The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) by Shea Berkley Page B

etched into the tree.”
    “This isn’t just some stupid drawing. It’s a mark of intent.” He pulls his fingers away, and he sniffs at the black residue covering his fingertips. “And it’s burned in blood.”
    Grandpa peers into the woods. I avoid looking at him, taken aback by the sharp edges that abruptly appear on his face. At the base of the tree, something shimmers in the leafy debris. I squat, pick up a stray twig, and poke at it.
    “What’s that?” Leo asks.
    I raise the end of the stick for Grandpa to see. “Blood, I think.” I dig deeper and uncover the carcass of the lamb, burned, buried, and hidden by a mess of scattered leaves.
    The girl in white. A dead ewe. Blood spilled under an evil-looking symbol. A burned lamb. What kind of crazy, whacked-up place did Mom drop me off in?
    Grandpa’s face hardens, and he glares at the three men. “Get this flock out of here, boys. Leave twenty of the older ones behind.”
    The men nod and begin separating the sheep. I look at Grandpa. “This is some kind of cult thing, huh?”
    “Something like that,” he says, though he’s distracted as he stares at the crude altar. “There’s an empty black plastic bag in the front compartment of my ATV. Go get it.”
    I do as he says, even as a deep uneasiness slithers beneath my skin. This is out of control. I can’t believe Mom wanted to get rid of me so badly that sticking me in husbandry hell with a satanic cult on the loose really sounded like a reasonable option. God, she must hate me.
    When I return, Grandpa’s on the phone with his closest neighbor, grilling him to see if he knows about any strange activity happening in these parts, and to keep his eyes open. He puts the phone away and takes the bag from me.
    “Are you going to call the police?” I watch him slip the dead lamb in the bag and stand.
    His eyes darken. I can actually see the hardened soldier in him take over. “You’re looking at him.”
    Grandpa is a cop? “You don’t look like a cop.”
    “Most of the time, I don’t have to be. We don’t get much trouble around here. Never have.”
    “So, what’re you going to do?”
    “Dig in and wait.”
    As he strides away, I get the distinct feeling he’s comfortable with shooting first and apologizing later.

Lucky to be Alive

    Kera awoke stretched out on a bed, swathed in gauzy fabric. Steam hissed and bubbled. Water dripped slowly, pinging and plopping against glass. At the sound of bottles clinking, Kera peered across the room. Faldon, dressed in his ratty, old lab coat, his hair standing out like an eaglet’s baby tuff, softly whistled a tune while he quietly puttered with his medicines. Two rows of beds, most empty, faced each other in the long, narrow room. She’d been in the infirmary many times, but mostly to help Faldon practice the art of healing.
    “I’m not dead?” The croak of her voice hurt her throat and head.
    The old sage drew close and smiled. “Nay, not today, though if you’d been brought to me any later…”
    The clothes she’d borrowed from Lani, and the dagger, were lying on the bedside table. She touched the dagger. Signe’s gift had saved her life. “If not for this, I would be dead.”
    “ Incordium . A priceless gift. It can cut through anything.”
    All Kera cared about was that it had helped her kill the millispits. She struggled onto her elbows, touched the spot on her neck and winced. “It’s hot.”
    “My magic is still working and may take a few more hours to draw out all the poison.” He pushed her back down, a stern look in his eyes. “It’s best you stay in bed.”
    Normally, the command would irritate her, but all she wanted now was to lie still. “D-did anyone else get hurt?”
    “Only you. Navar has felt the sting of your father’s displeasure on that count.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Your father is secretly pleased by the boldness of your ability, as am I. All those lessons you talked me into giving you… I feel almost