Poe has been following me around the house, hopping from position to position as I peer into the windows. I wonder if I can send him up to look through the window and then Read his mind when he comes back. “Go up there,” I whisper, pointing toward the window. He cocks his head to one side and stares at me.
I make the clicking noise and bend down to pick him up. I hold him against my chest and look up at the window, and then close my eyes and picture him flying up to it. I let him go. Squawking and flapping a bit, he lands on the ground and walks a safe distance away from me, then resumes his staring. Bird wrangling is obviously not one of the skills the Yara provides, I think.
I glance back up at the window. It looks like I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. I shake the drainpipe running down from the roof gutters to see how sturdy it is. Sturdy enough.
Placing my crossbow on the ground, I grab the pipe. And using the white bricks as footholds, I shuffle my way up the side of the building until I’m at window-level. Leaning sideways, and grasping the sill for stability, I find myself looking into a bedroom lit only by a small lamp. Next to it sits a woman in a white uniform—the kind a housekeeper or nurse would wear. She reads a book and casts occasional glances toward the bed.
I lean farther and see a young child in pajamas lying on top of the covers. The lighting is too dim to make much out besides the fact that it has dark hair, and is toddler-age. So Avery has a kid, I think. Either his wife’s not around, or they have a full-time nanny, which wouldn’t surprise me. And then I remember the note that Poe brought from Juneau’s dad. Avery took a three-year-old from the clan when they tried to escape. This must be that child. I’ve seen all there is to see in the room, so I slide back down the drainpipe and take a minute to mull over things.
Juneau and the others must be in one of the interior rooms. I didn’t see a kitchen, so it must be on the far side of the house facing the barracks. They could be there. They’re not on the top floor, unless they’re sitting around in the dark. Judging from the depth of the rooms, and the enormity of the house, I’m guessing there are one or two rooms in the middle.
I walk back around the garage and peer in the window looking into the hallway. Halfway down, there is a door on the left-hand side with a security panel next to it—the kind with numbers to type a code into. A windowless room could be a bathroom, but I doubt even Avery’s bathroom holds something valuable enough to need a password. Could be a prison—his own personal dungeon—or a safe, or something else he doesn’t want his goons to wander into.
As I watch, the door flies open and people start walking out. I duck down for a second, and then pop my head back up when I realize they’re walking away from me, down the hall. Leading the group is Whit, and just behind him walks a camouflaged guard holding a gun. Then comes Juneau—my heart squeezes painfully when I see her—and following her is another guard with a gun. Juneau isn’t carrying anything—neither her backpack nor her crossbow. Which isn’t surprising. It’s not like they’d let her bring weapons with her.
But again, I wonder why she hasn’t thought of some way to disarm them. Or disappear and slip away. Is it just because of the boy?
When I saw them outside, I had thought that maybe Whit would defend against any tricks Juneau could come up with. But the guard behind him doesn’t seem to be obeying his orders. It looks like Whit himself is being kept against his will. Which is a total about-face from when he was driving the jeep and ordering the guards around.
I see them disappear down the hallway and take a left before the TV room. If my hunch was right, they could be going to a kitchen. But they could just as easily be going to a cellar or even upstairs.
I’ve got two people unaccounted for: Avery and the doctor. I realize they could appear at any moment. But I know I have to make my move while I’m sure Juneau and the guards are away.
I creep around the corner into the garage, toward the door that leads inside the house. I turn to look for Poe. He has trailed me and is standing a few feet away.
“Can you avoid squawking or making any loud bird noises?” I whisper to him. He angles his head with the same you’re-crazy look, and then with a flap, launches himself into the air onto my shoulder.
I turn the doorknob slowly. As I suspected, it is unlocked and doesn’t set off an alarm. Who needs security with an entire army within shouting distance? I ease the door open and glance down the hall. No one’s around. I shut the door quietly behind me, tiptoe across the carpeted floor and enter the bookless library.
It smells like a mixture of Old Spice cologne and cigar smoke, and I have the overwhelming urge to sneeze. Pressing hard on my nose bone, I creep the entire length of the room, past all the animal heads, which I imagine are turning to stare at me as I pass. Taxidermy is so freaking creepy.
I pass the fake fireplace on my right, and then a big copper bar that looks like it was stolen straight out of a saloon on my left. Poe is digging his claws into my shoulder, squeezing for all he’s worth. Maybe being surrounded by dead things is as traumatic for him as it is for me. I ease open the door to the front hallway and peer out before closing it behind me and tiptoeing across the hall toward Masterpiece Theatre. I’m not even halfway across when I hear voices coming my way.
“You’re following me to the bathroom?” I hear Juneau say. “Do you realize how weird that is?”
I book it through the hall, steadying Poe with one hand and my crossbow with the other, and throw the office door open, thanking the WD-40 gods that the hinges don’t squeak.
“I’ve been told not to let you out of my sight,” comes a man’s voice. I inch the door inward until it’s open just a crack.
“You’re holding Badger hostage. Your boss made it clear I have to wait here until he awakes. That’s more than eight hours guaranteed that I’m not going to run,” Juneau says. I hear a door in the hallway open. “But suit yourself, pervert,” she says, and the door slams shut.
Badger. That’s the name of the kid—now I’m sure he’s the one I saw in the bedroom upstairs. As for the rest, it doesn’t make sense. Why would Avery bring Juneau here and then go straight to bed? Unless . . .
I shudder as a new thought grabs me. Maybe Avery doesn’t own a pharmaceutical company. Maybe he wanted the Amrit for himself. And maybe he’s just taken it.
Juneau said she usually performed the Rite, and Whit’s excuse about wanting her to be safe was obviously a sham. What if he can’t do the Rite without her? And what if she’s just been forced to do it for Avery? It took me around eight hours to regain consciousness after the Rite. That’s got to be what Juneau’s talking about. Avery’s lying dead somewhere in this house, and Juneau’s being kept here until he awakes.
I hear a toilet flush and a door open. “Still here?” Juneau asks in an eat-dirt voice.
“Just shut up and get your ass back to the kitchen,” the guard says as their voices disappear down the hall. Easing the door closed, I breathe a sigh of relief. I set Poe carefully on the floor, and crane my neck to inspect my shoulder. “Dude, for a raven you’re acting suspiciously chicken,” I say, touching the spot tenderly. “I think you drew blood.”
There is a grandfather clock ticking in the far corner. It reads ten thirty. That means Avery will be waking up around seven.
I’ve got all night to do something. But I don’t even know where to start. How about with something you’re good at? I think. And sitting down in front of the computer, I click the mouse and pull up Avery’s desktop.
41
JUNEAU
I’M NOT HUNGRY. FOOD IS THE LAST THING ON my mind. I’m only eating to keep my strength up for whatever comes next. Because at the moment, I have no idea how things will play out.
I chew the pasta and vegetables that I found in the refrigerator in a bowl labeled “pasta salad.” It looks appetizing, but once in my mouth tastes like sawdust. I can’t get past what I just witnessed. I can’t believe that Whit told Avery—a man we don’t even know—things he never told m
e. The betrayal leaves me wounded, like a fiery brand has been pressed against my skin.
I shove these thoughts aside to think about later. It won’t help to dwell on them. I need to be thinking about things I can control. There are so many different scenarios I need to plan for. I categorize them in my mind.
Scenario 1: Avery wakes up in eight hours. There’s no way he’ll let us go while he’s still paralyzed, so that’s another four days of sitting around. And once he’s up and about, if he actually does keep his word, my clan will be released and he’ll help us get to our next destination—wherever that is. I’ll think about it once we’re outside the electric gates. Or maybe the clan has already decided. But that’s the rosy version of things. We could be stuck with:
Scenario 2: Avery awakes, we wait four days for the end of his death-sleep, and he decides to default on the deal. I find a way to escape, get Badger, and rescue my people without getting shot by Avery’s troops.
Scenario 3: Avery doesn’t awake. I find a way to escape, get Badger, and rescue my people without getting shot by Avery’s troops.
Whatever happens, I should prepare for the worst. While imprisoned in the house, I can at least locate Badger and scope the building for escape routes. I pat my back pocket to check that the scalpel’s still there, and make sure the back of my shirt is covering it. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s all I’ve got.
I sense someone approach from behind me and wait until I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see the eyes of my former mentor, inches from my own.
“So what’s wrong with him?” I ask.
Whit doesn’t even have to ask what I’m talking about. “How did you know?”
“His hand shakes, and he tries to hide it.”
“He has Parkinson’s, stage one,” Whit responds.
I don’t remember reading about that in the EB. I wonder if it existed in 1983. “It’s a degenerative disease,” Whit fills in. “I didn’t know he had it when I offered him the Amrit. I didn’t know that’s why he was interested in buying it from us—he’d been working on options for life extension even before he was diagnosed. It’s just made the matter more . . . urgent for him.”
I nod, wondering if that would really have made a difference to Whit if the price was right. “You’ve gotten what you want from me,” I say, “now go away.”
Whit gives a slight shrug, and I can see in his eyes that it’s not true: He hasn’t gotten what he wants from me. He still needs me, or he’d be too chicken to come over and talk to me.
“Oh, of course,” I say, realization dawning. “You need more blood. Am I going to be your own personal supply from now on? Or, make that Avery’s?”
“No, of course not,” Whit says, looking pained. “We only need enough blood from you to serve as a sample for testing so that we can find a functional substitute.”
“So now you and Avery are a ‘we’? It’s comforting to hear that your new ‘partner’ knows more about the clan and our beliefs than I do.” I can’t tear my gaze from his neck—I’m longing to grab it and squeeze as hard as I can.
“Juneau, there are so many things I couldn’t tell you,” he says, clasping his hands together like he’s pleading.
“Whit, there’s a difference between not telling me something and creating a whole system of lies.”
“Like, for example?” he asks.
“Don’t even get me started,” I say. “We already had this discussion up on the mountain.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and then I can’t hold it in any longer. “How can you say that the Yara is a lie when there is solid evidence that it works?”
“If you’re referring to Reading,” he says, “I didn’t tell Avery about that—or Blackwell either. I thought it would complicate the sale of Amrit if I mentioned a side effect that probably wouldn’t be discovered by most of its users.”
He gives me a significant look, and my stomach falls. “What do you mean, ‘side effect’?” My voice is hollow, like it’s coming from far away.
“Before we left for Alaska, we—I and your parents—noticed during our experiments that Amrit widens the brain’s sensory receptors. I had already been developing my theory of the existence of the Yara and its relationship with Gaia. After taking the Amrit, we found that we were able to actually tap into the Yara and Read, and in the case of your mother and I, Conjure. We discovered that only because it’s something we already believed in and practiced—in a way—in our everyday life. It just seemed to make sense. There might be other uses of the widened sensory receptors, or even other side effects, that we don’t even know about.”
I just stare at Whit, jaw dropped. “Our gifts are a side effect of the elixir,” I say. He nods.
More lies. I can’t believe it. But then again, what hasn’t been a lie up to this point?
Whit tries to pacify me. “I’m not saying the Yara doesn’t exist, Juneau. You know how everyone in the clan believes their own version of the Gaia story. Some have practically turned it into a religion, others, like myself and your father—”
“Don’t you ever compare yourself to him.”
Whit holds up a hand and nods. “Okay. But just hear me out. The Gaia and the Yara are constructs: devices that help explain something difficult to understand. The ideas of Gaia and the Yara embody concepts that most people don’t know about—or perhaps call by another name.
“It’s like describing the Yara to the children using circles. That’s putting a complicated idea into symbols they can understand. And even for adults, attaching the name Gaia to the complicated concept of the superorganism makes the whole thing more digestible. As does using the concept of being one with the Yara to explain the clan’s extrasensory perceptions.
“If what you’re asking is ‘Does one’s closeness to the Yara and to Gaia really affect how well we Read?’ my answer is no. However, the power of persuasion is great, and the more one believes in their skills, the more control they have over them. Thus, the value in teaching the clan that a closeness to the Yara and to Gaia strengthens their ability to Read.”
“Why couldn’t you just tell everyone the truth, and leave it up to them to draw their own conclusions?”
“It’s not like I wasn’t telling them the truth. It’s more like I was telling the truth through metaphors. Through story,” Whit says.
“My dad knew this the whole time?” Heat flares across the surface of my skin as the weight of the betrayal sinks in. I push the bowl of pasta away. I can’t eat any more.
Whit eyes me sadly. “Yes, as did some of the elders. But after a while, it worked so well that they decided to embrace it. As Marx said, religion is the opiate of the people. Life is easier if they believe in an almost physical goddess and spiritual system.”
“Well, if our powers can just be put down to a chemical reaction, then why is it that you and Mom and I can Conjure? We all took the same elixir, didn’t we?”
“Your mother and I were the first to take the elixir, at your mother’s insistence. Your father gave it to us from the same batch. He watched over our bodies while we death-slept. And once we survived and tested immune to disease, your mother let your father take the elixir. In between time she adjusted the formula’s measurements to see if the painful side effects could be avoided. Less blood was used. And your father had an easier time with his death-sleep than we did. So that’s the formula we stuck with. You, of course, received the side effects of your mother’s consumption of Amrit, which I guess we could call the ‘powerful batch.’”
I shake my head. “I had always thought it was something innate in us—a sign that we were made to be leaders.”
Whit bites his lip. “I’m sorry to tell you, Juneau, that it all comes down to science. There is nothing else.”
I squeeze my temples with one hand and try to calm the raging storm inside me. “That’s enough,” I say.
“What’s enough?” Whit asks.
And something moves inside me . . . wells up from the deepest
part of me and comes crashing to the surface. “That’s enough!” I yell. “That’s enough! Get away from me, you lying bastard. I don’t believe anything you say anymore. You’ve fed me lies since I was a baby. My whole life has been a farce. Just get away from me and stay away from me!” I’m screaming now, and Whit’s guard approaches, his weapon raised. O’Donnell rushes in from the front hallway.
“What’s going on?” he yells, and points his gun at me.
Whit backs up with his hands in the air. “Everything is okay,” he says to the guards.
“No, it’s not,” I say, looking from Whit to the guards and back. “It’ll never be okay—we will never be okay—again.”
42
MILES
I’M CLICKING RANDOM FILES ON AVERY’S DESKTOP, when I hear footsteps outside the door. I leap out of the chair and dive behind a nearby leather couch. I gesture desperately at Poe to come down from his perch on a bookshelf. He sees me, but stays where he is. The door handle turns, and in walks one of the guards. I get just enough of a glimpse to recognize him as the guy who grabbed me in Salt Lake City—one of the guards accompanying Whit.
He walks to the desk, sits down in the chair, and dials a number on his cell phone. He waits. I wait. Poe stands still enough to pass as stuffed, if the guard can even see him in the darkened room.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “I was with Avery, so I couldn’t call before. The girl’s here.” He pauses. “Got it. I’ll turn the airstrip lights on.” He hangs up.
What the hell was that about? I think. This guy—one of Avery’s own guards—must be working as a double agent.
He types something into the computer, and takes his time, clicking around for a couple of minutes. He’s on his feet in a second, though, when a shriek comes from the kitchen. At first, I’m afraid that Juneau’s hurt, but she keeps yelling and I know that tone. It’s her pissed-off voice, and I am very glad that, for once, I’m not the one she’s mad at.