Blood Debt (Touched Series Book 1)

BLOOD DEBT

Touched Series, Book 1

Nancy Straight

Copyright 2012 Nancy Straight

This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws and all rights are reserved, including resale rights; you are not allowed to give or sell this book to anyone. 

Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features, are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only.  There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.  This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Acknowledgements:

Blood Debt
would not have been possible without the support of several incredible people. 
Linda Brant, my aunt, has painstakingly edited and polished
Blood Debt
.
Rebecca Ufkes
, Kris K
e
nda
l
l, Charles Young, Melissa Balentine and Jenn
ifer
Nun
ez
volunteered to be Beta Readers
-
their feedback was invaluable. 

Interestingly enough, I didn’t pick the title for this book or this series – I let friends and fans do that for me.  Many thanks to Keren
Spencer
for naming the book
Blood Debt
and to
Bridget Howard
for naming the series
Touched
.  It was quite an amazing feat when neither had read it
,
and
I think you’ll agree they could no
t have come up with two more appropriate names! 

The
beautiful
cover was designed by
Joy
Stroube at Dreamscapecovers.com.

I wish there were a way to single out each of the independent authors out there who have helped
and inspired
me along the way, but a thank you to each one would be a book in itself. 
A few that I
cannot leave out are
Shelly Crane
, Rachel Higgins
on
, Charlotte Abel,
Amy Bartol
and Shannon Dermott – each one has been an incredible inspiration to me
and I highly recommend their books!

Book bloggers are the unsung heroes for
i
ndie
a
uthors.  There have been many that I feel indebted to,
and you can find a list of great ones on my blog: authnancystraight.blogspot.com O
ne that
deserves
a special place on this page
is
Mandy at
:
twimom101bookblog.blogspot.com
She
has become a dear friend and is a true
i
ndie advocate.
  

Finally, my husband, Toby, has been supportive of my every adventure.  Thanks for all the nights you made dinner and did homework so that I could follow my dream! 

Thanks to you all! 

Dedication

For my sons, Alex and Zack, your humor and imaginations inspire me every day.  No mother could be more proud or appreciative than me.

Chapter 1

Camille

I stared at the phone.  I had his number. I had his name. 
Twenty-two
years. . . after
twenty-two
stinking years of fantasizing about who he was, what he was like, where he was
-
you
’
d think I would have dialed by now.  The thing is
-
nobody, anywhere, could live up to my expectations.  I’d always envisioned this successful, educated, lead-singer,
movie-star,
rich
,
kind
of
father.  It was great to think that he was this wonderful
,
benevolent man
,
who
one day would swoop in and introduce himself
,
then w
h
isk me away in a limo.  Yeah, that never happened. 

I can’t think of a time when I wasn’t dying to meet him.  When I
would ask
my
Mom
, she
would
always t
ell
me, “Your father was a wonderful man.  We had a few magical days together
,
and he left me with the most amazing gift to remember him by.”  Sure, that’s what a ten
-
year
-
old wants to hear.  She would never tell me his name, where he lived
,
or anything about him other than he didn’t live in California. 

It didn’t matter how hard I pleaded, I think she preferred that he be a mystery.  Who would have guessed all those times I said I would trade anything
to meet him, I never thought I’d trade my rock, my anchor
. . .
my mom.  Ten minutes before she took her last breath, she grabbed my hand and choked out, “Your
father. . .
lives in Charleston, S
outh
C
arolina
.  His name is
William
Strayer
. 
H
e deserves to know you.  Tell him
. . .
tell him I said, ‘Goodbye.’”

A few breaths later, she slipped away as death carried her to her final peace.  I cried for weeks
.  N
o matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t process losing my mom and getting the information I’d been begging her for my whole life in the span of
ten minutes
.  All those wagers I’d tried to make with God, to find out who he was
-
I’d told God I would trade anything
- I never meant my mom.  I’m not
crazy enough to think that God had stolen my mom just so I could find out who my father was, but
I had
several weeks of erratic thoughts
. 

I googled him. He was easy to find
.  H
e’d been in the same house, in the same job, for better than t
hirty
years.  Everything I found out about him on the internet pointed to an average guy, with an average life.
  He wasn’t a rock star.  He wasn’t famous. 
He
wasn’t dead.

I took one final breath, steadying myself.  I had my phone in one hand and the slip of paper with all his information on my lap.  I dialed the number, wondering what I was going to say to him. 
Before I could press “send,”
I chickened out and went back to
M
om’s bedroom to go through more of her things. 
Peggy
,
my mom’s closest and only friend
,
had
offered to come
over
to
help me, but I was
twenty-two
. 
I shouldn’t need help with this. 
Even if Peggy was her
best
friend
, I knew
M
om wouldn’t want
her
going through her things
.  M
y mom had always been a private person
. 

Mom
knew it was coming. 
S
he’d been sick for a long time
. 
H
er closet
,
that normally looked crammed with outfits from the last several decades,
was
n’t as packed as the last time I
’
d seen it
.  Mom must have gone through some of her things before
she died
because the walk-in closet could actually be walked in
to
. 

Tucked in the far back corner, on a shelf, was a treasure box of sorts
:  a
wooden box with the key inserted into the lock
.  W
hatever was inside,
M
om wanted me to see it. 
I found yellowing movie ticket stubs
for a title I’d never heard of
,
an
airline ticket from
twenty
-eight
years ago,
a crumpled up photograph of my mom holding two babies,
and a tourist shot glass from the Crazy Horse Monument in South Dakota. 
It seemed an odd set of treasures
for her to have hidden away
. 
I looked at the old plane ticket
: 
it was for an Angela Chiron
-
no one I knew. 
I
gently closed the wooden box after I’d returned her “treasures” to their resting place
. 
As I stared at
sequined
sweaters, stretch pants, dress slacks and dresses
,
I found myself wanting to make that phone call far more than I wanted to go through my mom’s life. 

William. 
Did he
even know I existed
?
  He probably had a family of his own.  What would they think of me? 
It had always been just my mom an
d
me
.  S
he didn’t have any family
, at least other
than me.  Her parents died when she was young
,
and she’d been an only child.  I think her final gift to me – my father’s identity
-
was her way of not leaving me so alone in the world. 
 

I went back to the living
room, sat on the sofa
,
and put my feet up on the coffee table, almost begging
M
om to walk in
to
the room and tell me to get my feet off of it. 
A lonely tear rolled down my cheek
.  N
o one would be walking through the doorway to tell me to put
my feet do
wn.
  I hated the idea of being alone.

I took one more
deep
breath
,
picked up the slip of paper,
and
dialed his number again
.  T
his time
my shaking finger
pushed
,
“Send.”

A woman’s voice
answered
the phone, “Hello.”

I stammered, terrified of this call, not sure what to say to the woman. “Uh
. . .
hi
,
. . .
is William there?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Camil
l
e.”

“Camil
l
e, is this a sales call?”

“Uh, no.
  Definitely, no.
  Is William home?”

“Just a minute.”

I could only assume that
had been William’s wife
.  I wanted to hang up.  I saw my hand shaking and prayed that I wouldn’t have full
-
blown convulsions.  I had practiced this phone call several times,
but realized
I should have written things down.  My fear began crippling me
,
and I drew a blank.  What would I say? 
“
I’m your love child from
twenty-three
years ago and wanted to
say hi
.
”
 
Not the best approach
.

I heard a gruff voice come on the line, “Hello, this is
W
ill.”

My voice didn’t work.  My mouth opened but nothing came out. 

“Hello, is anybody there?”

I cleared my throat, closed my eyes and answered,
“Uh, yes.  Hi
,
W
ill
iam
.  I
’m Cami
l
le.”

A friendly voice responded,
“Okay. 
Camille who?
”

“Right.  I’m Angela Benning’s daughter.”

“Angela Benning?  I’m still not making the connection.  Are you sure you have the right
W
ill
iam
?”