Whit kept so much from me, claiming that he was waiting until I was older. Until I had undergone the Rite myself. But I don’t need his permission anymore. I don’t need his questionable expertise, cobbled together from other belief systems and trial and error. I am ready to explore the Yara on my own terms.
My battle against my clan’s kidnappers is just beginning. But instead of apprehension, I feel excitement. I’ve had a powerful weapon at my fingertips my whole life, and I’m finally learning to wield it. I feel unstoppable.
4
MILES
I AM BEING DRAGGED ALONG A CURRENT, FLOATING in a wide river with tall trees on either side. My body is pulled under and pops back up as if I were nothing but a twig floating on the surface of a stream. I am unafraid, my senses bathed by the sound of the rushing water and the touch of the cool liquid. Only the smell of the sparkling pure air in this dream world is missing—absent because I do not breathe.
Someone is next to me. I can’t turn my head, but I know it’s Juneau. She rides the river beside me. From somewhere far away I hear music. Singing. An exotic tune, the words of which I can’t quite capture, but their purpose is clear. The song, like the silent girl beside me, accompanies me. Wraps me in its security. Its confidence. Others have been here before, and the song accompanied them, too.
A roaring noise grows louder every second—it is hollow, like the noise inside a seashell. The trees on either side of us disappear gradually, the riverbanks flattening out until finally I am thrust with great force out of the mouth of the river into an ocean so wide that no shore is visible. I can feel my body dissolving in the saltwater waves that toss me back and forth, and still Juneau is there. Staying close.
My body melts away until there is nothing left but a small white ball, feathers, beak, and a flash of light. And like that, I am sprung into the air. The words of the song grow clearer, and I sense another bird keeping pace with me, just outside my vision. I flap my wings, banking steeply as we climb together, high over the endless ocean. We catch the wind and soar.
5
JUNEAU
I SCRAMBLE INTO THE DRIVER’S SEAT, GRAB THE atlas off the floor, and open it to the map of California. On the way here, I was too busy concentrating on steering us through a car-chase shootout to keep track of directions. Now I have no clue where we are on the map. I scan the horizon through the dusty windshield. I have two choices: go out to the main road Mr. Blackwell and company just took, or follow the dirt road over the ridge to see where it leads.
I head for the ridge. Once on the other side, I stop the car and get out to look around. A desert vista spreads before me, ending at the foothills of green tufted mountains in the distance. We could hide there, I think. It’s just a matter of crossing the flatlands before being swallowed by trees. But, not far along, the dirt road we’re on narrows to little more than a path. That must be why Mr. Blackwell and his men turned around, I think. And that’s exactly why I’m going to follow it.
I get back in the car and check the clock on the dashboard. 3:24 p.m. Miles has been dead for almost two hours. Which means six hours to go. I need to get us somewhere safe before he awakes. If he awakes.
I put the car into drive and, without thinking, press my foot down hard. The wheels spin, throwing up a cloud of dust. I pick up my foot and let the forward motion of the car carry us a few yards before pressing down very lightly. The tires catch and the car moves smoothly ahead.
My first time driving was intimidating, especially since it involved stealing the car from under Miles’s nose. But now I’ve figured out what most of the dials and buttons are for. In a way, I want to keep this car—the only one I’ve ever driven—for the security of its familiarity. It’s everyone else’s familiarity with it that’s the problem.
Mr. Blackwell isn’t the only one after us. I wonder what happened to Whit and his military thugs after they chased us through the desert and shot Miles as he drove. Even though I saw their jeep flip over, I didn’t stick around to see how bad the damage was. They could have gotten their vehicle back on the road. And if they did, it won’t be long before Whit tracks me down. Only weeks ago he was my mentor—and my clan’s Sage. Not only is he skilled at Reading, but he knows me better than anyone besides my own father.
I drive toward the mountains for a half hour, seeing nobody. Hawks circle slowly overhead. It’s slow and hard-going driving this made-for-the-city rich-boy car across a desert. I try to steer across the flattest surfaces, but even so we jolt and bump along, every rock and crater I hit shaking the car violently.
Finally the path turns left and heads off away from the mountains. I decide to follow it instead of setting out off-road. Before long, my path turns into an actual dirt road and, soon after, becomes paved. And before I know it, we are driving past a lone gas station with a dozen or so motorcycles and a few cars parked behind.
My body stiffens as I look for any sign of Whit’s green jeep or Mr. Blackwell’s sleek black car. But the only person I spot is a man kneeling down next to one of the motorcycles with tools spread on the ground around him.
He stands as he hears my car coming. He’s wearing a one-piece jumpsuit that probably started out white but is now a finger painting of rust and oil and dirt. Whipping his cap off, he uses the back of his arm to wipe his forehead. He strolls over when I stop.
I glance in the rearview mirror to make sure my sunglasses hide my eye’s telltale starburst, and then reach back and pull the sleeping bag over Miles’s face.
The man approaches the car, hands in his pockets. “You lost?” he says.
I hesitate. “Um, yes. I made a wrong turn a ways back, and have been trying to find my way to a main road.”
He takes his cap back off and replaces it on his head. Squinting up at the sun for a moment, he looks back at me. “So where’re you trying to go?”
“East,” I say.
“Mmm-hmm.” He nods and then spits a brown liquid out the side of his mouth. “She says she’s going east,” he says under his breath.
“I guess I could get some gas while I’m here,” I say, and pulling past him, park the car up to the sole gas tank. The man follows, wiping his hands on his pants, and starts pumping the gas.
I watch him. The way he hides his hands in his pockets, the way he talks to himself, the way his posture seems to curl inward—he’s as easy to read as a children’s book. He is solitary, doesn’t trust anyone but himself, and is probably involved in some shady business that has nothing to do with selling gas. He would betray me in a second if there was something in it for him. “Do you get much business here?” I ask finally.
“Rent out those dirt bikes,” he says, nodding his head toward the motorcycles. “Got a few out today, but the season really picks up in June. High school and college kids, mainly. Like to ride around the desert.” He clicks the nozzle of the gas hose and places it back in its rack. “That’ll be sixty-two eighty-five,” he says. I pull my pouch out of my backpack and hand him a hundred dollar bill.
“I’ll get you your change,” he says, and turns to go back to the station.
I get out of the car to stretch my legs while I wait. “What are all the cars for?” I call after him.
He turns and waves toward a couple of new-looking cars, “Those belong to the kids who rented the bikes.” He points at a row of three pickup trucks in various states of disrepair. “The trucks are mine.”
I walk over to them and he follows me, hands in pockets. There’s a black pickup that looks like it died a painful death years ago. Another, cherry red, is in better shape. The third is a dark forest green—a good color for camouflage. And although it’s not new, it seems to be in good condition. I walk around it, inspecting it from every angle. CHEVROLET is spelled out in letters across the back. The truck bed is wide and spacious.
I walk back to where he pretends to watch something in the distance, as if I’m not there. “I’ll trade my car for yours,” I say finally.
He spits again and then la
ughs. “You’re telling me you want to trade your brand-new Beamer for my Chevy?”
I don’t know what that means, but I nod. “I’ll give you my blue car for your green.”
He squints at me suspiciously and asks, “You in some kind of trouble, missy?”
“Maybe I am. What’s it to you?” I ask, straightening my back.
He scans my face like it’s one of his broken motorcycles—trying to diagnose my problem. Then he sighs, his whole body sinking an inch as he exhales. “Well, hell, who am I to ask questions?” he says, and striding up to the green truck, opens the passenger side and pulls some papers out of the glove compartment.
I copy him and go to get all the papers I can find out of Miles’s car. When I return, the man has spread a paper that reads “California Certificate of Title” on the hood of the pickup truck and is writing on it. “There you go, missy,” he says. “I’ve put my name down and signed it. You can fill your part in yourself.” He hands me the paper, and then watches as I unfold my own certificate and place it on the front of the pickup. I hesitate, and glance up at him.
“Just sign right there,” he says, pointing to an empty spot on the page. “I’ll take care of the rest.” I’m sure you will, I think. From the crafty look on his face, I am convinced of what I suspected from the beginning: Miles’s car is worth much more than this man’s. But it’s worth nothing to me if it’s going to get us caught. So, as the man sticks his dirty hand forward and I reach out to shake it, I consider it a deal well made.
I press the button on Miles’s keychain that opens the trunk of the car, and begin transferring the camping equipment to the pickup. The man helps me until I close the trunk and move toward the backseat. He sees the zipped-up sleeping bag and freezes. “Whaddya got there?” he asks, uneasily folding his arms across his chest.
I have no idea what to say, so I just stand there looking at it, and finally admit, “It’s heavy.”
“Is that right?” the man says, chewing slowly. “Well, I can’t help you with that, but there’s a dirt bike loader with an electric winch in the back of each of my trucks.” He paces over to the green truck, lowers the tailgate, and pulling out a metal ramp, leans it between the truck bed and the ground. At the top of the ramp is a winch, much like the kind my clan used to move heavy objects. Except this one has a box and a button instead of a hand-turned crank.
He eyes the sleeping bag warily. “I’m just going to go get the change for your hundred, and by the time I get back that thing’s going to have disappeared. Right?” And he turns and leaves.
I get back in the car, drive it a few feet from the truck, and open the back door. “I’m sorry, Miles,” I whisper, and then grabbing the sleeping bag by the corners, yank hard until his body flops down onto the dusty parking lot like a bulky slab of meat. I use all my strength to drag Miles to the bottom of the ramp. Working quickly, I hoist him into the back of the pickup and stow the ramp and winch in their slots on the side of the truck bed.
I let myself into the truck and turn the key. It starts, and after fumbling a bit with the lever, trying to get it to point to D, and making the truck leap forward by pressing the pedal too hard, I stop in front of the shop.
The man comes out of the building and walks up to my window to hand me a few bills and coins. I give him Miles’s keys, and he pockets them, satisfied. “Truck’s tank is full of gas, so here’s your change and we’ll call it even. Sure has been a pleasure doing business with you,” he says, pulling his cap off. He runs his fingers through his hair again and glances at the back of the truck. Spotting the sleeping bag, he pulls his cap back on. And without looking back, he returns to the bike he was working on and picks up a wrench.
I pull out of the station and head down the road until I see a sign. Finding my position on the map, I see that if I follow the road for a few miles, I can get onto a highway heading east.
And with Miles’s dead body in a sleeping bag in the back, I put the truck in gear and head toward Arizona.
6
MILES
ONE SECOND THE BRIGHT SUN IS WARMING MY wings, and the next I am standing on two legs in total darkness. The far-off words of the song grow faint and then stop, and a voice—her voice—whispers. “This is where I leave you, Miles. I can’t go any farther. Be brave.”
“What do I do now?” I ask, but I’m alone.
A little ways ahead, at foot level, a line of light appears. I approach, groping through the void until I touch a hard surface. Sweeping with my fingertips, my right hand brushes something round and cold. A doorknob. I turn it, and walk into a room that I know better than any other. A room that has haunted my dreams for the past year.
I enter, leaving the door open behind me. I glance back at the darkness. It looks almost inviting now. Anything’s better than what I’m about to see.
I scan the room. Everything is in place. The framed family photos on the dresser, the scattered chinks of light from the blown-glass chandelier, the mayhem of empty medicine bottles on the bedside table. I take another step, and grief pierces my heart like a knife blade. I know what I will find.
She’s there. On the far side of the bed, curled up on the ground in a fetal position. She lies in a puddle of vomit. It’s spread out around her head in a halo of foamy bile.
“Mom.” My voice is muffled by the thick layers of sadness padding every square inch of the room. Only the rhythmic chattering of my mother’s teeth indicates that she’s alive.
This is the worst part—the part where I try to go to her, but can’t. Where I am stopped by an invisible wall. Where I pound helplessly on it with my fists, screaming at her, screaming for help, but unable to go to her.
But this time is different. My bare feet continue across the thickly carpeted floor. The wall has disappeared. I approach her, crouching down to touch her sweat-drenched hair, and I know what has changed. Why I am allowed past the wall. My mother and I are in the same place: the still and quiet space between our world and the next. Standing on the edge of the precipice. We are both about to die.
7
JUNEAU
THE LANDSCAPE GROWS HARSHER AS WE APPROACH the Arizona border, and signs for Mojave National Preserve begin to appear along the highway. I think back to Mount Rainier, where Miles and I camped. A national park means a lot of out-of-the-way places to hide, which is exactly what we need if Miles is going to wake.
If. That word is like a punch to my gut, and the misgivings I’ve dammed up for the past few hours flood in to drown me.
If. How can two little letters hold so much importance? Wield so much power? How is a single stunted syllable able to threaten a world of pain and simultaneously dangle a glimmering, flashing jewel of hope?
If Miles awakes, he will be a changed person. He will have the gift of life: free of disease and aging. If he doesn’t, then the one person who matters most to me—outside my clan, of course—will be gone. Abruptly. And forever.
I banish the thought from my mind. I glance automatically at the clock on the dashboard and register the fact that it is 5:30 p.m. This is the second time I’ve used a clock in one day, and I feel the shame of compromise. The sun, moon, and horizon are all I’ve needed in the past.
I’m in a new world now, I reason. I should use every modern tool I’m given. If I can add my own skills to the tools the outside world has developed, I will be in a position of strength, instead of handicapped by my lack of knowledge—like I was in the airplane or in Mr. Blackwell’s office at the top of a skyscraper. I must master the rules of this new world. I’ll need every possible advantage to face the unknown enemy who kidnapped my clan.
At the next national park sign I pull off the main road and begin traveling north, following arrows toward Mitchell Caverns. When I reach a fork in the road, I turn away from the tourist site and head east toward some unmarked rock formations. Dark red earth swoops down from one tall mesa and back up into another flat-topped mountain. Gray rocks are stacked around them like children’s blocks. I d
rive around them and park in their shadows. No one can see us unless they go off-road like I did.
I climb out of the truck into what looks like the surface of another planet. The rock formations look alien, and although there is vegetation—clumps of sagebrush in gray, green, and parched yellow—it look like it’s been tossed carelessly around instead of held to the ground by roots. The earth seems too dry to sustain life. I walk around the truck and open the tailgate. Climbing into the truck bed, I crouch beside the sleeping bag and unzip it.
My heart lurches when I see his face.
Miles’s skin has taken on a sickly purple color. His eyes have begun to film over, white cloud spread over the lake green. This hasn’t happened before. The Rite-travelers’ bodies never deteriorated. Although I feel a stab of panic, I reassure myself that this case is different. It was hot in the back of the truck, and besides . . . my clan members were in perfect health. Miles was already dying. This has to work.
I close his eyelids, smooth back the honey-colored curls, and kiss him lightly on his mottled forehead. “Please come back, Miles,” I urge, and continue unzipping the bag, exposing his overheated corpse to the cooler air in the shadow of the rocks.
He looks too vulnerable, lying there naked. I pull his bloodstained clothes out of my backpack and dress him, shuffling his limp body back and forth until I’ve got him in underwear and jeans. I stand back to look at my work, and something in my heart tugs. An unfamiliar ache that confirms just how much this boy means to me.
I pull myself away and begin setting up camp, pitching the tent between the truck and the rocks. Although we’re hidden, my senses are on high alert. I realize that I’m reacting as I did in Alaska: on continual lookout for brigands. Ready to defend myself against survivors of an apocalypse that never happened. Even though my real-life enemies are nothing like the desperate marauders of my nightmares, they are more frightening because I don’t know what to expect from them. They are unknown entities using unfamiliar methods.