So he had kept it, making a note to himself to tell her very soon that she needed to give a damn about the Blood Dragon’s ancestral necklace.
Who else could it be for? From the moment the King’s wife had pressed it into his hands, it was Mercy’s.
“Tonight, you gave me my family, so I want to give you something very special,” she had said. “This symbol represents the spirit of giving. Do you see how the lines always return to the place they started? That is because what you give returns to you, what you send out comes back to you. You must give this to someone who has given something important to you.”
Scythe admitted in the quiet that had fallen over the truck, “It’s for her.”
“Then let’s bring it to her.”
Once they were outside the city, they pulled over to the side of an old dirt road and picked up another truck filled with equipment, their belongings and a very fast, newly painted silver motorcycle. Then, they ran.
The End
Excerpt from Halfblood Legacy
Book three in the Halfblood Series:
Halfblood Heritage
Halfblood Journey
Halfblood Legacy
Prologue
The hollow clicking of the keyboard was a sound that should have gone unnoticed in a room filled with over fifty children, but it scampered alone around the room, skittering along the floor, running up the sides of the chambers, crawling into the corners. The noise and its maker were the only things moving, except for fifty-four aging hearts beating softly, one of which was stuttering and beating increasingly slower. No amount of clicking or triple checking or denying was going to make a single difference to that one small soul that was slipping.
She lifted her hands and then let them drop to her sides. The woman closed her eyes and held herself very still. Still as the child. Still as her brothers and sisters before her, who had lain in the nearly hundred empty tanks that stretched as far as she could see in the enormous room. Still as her own people, long, long gone. Ripped from existence, all of them, but two and fifty-four.
Slipping away. Taking with her everything that she should have been, could have done, would have born, might have become.
Desperately, the woman turned and hurried, as she had done each time before, to a blank, sealed column just a few rows away. She laid her hand upon it, but the child within didn’t budge for her, didn’t sing, didn’t accept her touch. She used her power to reach out to the child; it flowed out through her hand and into the chamber, joining their minds.
She called out to the girl, Child, I am here.
There was no answer, just the vague feeling of the wind blowing.
Why do you wander? Stay here, with us.
With a sinking heart, she recognized the familiar weariness and realized the futility of her efforts. Even so, she pressed, Your family needs you, Illiliania.
The name pulled at the girl, and for a moment the woman hoped. Then hope showed its cruel side.
Ripped away, all but two and fifty-three.
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About the Author
Laura Rheaume lives in Southern California with her husband and sons. A teacher by profession, she is also a student of aikido and a lover of road trips with the family. The Halfblood Series was her first major work and is based on a short story she wrote one spring break while camping on one of California's beautiful beaches. She has also written a stand alone fantasy entitled Father Willow's Daughter. Your visit would be welcome at her website:
http://www.halfbloodheritage.com.
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