Ivy’s position afforded her a bird’s-eye view of the most popular path to the Metro Silver Line. It was frequented by visitors to Washington, D.C. as well as commuters from the bedroom community of Reston.
People with shiny objects begging to be reclaimed.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” A familiar voice drifted upward.
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When you’re five, your imaginary friend means the world to you. When you’re thirty-five, you wondered why they were trying to kill your spouse.
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The Whirlpool of Destiny. The ancient scrolls promised that I, Prince Quenton, would find freedom in its magical depths. Instead, as soon as I touched the water’s surface, I emerged through a flash of green light in a room smaller than a servant’s bedchamber.
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I am a prisoner. My cage is larger than my body, but not large enough for me to spread my wings. It is an indescribable pain that I cannot set myself free into the skies of Endar-hain.
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“Perfect weather, Benji,” drawled Mac.
The forest was cold, it was damp, and it was getting dark. “How so?” I said.
“Snow on its way. That’ll cover the grave.”
Mac, carrying the head end of the shrouded corpse, peered into the gathering gloom…
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