The Dragon Keeper by Mindy Mejía Read Free Book Online

mock-up of the Lion King. Even as Jata reached the edge facing Meg, the tip of her tail still swept against the dirt and mulch on the exhibit floor. The height brought Jata’s head even with Meg’s shoulders and, along with providing a killer view of her entire, massive profile, gave the crowd the impression that Jata was in a dominant position over Meg. Actually, it was the complete opposite. Komodos didn’t hunt from above; they hid in long grasses, completely invisible in less than two feet of foliage, and struck their prey from below. That’s how the boy on Komodo Island was attacked. Really, if anyone thought about it, no one ever saw a three-hundred-pound lizard dive-bombing a deer from some obscure vantage point on a cliff. And if the crowd was really paying attention, they would see that the sides of the feeding rock rose up into a small ledge that would trip Jata if she tried to lunge forward or to her right or left. Basically, the only way off the thing was back.
    Jata reached the top, and her thick, dart-shaped head swiveled toward the bucket in Meg’s hand.
    Ignoring the crowd— Wave? she’d asked Chuck. Do I look like Miss freaking America to you? —Meg reached into the bucket with her long-handled hook to spear a chunk of raw turkey. “Guadalupe says hi.”
    My best customer , Guadalupe, one of the cafeteria cooks, always said as she dumped the food into Meg’s bucket. Now, you be careful in there, okay?
    Careful was so much a part of Meg’s routine she barely registered it. Careful was buried in the way she held the hook out to Jata and how her biceps tensed in preparation for retracting it before Jata could bite down on the metal. Careful was designed into her boots, Desmond’s position behind her, and even the rock itself. She freaking breathed caution and, like air, forgot about it as easily as exhaling. Being careful wasn’t the big thing on her mind as she offered the shish-kebabbed turkey to Jata and watched the dragon’s jaws fall open. It was intimacy.
    Only she could see the individual rows of teeth, each like a serrated knife pointing back to her pink, gaping throat; only she could smell her wet scales and her warm, rancid breath; this was a tiny piece of space and time that only she shared with Jata, a private yet bizarrely exhibitionist dinner party that none of the voyeurs were brave enough to attend. She didn’t feel careful, holding that first bite out to Jata. She felt wired and calm at the same time, as if she were swallowing little balls of thrill wrapped in soft, dark pillows. There was no other experience like it. It was how she’d always thought being a keeper was supposed to feel.
    Jata tore the turkey off the feeding hook and threw her head back for a better grip on the meat before swallowing. Meg prepped the next bite, waiting for Jata to be ready. Once they began, they kept a quiet, rhythmic pace that was made up of these motions—offer, take, swallow, and repeat—again and again until the bucket was empty.
    As Jata ate, a trail of bloody saliva fell from her jaws. Dimly, Meg heard the crowd murmur in response and wondered if they knew the pink liquid was the real source of the Komodos’ terrible reputation. They tore their own gums apart as they ate, creating a foamy soup of spit, bacteria, and blood: a perfect, killer cocktail with a twist of venom. It wasn’t fire breathing out of their mouths that gave the dragons their power. It was right here, in Jata’s scary table manners. Oblivious to the crowd and her own drool, Jata shifted her weight and dug the claws of her front feet into the rock. She always seemed the happiest right here during their feedings. Meg understood.
    When the bucket was empty, Meg turned it upside down and tilted it so Jata could see the bottom. Jata swallowed the last piece, cocked her head, and sneezed loudly.
    “Bless you,” mumbled Desmond. The crowd laughed.
    Meg shrugged and tossed the empty bucket behind her toward the door, hoping