Until the Beginning
Page 13
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I don’t know what to say. I’m so tired all of a sudden, I don’t know if it’s the conversation, the death-sleep, or both. It all seems too big for me. I lean back against the headrest and run my hand through Juneau’s hair. Pull her to me and close my eyes. I feel unconsciousness grip me and sleep tug me under.
Juneau’s words come from outside the warm, still place I’m sinking into: “Old Miles, new-and-improved Miles, it doesn’t make a difference—I’m just glad you’re here.”
13
JUNEAU
AS I EXPLAINED TO MILES, MY CLANSPEOPLE barely wake during their death-sleep. So when he reenters his death-sleep, it isn’t like he’s merely nodding off. It’s more like he’s sucked into a vortex of unconsciousness. This reassures me. He’s not as much an anomaly as he fears—the other Rite-travelers were never on the run during their transition. That must explain the different reaction.
Miles doesn’t even budge when I get out to fill the tank and use the gas station restroom. I wear my sunglasses to hide my starburst, but the woman behind the counter is watching TV and doesn’t even notice me.
Back in the truck, I dig through our supplies for any remaining food, and am forced to throw out several bars of melted chocolate and some cheese that went bad in the swelter of the desert sun. I move the bottles of water behind the seat to keep them as cool as possible, and put what remains beside me: two apples and a pack of chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts. Not the most nutritious meal I’ve ever eaten, but all the gas station had was candy and I don’t have time to hunt.
I slip a Pop-Tart out of its package and munch on it as I reassess our situation. There are two things that concern me: how fast Whit will get out of the hospital, and how far Blackwell’s men will chase us.
I sift through the facts. Whit can track me by Reading. But he doesn’t trust his guards. In Salt Lake City, he slipped the fragment of the New Mexico map to me without them seeing. And his shocked reaction when one of them shot Miles is another indication that he’s not completely in charge. Although Whit knows I’m heading for New Mexico, his guards don’t. And if he doesn’t trust them, I don’t think he’d set them loose on me if he’s not there. Until he’s out of the hospital, they are not a factor I need to consider.
As for Mr. Blackwell, if he was so upset about Whit disappearing before they could make a deal, he must not know about the kidnappers. He wouldn’t be aware of where my clan is being held. Therefore he has no idea which direction I’m heading. The farther Miles and I get from L.A., the wider his search will become and the safer we will be.
Which all means one thing: I’ve got to continue driving as far and as fast as I can, and avoid anywhere someone could recognize us: hotels, gas stations, roadside shops. Blackwell might have alerted the police that his son was missing. I wonder how long it will be before he finds Miles’s car and discovers that I swapped it for this truck. The dirt bike guy obviously knew our exchange was fishy, and he has plenty of other cars to drive. Maybe he’s hidden it away for a while. I can only hope.
I crumple up the Pop-Tart package, glance over at Miles’s sleeping form, and press my foot to the gas pedal.
14
MILES
I AWAKE TO THE SOUND OF FLOWING WATER AND the smell of grilled meat. My eyes scan the tree cover above me. Beyond the branches the stars are so bright they look fake—like I fell asleep in a planetarium. I brush back the blanket spread over me, lift my hand to rub the sleep from my eyes, and sit up to look around. And then it clicks: I’m moving. I’m no longer paralyzed!
Juneau sits a few yards away, studying the atlas next to a fire over which a line of dead animals are strung on a spit. And this time, I don’t even care about the carnage. I’m so hungry I’d eat whatever it is raw. I test my legs, drawing them up to my chest and laugh from sheer joy when they actually work.
Juneau glances over at me, and then does a double take. “You’re awake . . . and you’re moving!” she exclaims, and leaving the fire, jogs over to me. “Do you think you can stand?”
“Only one way to find out,” I say, and taking her hand, let her haul me up to my feet.
“After only two and a half days of death-sleep and you’re standing!” she says, and then as I slump back to the ground remarks, “make that were standing.”
“My legs are on fire!” I gasp, rubbing my burning thighs.
“That’s normal,” she says smiling as she expertly kneads my stinging calf muscles. “You’ve got poor circulation from not moving for so long. You’ll be fine in a few minutes. Hungry?”
“I could eat a horse,” I say, and then glance cautiously at the mystery meat over the fire. “Um, I don’t mean that literally.”
Juneau looks back at the spit and laughs. “They’re doves. Enough for both of us. Well, if you’re hungry, then your death-sleep is definitely over. Welcome back to the world of the living.”
I look down and touch the bullet hole in my side. It’s already healed. All that’s left is an angry red scar. Juneau had abandoned her masseuse duties to tend the fire. “I sure am glad to be back. It’s thanks to you,” I say.
She picks up the spit, turns it, and positions it back over the flames. “You wouldn’t have actually gotten shot in the first place if you hadn’t met me,” she remarks, avoiding my gaze.
“That’s true,” I say, and she looks quickly up at me. “You’re a very dangerous person to be around, Juneau Newhaven. But do you see me running away?” I grin and wait for her to return my smile before changing the subject. I point to a brand-new crossbow lying on the ground next to the fire. “Did you just make that?” I ask.
Juneau’s words come from outside the warm, still place I’m sinking into: “Old Miles, new-and-improved Miles, it doesn’t make a difference—I’m just glad you’re here.”
13
JUNEAU
AS I EXPLAINED TO MILES, MY CLANSPEOPLE barely wake during their death-sleep. So when he reenters his death-sleep, it isn’t like he’s merely nodding off. It’s more like he’s sucked into a vortex of unconsciousness. This reassures me. He’s not as much an anomaly as he fears—the other Rite-travelers were never on the run during their transition. That must explain the different reaction.
Miles doesn’t even budge when I get out to fill the tank and use the gas station restroom. I wear my sunglasses to hide my starburst, but the woman behind the counter is watching TV and doesn’t even notice me.
Back in the truck, I dig through our supplies for any remaining food, and am forced to throw out several bars of melted chocolate and some cheese that went bad in the swelter of the desert sun. I move the bottles of water behind the seat to keep them as cool as possible, and put what remains beside me: two apples and a pack of chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts. Not the most nutritious meal I’ve ever eaten, but all the gas station had was candy and I don’t have time to hunt.
I slip a Pop-Tart out of its package and munch on it as I reassess our situation. There are two things that concern me: how fast Whit will get out of the hospital, and how far Blackwell’s men will chase us.
I sift through the facts. Whit can track me by Reading. But he doesn’t trust his guards. In Salt Lake City, he slipped the fragment of the New Mexico map to me without them seeing. And his shocked reaction when one of them shot Miles is another indication that he’s not completely in charge. Although Whit knows I’m heading for New Mexico, his guards don’t. And if he doesn’t trust them, I don’t think he’d set them loose on me if he’s not there. Until he’s out of the hospital, they are not a factor I need to consider.
As for Mr. Blackwell, if he was so upset about Whit disappearing before they could make a deal, he must not know about the kidnappers. He wouldn’t be aware of where my clan is being held. Therefore he has no idea which direction I’m heading. The farther Miles and I get from L.A., the wider his search will become and the safer we will be.
Which all means one thing: I’ve got to continue driving as far and as fast as I can, and avoid anywhere someone could recognize us: hotels, gas stations, roadside shops. Blackwell might have alerted the police that his son was missing. I wonder how long it will be before he finds Miles’s car and discovers that I swapped it for this truck. The dirt bike guy obviously knew our exchange was fishy, and he has plenty of other cars to drive. Maybe he’s hidden it away for a while. I can only hope.
I crumple up the Pop-Tart package, glance over at Miles’s sleeping form, and press my foot to the gas pedal.
14
MILES
I AWAKE TO THE SOUND OF FLOWING WATER AND the smell of grilled meat. My eyes scan the tree cover above me. Beyond the branches the stars are so bright they look fake—like I fell asleep in a planetarium. I brush back the blanket spread over me, lift my hand to rub the sleep from my eyes, and sit up to look around. And then it clicks: I’m moving. I’m no longer paralyzed!
Juneau sits a few yards away, studying the atlas next to a fire over which a line of dead animals are strung on a spit. And this time, I don’t even care about the carnage. I’m so hungry I’d eat whatever it is raw. I test my legs, drawing them up to my chest and laugh from sheer joy when they actually work.
Juneau glances over at me, and then does a double take. “You’re awake . . . and you’re moving!” she exclaims, and leaving the fire, jogs over to me. “Do you think you can stand?”
“Only one way to find out,” I say, and taking her hand, let her haul me up to my feet.
“After only two and a half days of death-sleep and you’re standing!” she says, and then as I slump back to the ground remarks, “make that were standing.”
“My legs are on fire!” I gasp, rubbing my burning thighs.
“That’s normal,” she says smiling as she expertly kneads my stinging calf muscles. “You’ve got poor circulation from not moving for so long. You’ll be fine in a few minutes. Hungry?”
“I could eat a horse,” I say, and then glance cautiously at the mystery meat over the fire. “Um, I don’t mean that literally.”
Juneau looks back at the spit and laughs. “They’re doves. Enough for both of us. Well, if you’re hungry, then your death-sleep is definitely over. Welcome back to the world of the living.”
I look down and touch the bullet hole in my side. It’s already healed. All that’s left is an angry red scar. Juneau had abandoned her masseuse duties to tend the fire. “I sure am glad to be back. It’s thanks to you,” I say.
She picks up the spit, turns it, and positions it back over the flames. “You wouldn’t have actually gotten shot in the first place if you hadn’t met me,” she remarks, avoiding my gaze.
“That’s true,” I say, and she looks quickly up at me. “You’re a very dangerous person to be around, Juneau Newhaven. But do you see me running away?” I grin and wait for her to return my smile before changing the subject. I point to a brand-new crossbow lying on the ground next to the fire. “Did you just make that?” I ask.
