Read The Dragon Keeper for Free Online Page B

cleared his throat.
    “Why the hell am I assisting you with the feeding?”
    Meg pulled on her own gloves and stretched her fingers. The material was so damn inflexible, she might as well be wearing chain mail.
    “It’s not that I’m not comfortable in there. I mean”—Desmond hopped around on one leg, trying to get his boots on—“I’m not afraid of her or anything.”
    “Of course you’re not.” Gemma smiled, arching backward now.
    He picked up the shield and tested it, making the veins pop on his forehead, then glared at Gemma. “But assisting is your job, sweetheart.”
    Meg shut the supply closet and picked up the bucket of meat. “We need to expose Jata to a variety of different keepers, so she becomes familiar with our scents. Then if I ever drop dead…” Meg shrugged. “So far, she knows me and Gemma pretty well. Rodríguez is familiar to her, but he’s a vet. So you’re on the rotation, champ. Think you can handle it?”
    “Are you kidding?” Even with the fiberglass shield between them, Meg could tell he was rubbing his chest again. “You’re talking to the keeper of the ten-foot python.”
    “Do you know the feeding procedure?” Meg choked up on her shield and opened the outer door to the holding area. They filed inside as Gemma waved good-bye, a finger-wagging little parade wave, and Desmond slammed the door on her, turning away from the muffled laughter. It was a cramped room for two people, jammed full of cleaning supplies, bags, and the wooden restraint box. Somewhere water was dripping. On tiptoe, Meg glanced through the window into the exhibit. Jata had moved from her basking rock to the lagoon on the opposite side of the exhibit from the door.
    “I, uh, think I remember. No sudden movements, no loud noises, and … damn, what was the last thing?”
    “Stay away from her teeth.”
    Meg unlocked the door and stepped inside.
    Jata swiveled her head and licked the air, smelling the arrival of her dinner. She pulled herself out of the pool, and the vague, swimming shapes of her body emerged into powerful forelegs, a torso that was shedding in flaky blocks along her sides, the round girth of her stomach—held regally above the ground as she ambled forward—followed by the thick, sweeping tail. Water dripped off her body as she headed toward Meg. Her tongue darted in and out, drawing closer with every second. Desmond said something, but Meg wasn’t listening. The crowd of people on the viewing platform above them faded into a dull blur. She cleared her mind of everything but the bucket of food and Jata.
    “Jata, Jata, chow time, Jata.”
    The words stretched like taffy out of her throat, long and low syllables that reached out across the mulch and sand. This was how they began. She chanted, and Jata licked the air, both of them closing the space toward the slanted rock ledge in the center of the exhibit. Jata knew the call, tasted the deep notes that never changed, and moved eagerly toward the rock. She stopped at the base of the incline, where the teeter-totter ledge touched the ground, and darted her tongue toward the keeper’s door.
    “What’s it gonna be, turkey parts or Desmond parts? Tough choice. Hard to say.” Meg’s voice was easy and low as she focused in on every nuance of Jata’s posture. Flat spine, relaxed tail, neutral neck. Her tongue worked in flickering swipes, processing the trace chemicals of Desmond’s stink.
    “Shut up, Yancy.” The quiver in his voice was so satisfying, but she didn’t want Jata to get too curious. Besides, a nice, long whiff was all anyone really needed of Desmond.
    She took up the low call again—“Jata, chow time, Jata”—and shook the bag in her left hand. Easily diverted, Jata swung her head back around and resumed her climb up to the peak of the rock.
    The rock itself was a stipulation of the public feedings and, like everything else at the Zoo of America, it had hidden purposes. The slant of it looked like a Spinal Tap