Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(55)

“If he’d accept treatment—”

“Maybe, maybe not. But he’s not going to make it.”

As Jonah’s gift caused him to see death, and often the life of the dead, Rachel didn’t argue.

“All right.”

Jonah came back around, sat on the corner of the desk. “The kids are going to need family.”

“The cult—and you’re right—considers themselves family.”

“They’re not. Family wouldn’t allow children to half starve when there’s game. Wouldn’t let them freeze when there are places that offer shelter. Maybe the adults couldn’t be debriefed or detoxed or whatever the hell, but the kids can. Certainly the young ones. He’s three, Rachel. His father, or the man he thought was his father, died in the attack. His mother died when he was born, or soon after. He isn’t sure.”

She’d been nodding along, then something in his tone got through. “Jonah, are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

He took one of her hands, rubbed it between both of his. “He needs a home. We have a home. He needs family. We’re a family. There’s something about him, Rachel. I can’t really explain, but there’s something about him. He needs us.”

She flopped back in her chair. “Jonah. A three-year-old. Our boys are eleven and eight. A three-year-old. One who’s never seen a toilet or bathtub—or hadn’t until a couple of days ago. And our boys—”

“We’d need to talk to them. They’d need to be okay with it.”

“Henry would be. Soft heart. But Luke … harder sell.” More like her, Rachel thought, in looks and temperament. “And I’m not sold. You are.”

Still a little baffled himself, Jonah spread his hands. “The minute I looked at him, him at me. It was immediate. Not like the first time I looked at Henry and Luke, held them. That overwhelming, stupefying love. But more … Oh, there you are. Yeah, I see you.”

“Is it your gift or your soft heart?”

“Truth? I think both.”

“We’ll talk to the boys.”

He gripped both her hands, brought them to his lips to kiss. “I love you. Thanks.”

“I love you, too, but there’s a way to go before thanks.”

Duncan walked toward home after a stint at the academy with his best friend, Denzel, a shifter. As Denzel had yet to pass combat-and-weapons training, he’d never fought in an actual battle, worked an actual rescue. Simulations only. So, as usual, he wanted every detail of the fight in the Shenandoah.

Antonia walked several paces back with April. Duncan could hear the girls giggling—mostly April—as April fluttered in circles. Talking boys, Duncan decided. The faerie girl was obsessed with romance.

“Gimme your score, man. How many’d you take out?”

“It’s not like that. I told you. It’s not like one of Chuck’s games or sims.”

“Cut me some breaks.” Denzel, a big guy who shifted into a panther—that was cool—gave Duncan a shoulder bump. “Word is you took on three, at the same time, and nearly got your ass crisped by a freaking flamethrower. Is that the straight shit or not?”

Duncan had a flash of the kneeling man, dirty robe, dirty beard, eyes blank with fear and … something like rapture. And the way the flames caught him. The way they ate him alive.

That wasn’t something he would share with Denzel, best friend or not. Denzel was a lot softer than he thought he was.

“What I did was break ranks, which is why I’m stuck writing a stinking essay on chain of command.”

“Unfair, man. I gotta get me some action.”

“You flunked archery, hand-to-hand, and still can’t hit the target with the rubber bullets. You keep tanking chem, and you need it, man, you need it because you might not have a witch around to make fire or throw a blast, whatever. You barely passed basic tactics.”

Denzel rolled his huge dark eyes, then flashed a wide, white grin. “I just bring out Kato and tear ’em up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Personally Duncan thought Denzel should stick with sports, where he shined, whether it was catching a football, dunking a basket, or swinging a bat.

Not everybody belonged in battle.

“Hey, wanna hang tonight? Magna got a horror flick in the DVD rotation.”

Magna, eighteen, and the only lazy elf Duncan knew, lived in an apartment in what everybody thought of as Elf Central because so many of them lived there.

Magna’s place often reeked of dirty laundry, unwashed dishes, and garbage he’d neglected to haul to the community waste and recycling center.

Not that Duncan considered himself overly fussy—his own room could and did resemble a trash heap until his mom laid down the law.

Though Magna refused to fight—claimed it was against his moral code—and often slipped and slid around any community work, he was harmless and good-natured. Duncan liked him fine.

But.

“Essay, remember?”

“Bummer. You ought to ditch it, man. Trot’s going, and he’ll bring Shelly. Where Shelly goes, Cass goes. You’ve had half an eye on Cass.”

He’d had both eyes on Cass right at the moment, the pretty brunette who went to what he thought of as the civilian school. She’d grown really interesting breasts the previous summer.