The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) (4 page)

My smile cracks just a hair. The old guy isn’t falling for it. Grandma isn’t that impressed, either. Maybe there’s a genetic flaw that blocks the full potential of my smile with these two? I clear my throat. “Uh, no, sir. I’m wicked-free.”

He grunts, stares a little longer than what makes me comfortable, and then returns to eating his food.

“What are your interests, Dylan?” Grandma asks, fishing for who I am.

How can I tell her when I’m not even sure? Rarely do people ask, and even more rarely do I offer insight. “Long-boarding. Music. You know, the usual stuff.”

Grandpa pauses, his fork poised near his mouth. “Sports?”

“Sure.” Virtual over actual, but no sense in putting the “today’s lazy youth” card on the table. Besides, it feels more natural to steer the conversation toward them and the ranch. “So this is a sheep ranch, huh?”

I’m bored before Grandma takes her next breath. I pretend to pay attention, and instead, wonder how I’m going to survive this encounter. As I plan what classes I’ll need in order to graduate, I hear the words “rare,” “ancient breed,” and “soy.”

A guy blanks out for half a second, and suddenly, we’re talking about soy? They’re not the kind of people who drink soy milk and eat tofu, I hope. Is this my last real meal before they bring out the granola?

I shake myself back to the present. “What did you say?”

“I know. It’s hard to imagine, but it’s possible our sheep have been around since the ice age.”

Images of snaggle-toothed, monster sheep flash through my head. I quickly readjust my thinking when she brings me a picture they use to promote their business. Along the top are the words:
Pine Grove Soay Sheep Farm
, and under it are a half dozen cute, little sheep. And I do mean little. Apparently Soay sheep are the midgets of the sheep world.

“Their meat is all the rage,” Grandma gushes as she gazes at the photo. “Your aunt Susie is our top customer. She runs a gourmet five-star restaurant in Seattle.”

“Interesting.” I give back the picture and quickly stuff another bite of roast beef into my mouth so I’ve got an excuse to stay quiet, because now I’m fuming.

I’ve got an aunt who lives in Seattle. Mom could’ve taken us there, but no. I get quality time with the sheep ranch branch of the family in the Middle of Nowhere, Oregon, instead. Lucky me. Again.

By the end of dinner, they don’t know what to think of me, and I’m at a loss about what to think of them. Upstairs, a toilet flushes, then a door bangs closed.

Mom.

Even though Grandma’s smiling, stress pulls at her lips. It probably never occurred to Mom what our coming here would do to her parents. Then again, Mom lives for drama. She eats and breathes the stuff. I’ve learned to ignore it all—well, most of the time—but Grandma might find that hard to do.

Grandpa pushes his plate away and frowns in the direction of the back stairs. He mutters something under his breath, unfolds from his chair, and stalks off toward the den. Grandma sighs when the TV pops on. I get the feeling Grandpa isn’t too thrilled with Mom’s reappearance, but will suffer anything to make Grandma happy.

Poor Grandma. Does she really think having Mom back is a good thing? She stands, gives me a quick smile, and starts clearing away the dishes. “Pie?” she asks in an overly cheery voice.

I haven’t eaten so well in…well… I can’t remember. I nod and clear away my place. After she slips the last dinner plate into the soapy dishwater, she cuts me a massive slice of chocolate turtle pie, and then cuts another, smaller one, and hands it to me. “Take this one to your mom.”

I’d rather not. My face must show my hesitance, because she purses her lips and pushes me out. “Go on. She loves pie.”

Why do I get the feeling I’m carrying a peace offering? It’s a waste of good pie, but I do it, anyway.

I navigate the stairs with a plate and fork in each hand. At the top, four doors welcome me. I could play eeny-meeny-miney-moe, but instead, I go to the first door and knock softly. Nothing. The next is empty too. At the third, Mom’s sad voice warbles from behind the door. She’s talking to someone on her cell phone. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but it doesn’t sound good. I could either give her the pie, or tell Grandma she’s busy and leave it to her to interrupt the ongoing melodrama. Before I can step away, I hear the hard click of her cell phone closing, and a bang as it hits the door.

She better not’ve broken it. That phone is my only link back to my friends.

What am I talking about? What few friends I had have already forgotten about me. When I called Mike the fourth day after we left, it had taken him a whole minute to figure out who I was. Granted, he’s not the brightest bulb, but we’d hung out every day at the skate park after school. It’s almost as if when I’m there, people love me, but when I’m not, they don’t even remember I exist. Mom’s the only exception. She remembers me, only she wishes she didn’t.

I knock on the door.

“Go away.”

“I’ve got pie.”

The door flies open, and Mom stares at me with a tear-stained face. “Did she spit in it?”

I thrust the pie at her. “You’re sick, you know that?”

With a shrug, she takes the plate and begins to eat. “What’re they saying? Wait. Let me guess. Who do they think it is?”

I don’t get it. Mom’s pretty. She’s smarter than most. And when she’s not going ballistic about a guy, she’s actually fun to be with. So, why can’t she see beyond herself? Doesn’t it even occur to her how much pain she puts people through? Puts
me
through?

“Some guy named Kenny,” I say flatly.

“Kenny Jacks?” She snorts. “I would be so lucky. Dad chased him off before I got a chance.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to think of her as the town slut. I want a normal mother, one who cooks and cleans and cares for me.

She stuffs the last of the pie in her mouth. I know my disgust is showing. I can’t help it.

She swallows and lifts her chin higher. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m…”

I dare her to say it.

She doesn’t, and quickly thrusts the plate back at me and begins to shut the door. I wedge my foot between the door and the jam, determined this time to get an answer. “I don’t look like you. I don’t look like them. I’ve got to look like someone. I’ve got to
be
like someone. So, who is it?”

Her face sinks into an unattractive pinch. “No one they know.”

I spot her bags, still packed, on the bed. She follows my gaze and whispers, “Don’t push me, Dylan. You’ll know soon enough.”

Her response catches me so off guard, she’s able to force the door closed. The lock clicks into place, shutting me out for good.

I think I actually hate her.

The plates rattle with my pent-up rage. I want to hurl them to the ground. Shake the walls with an anger so fierce, it would send her into a terrified fit, but I don’t. I search for control. I breathe deep. And when my anger calms, I go downstairs.

I don’t eat my pie. I can’t.

“I’m not feeling so good,” I say to Grandma, and push the empty plate into her soapy hands. When I set my untouched pie on the counter, she grabs a dishtowel and sneaks a quick glance up the stairs. She doesn’t say anything, but her lips thin.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” I say.

She nods and wraps my pie in plastic wrap. “Grandpa will knock on your door when he’s ready to go.”

That’s right. I’m playing with the sheep tomorrow. Man, my life sucks.

I peer out the kitchen window. Dark, heavy clouds rush in from the south, and a bunch of fireflies buzz around like they can’t wait for the light show to begin. Weird how they’re so bright even though it isn’t dark out yet. Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe it’ll storm hard, and Grandpa will decide not to go.

A guy can hope, can’t he?

Before I leave, Grandma asks me to put away an old iron skillet, the kind that weighs a ton and looks like it should be used over an open camp fire. As soon as I take it, pain jolts through my skin. My head swims and my whole body grows weak, like it’s deflating.

I drop the skillet and grab my hand. Red welts, pocked with blisters, streak the skin where my fingers touched the pan. I’ve been burned before, but this one is worse than any I’ve ever had.

Grandma’s face wrinkles with worry. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say automatically.

As I watch, the blisters begin to fade. The red welts fade to pink. The pain eases. What the—

I ball my hand into a tight fist and eye the skillet. “Old baseball injury.”

Grandpa, having heard the ruckus, pokes his head into the kitchen. “Baseball? Catcher?”

“Yeah, sure.” I’m not paying attention. I’m freaking out. How can a cold skillet burn me? Stranger still, how can such a severe burn begin to heal so quickly?

He smiles. “Win any games?”

“None I’d want to brag about.”

“Tough luck.” Grandpa stoops, picks up the skillet, and slips it on top of the cabinets without a problem. “Senior year is coming up,” he says. “That’s the one that counts.”

“Yeah.” I take a few steps back, my mind grappling with what
should
be happening and what
is
. The skillet couldn’t have burned me. Grandma and Grandpa both touched it. “I’m going to go to my room, okay?”

Grandma gives Grandpa a kiss of thanks before nodding my way. “That’s fine, dear. Go relax. You’ve had a long day.”

A Good Day to Die

Navar’s trail wasn’t difficult for Kera to find. He was a bull, thrashing his way through the forest, indifferent to what he trampled. He would
not
make a good king. His tactics were brutal and fostered loyalty based on fear.

Yet, ever since their king had disappeared, Navar had shown himself the strongest and most able to rule Teag’s feuding subjects. And to show he was capable, he had carried on the Lost King’s campaign—ridding Teag of all those unworthy to live, so her people would rise to a more perfect and pure state of being.

The neigh of horses and the rattling of soldiers sounded up ahead. Kera stopped running and listened. There were so many men, and in their midst…

Lani.

Kera gasped when she saw her best friend. What was she doing, roaming the forest so close to the forbidden barrier? She knew better. Why would she put herself in such danger?

There could be only one reason. She had sacrificed her own safety for someone else.

Though Lani’s blue dress was ripped along the collar, revealing the lace edge of her corset, she stood straight, defiant. The men gripping her wrists wore hard expressions and had even harder eyes. All their hate was pointed at the small woman they held captive.

Kera circled the group. Listening. Watching. Worrying. She had to do something, but what? She stopped at a point where the barrier rose behind her and a wisp of mist hung low to the ground.

Navar said something Kera couldn’t hear, but Lani’s voice rang loud and clear in the clearing. “It’s a good day to die.”

Kera’s heart froze. Why would she say such a thing? Before an answer could be had, the men forced her to bow. In a long, graceful flex of his arm, Navar pulled out his sword, and without hesitating, brought the blade down in a perfect, deadly arc, separating Lani’s head from her shoulders.

Kera’s hands flew to her mouth, muffling her sharp cry. She staggered back, eyes wide with horror. The men holding Lani’s body let go, as if she were nothing but a piece of garbage better left untouched.

“No.” The word stumbled dryly from Kera’s lips. She lurched back, though her eyes were still glued to the gruesome scene. “No, no, no.” Her horror turned into a physical pain she couldn’t control. She clutched her stomach and shook her head, repeating the word more and more loudly.

Her gaze landed on Navar, her anger so hot and so heavy, she felt she would burst if she didn’t release the scream rising in her throat. “Murderer!”

The accusation echoed through the forest. War-hardened horses pranced nervously. The soldiers began to search the area, their swords raised, ready to battle the unseen.

Navar pushed his men into action, hatred contorting his handsome features. “Go! Bring out the hounds. Do whatever it takes to find the others.”

She had to get away. Had to hide. If she didn’t, they’d find her and kill her just like they had Lani.

Something solid halted her retreat. The barrier.

A heavy mist swirled forward, entwining about her like angry vines. It hung thick, swallowing her skin, invading her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Her head grew light. She closed her eyes and thought of her friend, and when next she opened her eyes, she was standing on the wrong side of the shimmering wall that divided the human realm from hers. She continued to back away from the site of Lani’s death, her stomach roiling, her mind screaming an alarm. How had she crossed through? It couldn’t be done—shouldn’t be done. Everyone knew that.

Her nerves stretched taut. Any minute, one of Navar’s men would rush through and grab her. She turned and ran, tears of sorrow, regret, and helplessness pouring down her cheeks. When the trees grew thinner, she staggered to a stop. The pine needles beneath her feet were brittle, not soft. The air smelled musty, not tinged with the hint of burning coal.

She pushed through the wild undergrowth, cognizant of the differences, yet seeing the familiarity that joined this realm to her own. What kind of danger lurked here? It couldn’t be worse than what was happening in her world.

Kera closed her eyes, shying away from the pain of Lani’s death. Her father had tried to protect her from the dangers that had infiltrated her home, but the horror of what she’d seen etched itself into her mind, blinding her path with misery and the knowledge that even her father was helpless to stop the madness that had invaded their land.

From the expression of absolute hatred on Navar’s face, the madness would continue.

For Lani’s sake, Kera wouldn’t allow herself to succumb to grief. She had to get back to her realm, had to protect those who were at risk of falling into Navar’s hands. God only knew what kind of evil he was planning.

The person she feared for the most was her father. Even now, Navar could be questioning him, ferreting out his involvement with the outcasts, and demanding to see her. Though her father’s blood flowed true, he walked a fine line. If Navar knew he lent resources to those he called the “tainted,” the warlord would have no qualms sentencing her father to death.

She couldn’t stay in this realm.

Rubbing at the gooseflesh covering her arms, Kera surveyed the area. She had no idea how far she’d run or where she’d find the wall. A better view was needed, but she couldn’t move in her clothing. With deft fingers, she unlaced her shoes and struggled out of her dress. The bustle, a contraption of wire, horsehair, and cloth that surrounded her hips, came loose with one tug of the buckle. Lastly, she rolled down her stockings.

When she was done, she stood amid a clutter of garments in her underskirts, shift, and corset. She gathered them, then placed her belongings under a pile of leaves at the base of a tree. Free to move, she was up the tree in no time and moving from branch to branch.

In this realm, her balance was off. Her legs leaden, her movements slower. Her breathing grew heavier. The bond between her and her father was stretched too thin. She floated to the ground and steadied herself.

And then she felt it. A ripple of power. She stopped and turned. Beyond the trees, spread out on a tract of cleared land, was a farmhouse, and within…

Dylan?