Chapter Two

The absolute last thing I want to do four hours after the meeting with my mom is wake up to my regular alarm and get ready for school. My fingers itch to pick up the little clock and throw it across the meager length of my barracks. Even though my entire world may or may not have been altered last night, I have an obligation to Jacob, the president’s son.

The beige walls of my windowless room do nothing to encourage me out of bed. Nor does the thought of sitting through lectures on subjects I mastered years ago.

I shower in the tiny stall that gives me just enough room to turn around. The water is still vaporizing from my skin when I slip on one of my more comfortable purple dresses made of organic cotton. The dress allows for a wider range of motion than jeans and it’s the same shade as the purple streaks in my chin-length, stick-straight black hair. I’m not exactly the kind of girl who spends hours fixing her hair and putting on makeup, so I’m ready about twelve minutes after waking up. Just before I grab my backpack, a knock sounds at the door.

Like every other DIC operative, I live in barracks at the underground complex so, usually, a knock at my door means a last-minute mission. Adrenaline starts pumping, waking me up faster than the cup of coffee I had planned on grabbing from the cafeteria. I open the door to find Wallace, looking like he hasn’t slept for weeks, standing there. The workout clothes he’s wearing look like they were plucked from a dirty hamper fifteen seconds ago.

“Director wants to see us,” he says. His voice sounds broken.

Crap. This can’t be any flavor of good.

I nod and follow him silently through the familiar maze of windowless, colorless hallways to the director’s office. Beside me, Wallace shifts his shoulders incessantly. I can tell he’s upset, but I’m not sure what brand of upset this is. Nervousness? Remorse? It’s so much easier when we’re both dragons and I can simply know what he’s feeling as accurately as I know what color an apple is. I’m not really the comforting type, but it’s driving me nuts, so I raise a hand and place it on his shoulder, patting lightly. Am I doing this right? I don’t know if it’s the soldier in me or the dragon, but sympathy isn’t part of my skill set.

He turns his head just an inch to smile at me, but it’s one of those smiles people give you when they want to say, “I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn’t really make me feel better.” Poor guy. He’s not really cut out for this. Who would ever guess the Clark Kent to an English dragon’s Superman would be the biggest computer nerd I’ve ever met? He’s only here because the CIA caught him hacking into their system. Well, they caught him the fourth time around. When they found out he was a dragon, he had a pretty easy choice to make: interminable solitary confinement in an undisclosed secret prison or join DIC, keeping both his fortune and his relative freedom.

“You know everyone else is calling me Number One?” he says.

Because he broke the Number One rule. I stifle a laugh and he definitely notices. “Word spreads fast,” is all I can offer for comfort. “What are they calling me?”

“Unlucky,” he says. “Because you got stuck with me.”

Ouch.

Marcy, the director’s assistant, is busying herself at her desk by shuffling and reshuffling the same stack of paper. She smiles warmly at me, but intense worry swims in her eyes. Marcy is an English dragon who no longer goes out on missions despite being only thirty-something years old. She suffered a brain injury four years ago that keeps her from fully changing back to her human form; shimmering patches of green and blue scales cover half of her face and her right arm—and probably more of her body that I can’t see. She bears it like it’s a shameful thing, but I think it’s beautiful and I’ve always had a hunch the director agrees with me. When I’m in dragon form, I can always sense her emotions, but they’re weaker than those from a fully-formed dragon. It’s like trying to identify a shape through shower-door glass.

“How are you doing, Kitty?” Marcy’s the kind of person who actually means it when she asks a question like this, so I feel compelled to give her an honest answer.

“Well, it’s not my best day ever, but at least I’m doing better than this guy.” I slap Wallace on the back.

Marcy makes a sympathetic tutting sound and shakes her head, examining Wallace with kind eyes. “Anything I can do?”

He shakes his head without looking at her. After a minute, the silence starts to get super awkward.

Marcy pushes a crystal bowl sitting on her desk toward us. “Peanut butter cup?”

Wallace keeps his gaze on his feet, but I take a step forward. My fingers are an inch from chocolaty peanut-buttery goodness when a buzzing sound makes me jump back.

“He’s ready for you now.” Marcy stands and motions to the director’s door. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“Thanks, Marcy,” I mutter before pushing Wallace through the door.

We find ourselves standing in front of the only human I truly fear: DIC Director John Bean, the only human allowed inside DIC complex. He’s sitting in the tall, dark leather chair, but he’s as intimidating as if he stands over me, glowering down. Unlike the rest of DIC, his office is rich with dark wood walls dramatically illuminated by up-lights rather than harsh fluorescents.

Most of this man’s life is classified. He has enough scars to keep me guessing about his past, but they also make me too scared to ask about it. He stands tall and wide in a suit that had to be custom-made for him. Director Bean is the picture of discipline—from the top of his daily buzz cut to the toes of his spit-shined shoes. And he scares the freaking crap out of me.

Raising his head from reports on his desk, he motions for us to come inside with two flicks of a finger. He does not invite us to sit down. Wallace makes toward one of the black leather guest chairs but I catch his eye and give him a slight shake of my head in warning. Nobody sits in Director Bean’s presence. I don’t know any other mere human who can command so many dragons’ respect and loyalty like him.

In the back corner of the office is a terrarium the size of a phone booth, the home to a half-dozen specimens of draco volans. Draco volans is also called the flying dragon, so named for a passing resemblance to some of my species. They have flaps of skin attached to rib extensions that allow them to glide like flying squirrels. These pets are the only evidence I’ve ever seen indicating Director Bean might have a sense of humor. It seems he has a cruel one, at least.

“Commander Lung tells me you both understand the gravity of our situation due to the events of last night, and that there’s no need for me to discuss this,” he says.

I only nod, wondering why I’m here if there is no reason to discuss the situation.

“However,” he continues, “I told her that was impossible. Because if you understood how serious this was, it never would have happened.” His voice only raises about half a decibel at the end of his statement, but the words thunder in my ears, bouncing around inside my head.

“Wallace.” Director Bean levels the full force of his steel-gray eyes on the unfortunate English dragon. “Not only will you return to training status indefinitely, but you will also serve on cafeteria duty until further notice.” Dragons don’t trust humans enough to work inside the compound, so those of us who are injured or being disciplined do the housekeeping-type jobs.

I see Wallace’s throat work up and down until he finally manages to croak out, “Yes, sir.”

When the director meets my eyes, you can’t convince me he is human for anything. And they like to call us monsters. “And, Kitty,” he says slowly. “You will not be permitted on any mission except when under the direct supervision of your commander.”

He says “commander,” but in a way that makes the underlying contempt obvious. What he means is: I won’t be allowed off the leash without the direct supervision of my mommy.

“You will continue to serve as Midday Sun’s”—Jacob’s Secret Service code name—“bodyguard at the Academy until we can find a suitable replacement, but will return directly to D.I.C. immediately after the last bell. Are we clear?”

I clasp my hands together behind me in an attempt to dampen their shaking. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

He stands to his full height, making me feel even smaller than his words already have.

“Despite Simon’s best efforts, we haven’t yet been able to determine what the Lebanese government will do with the footage, but when they make their move, you should expect a full disciplinary hearing.”

I swallow hard and stand as still as possible in front of the director, like prey freezing at the site of a predator, fearing that the tiniest movement might attract more of his attention than I care to possess.

“That is all. Do not be late for school. There’s no reason to draw more attention than you already have.”

I nod in obedience and take a last glance at the draco volans. One of the creatures leaps from one branch to another, but his wings don’t catch any air. The glass cage isn’t big enough for him to fly.

…

There are two exits from DIC. The one I never use starts with a huge underground parking lot that leads to a four-lane tunnel that dumps out onto an otherwise unused side road. Every now and then, a tourist will get lost and trip the proximity alarm, and we all have a bit of fun practicing a breach scenario. I don’t have a car, so the only time I use this entrance is if I need to fly in hot and fast after a mission. After I turned sixteen, my mom talked about buying me a car, but I refused. Cars tether you to things like roads and parking lots. Not a fan.

The other entrance is a staircase up from the gym that leads to a manhole in a dense copse of trees a few stories above DIC. I’m sure, at some point, this was meant as a secret backup exit, but I use it every day. Sani, my partner and best friend, usually meets me here in the mornings and we race the ten miles to the Academy, splitting up for the last half mile so nobody sees us arrive together. The morning run helps us counteract the sluggishness that comes with sitting for eight hours in wooden chairs. But this morning I’m late, and he knows better than to wait and risk both of us being late. The mission must go on, after all.

I arrive at the designated meeting spot in front of the Academy half a second before Jacob’s black Town Car with blacker windows pulls up. I whirl around, taking a quick less-than-covert survey of the area. Normally, I get here at least ten minutes early and do a better job of assessing the surroundings before he arrives.

Something dark flashes in the corner of my eye and I know, without double-checking, that Sani’s retreating into the building now that he sees he won’t have to do my job today.

A suit-clad Secret Service agent steps out of the front passenger door, but Jacob climbs out of the backseat before the agent can reach his door—a blatant breach of protocol. I stifle a smile, knowing how much pleasure Jacob takes in even the smallest of rebellions. He shoots a grin at the agent who frowns pointedly at him. Not for the first time, I wonder if the Secret Service teaches their agents a class in how to frown with purpose. They do it really well when you call them “SS agents.” They don’t like that moniker—I worked that out myself.

“Hey Kitty!” he says to me, instantly forgetting about the two agents behind him. “You look like crap.”

Pressing my lips together, I roll my eyes. “You sure know how to charm a girl.”

He shrugs. “I don’t get any complaints.”

Though I’d never tell him so, I believe it. Even if you ignore the allure of a powerful father and his celebrity status, Jacob has the classically good-looking all-American-boy thing going on. He has sandy blond hair, honest blue eyes, and a smile that can make people throw themselves on railroad tracks for him. The perfect second-generation politician. It’s not like I like him or anything. I know him too well. But every other girl in school makes gaga eyes at him when we walk down the hall.

“Hey, you wouldn’t have anything to do with why my dad was up all night, having meetings with people I’m not even allowed to see, would you?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” I say in an intentionally flat tone. I always obey my standing orders and deny any implication I’m anything more than the daughter of a wealthy Chinese diplomat, but do it in a way that lets Jacob know he’s on the right track. It’s a game we’ve been playing for three years, ever since I was put in his class to watch over him. The president told Jacob my family was important to relations with China and all but commanded him to befriend me. I, of course, have a different set of orders. And Jacob’s way too smart to not realize something’s up.

“Riiiight.” He glances around us and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Seriously, Kitty, you have to tell me. It was a madhouse last night. What’d you do this time?”

“What makes you think it was me?”

He purses his perfect, full bow-shaped lips in that who-are-you-fooling kind of face. I look away and pick up the pace toward history class.

I’m not entirely sure how much information he’s gleaned over the years, but he knows I have been put in place to protect him, and I’m stronger and faster than any girl my age (or any man ten years older, for that matter) has the right to be. Despite all our diligence, I’ve had to subvert a few kidnapping attempts last-minute. It seems he has a different theory every week as to where my talents come from. I believe genetically-engineered superhuman designed by the CIA is the reigning hypothesis lately. Please. Like the CIA knows anything about being extraordinary.

I haven’t been to any others, since I grew up alternating between DIC headquarters and the most desolate places on earth, but I know this isn’t an average high school. Sure, we have the standards like classrooms, teachers, and lockers. But our classrooms are redecorated by professional “educational environment specialists” every year, and every teacher has at least one PhD after their name. The kids walking down the halls have the self-important swagger inherited from their parents: diplomats, senators, CEOs, world-class thieves. I’m pretty confident of the last one, anyway.

“Hey, Sani!” Jacob calls to a tall, stunning boy walking toward us through the locker-lined hallway. Okay, well maybe it’s just me he stuns.

I jerk up my head, mentally chiding myself for paying so little attention to our surroundings. But it isn’t like Sani couldn’t walk around unnoticed if he wanted to, despite his height. Bulisani Mathe is an African dragon, six feet two inches of stealth and grace with skin as dark as midnight. Jeans hang low on his hips, topped with a black uniform T-shirt. A gray hoodie hangs open across his chest, unfortunately hiding the lean muscles of his arms I have the pleasure of gawking at every time we spar.

Sani’s my backup at the Academy, also getting a top-notch education in exchange for pledging life and allegiance to protect the president’s son. Fortunately, I’ve never needed him, so Jacob still has no idea Sani’s anything more than the equivalent of a Ugandan prince.

His eyes meet mine. I suck in a quick breath before regaining control of my suddenly hammering hearts. He smiles at me and for a second—just a second—I forget about last night, about my mom and the director, about everything but that tickling in my stomach. Gods, Kitty, you’re a trained lethal operative; stop acting like a lovesick fool. I’ve had years of practice hiding my feelings for Sani underneath a thick blanket of other emotions.

I give Sani a (too) quick hug, and he shoots Jacob a friendly smile. Even in human form, dragon skin is almost hot enough to burn human skin so we always avoid direct contact with Jacob and the other students. Sani pretends he’s germophobic, but I just pretend I don’t like people too much. It’s an easy facade for me. Sani lets Jacob walk ahead of him into history class and turns his face briefly to me, giving me a look that can’t mean anything other than “we need to talk.” I give him a quick nod and we take our seats in the back row just as the late bell rings.

Much to Jacob’s chagrin, I always insist on sitting in the back of the classroom if I have the choice. He may like everyone staring at him, but I can’t override my training and give up a tactical advantage like being able to see the entire room.

Mrs. Hall is ten minutes into a lecture on the Trail of Tears and I’m twenty pages into the latest celebrity gossip rag on my phone—my one guilty pleasure, so sue me—when a folded square of notebook paper lands on my desk. I know it came from Sani. No one else can get that close to me without my sensing it. I glance at Jacob to make sure he won’t see and nearly laugh when I see him playing a game on his cell phone underneath his desk. Yeah, real Leader-of-the-Free-World material there. I unfold the note and lay it flat on my open history book.

What’s going on? Heard a rumor this morning. Didn’t hear much, just “Kitty”, “Wallace” and “disaster.” I wince. That’s the gist of it, all right.

I glance toward Sani sitting on my right. Okay, if I’m honest, it’s more than a glance—it always is when I look at him—but that’s not the point. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s completely engrossed in Mrs. Hall’s lecture—not waiting for my response with marked impatience. I scribble on the bottom of the note, casting my eyes up at the teacher occasionally so it looks like I’m just taking notes. I take my time deciding what to tell Sani, knowing this could be picked up by the teacher if we’re caught. Sure, I should make him wait until after class, but I can never help wanting to give him what he asks for as soon as possible.

I write something, erase it. Try again, erase that. Sani coughs quietly and I scowl at him. I finally settle on:

Wallace changed. On camera. End of life as we know it?

That’s vague enough.

I sit back and leave the note laying on my desk, knowing how much less noticeable it will be if Sani reaches over for it than if I try a clumsy pass-off.

I watch Mrs. Hall for a minute and when I glance back down at my desk, the note is gone. Sani shifts almost imperceptibly. I hear his two hearts beat harder, faster. Sure that he stares at me now, I shrug.

“Later,” I murmur. No reason to draw attention to ourselves more than necessary.

Jacob’s head snaps up and stares at the two of us with the light of a question in his eyes. He never cares for not being the center of attention in our little group, but I know he’s starting to notice secrets between Sani and me. We’re getting comfortable; we need to be more careful. Though I guess it won’t matter so much if Bean pulls me off this assignment. I smile dismissively at him and pretend to turn my full attention to Mrs. Hall.

…

Government class in a D.C. school full of politicians’ kids is a fresh new version of hell every day. Especially when you’re already simply known as “that weird, quiet Asian girl.” Even worse, this is the only class I have without Jacob or Sani. Our Secret Service contact thought it would blow our cover if we were placed in every single class with Jacob, so we each have one class without him. I’m not convinced one class is enough to dispel suspicion, but he’s the expert, right? I mean, I’ve only been trained for this sort of thing since birth.

The bell finally rings and I send up a prayer of thanks that I made it through at least one class discussion without saying anything too moronic. Maybe I shouldn’t take this stance, considering my job, but I hate politics. I can’t stand that it’s not something you can truly learn. There is no right or wrong answer. But then again, I can’t tell if I hate politics because I hate this class, or vice versa. Back in the days of Imperial China, the rulers were all dragons. They were open about it, too, with their “dragon thrones” and “dragon beds” and all that, but modern scholars believe it was all a farce to instill fear and loyalty in the people. Personally, I’m not interested in ruling anybody.

I shove my untouched notebook back into my backpack and head to lunch.

Jacob is still in line for lunch when Sani joins me at our usual table in the dining room. Not a cafeteria, let’s make that clear. The Academy has a schmancy dining room complete with mahogany—or whatever—tables, padded arm chairs, and antique vases for decoration. Thank the Gods they stopped short of making it full-service.

“Who caught it on camera?” he asks, getting straight to business. Unlike me, a direct descendant of the founders of DIC, Sani is a first-generation DIC operative. He still has one of those thick accents you can’t quite place, overlaying a voice as smooth and subtle as his movements. He fled Uganda when his parents were murdered five years ago and found out about DIC through a distant cousin. DIC offered him housing, training, education—things he never had in Africa, even despite giving everything for his government. Like most of our operatives, he wants to give back to the country that gave him a safe place to call home and started training when he was twelve. In addition to CIA-mandated missions, DIC is also the only organization in the world that helps weredragons establish a normal (as possible) life. As a result, most dragons live in the United States, even though there aren’t any native to here as far as I can tell. Dragon history is spotty at best, owing to our solitary natures. Before DIC formed, no more than two adult dragons lived in the same place at one time. That’s probably how we’ve gone so long without being discovered, I imagine.

I tell Sani as much as I can about last night for the next four minutes while tracking Jacob’s slow process through the lunch line, hindered by all the people who stop to talk to him. Even as I’m telling the story, I notice how Jacob talks to everyone—including the scholarship kids—with the same easy smile and genuine friendliness. No one talks to the scholarship kids. He’s a friend to these people; he’s a friend to me. This sudden heartbreaking realization hits me, and I stumble in the story I’m telling. It may be my duty to protect him, but I want to do it, too. It’s the only mission I’ve ever given my heart to and, once Director Bean is done with me, DIC is going to take it away from me.

“Kitty?” Sani says. “You there?” He’s waving a hand twice the size of my own in front of my face.

I’ve entirely stopped talking, and my hands are clenched so tightly on the edges of my lunch tray the plastic is starting to warp. The dragon inside me rages against my emotional control. It wants to be let out. Heck, I want to let it out, but I know that wouldn’t exactly fix anything. It’s only through force of will that I loosen my grip and give Sani a small smile.

When I tell Sani about the meeting with Director Bean this morning he says, “There was nothing you could have done.”

He places a warm, reassuring hand over mine, and both of my hearts skip a beat or two when I meet his totally, weirdly beautiful eyes. Like those of all African dragons, they’re a strange yellow-green color with elongated pupils—almost like a cat’s but not enough so that you’d notice when passing him on the street. That’s probably because African dragons look more like a black cat-salamander hybrid than any dragon you’ve ever imagined; they have a lightly furred catlike head on top of a long, slender four-legged body.

“Done about what?” Jacob drops his tray noisily across the table from me. I jump and yank my hand away from Sani’s.

“I got a C on that English paper Mr. Sadler handed back today,” I say. This is total bull. Blessed with a dragon’s intelligence, I have to intentionally make mistakes to get anything less than an A on any assignment.

Jacob laughs and takes a swig of his apple juice. “The way your faces looked, you’d think the world was ending.”

I fake a laugh that emptily echoes his. “Yeah, I guess when you put it into perspective…”

Sani shoots me a look before changing the subject. “Have either of you met the new girl?” He nods toward a table on the other side of the dining room where a blond girl sits by herself, pushing food around her plate.

“I’ve seen her in the halls,” I say. “She just started today?”

Sani nods once. “Must be why she’s eating lunch alone.”

Don’t get jealous that he noticed her, Kitty. Of course he noticed; he always notices things like that. That’s part of what makes him such a good partner, remember? You want him to notice things.

The little pep talk does nothing to dampen the raging jealousy stabbing at my stomach.

Jacob stands up. “That’s a shame,” he says, grinning. “We should be a little more welcoming.”

“Yeah,” I say knowingly. “She is pretty cute, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jacob winks at me. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

Sani shakes his head. “He’ll make a great politician someday.”

“America’s had much worse,” I say.

As a general rule, no one ever joins our little group for very long. It isn’t a policy—it really isn’t even on purpose—but it turns out teenagers aren’t a big fan of background checks on everyone they know just so they can hang out with somebody. And the body searches? Not the most popular. Not even the Senators’ kids are exempt from the precautions—and most of them can’t stand to be subjected to the same standards as “normal” people.

In about ten seconds Jacob has the blond girl following him across the cafeteria, her tray balanced on his right hand. He tries to guide her by placing his left hand on her back, but she pulls away with a shy smirk. His smile doesn’t even waver at the slight, and he beams at us when they reach our table.

“Kitty, Sani,” Jacob nods at each of us when he says our names. “This is Gesina.”

I instantly realize I had been wrong in my previous assessment; she isn’t just cute, she’s gorgeous. I mean the high-end-magazine-cologne-ad kind of gorgeous. Flawless lightly tanned skin, eyebrows plucked to perfection, shimmering hair the color of sunlit wheat, blue eyes that seem to glow from within. She is the most beautiful human I have ever seen.

I fight back the wry look I have for Jacob and smile. “Hey.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Sani says, then throws me a glance. “Gesina…?”

I know what he’s getting at; the paperwork the Secret Service requires when a new person starts spending time with Jacob is insane. We need at least a last name to start the process, and I really don’t want to break into the musty old student record filing cabinet again.

“Sorry?” she says with a delicate tilt of her blond eyebrows. Her heavy accent dominates even that one word, distorting the two syllables. Gesina is decidedly German, and I suddenly understand why Jacob is grinning so widely; as much as the Secret Service hates when Jacob takes in strays, it’s even worse if they aren’t American.

“What’s your last name?” I clarify.

She glances around as if caught in a trap. Subtlety has never been one of my strong suits.

Sani rushes to cover for me. “Your homeroom is decided by your last name,” he explains. “We were just wondering if you’re in one of ours.” Somehow, I’m still occasionally caught off guard by how smoothly Sani lies. We all have the same homeroom—it’d been arranged by the Secret Service—and both of us knew she wasn’t in it. For as noble and thoughtful as he is, he can spin untruths with the best of them.

“Ah, of course,” she says, her body language returning to normal. She smirks a tiny bit. “Fuchs.”

“Oh, not in my homeroom. Too bad. Please, sit down,” Sani says.

Jacob plops her tray on the table and she sits between me and the First Son. Sani sends me a look and a jerk of his head obviously meant to say it’s my turn to call this one in. It amazes me how much Sani and I can communicate using only looks and glances after the past three years on Jacob’s detail. I sit through a few more minutes of the obligatory getting-to-know-you questions (Where are you from? What grade are you in? Do you play any sports?) before excusing myself.

“Little girl’s room,” I say with an apologetic shrug as I gather up my lunch tray and stand. “See you next period.”

Jacob gives me a single wave without removing his gaze from Gesina’s face. Sani nods and Gesina says, “Tschüss.”

I grimace a little at her use of German. If Gesina lasts very long, the Secret Service will probably make me learn how to speak it. Though if this morning’s chat with the director is any indication, Gesina will last longer than I will. Soon, she’ll become someone else’s problem. A possessive ache pulses in my stomach.