Talon the Black (Dragonwall Series # 1)

Chapter 3 - Gold for Silence

Battle Ground, Indiana

Claire awoke to incessant squawking. The annoyance drifted through her open window along with the sun, whose pesky rays were too bright for her aching head. No question about it, hangovers were the worst.

She rolled over to relieve her sore muscles, and despite the humidity, snuggled deeper under her lavender comforter. She was drifting off again when more squawking jolted her awake. "Shuup," she slurred, trying to ignore the damn things. Her mom's chickens frequently bickered. But what did she care for chicken squabbles when she was comfortably tucked away in her palace of solitude.

Her bedroom was more like a library than anything, its walls covered with hundreds of books. When she started collecting them, there were only a few shelves. As her collection grew, more were mounted, until every bit of wall space was occupied. Her mother called it hoarding, but she begged to differ.

By high school, she had made shelves from all the reclaimed wood in the barn. At that point, her mom put a stop to it. "No more shelves in your bedroom!" she insisted. "You've got enough books." All further construction projects were forbidden.

How could anyone have enough books? She still managed to sneak in a few more. At last it seemed her room did have a limit, and she was determined to reach it, down to the final book.

It wasn't until her parents bought her an iPad that she finally agreed to go digital. However, nothing would replace the experience of holding a real book: the smell of the paper, the feel of the pages, and the excitement of reading cover to cover.

She groaned dramatically and flung away her comforter. The squawking reached its peak. She threw herself from her bed to close the window—and froze. There was a naked man in the chicken coop.

"Oh my God," she breathed. Memories from the night before flashed through her mind like a bad dream. That's why she felt terrible.

Renaissance Man was failing miserably at the task of chicken catching. His movements were sloppy as he chased the hens and roosters around the coop. His wound hindered him, but he did not stop trying. He limped and stumbled around with outstretched arms. Meanwhile, the chickens squawked and screeched, protesting in earnest, but moved effortlessly out of his way.

It would have been hilarious had it not been so pathetic. Even still, the longer she watched, the harder she laughed, until she couldn't take it any more. Quickly dressing into her favorite pair of black stretchy-pants, she rushed downstairs.

When she reached the coop—much to her surprise—he'd successfully procured one of the fatter female hens. His hand wrapped around its neck, about to end the poor thing's life.

"Stop," she roared. "What are you doing?" Her mom would kill her if a single, precious chicken was harmed. He looked dazed and confused by her shouting. "Those chickens are for eggs, not for eating, you oaf!"

"I need food," he said at last, holding the clucking chicken forward. So...he could speak. That was a good sign. But his accent....

When she made no move to take the chicken, he released it to the ground still wearing a puzzled look. He cocked his head to the side, watching her, trying to make sense of the situation. Then he looked down at his naked body as if suddenly realizing it, and used his hands to cover himself. She snorted. As if she hadn't seen male goods before!

"Where are my clothes?"

"Look, come out of there. I'll get you something to wear." Beckoning, she recovered his blanket. He quickly wrapped it about himself, but not before she glimpsed the black skin creeping from beneath his bandages. Skin wasn't supposed to act like this. Whatever it was, it was spreading quickly.