Anita's Attic: Prologue for Guardians of Stone

What a great relief to be almost finished with Guardians of Stone. I just got edits back from my developmental editor. I've never had a developmental editor before, just regular editors. The cool thing is that I'll get feedback from different editors, the developmental, the copy editor, and my regular editor. After all that, this thing better be shining like gold. The developmental editor is a guy, which surprised me, but he's been awesome. 

This guy has pretty impressive credentials. He worked with Random House for a while, so I was thrilled when he said in all his career he had never seen a manuscript that felt so cinematic so early in the writing. Considering that we have movie interest, that's got me doing a little happy dance. :) The nice thing is that he gets the story, he really likes it, and he's given me some great feedback and suggestions. You know how it is, we never see entirely what's on the page...whether it's too little or too much. 

So I'm working to incorporate his ideas and still trying to find a series title. The Relic Chronicles. The Relic Keepers. The Relic Seekers. Yikes. They're all great and they'll all work for different reasons...Geez. I have to make a decision. Anyway, here's another issue I need help with. I'm considering including this prologue. I'd love to know what you think about prologues in general and this one specifically. Does it intrigue, make you want to read more, or just leave you confused and frustrated? 

Prologue                                                                                           

“This way. We must hurry.” The voice beside him was weak. He didn’t know where they were, but he could smell the earth and trees. A branch slapped his face, and he threw up his hands to protect it.  “I need to rest.” His head and legs ached and fire flashed behind his eyes even though he couldn’t see.

“We can’t,” the voice said. “Not yet.” His breathing was ragged and it sounded like he needed to rest too. After a few more minutes of stumbling, the hand guiding his arm dropped.

“You’ll have to go alone,” the voice rasped.

“Go where?” He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know anything. Something cold was placed in his hands. He heard a harsh, rattling breath then a thump. The forest was quiet except for his panting. “Where are you?” He stretched his hands in front of him, feeling blindly for the man. His foot hit something solid, but soft, and he knelt, fear gripping him by the throat.

He put the cold object in his pocket—it was a cross--and patted awkwardly with his hands until he felt an arm. He followed it to a chest. It was still. No heartbeat. He felt a crushing sadness, even though he didn’t know the man. He was sure he should have. He sat down beside the dead man, surrounded by darkness, as lost inside as out. He tried to remember…anything, but the only image he saw was a girl with blonde hair, but her face wasn’t clear, and it faded as quickly as it had come. His head burned and he touched the wound, trying to remember how he’d gotten here. He felt the stickiness of fresh blood, then his hands slid lower, touching nose, lips, jaw, searching for something familiar. He didn’t know what to do, so he clutched the cross in his pocket, pulled his jacket around him and waited for someone to find him.