“And what would that change if we stuck together?” Miles asks.
“I can hide myself with Conjuring. I could even hide both of us, like I did from your dad and his men while you were in the death-sleep. But if you’re on the other side of the ranch, I won’t be able to protect you.”
Miles pauses. “It’s too bad I can’t camouflage myself,” he says, and looks strangely uncomfortable.
“That’s Conjuring,” I say softly. “You don’t even know how to Read. Like I said, it’s not like it comes automatically once you’ve gone through the Rite. It’s a part of a way of thinking. Of living.”
“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I just thought I felt something while you were gone. It probably wasn’t anything.”
My silence speaks my opinion on that. Miles shrugs and tries to look nonchalant. “Okay,” he says, and thrusting his fists into his pockets, walks away toward the ridge. I follow him to the top of the ridge, where he stops and looks out over the desert. I put an arm around his back and lean my head lightly against his arm.
“You’re bothered about the is-Yara-religion-or-is-it-magic issue, aren’t you? About how it’s going to affect you.”
Miles doesn’t answer.
“Do you wish I hadn’t given you the Rite?” I ask.
He looks up and watches a hawk fly in slow, looping circles as it searches the ground for prey. “I’m glad I’m not dead,” he answers.
“You don’t have to be like us, Miles,” I say. “You can go back to California and live an extremely long life, aging imperceptibly for eons—as long as you don’t get in the way of any speeding cars or bullets.” I keep my eyes on the hawk. Sometimes it’s easier to say something you don’t like when you don’t have to watch the listener’s reaction.
“No, I can’t, Juneau,” he says, touching my arm and turning me to look at him. There’s pain in his eyes, but along with it is a defensiveness I haven’t seen for a while. “And even if I wanted to, I would have to move on a regular basis. People would notice after a while when I don’t age. I would have to live like a nomad: setting up my life in one place, and being forced to leave once things looked suspicious . . . like every ten or twenty years. What kind of life would that be?”
“Some would think it was pretty amazing. Think of how many different lives you could live. How many places you’d see and professions you could have.” But I know as I speak that he’s not going to accept it. He hasn’t had enough time to think things through. To get used to the repercussions of what he is. For me, it was always an inevitable part of life in my clan: a state I wanted to enter.
I see Miles’s jaw clench as he deflects my words, refusing to let them sink in. There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better right now. But there is something I can do to distract him. I squeeze his hand. “Feel like joining me for another round of target practice?”
“Now?” he asks, inching out of his dark mood. “Shouldn’t we be getting ready to leave?”
“No, I think we should stay here tonight and leave in the morning. I want to try to get a message to my father before we get any closer. And you could use another night of rest to recover from your death-sleep. Plus, it would make me feel better if you get some more practice in before you have to actually use your weapon. If we’re going up against a man with an army,” I continue, “we better be able to defend ourselves.”
The corners of Miles’s lips barely move, but the pain in his eyes has disappeared. “As long as we stick with targets that aren’t cute and furry,” he says.
“Inanimate objects only—at least for you,” I promise, and loop my arm through his as we turn and walk back to camp.
22
MILES
“MILES, I SHOWED YOU THIS YESTERDAY. TWICE. You were doing just fine then.” Juneau looks at me, confused.
“I know, but I just like hearing you explain things. It’s that bossy tone you get when you tell me what to do that just . . . drives me wild.”
She grins and rolls her eyes. “Use the pull cord to cock back the bowstring,” she says, showing me once again how to stretch the braided string back until it is tight.
I don’t want to admit that I wasn’t listening the first two times because of the way she was standing, her chest pressed closely to my back as she showed me how to hold the weapon.
“That’s right,” she says. “You loop it around this peg, the nut, which holds it in place.”
I try not to get distracted again by her being basically wrapped around me, one hand holding the crossbow under mine and the other around my shoulder as I kneel with one leg on the ground. I can’t imagine target practice has been this sexy. For anyone. Ever.
“Now you fit the bolt in,” she continues, handing me one of her super-sharp carved wooden arrows.