Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(14)

After one last look, they backed out and walked over to Colin’s room.

Curled on his side, he had one hand clutched on his blanket as if someone might try to steal it from him while he slept.

His odd assortment of found items filled a wooden box on his dresser or stood on his windowsill and on the shelves Simon had hung for him.

Interesting pebbles or stones, some green glass smoothed and polished by time in the stream, a clump of dried moss, a quarter, a few pennies, a broken pocketknife, an old bottle cap, the dented top of a thermos, and so on.

“Nobody scavenges better,” Simon commented.

“It’s his gift, seeing the potential for treasure. I know sometimes he resents not having the abilities like the others, but he has that curious mind.”

“And plenty of ego. Colinville.”

Smiling, she bent to kiss Colin’s cheek. “President Swift of Colinville doesn’t smell like a little boy anymore. Travis and Ethan still have that wild, innocent scent. Now, with him, there’s a hint of gym locker. Healthy and male.”

She turned, slid into Simon’s arms. “I wonder if Colinville will ever have gym lockers.”

“Since his first act as chief executive will be the construction of a basketball court, gym lockers follow.”

She tipped her face up to his. “You’re so good for me.”

He kissed her, lingered. “You know what we should do?”

“Didn’t we already do that?”

“Bears repeating. But I was thinking, we should get John Pike to come over with that old film camera he’s got, and take a family portrait. He’s got that darkroom set up, and the last I heard he still has the supplies.”

“And you have to barter your left leg for a photo.”

“I can talk him down from that. Trust me.”

“I always have, and I’d love to have a photo.”

They left Colin sleeping, walked down to Fallon’s room.

Faeries flickered outside her window as they often did. She slept facing them with one hand resting on the pink teddy bear.

Mallick’s other gifts, the candle, the crystal, stood on the dresser with The Wizard King. Moving closer, Lana saw Fallon held a little wooden horse in her other hand.

“You made that for her first Christmas.” She turned into him again. “You want the photo for her, so she can take it with her.”

“John can make two. She’s so damn pretty, isn’t she? Sometimes I look at her, and it just stops my heart. And I think, all I really want is to be able to scare off the boys that’ll come around, at least until I figure one’s good enough for her. Like when she’s thirty or forty. Maybe fifty. I’d like to be able to bitch at her how she’s wearing too much makeup or her skirt’s too short or—”

Lana squeezed hard. “You’ve given her everything a father could and should.” She eased back, cupping his face because she saw pain in his eyes. “The night she was born. Into your hands. Into yours, Simon. She’ll always reach for your hands.”

Breathing out, she took his hand now. “She’ll come back to us. I couldn’t let her go if I didn’t know that. She’ll come back to us.”

But for how long, and what happened between, what happened after, she couldn’t see.





CHAPTER THREE


On Fallon’s thirteenth birthday, the woods splashed vibrant against the sky. Fruit not yet harvested hung heavy on the branches of the apple and pear trees. Grapes grew in fat, glossy clusters on the vine.

The garden spread autumn color with pumpkins, squash, zucchini, plump cabbages, rows of kale and turnips.

The air held warm, but cool nights warned the first frost would come, and soon.

Simon put the boys on apple-picking duty, as it gave them an excuse to climb the trees. As she had the best hand for it, he had Fallon harvesting grapes for jellies, wine, eating, and drying. He knew Lana had already baked the spice cake—Fallon’s favorite—and now worked the garden, gathering more of the harvest while he stacked firewood for the winter to come.

And everyone pretended it was just an ordinary day because they could do nothing else.

He listened to his boys laughing, the low hum of the chickens, the deeper hum from the beehive. He felt the sweat dampen his back, the fatigue of muscles as he hauled another log to the splitter.

Somewhere in the woods, a woodpecker drummed manically. The dogs ignored the beat as well as the deer that roamed along the ridge as they slept in a flood of sun.

Situation normal, he thought, all fucked up.

Once, he’d chosen a soldier’s life, and he’d learned the cost of war. He’d given up that life and come home to the farm when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. He’d learned a great deal about love, sacrifice, and a woman’s strength.

She’d beaten the cancer, only to fall to the virus. So he’d buried both his parents within days of each other, and had learned the pain of real loss.

He’d chosen to stay, to farm, and learned what he and others could do to make a life even while the world shifted out from under them. And what others could and would do to bring more death, more destruction.

More than once over the years, he’d helped a neighbor fight off those others. And he’d buried friends as well as enemies.

He’d seen crows circling in the distance, beyond their quiet acres. He’d seen the lightning flash black.