by Amy Plum
31
JUNEAU
I WALK INTO THE WOODS HOLDING POE ON MY arm, feeling as disoriented as if I had stepped through a door into an alternate universe. For the second time in a month. I’m losing my faith, so I’m losing my skills—that must be the answer. And if that happens, there’s no way I’m going to be able to save my clan, much less find them. But with all the lies I’ve been fed, how can I believe anything I’ve been taught? How do I separate truth from fiction?
Poe flies off and perches far above in a tree as I head straight for a clump of giant holly bushes, letting them scratch my arms as I pass. The pricks from their spines reassure me that I’m not sleepwalking.
I get to the water’s edge and begin circling the lake.
I need to figure out what, if anything, I have left. I pull my opal from under my shirt, loop it over my head, and press it to the ground. “Dad,” I say, and focus on Reading his emotions. A chorus of crickets launches into their night song on the far side of the lake, and a thick fog levitates inches above the water’s surface. I wait. Somewhere out in the lake, a fish jumps, splashing as it breaks the water’s surface. I wait. Nothing happens.
I loop the cord back over my head and tuck my opal under my shirt. Then, squatting, I place my bare hand against the moist, cold earth and try again. I get nothing. Not even the slightest tingle of connection.
The sky is pitch black and the temperature has dropped. I continue my walk around the lake, rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself, but I resolve not to return to camp until I figure this out.
I ran through my entire repertoire of Reading skills today, and none worked except the simplest stone-throw Readings. In which I confirmed things that I already knew: like my parents were still far away and Whit was still trying to reach me.
If Miles’s off-the-cuff theory has any bit of truth to it, then it’s a vicious cycle—the more I disbelieve in the Yara, the less it will work. I can’t just pick and choose what to believe.
Yes, you can! I reassure myself. Surely not everything my clan told me was lies. I have seen the Yara work. I have manipulated it myself.
But I also know that much of what I was taught was lies.
I feel my belief flicker like a flame in wind. I know the Yara exists, I insist, and imagine myself cupping my hands around the flame to protect it.
I whistle toward the woods and click my tongue, and Poe flaps down from a nearby tree to stand next to me on the pebble beach. Crouching, I comb my fingers over his ebony feathers, formulate what I’m going to do in my mind, touch my opal, and try to connect to the Yara.
I believe, I think, and I try my hardest to push all doubts, all feelings of betrayal, as far from me as possible. Nothing happens. Not even a tingle.
I exhale deeply and imagine my tiny flame of faith expanding to the size of a forest fire, and after a second I feel the slightest of buzzes in my fingertips. Yes! I think excitedly, and try to center myself.
I look at Poe and then picture my father in my mind. Poe, can you find my father for me? I think. I imagine the desert setting and try to pass the image to Poe.
Poe stares at me and then shuffles away and starts pecking at some pebbles as if to say he couldn’t care less. Okay, I’ll try something easier then. I grasp my opal and place my hand on Poe once more, this time picturing Miles in my mind. Where is he? I think. Take me to Miles.
Poe cocks his head to one side, as if saying, You know as well as I do where Miles is. But he fluffs his wings and takes off, heading toward the camp. Adrenaline percolates through my veins, and I set off at a run, following Poe through the woods. When we get to the clearing, Poe circles the car once and then lands on the roof. He squawks and, his job complete, begins picking something from his wing with his beak.
Panting, I lean over and, looking into the car window, see that Miles has fallen asleep in the passenger’s seat with a book on his chest and the overhead light on. I ignore the fluttering in my chest as I peer in at him: his lips are slightly parted and his chest rises and falls with his shallow breaths.
I need to focus. My Conjuring worked. My powers are linked to my faith—that much is clear. And I am progressively losing my faith, not in the Yara, but in Whit and what he taught me. I have to start at square one and test what I think is true. And until I can figure out for myself what I really believe, I will need to gather every last thread of faith I still have in order to continue using my gift.
But what if my problem is much worse? What if my doubt slams down like iron bars and locks me out of my powers for good? If there’s even the slightest chance of that happening, I have a lot to do before it does.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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32
MILES
I AWAKE WHEN THE COOL AIR OF THE EVENING smacks me in the face. Juneau is offering me her arm. “You’re going to have a crick in your neck and be no good for driving if you sleep like that,” she says. She shuffles me out of the car and over to the tent, where I groggily lie down on my side.
Juneau leaves and then returns with a mug of steaming liquid. “I made some tea. This will help you sleep better.” It tastes like licorice and marshmallow, and I drain the whole thing before lying back down.
“I’m sorry if it seemed like I didn’t believe you,” I say sleepily. “It’s just a lot to hear all at once. But I definitely wasn’t making fun of you. I’m only trying to help.”
Her lips curl up on the edges and she looks almost embarrassed. “I know. I could tell,” she says, and takes my hand in hers.
The touch of our skin sets off a reaction in me. I am immediately awake . . . 100 percent present. And it feels like a whirlwind of thorns is whipping around in my chest, stinging me all over from the inside. That makes it sound painful. It isn’t. It’s the kind of itching sensation that makes you want to do something crazy. That spurs you forward to act on an idea you didn’t even know was in your head.
Or maybe I did know it, but have pushed it away because Juneau was my ticket to redemption with my dad and I didn’t want to mess that up. Now that she’s told me her story, I’m certain there’s been some kind of mix-up. No matter what Dad says, she’s no spy. Okay, she’s been raised to believe some pretty weird things, but that’s clearly not her fault. And for her to have gone through what she has, Juneau must be incredibly strong. And brave.
I realize all this just as I notice that, for once, she’s dropped her defensiveness. Her tawny eyes brush my face with compassion, and I have an overwhelming urge to pull her to me, take her in my arms, and kiss her.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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33
JUNEAU
I SHOULDN’T HAVE HELD HIS HAND. IT DID SOMETHING to him. It did something to both of us. It set off this kind of lightning storm all over my body. The electricity generated when our skin touched was like the tingle I feel when I connect with the Yara. Multiplied by a thousand.
I was just trying to reassure him. To get him to trust me. Saying I might have overdone it would be an understatement. Because one second I was holding his hand, seeing him once again like Nome would—I couldn’t help it. He looked so sleepy and defenseless . . . and utterly gorgeous.
And the next second his hand is behind my head and he’s eased me down on top of him and we’re kissing . . . kissing like crazy. My whole body’s buzzing, and all I want is to keep pressing my chest against his and lacing my legs through his and winding my fingers through his beautiful curly hair and feeling his lips brush mine for the rest of the night. But I can’t. I can’t do this. I have to . . .
“Stop,” I say, and push myself up onto my hands and knees, perching above him. Miles reaches up for me, yearning written all over his face, but I shake my head. “No,” I say, and pivot so t
hat I’m sitting next to him in the tent.
His expression is a mixture of regret, confusion, and disappointment.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say.
“No, that’s totally okay,” he says, raising his hands to his forehead and squeezing his eyes closed. We’re both breathing heavily, and my heart is hammering a million miles an hour. I scramble to the mouth of the tent, push through the flap, and then peer in at him once I’m safely out.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod and zip the tent flap up behind me, shutting him in from the night.
I walk over to the fire and flop down in front of it. This is too much. Too much at once. I run my tongue over my burning lips and think of Miles’s mouth on mine, and my body flares with heat.
Miles wasn’t my first kiss. But kissing Kenai was different. He was a friend, and Nome and I had talked him into trying it out. It’s not like we had a large selection of potential kissing partners in our clan. Besides, Kenai was the only boy I could kiss without it meaning anything. It was kind of nice, in a friendly, warm-hug kind of way. But it was nothing like the searing heat of kissing Miles.
Stop thinking about it, I urge myself. I have to stay in control. Miles is nothing more to me than a means to an end. I can’t get attached to him. I ready myself for what I’m about to do.
I cast all thoughts of Miles and his soft mouth and his strong arms out of my mind. There’s no way I can slow my heart rate if I let myself remember the kiss. I think of what I need to ask. This might be my last chance.
If we are being chased, every moment is precious. I need better instructions to find my clan than a general direction of southeast and a desert setting. And I need to know not only how to elude Whit, but if he manages to catch me, how I can fight him. And win.
I unzip the tent flap and look at Miles’s motionless form. The special tea I made has done its work. He is deep asleep and will not awake. I almost falter—this is strictly forbidden. No one would consider Reading another human being without their agreement. I remind myself I am doing this for the good of my clan. For the protection of my people.
I duck down into the tent and sit cross-legged by Miles’s side, taking his hand in mine and cupping my opal in the other. He doesn’t stir and keeps breathing deeply. My heartbeat slows to match his. I do still believe that the Yara exists, I think, summoning all my positive thoughts and funneling them into our joined hands. I shudder as we connect to the Yara. Miles’s eyelids fly open. They are unseeing and stare hollowly at the tent above.
“Miles,” I say. “You are my oracle.”
His head moves slightly as he nods, a thick wave of hair tumbling off his forehead. “Yes, Juneau. I am your oracle.”
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34
MILES
“HOLY CRAP, I FEEL LIKE I SLEPT ON A PILE OF rocks,” I say, crawling out of the tent and pressing my thumbs hard against my temples as the sunlight burns my eyes.
“Breakfast,” says Juneau, and shakes a box of Cap’n Crunch at me from where she sits next to the impeccably clean fire pit. I glance around the clearing. Everything’s been packed up, and the trunk of the car is open with our supplies stowed neatly inside.
“Does this mean we’re leaving?”
“Yep,” she confirms, and hand-feeds a piece of cereal to the bird, who stands obediently next to her like the freeloading fleabag he is.
I sit a few feet away and pour myself a mug of orange juice and take a sip. I glance at Juneau, and she looks away. There’s an elephant in the campsite, and it’s called last night’s kiss. But if Juneau’s not going to say anything about it, I’m certainly not going to bring it up. I can’t help looking at her lips, berry red though she’s not wearing any makeup, and I feel a hunger that has nothing to do with my empty stomach.
“No more sleeping on the ground,” I moan, setting my mug down and massaging my forehead. “I don’t care if you insist on being out in nature, we’re staying in a hotel tonight.”
Juneau looks at me funny, then reaches over and pulls a tiny pouch out of her pack. She shakes a couple of pills into her hand and passes them to me. “What are these? Hippie moonbeam pills?” I ask without thinking, and then freeze. “Sorry. Bad habit.” I’m determined not to bait her today.
“They’re a miracle pill introduced to me by the owner of the Seattle guesthouse where I stayed,” she says with a wry smile. “She called them . . . Advil.”
I laugh and pop them into my mouth, washing them down with a swig of juice. Juneau pours me a bowl of cereal, plops a spoon in it, and pushes it over to me. “Wow, what’d I do to deserve such service?” I ask.
An odd expression flashes across her face—is it guilt?—but she quickly rearranges her lips into a smile. Something seems wrong. But what hasn’t felt wrong in the last four days? I remind myself.
She holds up the cereal box and points to the mustachioed cartoon character in the blue hat. “This is seriously good stuff, but this”—she points to a family-sized box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts—“is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.”
I laugh. “Is it your desert island food?”
“What’s that mean?” she asks.
“It’s a game. If you were stuck on a desert island and could only have one food, what would it be?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “I could eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of my life. No problem,” she says. A small grin breaks through the habitual stern-face. And there she is again. The normal teenage girl I kissed last night. Who I really want to kiss again. Who I wish wouldn’t keep hiding behind a facade of grown-upness and responsibility. Talk about split personality . . . Juneau could be the poster girl.
I pick up my bowl and inspect its contents closely. I don’t think I’ve ever had Cap’n Crunch before. My mom raised me on a diet of unsweetened granola sprinkled liberally with nasty wheat germ. Thinking of her makes my stomach twist, and I force her from my mind.
Sugared cereal, I think, pulling my thoughts back to the here and now. I munch tentatively on the 100 percent artificial puffed squares. And my taste buds melt in ecstasy. Juneau’s right; these are so good.
“Yummy,” I say with my mouth full, and she gives me a full-on beam. Happy Juneau. About as rare as a triple rainbow.
She gets up. “You finish breakfast and I’ll do the tent.”
By the time I’ve washed my dishes in the lake, Juneau and the bird are sitting in the car, waiting for me. “Are we in a rush?” I ask as I settle behind the steering wheel.
“We’re in a permanent rush until I find my clan,” she says.
We reach the main road, and I turn right to head to the highway. Juneau is studying the map. “Just stay on the smaller road,” she says after we’ve driven a couple of minutes. “We don’t want to join up with Highway 84.”
“We don’t?” I ask. “Why not?”
“Trust me,” she says. We drive in silence for about fifteen minutes. The bird is standing up in the backseat, looking out the window, enjoying the scenery like it thinks it’s the family dog. “There!” Juneau says, pointing to a sign that says SPRAY.
“That’s the name of a town?” I ask incredulously.
She shrugs. “That’s where we’re going.”
“It’s a hundred twenty-two miles away,” I say. “That’s going to take a couple of hours.”
She nods, as if she was expecting that.
“Might I point out the fact that Spray is southwest of us, not southeast?” I ask.
“I know that,” she responds. “I’ve got the map.”
“May I also point out that we are on day four of this road trip, and we are still pretty damn far from the Wild West?”
“Just start driving, we’re on a schedule,” she says.
“We’re on a schedule now that we’ve spent an ent
ire day just sitting around?”
“We weren’t just sitting around,” she responds defensively. “I was waiting for a sign. For confirmation of what to do next.”
“And you got your sign?” I ask.
“Yes. I got a few.”
“Hey, good for you!” I say, and mean it. Looks like my pep talk worked and she’s back into delusional magical mode. I feel a slight pang of guilt at egging her on, but if it makes her happy and I don’t have to sleep on the ground another night, I can deal.
“Yeah, but who knows if those are the last signs I ever get,” she says, looking out her window with her head propped against the headrest.
“May I ask what they were?”
“One is that Whit is still searching for me and he’s not far behind us. He knows where my clan is, and if you and I are heading in the right direction, we have to be careful not to cross paths with them. It’s going to be close.”
“Double-crossing medicine man and his cronies are gaining on us. Joy,” I say as we reach the turnoff for Spray. I take it and we begin heading southwest. Toward California. Toward home. I have to call my dad.
As if reading my mind, Juneau asks, “Aren’t your parents going to be worried about you?”
It’s the first time she’s asked anything about me besides the vague “tell me something about yourself.” It’s the first hint that she is the least bit interested in me. So why does that spark a tiny flame of hope inside me? Maybe because all I’ve been able to think about this morning are her golden-honey eyes, inches away from my own, and those warm, soft lips.
“My mom left Dad and me last year, so she’s not doing any worrying,” I find myself revealing.
“Miles, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, and puts her hand on mine. Warmth spreads from where her fingers touch my skin. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to this girl, but it’s getting increasingly difficult.