicious.
His hair, dark and curly, fell just above his shoulders. Delicately, so as not to disturb him, she brushed a lock of it from his face. He was powerfully built with handsome features capable of melting a frozen heart. And tall too—she had a weakness for tall men. Her heart fluttered for a moment—Jake forgotten.
Shaking her head, she left him. Her weary feet climbed the porch stairs and took her safely inside, where she had a good look at the strange man’s belongings. They were just as odd as he was. She laid them out on the coffee table, studying each one.
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