Blood Bond (49 page)

Thanks to you guys,
Blood Bond
and the
entire Dirty Blood series are all over cyberspace. You all work so
tirelessly, simply because you believe in my ability to craft
stories, and I can barely keep up with you. I can’t thank you
enough for all you do. Keep it up!

A special thanks to Angela Stone, my
official fan club president and admin of my Facebook fanpage, whose
magical powers pull me from the writing cave long enough to extract
important details, so she can keep everyone posted, and then
promptly instructs that I “get off the flipping Internet and get
back to work.” Thank you, Angela! Seriously, I need the shove. I’m
so lucky you came along!

And lastly, thank you to my family: my
husband Brian, who cooks and cleans and doesn’t complain that my
idea of “family time” is sitting in the same room as him, my eyes
glued to my laptop. Who listens to all of my rambling and plot
stumbling and talks me through it like my fictional characters are
real. And to my kids, who dance around the house with me each time
I finish a “story,” as though my victory is theirs as well (because
it is), who fantasize about which celebrity will play each of my
characters in the movie. Brooke and Austin, I hope I’m teaching you
how to dream.

Whisper

By Heather Hildenbrand

Chapter One

My favorite place to stand in the
whole world is Bitner Peak at sunset. Something about the way the
light reflects off the treetops below, a sad slant of yellow and
gold that fades slowly to gray, reminds me of life. The fragility
of it, the way it inevitably fades to nothing. It is the symbol of
all I’ve lost and everything I will one day become. And when it
fades to black, like the curtain at the end of a play, the finality
is so tangible you can taste it. The air changes and becomes
heavier, like a cloak you can’t shake, and inside it hangs every
sad thought that’s ever existed. And you must find a way to carry
it with you, or fall under its weight.

That’s what I was doing now – trying
to find a way to carry the weight.

I watched as the last of the light
faded into purplish-gray somewhere over the farthest peak of the
Rocky Mountains, feeling whatever little bit of emotion I carried
inside me leaking away with the setting sun. When the sun had set,
and I stood in a darkness so thick you could hear it, I was empty
and alone, the way I liked it.

If you were empty, you couldn’t feel
pain or loss or loneliness. Grandma used to say an empty jar was
bad luck. You had to take the bad with the good, she would tell me.
Half-filled jars lined her kitchen windowsill. A sign of her
optimism, she’d say. Who knew what was in those jars; I never
asked. To her, it didn’t matter, as long as they weren’t empty.
Even water made a good filler. If she were still alive, she’d
probably tell me to snap out of it, to feel something, anything.
And quit walking around like an empty shell. But she wasn’t here.
And she couldn’t possibly know the deep, cutting pain that would
consume me if I let it. I had to keep it out.

Empty was better than that kind of
pain.

I walked slowly back to my SUV - a
present from Grandpa when they’d released me from Skye View Mental
Health Facility three weeks ago – and got inside. I sat there with
the keys in my hand and stared blankly through the windshield at
the stars overhead. They were bright and huge out here in the
middle of Grant territory. “Enough square miles to start your own
country,” Dad used to say. Generations of Grants had grown up here,
disturbing only enough earth to live on, leaving the rest of it
untouched except by Mother Nature. “The beauty is its ruggedness,”
he said.

I had to agree.

One thing I’d learned at Skye View was
how to sit for hours without really focusing long enough on one
thought to let the emotion in. It was a sort of meditation I did.
Allowing myself snippets of memories to fall into my awareness,
relive them, and then let them fade away again. All before my
emotions had a chance to react. It allowed me to still picture my
parents’ faces without having a complete breakdown. Like the night
of the accident, six months ago …

I picked up my phone on the fourth
ring, right before it went to voicemail. “Hello?” I sounded
breathless from digging it out of the bottom of my bag.

“Whisper, hey, it’s Dad.”

My heart leapt into my throat, and I
swallowed back the lump. “Did we get her?” I asked.

“We got her.” I heard the smile in his
voice. A car door slammed in the background.

“Did you tell her?” My mother’s voice
floated faintly through the speaker.

“I’m telling her now,” my dad
said.

“That’s great. When do we get to pick
her up?”

“The lawyer has to finalize the
paperwork. We’ll close on the deal Tuesday morning. Then we can go
pick her up.”

“Tuesday morning? I have school,” I
said, already forming the next question in my mind. Dad cut me off
before I could ask.

“No chance, Whisper. Don’t you have
mid-terms next week?”

I sighed and shifted the pile of books
in my hand before the top two slid off the stack. I leaned a
shoulder against the wall near the library exit, trying
unsuccessfully to flip my thick, black hair out of my face. I
needed a hair tie and a free hand.

It was late, pitch black outside and
cold. December in Colorado was ridiculous; even the Eskimos
would’ve complained. It was also past closing time. The overweight
librarian bored holes into my back, letting me know she wanted to
go home, prop her feet up.

“I can make it up,” I said. I wasn’t
completely sure if that was true, but I didn’t want to miss
this.

“No way, Jose. Sorry. You’ll see her
when you get home.”

“She was my idea in the first place. I
found her.” Stubbornness crept into my tone. Dad and I both knew
where this was headed.

“Fine. If you can talk your mother
into it then you can come,” he said, effectively winning the
argument before it’d begun.

We both knew she was the general, an
iron horse of reason who could not be swayed, especially when it
came to my studies. Her dreams for me were much bigger than a
small-town, animal rescue doctor.

I sighed, long and loud. I didn’t ask
to speak to my mother. There was no point. “Fine, after school,
then.”

“You almost done there?” he asked. I
could hear him revving the engine, trying to warm it up faster in
the frigid air.

“I’m leaving now.”

“Us, too. See you in thirty. Love
you.”

“Love you, too.”

We hung up at the same time. I shoved
my phone in my jacket pocket and traded it for my keys. Behind me,
the librarian cleared her throat. I didn’t look back at her. I
pushed open the door and felt the breath leave my body as the first
wave of cold hit and pushed right through into my bones. I gritted
my teeth and stumbled forward, so cold it irritated me. We hadn’t
even had a decent snow yet this year which, in my mind, didn’t make
the sub-zero temperatures worth it.

The road home was black and empty. The
absence of other cars didn’t surprise me. I was close enough to
Grant land that there wouldn’t be any other traffic. I was used to
the curve of the road and the feel of the steering wheel as it
pulled against the turns when I took them fast, so I kept the gas
pedal close to the floor and hurried to beat my parents home. I
wanted to be the first to tell Tinker, my grandpa. It was my
project, after all.

I rounded the last curve and gravel
flew up behind me as the asphalt gave way to dirt and rocks. I flew
through the front gate, which was never closed for the very reason
that it stood so near to the curve, you’d crash right into it if
you didn’t know it was there. The porch light gleamed in the
darkness, revealing a white F250 parked out front. Tinker—my
grandpa—was here; my parents were not.

I rushed up the porch steps, letting
the banging door announce my arrival, and hesitated in the entry,
trying to decide where to start my search. Tinker poked his head
out of his office. I should’ve known.

“Whisper? What’s all the racket?” He
straightened and stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders and long
legs only half visible in the dimmed light of the room behind him.
His hair, yet to go gray, lay flat on his head, thanks to the
trademark Stetson he wore.

“Tinker, we got her! Dad called. They
took our bid. We pick her up Tuesday.” I grinned like I’d won the
lottery. I felt like I had.

“Well, that’s somethin’ else,” he
said. He didn’t sound nearly as surprised as I thought he
should.

“You didn’t have anything to do with
that deal going through now, did you?” My hands were firmly on my
hips. I tried to look stern enough to make him feel guilty if he
had.

“Not a thing, Whisper.” He winked. “I
didn’t doubt your deal-arranging skills for a second. I knew you
had it in you. You’re a Grant.”

The sternness faded, and I grinned
again. “Thanks.”

“You going to pick her up
then?”

My expression fell. “No. I have
mid-terms. Dad said it’s up to Mom.”

“Hmm. So I guess you’re not
then.”

“Guess not. I’ll see her when I get
home, though.” I tried to sound like I didn’t mind.

Tinker nodded. The phone in his study
rang. I wandered into the kitchen while he answered it. I’d skipped
dinner to study for an upcoming math test. Math and I weren’t on
easy terms. Normally, Erin would’ve tutored me, but she was still
on her skiing trip and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I was on my
own, trying to figure out why x squared equaled y cubed. Good
times.

I found a Tupperware full of spaghetti
left-overs, courtesy of Lydia who handled all things domestic in
the Grant empire now that Grandma was gone. I popped the lid and
stuck the whole thing into the microwave, staring absently as it
twirled inside the machine.

I ate standing up. The microwave never
cooked evenly so the outside edges were hotter than the middle. I
didn’t care. I was starved. I’d missed lunch in favor of coffee I’d
smuggled out of the teacher’s lounge and couldn’t remember the last
time anything solid had entered my stomach.

I heard footsteps behind me. Tinker
must be off the phone, finally. I waited for him to pick up our
previous conversation, or tell me about some part of his day that
I’d missed while stuck inside the walls of learning. But there was
only silence. I turned and found him standing in the kitchen
doorway, his hands limp at his sides and the most confused
expression I’d ever seen on his face.

“Tinker?”

No answer.

He stared at a spot on the
wood-planked wall that bordered the breakfast nook, off to the
right somewhere. My eyes followed his and I found a tiny
cross-stitched plaque that read “Home Is Where the Heart Is” in
blue thread. My grandma had sewn it years before I’d been
born.

“Tinker?” I asked again. “Who was on
the phone?”

“A friend of mine, lives down by Port
Creek.” His voice was distant, hollow.

I hadn’t been worried until the moment
our eyes locked. When they did, it felt like a tidal wave rushing
up to meet me. Suddenly, I knew that whatever he was about to say
would be very, very bad.

“Whisper …”

The doorbell rang and the microwave
dinged at the same time. I stared back at Tinker. Something final
rested in his eyes. The only time I’d ever seen him look like that
…

“I’ll get it,” I said.

I ignored the spaghetti and went to
the door, sliding carefully by Tinker on my way. I didn’t want to
touch him. It was something about the energy he gave off, and I
knew if I touched him it would infect me. He didn’t move to
follow.

I pulled open the door and
found a man in a dark uniform staring back at me. The shiny silver
buttons on his shirt matched a gleaming badge on his belt loop. His
hat was big enough that, had it been yellow, this could’ve been a
scene from
Curious George Goes to
Colorado.

“Ms. Whisper Grant?” he asked. His
thin lips arched into a frown when he spoke.

“Yes?” Tinker came up behind me. I
felt his hand come down heavily onto my shoulder.

“I’m State Trooper Nelson. This is
Hefley.” He gestured to another man off to the side, who I hadn’t
even noticed, on the porch but away from the light of the door. His
expression matched the first man’s.

“Can I help you?” I asked. I felt the
spray of another approaching wave and braced myself, though I
wasn’t sure why.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.
There was an accident. On the bridge near Port Creek. A car went
over the embankment. It was registered to a Shawn and Anna Grant.
They are your parents, I believe? A man at the scene said he knew
you, gave us your address.”

Tinker’s hand squeezed into my
shoulder.

That’s the last thing I remember of
that night.

Tinker says I lost myself. He says
it’s what animals do when the pain of loss is too much to bear. He
says one day, I’ll find myself again. A new me, a version who is
able to live again, despite the loss I’ve suffered. I told him that
sounds like something Grandma would say. He said he learned it from
her, and he’s learning to find himself again, too.