Until the Beginning

  Whit’s words are like honey to me. He knows just what buttons to push to make me jump through his hoop. Or at least, he used to. But there is something that is nagging at me, an itch that’s just out of reach. I go over the last few minutes in my mind. There’s something wrong with what Whit said. And then it occurs to me, and it’s like I’ve been punched hard in the stomach. All of my breath is gone. I just stare at Whit, my eyes bugging out of my head.

  “What?” he asks, looking concerned.

  I close my eyes, and press my hand against my heart as I try to breathe. “You just told me that it was decided that my mom would succeed you. But every time you’ve told me this story before, you told me that you chose her to be your successor.”

  “Well, it’s the same thing really,” Whit explains quickly.

  “No!” I say, cutting him off. “It’s not the same. Who decided my mom would succeed you?”

  “Well, the elders decided that it was better for power to be alternated instead of being in one person’s hands. Your mother, as the only other Conjurer, was the obvious choice to follow me as Sage until you came of age.”

  “Whit, that’s not at all the same thing. My mother was going to replace you.” My thoughts are a puzzle, all of its pieces falling together. “And you didn’t like that, did you? She tested my blood before she died. You knew then that I could take her place and Amrit could still be made. What would have happened if she had become Sage? Would you have lost your opportunity to go out into the world? To sell the Amrit that she believed was better hidden from the rest of humanity?

  “However, if I became Sage, after all of your tutelage, you knew I would be loyal to you. That I wouldn’t go against what you wanted . . . to sell Amrit. You didn’t do it for the money. Or for the clan. You did it for yourself. For the fame. I know you, Whit. Ensuring that your name would go down in history—that all of those old academic colleagues you always talked about who thought you were crazy would put you on a pedestal—that would be worth more to you, Whit, than any fortune Amrit could bring you.”

  Whit’s eye has started twitching, and the look on his face says that he wants to shut me up.

  “You killed my mom, Whit. Didn’t you?”

  When he speaks, his voice is low and menacing. “I had nothing to do with your mother’s death, Juneau.”

  I study his face. Take a good long look to interpret his features, like he taught me to. “No, you didn’t kill her. But you Read that she would die. No one would have thought to Read into the future for her death . . . there was no reason for anyone to think about it. Except you. You sought for anything that might harm her in the coming years. You Read it, and you did nothing to prevent it.” I watch his expression and know I am right.

  Whit’s face contorts into a mask of fury. “That doesn’t matter now!” he screams. He grabs my shoulders and starts shaking me. “I trained you, Juneau. Everything you know . . . everything you can do is because of me. You are mine. And you are coming with me right now.” He grabs me by the arm and starts dragging me toward the car.

  With a keening screech, Poe flies down out of nowhere and dive-bombs Whit’s head. Whit drops my hand, and starts swatting the attacking bird away. And then he lets out a shriek and falls to the ground.

  A crossbow bolt sticks out of the arm he was dragging me with, and Whit is clawing at it, trying to pull it out. I leap on top of him, knocking him flat on his back, and pinning his shoulders to the ground. Unsheathing my knife, I hold it beneath his chin.

  “You let my mom die. You manipulated me. You betrayed our clan.”

  “Juneau, I did everything for your good, and the good of our people, I swear,” Whit says, clenching his teeth in pain. Angry red scratches from Poe’s talons crisscross his face, and the stitches in his forehead have torn. The wound from the crash is once again bleeding.

  “Liar,” I yell. There is a rumbling noise coming from the direction of the forest. A noise that I recognize. I look up and see a shape lumbering toward us in the dark, and I tighten my hold on the knife, grazing the skin under Whit’s chin and watching the trickle of blood run down his neck.

  Whit’s eyes narrow. “What are you going to do, Juneau? Kill me? Are you going to go against everything you’ve ever learned and murder a defenseless human being?” He is spitting out the words, daring me to do what he thinks I’m not capable of. He’s right, I think. With that realization, I make a decision. I’m leaving his fate up to Gaia. I loosen my hold on him, and stand up, straddling his body with my legs.

  He stares up at me, victory written on his face. I begin to walk away.

  “I knew you couldn’t do it,” he yells.

  “I’m doing what I think is fair,” I say. “You didn’t kill my mom, but you let her die. I’m just returning the favor.”

  Whit stares at me, confused, and then follows my gaze as I look behind him. He has time to scream once before the bear is upon him.

  I turn and head toward Miles, who is coming across the lawn toward me, crossbow in hand. Tears are streaming down my face, and Miles takes me in his arms and holds me tight.

  The car starts up with a roar of the engine, and reverses over the grass toward us, kicking up clods of mud as it comes. Mr. Blackwell’s face is illuminated by the interior light, and is twisted in rage.

  “Your dad,” I yell. “He’s coming back for us!”

  Miles whips around to look, just as a volley of gunfire blows out the car’s windows, and hits one guard who slumps, motionless, out of the passenger window. “Get us the hell out of here!” I hear Mr. Blackwell bellow. The car slams into gear, and Miles and I watch in shock as it speeds away from us. As it passes the house on its way out of the compound, its headlights illuminate the fountain, next to which Hunt Avery lies, writhing on the ground.

  He holds one leg with both hands—his paper pants are soaked with rain and blood and have half disintegrated. He meets my gaze and yells, “Help me!”

  I pull back from Miles and watch as Avery holds up both hands. “I swear, I’m unarmed,” he yells, and groans pitifully. None of his men are anywhere nearby.

  I look at Miles, gauging his reaction. “Let him bleed out,” he says, stone-faced. I say nothing. He looks back at the pitiful spectacle and then back at me. “Ugh. We have to help him, don’t we?” he asks. I nod and we begin walking toward him.

  “Okay,” Miles says as we approach, “we’re going to help move you to the garage, where your doctor is tending the wounded.” He positions himself near Avery’s head and sets our two crossbows on the ground, while I lean down to grab the injured man’s feet.

  “That’s not going to happen, because I’m the one giving orders here,” Avery says, and digging a gun from beneath himself, points it at Miles’s head. I reach automatically for my knife, but Avery sees me and, cocking the trigger, says, “Drop it.”

  I let the knife fall, and copying Miles, hold my hands in the air and back away. Avery presses himself against the side of the fountain, and inches up to a standing position, keeping the gun directed at Miles’s face. “You two are going to help me over to those cars over there and get me the hell out of here,” he says, gesturing to the garage.

  From my left, I hear a familiar sparrow call and, without moving, shift my eyes to see Nome crouching behind a nearby boulder, just out of Avery’s sight. Amid all the chaos, she’s the only one who’s spotted what’s happening. I cock my head in Avery’s direction, prompting her to shoot him. But Nome holds up her slingshot and pouch, and shakes it to show me it’s empty.

  She points to her eyes, and then away, indicating that she’s going to make a run for it to get backup. I shake my head. If she leaves her hiding place, Avery will see her and could shoot Miles.

  As I rack my mind for a solution, I instinctively reach toward my neck to finger my opal like I used to in times of distress. It’s gone, I remember. And then I freeze.

  I watch Avery put one arm around Miles’s shoulder and shift his support from the fountain, training
the gun on Miles’s head. Avery shouts to me, “Miss Newhaven!” and I move toward him as if to give my assistance. For a fraction of a second, he lowers the gun to stretch his arm around me, but it’s all the time I need.

  I reach into my back pocket, pull out my opal, and throw it toward the rock where Nome is hiding. She stands, catches it, and in one smooth movement, cradles it in her slingshot, pulls the band back, and fires. Avery screams and, dropping the gun, falls backward, tripping over the edge of the fountain into the water. He rises, flailing in the water, as blood spurts from where the gemstone is lodged deep in his eye socket. Then, just as suddenly, he collapses and falls face-first into dark water. His body pops up like a cork and he floats facedown as a cloud of red forms around his head.

  54

  MILES

  THE AFTERMATH IS MESSY. THE CLOUDS HAVE moved away, and the moon is once again visible, casting a silvery light on the lawn. It looks like the scene of a Civil War battlefield, with dead animals and people strewn around, and wounded lying groaning in the mud. The animals that weren’t hurt have disappeared into the forest. It’s over.

  Juneau’s people have captured a group of eight guards. The men stand in a circle, hands in the air, as Nome and Kenai point guns at them and wait to be told what to do.

  Juneau’s expression is haunted as she turns to go to her people. No matter how she felt about Whit in the end, his death traumatized her. Her eyes are red from weeping, and she presses the heels of her palms into them and takes a deep breath. “I have to take care of things,” she says.

  “I’m right here beside you,” I say and scoop up two industrial-sized flashlights that I just scrounged from the garage. Juneau runs her hands through her dripping hair, straightens her clothes, and marches over to the group of prisoners. They squint and frown in the beam of my flashlight.

  “Who’s here?” she asks, and looking around the darkened battlefield, lets out a loud musical whistle.

  Her clanspeople run over to join her. They’ve swapped their rustic weapons for their enemies’ guns.

  “I’m going to organize getting us out of here. Is everyone okay with that?” There is a general murmur of consent.

  “Elders, do you grant me authority?” Juneau calls. There is an uneasy silence, and one woman steps forward.

  “Juneau, dear, during your absence we gave up all authority we once held and abdicated our right to make decisions for the clan. You’re in charge here.” She steps back, taking her place among the rest of the clan.

  Juneau looks uncomfortable, but nods. “All right. Let’s start. Is anyone wounded?”

  “Sterling’s shot in the leg, but she’s going to be okay. Palmer’s with her,” someone says.

  “There’s a doctor in the garage taking care of Cordova,” says Juneau. “Go tell him he’ll be tending to Sterling next.” The woman nods and jogs away from the group.

  Juneau points to two teenage boys that are standing by. “Homer, Tok, you do a sweep of the lawn. Pick up the weapons, even from the dead, and pile them on the front porch. We don’t want anyone regaining consciousness within reach of a machine gun.” The teenagers whisper a few words to each other and then take off in different directions.

  “Elders, take one of these men down to the barracks. Have him show you where the vehicles are. Drive three of them back here.” The three elders nod and, taking one of the guards by the arm, lead him away.

  Juneau faces the group of prisoners. “This is how it’s going to work. We’re giving you three vehicles. You take care of your dead and wounded. Load them into the vehicles, and then leave immediately.”

  She turns to a tall, thin woman with sandy hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Esther, look after the animals. The rest of you, assist her. Animals that are dying, send them back to Gaia. If any need more care than you can give them here, load them into a truck and take them into Roswell.”

  Juneau turns to one last clan member. “Lakes, come with me.” She takes the gun Lakes is holding and hands it to me. “Guard the captives with Kenai and Nome,” she orders, and then whispers, “Please,” and gives me a secretive wink.

  Juneau and Lakes walk a ways away, and Juneau begins explaining something to him. After a minute, it looks like they’re arguing. Lakes is upset about whatever she’s telling him. But in the end, he seems to give in, and the two walk back to us, Juneau with her chin-up expression and Lakes looking grim.

  From the barracks comes the sound of motors starting, and in a minute three utility trucks pull around the drive and in front of the house. The elders step out from behind the wheels, and with Lakes, Nome, and Kenai, they spread out with the guards to pick up their wounded and dead and load them into the vehicles. And although they follow the guards with guns in hand, it looks like they don’t even need the weapons. The guards just want to get out of there. As they work, they throw apprehensive glances at the corpse of their ex-boss floating in the fountain.

  Finally they all take off in a slow-moving convoy and disappear from sight. The clan members organize in front of Juneau, and she holds up a hand to signal that she’s going to speak.

  “Go back down to the barracks and take all of the vehicles you can. We’ve got four elders here, but anyone else who wants to try their hand at driving is welcome. Once you get to Roswell, you’re going to need as many vehicles as possible.

  “That’s the last instruction I have for you. From now on you’re on your own. Whether or not the clan decides to stick together is up to you. But I won’t be coming along.”

  There is a gasp from those assembled. “Not right away,” Juneau clarifies. “You’ve all had weeks to work this out among yourselves. To think about the past and talk about the future. To forgive one another,” she says, looking directly at the elders.

  “I’ve already discussed this with my dad,” she continues. “He told me you were all ready to follow me. Thank you for being willing to entrust your future to me. But I can’t lead you in wisdom if I don’t even know the truth myself.

  “I need time to think things out. To figure out what I believe apart from what we’ve been raised with. I’m sure a lot of you will be doing the same thing, and I want to know what conclusions we all come to. So I’m not abandoning you. Just . . . taking a break. I’ll keep in touch with you through Dad. So this is just a good-bye for now.”

  Her people take her one by one into their arms, hugging her and then letting her go. Juneau fights to stay composed as she exchanges words with her clan members.

  Kenai and Nome hang back. Juneau’s obviously already spoken to them, because they show no surprise.

  Once the last person has embraced Juneau, she holds up her hand once again. “I’ve asked Lakes to organize the practical matters for those of the clan who decide to stick together. As leader of the hunters, he’ll serve best as your tactical planner and will work with the elders, who know about this country and how things work.”

  Juneau looks around the group. “I send my love with you on the path we all will take.” And then she turns her back to them, takes my hand, and with Nome and Kenai silently following, leads us back toward the house.

  55

  JUNEAU

  SAYING GOOD-BYE TO MY PEOPLE SO SOON AFTER finding them is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Part of me wants to go with them—to join them in Roswell. To catch up on the time we’ve lost. To talk through it all until I understand more: why the elders did what they did, and how their children are dealing with it.

  Instead, I take Miles’s hand and walk away. Leave them to clean up the mess—both on the battlefield and in their own lives. Nome and Kenai fall in behind us. They are dirty, wet, scratched-up . . . and their eyes are shining like sunlight on gemstones. After a month of captivity, they had been yearning for a fight, and the post-battle adrenaline makes them both look ready to jump out of their skins.

  One car remains in the garage, and the way Miles is staring at it—like he wants to eat it whole—makes me smile. “Is it something sp
ecial?” I ask.

  He nods. “A classic Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.”

  I shrug. “A car’s a car, isn’t it?”

  Miles shakes his head, and though his face is smudged with dirt, sweat, and blood, he is glowing with awe. “No,” he says. “Not this one.”

  It’s amazing—even after all the trauma we’ve lived through today—Miles is able to make me smile. I wrap my arms around him and give him a quick, sweaty kiss.

  Turning to include the others, I ask Miles, “How far away did you park the pickup truck?”

  “About a half-hour drive,” he replies.

  I nod, thinking. “Okay, Nome. You get behind the wheel. Miles has fifteen minutes to teach you to drive, and then we’ll switch and have Kenai learn. I’ll need you to drive yourselves to Roswell once we get the truck.”

  I’ve never seen Nome move so fast. She’s behind the wheel in seconds flat, and Miles has to physically restrain her from pushing all of the buttons. Kenai and I climb in the back and within minutes we are backing out of the garage and making our way across the battlefield.

  Our buoyant mood dissolves as we pass the destruction. Oddly, looking out at it from behind the car windows makes it feel more real. More horrific. Some of my clan members look up from what they’re doing and solemnly wave as we drive by. Others don’t even look up. The cycle of truth telling and forgiveness has just begun. Who knows where it will lead? Will the clan band together like survivors of yet another catastrophe, or will the past be too painful for some to reconcile? Not all will stay. And those who do will have to start from scratch. Begin something new that is based on truth.

  As we reach the top of the hill and turn toward the exit, Kenai breaks the silence. “So, great leader, you said we needed to talk.” He cracks his knuckles to let off excess energy.

  “I’m not the leader anymore. Won’t ever be,” I say.

  “Yeah, right,” Nome says, turning around to look at me, and the car swerves to the right.