Until the Beginning

  “You lied to me,” I say. “Not just you. All of the elders lied to me. But you . . . you’re my father. How could you have raised me, cared for me, taught me right from wrong, and all the time have lied through your teeth?”

  “Juneau,” my dad says. “You don’t have to accept my justification. But in this particular situation, I had to make the welfare of the world—of humankind and all living things, of the future of our planet—more important than my obligation to you. If lying to you meant ensuring your survival and that of your descendants, then I was willing to sacrifice my soul and lie to you and the other children.”

  “I hear you,” I say, wiping away another tear. “But I don’t agree. You could have told us the truth. You could have trusted us with reality.”

  My father shakes his head. “Remember Kenai when he was thirteen? Rebelling against every rule; questioning every word his parents said? How do you think he would have handled the truth? Do you think he would have stayed in our territory, hiding from the outside world?”

  I shake my head.

  “And he’s just one example, Juneau. We had to fabricate a story that would keep you all with us. Keep us separate from the world. And keep our secrets safe.”

  “It still wasn’t right,” I say.

  “I know,” Dad says. “But it’s the best we knew to do. The other elders are having to deal with their own children and, worse for some, themselves. We all have to deal with the repercussions of our mutual and individual deceit. There has been forgiveness in some cases.” He looks down. “Less in others.”

  My jaw clenches and my eyes sting. I squeeze my hands into fists.

  “You’re allowed to cry, Juneau,” he says.

  Wiping the corners of my eyes, I take a shaky breath. I can tell my father wants to hug me, but if he does, I’m afraid I’ll start bawling and never stop. I wrap my arms around myself, keeping him at a distance.

  “Why did you come here when I told you not to?” he asks softly.

  “The clan is my responsibility,” I say.

  My dad rises and walks to the corner, where he picks up a bottle of water. Sitting back down, he hands it to me. “Juneau, ever since the clan was abducted, I’ve been thinking about you. Questioning how I raised you. You’ve grown up with the knowledge that you will be the next clan leader. I know the burden that Whit put on you. And I know how our clan members look up to you, but also treat you like you belong to them. Their own clan Sage.”

  My father reaches forward and runs his hand back and forth over my short hair. “Because of this, you’ve missed out on a childhood. You don’t know what it means to be carefree. To not feel the weight of the clan’s survival resting on your shoulders at all times. I was wrong to have raised you like this. But it was hard to refuse Whit and the other elders once your mom died. You were the only one who could take her place.”

  “Because I can Conjure?” I ask.

  “That’s a part of it,” Dad says. “What’s more important is something I have never talked to you about. I was waiting until you passed the Rite. But that might well never happen now. It’s time I told you everything.”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “And I should believe you because . . .”

  “There are no more lies between us. No more secrets,” my father says. “I swear it on the memory of your mother. It’s up to you whether you believe me or not. But I assure you that everything I’m telling you is true.”

  I watch him, silent.

  “How much do you know now about Amrit?” he asks.

  “I figured some things out for myself, and Whit pretty much confirmed it all last night,” I say.

  He nods sadly. “I saw you talking to him in the fire. Did he mention our part in making Amrit? The part about your mother’s legend?”

  I nod. “Something about healing a she-wolf who went on to live a long time.”

  He takes a long drink from his glass and stares at the ceiling, as if trying to see back in time. “Both your mother’s story, and several of the legends about eternal or extended life that we subsequently dug up, specified using ‘the life force of a prophetess.’ They called for a woman who was one with the earth—a daughter of Gaia.

  “Your mother not only knew about her tribe’s legend, but she was the right person to re-create it. That is the only reason we were able to succeed where scientists and scholars have failed over the centuries. It’s the reason we, of all people, were able to crack the long-hidden code . . . to access the earth’s secret.”

  “What do you mean Mom was the right person?” Goose bumps rise on my arms.

  “What do you know of your mother’s family?” my father asks, blatant guilt scrawled across his face.

  “Well, before Whit told me she was from Mongolia, I thought they came from China.”

  “A part of China that used to be Mongolia,” my father clarifies. “Your grandmother was from a tribe of itinerant farmers who worshipped the land they worked and lived on. Their women were famed shamans, medicine women.

  “Your grandmother used to tell your mother their stories. She said your mother was special because she had priestess blood. The knowledge of her ancestors’ nature-worship was one of the things that interested your mother in Gaian philosophy and the movement rising up around us. She was drawn to it through her heritage.

  “In your grandmother’s legend about the wolf, the life force the prophetess used was her own blood. So that’s what your mother used when we made the first batch of Amrit. And for every batch afterward. No one else’s blood worked.”

  In my mind, it’s as if a stone dislodges from the base of a river-dam. As my thoughts come together, the dam cracks and realization comes flooding through. Her blood. My blood. The reason she and I were the only ones to give the Rite. But as I begin to understand, a host of new questions arises.

  My father watches as I grasp the meaning of what he’s saying. He waits until he thinks I’m ready, then continues. “We tried the Amrit on animals, and then on ourselves. And we ran as many tests as we could to try to pinpoint what was different about your mother’s blood from every other sample. That was before we discovered the ocular mutation and the deceleration of aging on test animals, which is when we decided to flee—in order to protect our discovery from the outside world. Once in Alaska, we had none of our equipment to continue the blood-type experiments.

  “However, when you were little, your mother took a sample of your blood to see if you too had the ability to ‘bring the Amrit to life,’ as she called it. You did.”

  “That’s why Whit always had me prepare the elixir for the Rite?” I ask.

  “Yes—you were the key to the Amrit. Without your mother . . . without you . . . it wouldn’t have worked.”

  Dad’s eyes are empty. I can tell he has been over and over this story in his mind, planning how he would explain it to me one day. “How could Whit think he could sell a drug that needs one person’s blood?” I ask.

  “I think he figured that if he brought it to a buyer with enough funding, they would be able to run tests on your blood and find a working alternative that could be manufactured.”

  I don’t even know what to say. I just sit and let the pieces try to sort themselves into something recognizable. Something sane.

  “What would the clan have done if I died, too—like Mom did? Would the formula for Amrit die with me?” I ask.

  “Unless you had a daughter of your own, I suppose,” my father says, smiling sadly.

  That little bit of information finally tips the scales, and I am no longer able to think. I lie back on the ground and stare at the ceiling.

  “What are you feeling, Junebug?” my father asks.

  “Used. Lied to. Confused.”

  My father is silent. He doesn’t try to explain any further, and I am thankful. Nothing he can say will make me feel better. Nothing he can do will erase the last seventeen years of my life. I wish I could talk to my mother. The same blood flowed through her veins. And she took th
at blood and made it into something she thought could save the world . . . until she realized that it had the potential to destroy it.

  I hear the crunching of tires on the dirt road outside, and Whit’s voice calling my name. I stand and walk to the door of my father’s hut. Whit sits behind the wheel of a huge monster of a truck-like vehicle, while two of the armed guards step out.

  I turn to my father, who has risen to stand behind me. “Keep these for me,” I say, glancing at the corner where I stashed my pack and crossbow.

  “You don’t have to go with Whit,” he says.

  “I’m the life of the clan. Literally,” I say, and though I want to reassure him that I still love him, I can’t bring myself to speak the words.

  I step outside the door and squint into the blinding beams of the headlights. I lift my empty hands in the air and, staring straight at Whit, say, “You wanted me? Here I am.”

  34

  MILES

  I ARRIVE AT THE EDGE OF THE TREES AND FIND myself on a hill overlooking the Avery ranch. From where I lie, I have a side view of the mansion and the guards’ barracks behind. Between me and the estate is a fence that’s about half the height of the one around the perimeter, and not nearly as scary looking. I can’t tell if it’s electrified or not.

  The river runs along one side of the property, and disappears off into the distance. In spite of the moonlight, I can’t see much. Though the buildings are lit up, the rest of the estate is draped in darkness.

  This hill provides such a good vantage point that I decide to stay and watch for a while—to see if anyone’s coming and going, and basically get a feel for the place.

  I wonder how Juneau’s doing. Where she is. I’m betting she went straight to her clan, but have no clue what her next step will be. She didn’t seem to know either—at least the last time we talked.

  I unstrap the tent bag from my back and lie down on my stomach. Taking out one of the rabbit legs, I wash it down with the rest of the bottle of water. I only have one bottle left, but am not worried. Maybe I’ll sneak down to the river later tonight and refill.

  So I’ve got my plan for staying hydrated, I think. How about one for deciding my next move?

  I try to channel my inner James Bond. I could sneak into the guards’ quarters, steal one of their uniforms, and infiltrate the group. Yeah, right. Like they’re not going to suspect anything when a puny eighteen-year-old suddenly appears among them.

  How about something more direct? I could show up first thing in the morning and tell Avery that I’m a high school student doing my final paper on exotic-hunting reserves. Or not. Even if Avery was stupid enough to buy that, Whit’s hanging out somewhere and would recognize me instantly.

  Plan C. I could set a fire or trip an alarm. That would at least provide a temporary distraction. But since I don’t even know where Juneau is or the status of her rescue mission, I might alert the guards at the wrong moment, and interfere with what she’s doing.

  My best bet is to wait and watch. And just as I make that decision, high-powered headlights appear far to the south. As they get closer, I can see it’s some kind of enormous all-terrain vehicle—probably what Avery takes his clients hunting in. A toy for rich middle-aged men. At a fork, it turns and takes the road to the mansion. It pulls up into the circular driveway, and two guards climb out of the back.

  Someone steps out of the driver’s seat and moves toward the house. At first, he’s too far away to see, but when he walks into the porch light I spot a head of black spiky hair. It’s the devil himself: Whit.

  A figure jumps down out of the passenger seat. It’s a girl: She’s about half the size of the guards. Her pixie haircut and the gliding motion of her stride tip me off to her identity. My heart drops. Juneau’s been captured.

  Well, it’s too late now for me to infiltrate or talk my way into the house. And since Juneau’s in their clutches, I can forget my plan to provide a distraction to her rescue attempt. She walks proudly up the porch steps and in through the front door. It doesn’t look like she’s handcuffed or bound, and the guards aren’t brandishing weapons. I wonder why she’s going along with them without a fight.

  Once Juneau is inside and the door shut behind her, the two guards split off and walk around the mansion to the barracks. I watch as they join a picnic table of cardplayers outside their quarters; they unstrap guns, place them on the ground, and pull bottles out of a beer cooler. Their work is obviously done for the day.

  I wonder if there are guards stationed inside the house, because none are visible outside it. Maybe Avery doesn’t plan on any trouble now that he’s gotten what he wants. Plus he practically has an army within yelling distance.

  I need to get closer to see what’s going on inside the mansion. To discover exactly what Avery’s doing with Juneau—if he’ll have her locked up or if she’ll be able to escape.

  I look down at my clothes: jeans, a black T-shirt, and dark blue tennis shoes. The white lettering and irate red bird on my Cardinals shirt glow in the dim moonlight, so I turn it inside out and put it back on.

  Now only my skin stands out. Luckily, from all the action movies I’ve seen, I know how to fix that. I inch my way back to the trees, and once among them I use a stick to dig up some dirt. I pour a little bit of bottled water on it, then stir it around until it’s thick. And then I spread it all over my arms and face. It dries fast—within minutes my arms are caked with dried mud.

  I look through the tent bag to see if there’s anything heavy I should leave behind. But, imagining that if I’m successful and somehow manage to spring Juneau, we might need the food and water. I leave everything in and, swinging the bag to my back, get ready to retreat into the forest. I’d rather backtrack and climb down the unexposed side of the hill, than go the direct route down and serve as target practice for bored guards with a few beers in them.

  I’m only a few steps into the dark wood when I hear something that makes my blood run cold. A low growl comes from the blackness near me. My hair stands on end as my heart simultaneously leaps into my throat. What the hell was that?

  I suddenly remember I am on a wild-animal hunting range. And it dawns on me that those ten-foot-high fences around the mansion and barracks aren’t for intruders. They are meant to keep animals away from humans. Or, more specifically, to keep the animals in the zone between the perimeter fence and the living areas . . . which is exactly where I am right now.

  Holy crap, what kind of animals did that gas station guy mention? Zebras and antelopes? I might not know much about animals, but I very much doubt it’s one of them making these menacing deep-in-the-throat growls. This is a predator.

  The only predators I’ve ever seen outside a zoo are the coyotes roaming around L.A. People are warned to keep their dogs and kids close by, but they don’t usually attack adults. That is, unless you come near their cubs.

  But this doesn’t sound like a coyote. It’s definitely more catlike . . . in a not-so-cute-and-fluffy way.

  What do I do? Stay here, frozen in place? Or walk calmly away? What if I’m walking directly toward its den? Then it’ll definitely attack. For the hundredth time this month, I curse myself for not watching more National Geographic.

  I summon every last drop of courage inside me and take a step backward. Then two steps. And, in a little patch of moonlight that’s broken through the trees, I see a brown paw step cautiously forward not more than ten feet away. It is followed by a head the size of my torso. A brown-and-white head with black stripes. Oh my God, I’m being stalked by a tiger. That crazy-ass billionaire imported a fucking tiger to the middle of New Mexico. And I’m going to be its next meal.

  There’s no way I’ll be able to dig the crossbow out of my bag, put it together, load, and shoot. I can’t even move—my feet are rooted to the ground.

  As if in slow motion, the tiger pulls its front paws together and crouches low to the ground. It flicks its tail jerkily back and forth, like my mom’s cat did when ambushing a chipmunk.
r />   My mouth is open. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. A lightning bolt of fear sizzles behind my eyes as I realize I’m about to die.

  I clench my teeth. The tiger pounces.

  35

  JUNEAU

  “WELL, NOW. WHO’VE WE GOT HERE?” CALLS A booming voice as I follow Whit into a cavernous front hallway. The light from an enormous deer-antler chandelier is reflected from a gleaming parquet floor.

  A man walks toward me. He’s a good head taller than anyone in my clan, and wears a fawn-colored cowboy hat and matching boots. He claps his hands and rubs them together like he’s getting ready to eat me whole. He leans over to get a good look at my starburst and, satisfied, takes one of my hands in his big meaty fist and shakes the life out of it.

  “You must be our little Juneau. My name’s Randall Bradford Avery the Third, but for obvious reasons”—and he spreads his arms out to indicate the mansion, the shooting range, everything around—“everyone calls me Hunt. Let me tell you, I have been waiting to meet you for the longest time now. Haven’t I, Whit?”

  There are so many things wrong with this little introduction that I decide not to respond, and settle for a scowl. Avery laughs, like I’ve made a joke. Grasping me by the shoulder, he ushers me toward a door. “Why don’t we all just grab a drink and get acquainted.”

  I don’t even put up a fight. All I want to do is find Badger and get him out of here. If that means following this idiot around until I come up with a plan, well, so be it.

  Whit follows us through a double set of doors, and then closes them behind us. I enter a room that could fit ten of my clan’s yurts inside. The floor is thickly carpeted, and the walls are lined with mostly empty bookshelves and topped with mounted animal heads. Every species you could possibly imagine has a representative hanging glaze-eyed on the wall.

  Instinctively, I look back at Whit in horror, and see him squirm. He doesn’t like this violent display any more than I do.