“If I have to choose from fuzzy woodland creatures, then that rabbit the first night was pretty good,” I say, still feeling squeamish about shooting my dinner. Although it’s nothing like my nausea when I saw Juneau with the dead rabbit on Mount Rainier.
“Okay,” she says. “Follow me.” Juneau shows me how to walk silently, avoiding small branches and anything else that makes noise. We pass squirrels, birds, even a snake slithering its way across the leaf-lined ground, and none of them notice us. Finally she stops and nods toward a large brown rabbit. She raises the crossbow, squeezes the trigger, and the rabbit is instantly lying motionless on its side. She runs over and pulls the bolt out. I hear her murmur a few words to the animal as I walk up behind her.
“What did you say to it?” I ask.
“I thanked it for giving its life to feed us,” she responds simply. “It’s a part of the cycle of life. Energy from the earth passes from it to us as we consume it.”
“Do you thank the plants you eat?” I ask.
“No, silly,” she says. “Plants can’t hear.”
“And dead rabbits can,” I counter. But she just smiles, like it’s something I’ll understand one day, and as usual, I can’t help smiling back. Juneau kills one more rabbit, and like the first, hands it to me to carry. I hold the soft corpses by the scruff of the neck as we make our way back to the camp, careful not to look at them so Juneau doesn’t see how uncomfortable I am. Of course, I’m a total hypocrite, eating meat without thinking about where it comes from since I was a kid. But even knowing this, I can’t bring myself to watch as Juneau takes the bowie knife and skins and skewers them, and busy myself with building the fire instead.
After dinner, we sit silently in the light of the fire. Dusk has just begun to fall, the air darkening into that indigo haze that my mom always used to call “blue o’clock,” when all of a sudden Juneau sits upright, her face shifting from relaxed to alert. “Don’t move,” she whispers as she reaches for the crossbow.
I don’t see or hear anything. And then—from the woods in front of us—a twig snaps, and a dark silhouette materializes through the trees.
“I don’t have a weapon,” a voice calls.
“Well, I do, and I won’t hesitate to use it,” says Juneau, peering along the top of her loaded crossbow.
A man steps into the clearing, his face flickering orange in the firelight. He holds his hands up in an I’m-unarmed gesture.
“You,” Juneau spits, her face as hard as stone.
“Juneau,” Whit says. “Finally. I’m so glad you’re here.”
23
JUNEAU
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” I ASK, CROSSBOW glued to my shoulder.
“I just want to talk,” Whit says. “No one knows I’m here. I haven’t told anyone you’re here either.” I wait, motionless, until he shuffles forward uncomfortably. “May I sit down?” he asks.
“Do what you want,” I say, keeping my fingers on the trigger as he lowers his hands and walks carefully to sit across the fire from me. Wincing, he eases himself into a sitting position.
He is wearing new clothes: a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved collared shirt. There are bandages on his arms, and now that he’s closer, I see a long cut across his forehead, sewn up with at least a dozen stitches.
“Juneau, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.
“You already have,” I say, and there’s so much hatred in my voice I can practically see my words take form in a violent red cloud.
Whit nods, like he agrees with me, then glances over at Miles. “I’d rather we talk alone,” he says.
“Miles isn’t going anywhere,” I respond. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of him.”
“Why? Because you’ve already told him about us? It seems I’m not the only one who has shared our secrets with the outside world,” Whit says, looking wry.
“Our secrets aren’t the only thing I’ve shared,” I say. “Your friend almost killed Miles—would have killed him, if I hadn’t given him the Rite.”
“You gave . . . ?” The color drains from Whit’s face, and for a second he loses his carefully guarded control and gapes at Miles. “That makes Miles the first person outside of our clan to take . . . the Rite.”
“You mean Amrit,” I say.
“Yes,” Whit concedes, still gaping at Miles in shock. “But that was just three days ago. He’s already recovered enough to walk around? Have you seen any other unfamiliar results or side effects?”
“You’ve had a whole clan to use as guinea pigs,” I say. “Now get to the point.”
Whit frowns and crosses his arms. “I’m only interested in him for his own sake.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “Hands by your sides.” Whit puts his hands back on the ground.
“Take this,” I say, passing the crossbow to Miles, “and shoot him if he moves.”
“Is that really necessary?” Whit looks amused, like he thinks this whole thing is a joke.
“Completely,” I respond, as Miles faces Whit and props the loaded crossbow on his knee. “Now talk.”