Read Online Exodia by Debra Chapoton - Free Book Online

You’ll be safe away from Exodia’s
grasp.”
    I ignore his statement about my mother.
She is my mother.
    It doesn’t really surprise me that my
grandfather is not hesitating to follow his cruel law. I would have
been dead by now if I hadn’t run when I did. No trial, no chance
for an explanation from me, no desire but to make an example of his
own grandson. A doubt creeps in–am I his grandson?
    Carter knocks before opening the door.
“Ready?” He seems unusually quiet this morning. I wonder how long
he’s been at the door.
    Vinn nods, collects some things. I
hoist my golden stash onto my back and grab the food bag as
well.
    * * *
    I stand at the edge of the lake and
watch as Carter helps Vinn uncover a rowboat and retrieve the oars
hidden beneath. We stow our bags in the bottom, push the boat into
the shallow water, and Carter and I maneuver ourselves without
rocking the boat too much, with him in the middle and me in the
back. Vinn gets his feet wet pushing us off from shore, leaps in,
and sits at the bow. Carter uses the oars to spin us out and around
and headed toward the far shore. He rows with steady, strong
strokes.
    Vinn catches me scanning the sky.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s too early for spotter planes to get
this far. We’ll make it to the other side no problem. This’ll cut
three hours off walking around the lake.”
    I redirect my attention to the water.
I’ve seen lots of lakes, but I’ve never been on one or in one.
There’s a river in Exodia. I haven’t set foot in it. Maybe someday
I’ll learn to swim.
    I look into the depths as the weedy
bottom disappears and the water’s color changes from green to
darkest blue. I grip the edges of the boat and center my weight,
keep my head up, and focus on the shore. I count Carter’s strokes
and I’m surprised when I reach a hundred and we seem no
closer.
    Carter is facing me and speaks in
bursts as he works the oars, pulls, lifts, sinks them in
again.
    “ Won’t be long,
kid.
    “ Don’t worry.
    “ I’ll get ya
there.”
    We’re only three strokes
closer, but his assurance shrinks the distance. I surmise it’ll
take twenty or thirty minutes to cross. I close my eyes and picture
Lydia. Lydia Sroka. My mind wanders to the feel of her hand on
mine. The carving we traced together. Her dead brother’s name. I
keep my eyes pressed tightly and think of the strange
sentence: Dalton Battista is not Lucas
Sroka. I rearrange the letters in my mind’s
eye, a game to make the time go quickly, until I fit them into a
sensible message: Dalton Battista, sit on
Usala’s rock . My eyes spring open because
I’ve heard of Usala’s rock from my Red nanny. One of her stories
about Ronel. A siege, or stand, or victory, something short-lived,
at Usala’s rock, the old monument from the terrorist attack of … of
a date I can’t remember.
    The shore looms close and the boat
rocks as Vinn jumps out to pull us the last yard. Carter joins him
to pull until they’ve beached the entire thing and I have to forget
my anagram, wobble myself out onto dry land, grab my backpacks, and
watch the men camouflage the handy transportation. I wonder if
they’ll need to wait for dark to row back, to be safe.
    “ How far?” I ask.
    “ Not far,” Carter replies,
but for him that could mean an hour or a day.
    Vinn snorts, throws some dirt up in the
air, and watches it fall back to the earth. I’m sure he’s checking
wind direction, aware of his own foul scent, but he reminds me of a
bird that dusts its feathers in a sandy bath or a dog that rolls on
the ground and whips up a powder storm. He seems satisfied and
leads us up the bank and through a woodsy mound that opens onto a
rise overlooking valleys on either side.
    I see farms, much larger than the ones
we passed yesterday before Barrett made us dart into the woods and
off the highway. I wonder aloud if we will follow old roads or
continue skirting farms and settlements through woods and old
parks.
    “ Not