by Amy Plum
“I surveyed the fence, all of the way from where it enters the woods on one side to where it exits into the desert at the other,” I say, pointing it out on the map.
“Did you find anything helpful?” he says, avoiding my eyes.
“Just a general idea of what is there,” I say. “I wanted to see how far the enclosure goes. It’s enormous, Miles. Two hours, and I just saw a small section of it. But we can definitely move undetected along the entire length of the barrier within the mountain area. I imagine this is where Avery brings his visitors to hunt”—I point out the water sources—“because that’s where the animals are going to be. Where’s the map?”
“In the tent,” he says, and retrieves it. I spread it out so we can inspect the penned-in area.
“It’s hard to know how accurate the gas station guy was with this box he drew. But saying it’s generally right, it doesn’t look like there are many water sources in the ranch. Just our mountain area and then these two rivers coming in from the east on the far side. Most of this is dry land.”
“So what’s that tell you?” Miles says, and his voice once again sounds normal. Whatever spooked him before has passed.
“I didn’t spot any buildings near the foothills. So I’m guessing that Avery’s house is near the rivers. Probably the adobe huts my clan is staying in, too, or else he’d have to bring them daily supplies of water. That means that the area we’re looking for is probably over here.” I trace from where we are on the western edge of the rectangle to the far eastern side where two blue lines branch out.
Miles whistles low. “That’s a long ways away.”
“Probably a whole day of hiking,” I say, and scribble some numbers in the dirt. “Yesterday the sun rose around six and set at eight. That’s a fourteen-hour day.” I hold the pen against the map’s scale and then up to measure the length of the rectangle. “If we left at dawn we might be there by nightfall.”
I look up to see Miles’s face. He looks like he’s thinking about it. “Or,” he says, running his finger along the bottom of the line, “we can drive there using a round-about route so we’re not spotted, get there a lot faster, and have the truck for whatever escape plan you’re cooking up.”
“Good point,” I say, pointing the pen at Miles. “I’m not used to counting motor vehicles as part of my assets. As for escape plans . . . I haven’t even thought about that. In my mind, we need to locate Avery, my clan, and wherever the guards are staying before we do anything else.”
Miles nods. “Well, since we decided on Plan A—the stealth strategy—that will probably involve stealing several cars and driving them out. As you said, we will have to know where the guards are located, as well as their vehicles, and any entrances or exits to the perimeter fence.”
I can’t help but smiling. Miles is actually allowing himself to show what he’s got—his ability to strategize. He trusts me enough to lower his guard. Finally.
“What?” he asks, seeing my expression.
“Nothing. Go on,” I urge.
“Of course, if we went with Plan B—the strength strategy—and fought them head-on, then if we win”—Miles pauses for emphasis—“we would seize their vehicles and drive on out of there. Which is pretty hard to imagine, seeing what we have to work with.”
“Which is . . . ,” I prod.
“Assuming that your clan has no weapons, since they’re being kept captive, we can count on two crossbows, a bowie knife, and a pickup truck.”
I laugh. “It’s a good thing we chose Plan A, then. But if it comes to fighting, we can count on the strength of my entire clan,” I say. “Oh, and hopefully some help from Tallie.”
“Tallie?” Miles asks, looking completely thrown.
“Yes, the mountain woman Poe is playing house-raven with,” I remind him.
“But . . . how is she going to help us from Utah?”
“Well, hopefully she’s not in Utah anymore. I called her from Arizona and asked her to come to New Mexico.”
“Wait. How?” Miles stammers. “I thought she didn’t have a phone or electricity.”
“She doesn’t,” I respond. “Before I left, she gave me the phone number of the general store that she hikes to every few days. I gave them a message for her, asking her to go to Roswell and wait for word. Hopefully she’s gotten it by now, was able to borrow a truck, and is on her way. Which means one more person on the outside, plus another vehicle.”
Miles just gapes at me. “And you’ll be communicating with her . . . how?”
“While I was down near the fence, I used the Yara to try to contact Poe. The way Whit called him when he freaked out in the back of your car. If it works—hopefully—he’ll come.”
“Wow,” Miles says. “Okay, then. I’ll add Tallie and the bird to our list of potential assets.” He looks back down at my map. “So should we leave tonight? Drive to the other end of the reserve, hide the truck, and scout? We could split up and run along the fence—I could go north while you go south until we hit the corners, and then both follow the fence west. If we split up we could cover more distance, and do it under cover of night.”
I shake my head. “We have to stick together.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Let’s say there are guards patrolling the perimeter, as we suspect. If they make their rounds at night, all they’ll need is a pair of headlights scanning that wide-open desert land, and they’ll find us in minutes.”
“And what would that change if we stuck together?” Miles asks.
“I can hide myself with Conjuring. I could even hide both of us, like I did from your dad and his men while you were in the death-sleep. But if you’re on the other side of the ranch, I won’t be able to protect you.”
Miles pauses. “It’s too bad I can’t camouflage myself,” he says, and looks strangely uncomfortable.
“That’s Conjuring,” I say softly. “You don’t even know how to Read. Like I said, it’s not like it comes automatically once you’ve gone through the Rite. It’s a part of a way of thinking. Of living.”
“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I just thought I felt something while you were gone. It probably wasn’t anything.”
My silence speaks my opinion on that. Miles shrugs and tries to look nonchalant. “Okay,” he says, and thrusting his fists into his pockets, walks away toward the ridge. I follow him to the top of the ridge, where he stops and looks out over the desert. I put an arm around his back and lean my head lightly against his arm.
“You’re bothered about the is-Yara-religion-or-is-it-magic issue, aren’t you? About how it’s going to affect you.”
Miles doesn’t answer.
“Do you wish I hadn’t given you the Rite?” I ask.
He looks up and watches a hawk fly in slow, looping circles as it searches the ground for prey. “I’m glad I’m not dead,” he answers.
“You don’t have to be like us, Miles,” I say. “You can go back to California and live an extremely long life, aging imperceptibly for eons—as long as you don’t get in the way of any speeding cars or bullets.” I keep my eyes on the hawk. Sometimes it’s easier to say something you don’t like when you don’t have to watch the listener’s reaction.
“No, I can’t, Juneau,” he says, touching my arm and turning me to look at him. There’s pain in his eyes, but along with it is a defensiveness I haven’t seen for a while. “And even if I wanted to, I would have to move on a regular basis. People would notice after a while when I don’t age. I would have to live like a nomad: setting up my life in one place, and being forced to leave once things looked suspicious . . . like every ten or twenty years. What kind of life would that be?”
“Some would think it was pretty amazing. Think of how many different lives you could live. How many places you’d see and professions you could have.” But I know as I speak that he’s not going to accept it. He hasn’t had enough time to think things through. To get used to the repercussions of what he is. For me, it was always an inevitable part of life in m
y clan: a state I wanted to enter.
I see Miles’s jaw clench as he deflects my words, refusing to let them sink in. There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better right now. But there is something I can do to distract him. I squeeze his hand. “Feel like joining me for another round of target practice?”
“Now?” he asks, inching out of his dark mood. “Shouldn’t we be getting ready to leave?”
“No, I think we should stay here tonight and leave in the morning. I want to try to get a message to my father before we get any closer. And you could use another night of rest to recover from your death-sleep. Plus, it would make me feel better if you get some more practice in before you have to actually use your weapon. If we’re going up against a man with an army,” I continue, “we better be able to defend ourselves.”
The corners of Miles’s lips barely move, but the pain in his eyes has disappeared. “As long as we stick with targets that aren’t cute and furry,” he says.
“Inanimate objects only—at least for you,” I promise, and loop my arm through his as we turn and walk back to camp.
22
MILES
“MILES, I SHOWED YOU THIS YESTERDAY. TWICE. You were doing just fine then.” Juneau looks at me, confused.
“I know, but I just like hearing you explain things. It’s that bossy tone you get when you tell me what to do that just . . . drives me wild.”
She grins and rolls her eyes. “Use the pull cord to cock back the bowstring,” she says, showing me once again how to stretch the braided string back until it is tight.
I don’t want to admit that I wasn’t listening the first two times because of the way she was standing, her chest pressed closely to my back as she showed me how to hold the weapon.
“That’s right,” she says. “You loop it around this peg, the nut, which holds it in place.”
I try not to get distracted again by her being basically wrapped around me, one hand holding the crossbow under mine and the other around my shoulder as I kneel with one leg on the ground. I can’t imagine target practice has been this sexy. For anyone. Ever.
“Now you fit the bolt in,” she continues, handing me one of her super-sharp carved wooden arrows.
I turn my head to glance back at her, and her cheek is an inch from my own. My face grows warm as electricity pings between us.
Juneau lowers her arms and stands up from her crouching position. She puts her fists on her hips and says, “You’re not concentrating. This is important. Even if it’s just for defense, since we won’t be ‘barging in like gangbusters to mow them down,’ as you put it.”
“Got it. I understand,” I say. “Now can you take that position again? I don’t think I can fit this bolt in on my own.”
“Ha!” Juneau says, but with a twinkle in her eye she wraps her arms back around me and helps me fit the arrow into the track carved into the wood.
“Hold the crossbow up, in front of your face, high enough so that you’re looking at your target just over the top of the tiller.” I do as she says, and squint over the weapon toward my target tree, which stands about thirty feet away.
“Now with two fingers, you’re going to pull the trigger, which releases the nut,” Juneau says, and brushes her finger along a long piece of bone that runs along the bottom side of the crossbow.
“You’re so sexy when you speak crossbow to me,” I murmur, and then squeeze the bone lever like she’s showing me, and the crossbow recoils against my shoulder as the arrow goes flying across the clearing . . . and right past the tree.
“You did that on purpose,” Juneau says, standing up from her crouch. “Your aim was good the first time we tried this.”
“Why don’t you shoot?” I ask, rising to my feet. “That way I can watch your technique.”
“Okay,” she says, and taking the crossbow from me, uses one smooth motion to cock the bowstring and slip a bolt into the track. She raises it to face level and aims, and the movement is so natural that the crossbow looks like an extension of her body. Like she’s a part of the forest she carved her weapon from. She’s a puzzle piece that fits perfectly in its place.
Watching her shoot is just one more example of why Juneau was so uncomfortable in Seattle, all nervous and jumpy, like a fish out of water. She belongs in nature, and it belongs to her.
Her fingers squeeze the bone trigger and the bolt goes flying across the clearing, so fast I don’t even see it until it’s embedded into the exact center of the target tree. Juneau smiles and holds the crossbow out to me. “Your turn,” she says.
I take my time cocking the string. “How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
“Since I was seven,” she answers.
“That makes me feel a little bit better,” I say, fumbling as I slip the bolt into the track.
“What have you been doing since you were seven?” Juneau asks.
“Like I said, playing video games,” I respond.
“Well, I’m sure you’d beat me at that,” she says.
“I somehow doubt it,” I say, and look over to where she stands, hand resting casually on hip. She’s so small and reedy it would be easy for someone who didn’t know her to assume she was weak. Which she’d definitely use to her advantage. She could probably take on a whole squad of those guards herself . . . if they didn’t have the advantages of Kevlar and automatic weapons.
I raise the crossbow to shoulder level and hold it the way she had, my left hand supporting the weapon from underneath, and the fingers of my right hand under the trigger. I fire. The bolt embeds itself firmly into the tree, directly to the right of her bolt. Juneau exhales and pats my shoulder. “That’s okay,” she jibes. “We can’t both be perfect.”
“Oh yeah?” I exclaim, and swing her off her feet into an off-ground hug that sends her squirming for terra firma.
“One more time,” she yells. “You might come close but you can’t beat me. Let’s see what you can do from a shorter range.”
We move forward ten feet, and Juneau pulls her big bowie knife out of a kind of holster she’s slung around her waist. “My knife against your crossbow,” she says, and pulling her elbow straight up so that the knife is positioned behind her shoulder, steps forward and flings it toward the tree. I see a flash of silver as a stray sunbeam reflects off the metal, and in less than a second, the blade sticks firmly into the tree next to her bolt.
“Remind me never to make you mad,” I say in awe. Before she can respond, I raise the crossbow again and shoot, this time lodging my bolt into the bark a hairsbreadth away from the knife.
“Not bad!” Juneau says admiringly, and runs to gather the knife and bolts from the tree. She comes back and hands me the arrows and we spend the next half hour trying to beat each other. I haven’t had this much fun in years.
Finally Juneau takes the crossbow from me, loads a bolt, and says, “What should we hunt for dinner?”
“If I have to choose from fuzzy woodland creatures, then that rabbit the first night was pretty good,” I say, still feeling squeamish about shooting my dinner. Although it’s nothing like my nausea when I saw Juneau with the dead rabbit on Mount Rainier.
“Okay,” she says. “Follow me.” Juneau shows me how to walk silently, avoiding small branches and anything else that makes noise. We pass squirrels, birds, even a snake slithering its way across the leaf-lined ground, and none of them notice us. Finally she stops and nods toward a large brown rabbit. She raises the crossbow, squeezes the trigger, and the rabbit is instantly lying motionless on its side. She runs over and pulls the bolt out. I hear her murmur a few words to the animal as I walk up behind her.
“What did you say to it?” I ask.
“I thanked it for giving its life to feed us,” she responds simply. “It’s a part of the cycle of life. Energy from the earth passes from it to us as we consume it.”
“Do you thank the plants you eat?” I ask.
“No, silly,” she says. “Plants can’t hear.”
“And dead
rabbits can,” I counter. But she just smiles, like it’s something I’ll understand one day, and as usual, I can’t help smiling back. Juneau kills one more rabbit, and like the first, hands it to me to carry. I hold the soft corpses by the scruff of the neck as we make our way back to the camp, careful not to look at them so Juneau doesn’t see how uncomfortable I am. Of course, I’m a total hypocrite, eating meat without thinking about where it comes from since I was a kid. But even knowing this, I can’t bring myself to watch as Juneau takes the bowie knife and skins and skewers them, and busy myself with building the fire instead.
After dinner, we sit silently in the light of the fire. Dusk has just begun to fall, the air darkening into that indigo haze that my mom always used to call “blue o’clock,” when all of a sudden Juneau sits upright, her face shifting from relaxed to alert. “Don’t move,” she whispers as she reaches for the crossbow.
I don’t see or hear anything. And then—from the woods in front of us—a twig snaps, and a dark silhouette materializes through the trees.
“I don’t have a weapon,” a voice calls.
“Well, I do, and I won’t hesitate to use it,” says Juneau, peering along the top of her loaded crossbow.
A man steps into the clearing, his face flickering orange in the firelight. He holds his hands up in an I’m-unarmed gesture.
“You,” Juneau spits, her face as hard as stone.
“Juneau,” Whit says. “Finally. I’m so glad you’re here.”
23
JUNEAU
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” I ASK, CROSSBOW glued to my shoulder.
“I just want to talk,” Whit says. “No one knows I’m here. I haven’t told anyone you’re here either.” I wait, motionless, until he shuffles forward uncomfortably. “May I sit down?” he asks.
“Do what you want,” I say, keeping my fingers on the trigger as he lowers his hands and walks carefully to sit across the fire from me. Wincing, he eases himself into a sitting position.
He is wearing new clothes: a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved collared shirt. There are bandages on his arms, and now that he’s closer, I see a long cut across his forehead, sewn up with at least a dozen stitches.