Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(6)

Once, when she was only six, she’d curled up in the library with one of Max Fallon’s books. Though she couldn’t understand all the words, she liked that it was about a wizard, one who used magicks and brains to fight against evil forces.

When her father came in, a stab of guilt had her trying to hide the book. Her dad had no magicks, but he had a lot of brains.

He’d plucked her and the book up, then sat to hold her on his lap. She loved how he smelled of the farm—the earth, the animals, the growing things.

Sometimes she wished she had eyes like his that changed from sort of green to sort of gold or just mixed those colors together. When she wished it, she felt guilty about Max.

“It’s a good book.”

“You read it?”

“Yeah. My mom really liked to read. It’s why she and my dad made this room for books. You don’t have to hide anything from me, baby. Not anything.”

“Because you’re my daddy.” She turned into him, pressed her face to his heart. Beat, beat, beat. “You’re my daddy.”

“I’m your daddy. But I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to be if it wasn’t for Max Fallon.” He turned the book over so they could both look at the picture of the dark, handsome man with strong gray eyes. “I wouldn’t have my most beautiful girl if he hadn’t loved your mom, and she hadn’t loved him. If they hadn’t made you. If he hadn’t loved her and you enough, been brave enough, to give his life to protect you. I’m real grateful to him, Fallon. I owe him everything.”

“Mama loves you, Daddy.”

“Yeah, she does. I’m a lucky guy. She loves me, and she loves you, and Colin and Travis.”

“And the new baby that’s coming.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not a girl.” This on a huge, sorrowful sigh.

“Is that so?”

“She has a boy in her, again. Why can’t she make a sister for me? Why does she always make brothers?”

She heard the laugh in his chest as he cuddled her. “Actually, that’s supposed to be my job. I guess it’s the way it goes.”

He stroked her long black hair as he spoke. “And I guess that means you’ll just have to go on being my favorite girl. Have you told your mom it’s a boy?”

“She doesn’t want to know which kind. She likes the wondering.”

“Then I won’t tell her, either.” Simon kissed the top of her head. “Our secret.”

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t read all the words. Some are too hard.”

“Well, why don’t I read the first chapter to you before we go back to chores?”

He shifted her so she could curl up, then opened the book, turned to page one, and began.

She hadn’t known The Wizard King had been Max Fallon’s first novel—or perhaps some part of her had. But she would remember, forever, that her father had read it to her, chapter by chapter, every night before bed.

So she learned. She learned about goodness from her father, generosity from her mother. She learned about love and light and respect from the home and family and life given to her.

She learned of war and hardship and grief from travelers, many wounded, who came to the farm or to the village nearby.

She had lessons on politics, and found them annoying, as people talked too much, did too little. And what good were politics when reports claimed the government—such a vague word to her—had begun to rebuild in the third year after the Doom, only to fall again before the end of Year Five?

Now, in the twelfth year, the capital of the United States—which didn’t seem united to Fallon, then or now—remained a war zone. Factions of the Raiders, groups of the Dark Uncanny, and those faithful to the cult of the Purity Warriors battled for power, for land, for the smell of blood. Against each other, it seemed, and against those who sought to rule or govern.

Even though Fallon wanted peace, wanted to build, to grow, she understood the need, the duty to fight to protect and defend. More than once she’d seen her father arm himself and leave the farm to help protect a neighbor, to help defend the village. More than once she’d seen his eyes when he’d come home again, and had known there’d been blood, there’d been death.

She’d been raised to fight, to defend, as had her brothers. Even as the farm basked in summer, as the crops ripened and fruit hung heavy, as the woods ran thick with game, bitter battles raged beyond the fields and hills of home.

And her time, her childhood, she knew, was counting down like the ticks of a clock.

She was The One.

On days when her brothers deviled her—why had she been plagued with brothers?—when her mother understood nothing and her father expected too darn much, she wanted that countdown to hurry.

Other times she raged. Why should she have no choice? No choice? She wanted to hunt and fish, to ride her horse, to run in the woods with her dogs. Even with her brothers.

And often she grieved for what something beyond her, something beyond her parents, demanded she become. Grieved at the thought of leaving her family, her home.

She grew tall and strong, and the light within her burned bright. The thought of her thirteenth birthday filled her with dread.

She stewed about it—about all that was unfair in her world, all that was unfair in the world outside—as she helped her mother prepare the evening meal.