I AM BACK IN THE DREAM I HAD WHEN I SLEPT IN my car in the desert near Vegas. Juneau stands before me in a snowy landscape, dressed head to toe in skins and furs. Her long black hair cascades over her shoulders halfway down her back. The small box she holds out toward me spills golden light that bonds with my skin, starting with my feet and inching up my body as the molten metal burns its way to my bones. I can’t move—I’m paralyzed.
“Juneau!” I cry, wanting her to close the box and turn off the lavalike liquid gold, but she just smiles at me. She is beautiful. Serene. “You are one with the Yara,” she says as the gold reaches my neck and begins strangling the life out of me.
I ignite. I am a burning effigy of myself, and the snow around me melts from the heat I send off. Juneau, cheeks flaring pink in the heat of my flames, leans in slowly until her lips meet mine. I disperse into a million tiny sparks and fly upward to join my light with those of the stars.
That’s where the dream ended last time. But now, the sparks stop and begin rushing back downward, fitting themselves together like a puzzle until I am standing there once again, whole, golden. And then the light fades and I regain my normal color and Juneau takes my hands and begins laughing. “You’re like us now,” she says. “Your life is the earth’s, and earth will preserve you. You’re Gaia’s own child—protected from illness.”
I look down at my hands—at my arms—and see the elements. I am made of water. Of earth and air and fire. I am no longer myself.
And upon that thought, I awake. I open my eyes and see a million stars scattered across the night sky above me. I try to lift my hand . . . to see if the dream was nightmare or reality . . . but can only move my fingers.
And then I remember. I died. And Juneau brought me back. I am struck by a wave of panic. What exactly have I become? Am I even human anymore? How do I know that Juneau’s Rite had the same effect on me that it did on her clan? I’m not a hippy. I’m not an environmentalist. I haven’t grown up talking to plants and seeing into the future.
It’s Juneau, my heart reminds me. The girl you gave up everything to run off with. The girl you . . . care for, more than you’ve ever cared for anyone else. If you can’t trust her, who can you trust?
And though I feel like I’m suffocating in fear and uncertainty, long fingers of sleep grab at me and begin pulling me under. I have one last thought before unconsciousness overtakes me. I am no longer what I was before.
11
JUNEAU
I AWAKE TO THE BUZZING OF BEES. SWATTING THE air around my head, I force open my sleepy eyes to a melon-colored sky. I sit up and see that it is dawn. The sun is barely visible behind the far-off horizon.
I have fallen asleep next to the now-cold fire. On the ground beside me is a pile of wood shavings and four smoothly carved pieces of wood, each gouged with a notch that will allow them to fit together to make two crossbows. They are almost as pretty as my last one, but have yet to be fitted with string, mirror, and spare parts carved out of bone, repair essentials that I always carry with me. I have a small arsenal of wooden bolts in my backpack. We won’t be weaponless for long.
The buzzing sound is fading, but now it alternates with a mechanical puttering noise. Could it be a motorbike? Something like the desert-ready motorcycles owned by the man who traded cars with me? I turn in a circle, scanning the horizon. And then I see it. A small airplane heading north. Although too far to have spotted us, it’s close enough for me to see the symbol painted on its tail: a black circle enclosing the letters BP, and between them a stick with a serpent wrapped around it. Ice flows through my veins as I recognize the logo of Blackwell Pharmaceutical—the same one that marked the airplane I was kidnapped in, the car I was driven in, and the building I was brought to against my will.
I prop myself up to see over the side of the truck. Miles is asleep under the blanket I draped over him last night. I shake him gently. “Miles?” I ask.
His eyelids flutter and open. He rolls his head toward me, and his groggy expression turns to one of alarm when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“We need to move,” I say. “A Blackwell Pharmaceutical plane just flew past. They were headed northward. But if they’re combing the park for us, they’ll be back soon, and might spot us this time.”
Miles clenches his hands into fists and strains as he lifts his head slightly off the truck bed. He holds the position for a second and then, groaning, eases his head back down. “I still can’t move,” he says.
“I could camouflage us,” I say, “but if they’re focusing on this area, I’ll have to either keep it up for hours or turn it off and on every time we hear them coming. And what we really need is to get out of here.”