Book I of the Runestone Saga ends with a terrifying reversal. The grandfather who showed Sky how to use the power of the runes to travel back in time, revealed his secret plans—which turn out to involve murder and possession. Sky must now find a way to fight his powerful teacher—for his cousin's very soul.
And so he travels to Corsica, home of his other forbearers, hoping to find some knowledge, some power. The blood feud of vendetta still runs hot in Sky's family, as does the supernatural power of the MazzeriÑthe Corsican dream hunters of death. Sky must again travel back through time, inhabiting the life of Tza, a fierce girl from the 1500s. As he sinks into Tza's mind, Sky wondersÑare all of his ancestors murderers?
Vendetta is a heady, exciting blend of supernatural possibility and historical truth that will leave readers gasping for the final installment of the trilogy.
From the Hardcover edition.
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|Title of eBook: Vendetta||Series: The Runestone Saga, , #2|
|Release Date: 05-13-2008|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Children's Books|
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He’d been dreaming of hands. Of his own hands. The right one with the four slashes across its back, still livid, purple, barely scabbed over. His left, the very tip of the forefinger gone, sliced off. Sacrificed. Both of them stretched out before him, reaching, reaching . . .
For what? Mist obscured it, terrifying him as he continued to push into the gray, into whatever was within.
His fingertips slipped into softness. It felt like . . . fur. Then something growled.
A hand grabbed him. Sound came, but not from an animal. A man was shouting, unintelligible things.
Sky woke gasping, his hands instinctively grappling with the one that held him. His eyes shot open, and at first he thought he did see fur, a thick pelt of it right above him. Then he focused, realized that the fur was a beard, that the hand he clutched belonged to a man, and that both stank of cigarettes.
The bus driver jerked his hand free. “Descendez! Descendez! Nous sommes arrivés!”
“Oui. Oui. Sartène. ’Ow you say? ‘Zee end of zee line.’ ” The driver grunted this last in English, then jerked his thumb. “Allez-y!”
Sky’s backpack was already on the ground beside the bus. The driver followed him out, began slamming the luggage holds shut.
“Uh, monsieur, s’il vous plait? Ou est le . . . ’ostel?” Sky’s French, which he’d been trying to improve all summer with language tapes at the library, seemed to fail him at two-thirty a.m. But he’d found that as long as you dropped the “h” and looked like you were sulking w