Doranna Durgin - Wolverine's Daughter

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Wolverine's Daughter

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

MAPS

Wolverine's Daughter

Doranna Durgin

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-57847-2

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, January 2000

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Brilliant Press

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to the Book-Facing Legion

With thanks for help with the details to:

Lucienne, Judith, Gary (who provided Muse Amusement),

Mom, Jennifer, Steve Stirling,

and Vince at Europa Tailors.

BAEN BOOKS by DORANNA DURGIN

Dun Lady's Jess

Changespell

Barrenlands

Touched by Magic

Wolf Justice

Wolverine's Daughter

Seer's Blood

(forthcoming)

Chapter 1

"Hssst," Gwawl said, drawing Kelyn's attention from the bright cave entrance. He lurked in a dark nook,

hunched over a sputtering, smelly fat candle.

"What?" Kelyn's voice echoed loudly in the cave. Unimpressed by his dramatics, she propped her staff

against the entrance rock, but took only a single step inward. Her toes and her nose told her well enough

what they'd find here. Bats. Stinky bat guano. Nothing to keep their voices limited tohssst and whispers.

Now, if there had been small bones crunching beneath her toes, that would be something else. Rock cat,

from which to run, or holed-up nightfox to stalk. Catching the fox in its lair was the easiest of the many

difficult ways to obtain nightfox pelt.

"Come look," Gwawl said in normal tones, but tinged with disappointment at her unwillingness to turn the

moment more exciting.

Any regret Kelyn might have felt dissipated with the substance squishing between her toes as she joined

Gwawl in his nook—a set-back with an unusually flat surface for the back wall, a solid slab of upthrust

rock with enough air currents playing around it to keep the candle on the verge of snuffing out.

In the wildly uneven light, Kelyn saw what had drawn Gwawl's attention. She crowded in close to

him—shoulder to adolescent shoulder, thigh to thigh, unself-conscious about it as were they all. Gwawl,

Iden, Mungo, Frykla, Huon . . . and Kelyn. A hunting pack, a training pack, living the mountain summers

together to learn survival, to forge the bonds of trust that would carry them through life in the tremendous,

craggy Keturan mountains.

"Someone's been here," Gwawl said in grand pronouncement.

Kelyn looked at the roughly sketched creature on the cave. "Grant me more of your wisdom, Gwawl."

He scowled, and gave her a far from gentle shove. Even prepared for it, Kelyn still found herself sitting in

bat guano. She kept her curses silent. Gwawl would regret it . . . later. For now she was just as intrigued

as he by the discovery, and she carefully climbed to her feet, wiping her hands on the rough knit of his

sleeveless tunic.

He ignored her, and pointed at the creature—smeared, it seemed, in a paint made of blood and ash and

charcoal. "Do you think it was him? Doesn't it look like a wolverine?"

It did. "Maybe," she said.

"It makes sense, why there's only the one. They say he hunted alone, never trusted anyone in his pack."

That's what they said. Kelyn relieved him of the candle, suddenly disinterested. Or perhaps too

interested to trust herself. When it came to her father, she was never sure just which it was. "Let's go."

"No—wait—Kelyn! Let's get the others!"

Kelyn moved past the nook and deeper into the cave, having found the steep slanting passage that

caused the air current. "We'll get them," she said. "But give them a chance to find rockrabbit first, if you

want evening meal. Besides . . ." she hesitated, giving her concentration over to her toes as she negotiated

a sudden drop. "Besides, maybe that's not a wolverine at all. Maybe it's an ugly turtle, and we'll find

what's left of the painter just down this way. Maybe it washis blood in the paint."

"Kelyn, that's—"

Ridiculous, he might have said, or absurd. But he didn't, because he was just as curious as she, in a land

where learning every aspect of one's surroundings could mean the difference between life and death, and

learning a cave meant the potential discovery of gold or silver nuggets—and an escape route if a hunt

went bad at its end. So what Gwawl said was, "Wait for me!" and Kelyn—possessor of the

candle—smiled. Time to explore, and never mind the wolverine.

Turtle, she reminded herself.Ugly turtle.

* * *

Kelyn's eyes flashed open at the soft scuff of calloused foot against rock; her hand closed around the

sturdy, familiar grip of her staff. With its padded grip and its securely wrapped and mildly weighted ends,

it was far from the walking staff her mother had carried from Rema. Reman ironwood—nearly

impervious to blade, unaffected by magic. A good weapon to have to hand when she was being stalked

in the middle of the night.

The fire, some distance away, had died to a mere glow of coals at the corner of her vision, and showed

her nothing. She breathed slowly and quietly—listening—and pinpointed another pair of soft footfalls; a

prickle of anticipation ran down her spine. More than one creature stalked her, then, and yet left her

hunting group unaware. She was on her own, at least for the first crucial heartbeats of the struggle that

loomed before her.

Another step—far too close! Whooping her ululating cry of challenge, Kelyn snatched the staff and

rolled away from the creature, only to run into the bony legs of another. Sweeping the staff along the

ground, she tumbled the second creature from its feet and bounced up to her knees, jabbing the weapon

into the dark shadow of the first creature, a glancing blow. The creature yelped, a noise that sounded far

too familiar.

"Iden!" she cried, anger quickly finding its way to her voice. "What in Ketura's name are you—"

Iden, still doubled over, waved a frantic arm before him, though she'd abandoned attack posture as soon

as she'd recognized him. Then two hands clamped down on her shoulders and she knew he'd been trying

to wave off whoever was with him. Her anger doubled, and she shifted her grip and drove the staff back

into the ribs of the boy behind her, freeing herself. His initial grunt of pain quickly turned to a cry of fear,

and the sound of feet and fingers scrabbling over rock.

"Mungo!" Iden screamed. Kelyn whirled to see Mungo sliding over the rounded edge of the granite

outcrop she'd chosen for her bed.Ketura's balls! She lunged for him, fingers barely closing around his

wrist before he slipped away from the stone.

"Got him!" she shouted, then added her own short shriek as his weight dragged her forward. Iden's

weight came down on her legs, stopping them all.

"Kelyn," Mungo said, a mere whisper. He hung free and clear, dangling above a drop that would kill him

several times over before he reached bottom; Kelyn herself was halfway to following him, her black hair

streaming down below her head to mingle with his own. In the light of the stars, his pale face shone up at

her, and the look in his eyes was easy to read.Oh, Ketura, my life depends on Kelyn the clumsy!

"D-don't—" he stuttered, as another pair of hands joined Iden's on her legs and yet another on her

ankles; they both jerked backwards, Kelyn's skin grinding against rock. "Don't d-drop—"

"Shut up!" she hissed. Assured that she no longer needed her own clawhold on the rock, she twisted,

adding her other hand to her grip on his wrist. Her fingers sunk into his flesh. Mungo's face was a rictus

of pain and fear as his elbow scraped up the outthrust curve of granite, and then Kelyn jerked back

again, pulled to solid ground. A pair of hands left her ankle and settled instead on Mungo's arm, reaching

for his shoulders, and finally, in one last concerted heave by all involved, pulled him up with a firm grip

under his arms.

They sprawled together in a sweating, fear-reeking pile of bodies, ringed by the few who had kept their

feet and were demanding to know what had happened. Kelyn glared meaningfully at Mungo and Iden.

"We were just—" Iden started, but the sudden, out-of-place guffaws of one of the others cut him short.

"Iknow," Gwawl said, pointing at Mungo in evident glee. "You took all that talk at the fire too seriously!"

"You tried to sneak up andkiss her!" Huon said, catching on. "I bet you were gonna try to—"

"Shut up!" Mungo growled, but Kelyn already knew. She shoved Mungo's leg off her own with evident

disdain.

"Don't be like that," Mungo said. "You should be glad we even think of you that way, considering—"

Little Frykla snapped, "Mungo!"

But Kelyn knew what he'd been going to say, too. Everyone knew. She was a parody of her mother's

beauty, her legs and arms unceasingly gangly and perfectly matching her reputation for clumsiness. Her

features themselves were lovely enough—striking green eyes, so unlike the normal Keturan hazel, and

only echoed in her Reman mother's own green-tinted grey. They were tilted up on the outside edges and

would have been breathtaking—if only they weren't set so wide. Her mouth was her mother's as well,

shapely and . . . and too wide for her face. And her nose sat in the middle, a strong nose that must have

come from her father, for it was nothing like Lytha's.

The overall effect was as if someone had set perfectly nice features upon a face that was slightly too

small for them, and then pulled the skin tightly back. Kelyn had seen enough pond reflections to know,

and seldom bothered with the polished bronze mirror her mother owned. Combined with her tall

gawkiness, it hardly made her the sort of woman men longed for.

As if it mattered. After all, which was more important—a comely face or the ability to survive in this

world?

She shoved Mungo's leg again, hardly necessary since it wasn't even touching her anymore, and

disentangled her staff from where the group had communally fallen on it. "Whatever you were after, I

trust you've learned you'd betterask first." She didn't wait for a response, but got stiffly to her feet, doing

her best to reinforce her point with body language. Then the staff stubbed against someone's hip as she

was bringing it upright, came free with a jerk, and clunked her on the side of the face.

She turned so fierce a glare on them all that they didn't dare laugh. "Move off," she demanded. "I'm

going back to sleep."

They did as they were told, muttering amongst themselves, a combination of muffled amusement and

sharply aimed jibes. Frykla hung back, as though she had something to say, but in the end remained silent

and trailed the others back to the fire.

Kelyn settled back into the moss-filled hollow she'd been sleeping in, her face burning and her fingers not

quite ready to release their light grip on the staff beside her. The boys' stupid attempt to fondle her upset

her far less than the pointedly public reminder that she could never forget herself, never be less than

perfectly aware of what she was doing, no matter how distracted, or she'd pay a price for it—usually out

of her own skin.

It was a message to her, as well, that things were changing in her life, a reinforcement of the thoughts

she'd put herself to sleep with—far more than her usual final review of her staff's location and the

defensive points of her chosen position, both of which Mungo and Iden should have considered before

they started their stupid game.

Earlier, she'd settled into the mossy spot, secure in her perch despite the fact that an arm's length away,

the massive granite outcrop fell away in a precipitous drop, long enough that the sparse treetops below

looked like mere puffs of green and were not visible at all in the dusk. Such were the mountains of

Ketura; it was what she knew. Besides, with her belly full of roasted rockrabbit and sweet roots baked

to mushiness, there was little to do but think contented thoughts in a cushion of moss and darkness.

But contentment had refused to come. Not far from her, her foster cousins still sat around the fire,

making it spark and crackle by tossing in bits of fat and bone. Waste of good food, Kelyn called it, but

their first hunt of the season had gone so well that they certainly had plenty. She hoped it was a good

omen for the summer to come, and especially for her annual harvest of rare mountain plants.

Usually Kelyn and her mother Lytha dried and sold the precious herbs—some were medicinal, some

offered delicate seasoning for the most sophisticated palette—to the Orrickian traders that veered

toward their tiny village at the end of each summer. This year, Kelyn thought they would set aside the

larger portion for Lytha's use, for her mother had fallen ill over the winter and had never quite come out

of it.

One of the boys at the fire made a loud comment, and the others responded with raucous jeers. Kelyn

made a face at them through the darkness. Since she'd been old enough to walk any distance, she and

her foster cousins—all boys, except for Frykla, who was several years younger than Kelyn—had been

taking this summer trip into the mountains, going deeper and deeper each season, honing skills of survival

common to none outside the beasts of deep Ketura. By the time they'd started the growth spurts of

adolescence, they knew each other well despite the sometimes long absences over winter, and were

bound together by the extremities of life and death in an unforgiving land.

Twice the group had returned home smaller than it had left. Kelyn had watched her best friend Sigre

plunge to her death after setting a careless foot on a crumbling trail, and seen young Fiacre die under the

vicious claws of a giant snow panther, his guts trailing the story through the late spring snow of a high

peak. Kelyn herself had touched death several times, and to the wonderment of all had prevailed. For

Kelyn was, she had to admit even to herself, prone to awkwardness and the worst of luck. She stumbled

on clear paths and barked her shoulders on widely spaced trees; she bore more scars than any of her

peers. She'd never handled a sword because her mother was afraid she'd cut off her own foot, she had

to practice hunting skills more often than any of her peers, and all of the stunted trees around the village

bore the marks of her Reman ironwood staff. What took nonchalant competence for her friends often

took fierce concentration on her part, and it seemed all the more notable when Lytha told her—and the

others—stories of Kelyn's warrior father.Thainn . Kelyn had heard far too much of Thainn for a man

she'd never even seen.Thainn the Wolverine . The man who'd left Ketura young and blazed through the

outer lands, leaving tall tales behind.

Leaving Kelyn's mother behind. LeavingKelyn behind, to teach herself what skills she could, striving

impossibly to live up to her father's reputation.

But despite it all, she survived when others did not, and she hardened into one of the most dependable

members of their closely knit group. Yet . . . this year, something seemed different. Although Frykla was

as stocky and girlish as ever, Kelyn had come to her woman's courses, and her body reflected the

change. And since she'd joined up with the summer hunting band, she'd come to realize that the boys had

changed as well. Cracking voices were the least of it, she thought with some disdain, though the boys

made much of such moments among themselves. A certain . . .witlessness seemed to pervade them, and

at the most annoying times.

Shecertainly had better sense than to sit noisily around a fire drawing the attention of every territorial

flesh-eater in the vicinity, especially now when the creatures were insanely protective of their young.

Kelyn checked that her staff was at hand and wiggled deeper into the moss, ignoring the furtive giggles

from the fire ring. Probably just another crude breast or balls joke. Not that normally she wasn't up for as

much pranking as the rest of them, but this year . . . this year, all she seemed to be able to think about

was her mother, and gathering the best summer harvest of plants and dried meat that she could.

Starting tomorrow. Kelyn had drifted into sleep, secure in her ability to again come instantly awake at

the slightest out-of-place noise—though she'd never expected to use that skill against someone in her

own hunting pack.

Now, looking back on those thoughts and the events that had followed, she knew. This year . . . things

were going to be different.

Chapter 2

Kelyn ducked her head against the wind that whipped through the Keturan foothills, unchecked by

anything other than a few thin stands of trees fighting to sink roots into the rocky soil. It was a familiar

scourge, this wind, and served to dry her tear-touched cheeks, leaving them tight over her bones and

tingling with cold. She closed her arms more securely around her load of precious wood. She thought

she'd been ready—she'd certainly seen it coming—but the calm practicality that led her to gather the first

of the pyre wood three years before Lytha's death had now utterly vanished.

Kelyn looked back on the summer three years earlier, the summer when the changes started, and shook

her head, a minute gesture lost in the hair that lashed around her face, try as she might to keep it tied

back. Oh, the summer hunting group had adapted to their fitful advance into maturity, had held together

even as they grew to be different. Aside from the loss of Mungo last year, they'd remained successful and

safe, and had even taken a handful of younger siblings on their easier forays. And Kelyn had continued to

deal with her own clumsiness, overcoming it by hours of practice and strength of concentration, until even

Mungo, right before he died, ceased to tease her about those moments she tripped over ruts no one else

could even see.

Those changes meant nothing next to this. Up until now her life had revolved around this thin-soiled

meager subsistence farm, set on the rocky, deeply rolling hills below the rugged peaks of Ketura. Her

mountain summers were for gathering meat and plants to tide herself and Lytha over the winter, although

the year had long passed since she had become capable of surviving on her own. The winters were for

making the round, rock-walled home more comfortable to live in—and lately something for Kelyn to tend

her mother through. And what was this farm without her mother to center it? Was it even a farm

anymore? Was it still her home?

Lytha had come here a lifetime ago—Kelyn's lifetime—to birth her daughter and raise Kelyn in her

father's land. A land, she'd said, more suited to raising the daughter of the Wolverine—legendary even at

that young age—and for keeping Kelyn too busy with life and survival to get into the trouble for which

any child of the Wolverine would no doubt have a knack. Trouble from which no one parent alone could

keep her. Lytha had never expressed any expectation that Thainn would or should consider staying with

her. She never seemed to mind that the burden of raising that daughter had fallen on her shoulders alone.

The early spring wind, cold and biting, lifted the edge of the fur-lined cloak Kelyn wore, and she cursed

her laziness for not having slipped her arms through the looping inner straps that would have kept it

closed securely around her despite the wood she carried. She trotted quickly to the emerging shape of

the pyre—behind the house, where the prevailing wind would carry the flames away from the thatched

roof.

Kelyn dumped the wood beneath the pyre frame, ignoring the two long-dried limbs that bounced off her

foot, and hastily gathered the cloak around herself, warming her cold fingers in the luxurious fur of the

snow panther she'd slain in the highest peaks of the mountains. Luxury, that is, if she'd tried to buy it in

even the rudest of marketplaces, days of travel from here. Here, it was another of the furred skins

mounded around the sleeping pallets, all results of Kelyn's skill with staff and knife and sling. This one,

with the supple fur of the snow panther at her shoulders and waist supplemented by two rock cat skins to

protect her to mid-calf, was just more striking than most.

Despite the cloak's warmth, when the next gust of wind hit, Kelyn stiffened. Wind carried noise along

with cold, and now it brought her the faintest of whoops, the louder neighing cry of a horse calling to its

companions. Kelyn whirled into the wind, squinting into the tears it brought to her eyes while the cloak

flapped fiercely against her grip. There, just cresting the top of the barren hill opposite the farm. Riders.

Three of them, hovering on the ridge itself, their horses plunging against their bits and calling out to the

fourth, whose rider galloped it foolishly down the side of the hill. Kelyn sent a curse at him, wishing him

the fall he deserved, but the sturdy little horse plunged onward, and after a moment, the other three

followed.

Strangers.Ketura! They weren't here to lay offerings on her mother's pyre. Kelyn hesitated only a

moment, just long enough to pick out the wavering shape of a raised sword. Looters, then,

reivers—vultures who had detected the scent of death from afar—for what little this area's inhabitants

owned, they clung to far too fiercely to encourage casual raids. The looters' quick presence stunk of

magic.

Kelyn ran for the roundhouse, shoving aside the flapping leather doorway and leaping down three steps

to the dirt floor in the same motion. She had to move fast, choose what to save. She flung her satchel on

top of the rough wood chest that held foodstuffs and supplies, and grappled with the heavy chest a

moment before she got enough of a grip to heave it up against the dirt-and-rock wall of the house. She

snatched a handful of furs and tossed them leather-side-up over the chest, and, with a loud grunt of

effort, hoisted their largest water crock, a container almost the size of her torso, high up into the air. It

crashed down to soak the leathers, chest and all.

Pounding hoofbeats marked time for her, growing louder, growing closer. Kelyn moved to the strong

fire, hand hovering until she spotted and snatched the coolest end of a burning limb, and then dashed

outside with it, running around the house to light the entire lower edge of the thatch without even sparing a

glance at the waiting pyre. A signal fire was her only chance to call for help, and she'd be damned to a

Silogan hell-cave before she used her mother's glory, her pyre. A glance at the galloping, whooping

looters told her she didn't have the time, but she ran back inside the house anyway, scooped up her

mother's bundled, stiffening body, and carried it as carefully as possible to the pyre—though she had no

time to get Lytha up on the frame, oh no, the looters were circling the house now, looping around the

pyre and plowing through the dried stalks from last summer's garden. Kelyn made one last, desperate

dive for the house as the looters mocked her, circling closer, mimicking the fear they were sure they saw.

They saw wrong.

As her hand closed around the staff leaning up beside the doorway, her concentrated frown turned into a

fierce grin. Tugging the tie that released her cloak, she kicked it away so she couldn't trip in it, and turned

to face the looters—who by now were whooping with anticipation as well, for the first time able to see

that the tall, lithe young body before them offered as much as the house.

Then they saw the look on her face. For a moment, in silent accord, they halted, cruelly pulling up their

horses to regard her. The wind died. Behind her, Kelyn felt the feeble heat of the strengthening flames

eating at her house; before her, the four men stared at her, not sure what to do with her.

Abruptly, they grinned at one another, pleased with their anticipated take. Pointing at her defiant stance,

they broke into laughter. Kelyn stood her ground, vowing to ram her staff so far down each of those

throats she'd see it come out the other end. As the laughter died into silence and the only sound was the

snorting of the horses and the building crackle of flame, the men exchanged a glance, their unbound hair

whipping in the sudden return of the wind.

Finally one man dismounted, throwing the reins to his companion. Sword out but at his side, he walked

toward her, extending his hand in a peremptory gesture, waiting for acquiescence.

Kelyn lifted a lip in silent disdain, as eloquent as any poet.

The man stopped short, surprise quickly turning to annoyance—but not as fast as Kelyn went from

defender to attacker. Shifting her hands down on the staff, pivoting around one foot, she loosed her hunt

cry into the midst of them, bringing the staff around to slam into the man's arm at the elbow. She couldn't

hear the cracking bone above her own cry, but white bone ripped clear of the shirt. As the man

screamed she reversed her direction and grip and felt the solid blow of the other end of the staff just

below his ear.

His body wobbled, then fell. Kelyn leapt for his sword, unfamiliar as it was, and crouched over him, staff

in one hand and his sword in the other, her back still to the flaming house.

"Barbarian bitch!" one of the men shouted at her, the first intelligible words from any of them and heavily

accented at that. She spat at him, and they didn't take it any more lightly just because the wind caught it

and the spittle landed on her chin. They attacked, rushing her one after the other, trying to draw her off

balance with the charging intimidation of barely controlled horses. Her staff became her shield, wielded

one-handed and as often as not almost torn from her grip. The sword, badly balanced and as odd to her

hand as a one-ended staff, nonetheless managed to cut flesh, scoring on the leg of one man, wounding the

horse of another.

But all too soon she was panting, tiring, and becoming aware that this was what their game was all

about—wearing her down until she could no longer lift sword or staff to defend herself. An ill-judged

dodge brought her into the shoulder of one of the horses, and Kelyn tumbled, unable to hold onto the

staff. By the time she was back on her knees, the next horse was rushing her, its rider wearing a grin of

delight on his dirty face.

The horse was huge in her vision, its chest as wide as the horizon itself, its sharp hooves reaching for

her—Kelyn flung herself to the side, under the reaching sword of the rider, and used the strength of a

two-handed grip to plow her borrowed blade right through the animal's belly, closing her eyes against the

warm spray of blood.

The horse grunted, surprise more than pain, its legs giving way with the shock, and its rider tumbled off

with his momentum. Not even fully on her feet, Kelyn lunged for him as he rolled, landing on him with her

knees and bringing the sword hilt down into his face just as he could see she was rightthere , his eyes

widening with realization far too late to do him any good.

Kelyn staggered to her feet to find the others pulling up a distance away, watching with shock of their

own, their confident expressions turning into something more grim but just as determined. For the first

time she was aware of the ache in her arms, the bruises and cuts she had sustained, and the fact that her

tunic was torn and pulled most of the way down her shoulder. Behind her, the roof had flared into its

brightest flame and was starting to gutter, the wind turning into more hindrance than help. If no one had

seen the smoke by now, they weren't going to.

One of the riders seemed to notice Lytha's body for the first time. He took his horse in a prancing, jerky

trot around the pyre, and looked back at Kelyn with a leer. Kelyn stiffened. Would he—? The beast

would evenconsider desecrating her mother's body?

Think, Kelyn!He just wanted to get her away from the house, get her to leave herself open on all sides

so they could both attack at once.

And was she supposed to cringe there and watch this filth touch her mother? The other rider laughed as

his companion dismounted, watching for Kelyn's reaction to her choice.

That Lytha herself would have certainly wished her body trampled and defiled before her daughter

submitted to filth such as this was both clear as sunlight and totally irrelevant.

Kelyn's hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist around the sword hilt. She would not be helpless

without it. Her staff was by her feet, and her knife still in her belt. She was an accurate throw, and could

hit either man where they stood—except that a thrown weapon was a lost weapon. Clenching her teeth,

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Wolverine'sDaughterTableofContentsChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17MAPSWolverine'sDaughterDorannaDurginThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyre...

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