The Bloodline

The highway thinned to a blacktop two-lane twenty minutes before the first Ashford marker appeared. Pine green with white lettering, the pack crest embossed in the middle. I hadn't seen it in six years, but my chest knew every mile before the tires rolled over it.

Rohan slept in the back seat. His thumb had fallen out of his mouth somewhere around exit forty-three. His head tipped sideways against the booster, hair dark against the gray fabric. Ronan's hair. Ronan's eyes too, though closed right now. I'd had six years to get used to that fact.