“In your grandmother’s legend about the wolf, the life force the prophetess used was her own blood. So that’s what your mother used when we made the first batch of Amrit. And for every batch afterward. No one else’s blood worked.”
In my mind, it’s as if a stone dislodges from the base of a river-dam. As my thoughts come together, the dam cracks and realization comes flooding through. Her blood. My blood. The reason she and I were the only ones to give the Rite. But as I begin to understand, a host of new questions arises.
My father watches as I grasp the meaning of what he’s saying. He waits until he thinks I’m ready, then continues. “We tried the Amrit on animals, and then on ourselves. And we ran as many tests as we could to try to pinpoint what was different about your mother’s blood from every other sample. That was before we discovered the ocular mutation and the deceleration of aging on test animals, which is when we decided to flee—in order to protect our discovery from the outside world. Once in Alaska, we had none of our equipment to continue the blood-type experiments.
“However, when you were little, your mother took a sample of your blood to see if you too had the ability to ‘bring the Amrit to life,’ as she called it. You did.”
“That’s why Whit always had me prepare the elixir for the Rite?” I ask.
“Yes—you were the key to the Amrit. Without your mother . . . without you . . . it wouldn’t have worked.”
Dad’s eyes are empty. I can tell he has been over and over this story in his mind, planning how he would explain it to me one day. “How could Whit think he could sell a drug that needs one person’s blood?” I ask.
“I think he figured that if he brought it to a buyer with enough funding, they would be able to run tests on your blood and find a working alternative that could be manufactured.”
I don’t even know what to say. I just sit and let the pieces try to sort themselves into something recognizable. Something sane.
“What would the clan have done if I died, too—like Mom did? Would the formula for Amrit die with me?” I ask.
“Unless you had a daughter of your own, I suppose,” my father says, smiling sadly.
That little bit of information finally tips the scales, and I am no longer able to think. I lie back on the ground and stare at the ceiling.
“What are you feeling, Junebug?” my father asks.
“Used. Lied to. Confused.”
My father is silent. He doesn’t try to explain any further, and I am thankful. Nothing he can say will make me feel better. Nothing he can do will erase the last seventeen years of my life. I wish I could talk to my mother. The same blood flowed through her veins. And she took that blood and made it into something she thought could save the world . . . until she realized that it had the potential to destroy it.
I hear the crunching of tires on the dirt road outside, and Whit’s voice calling my name. I stand and walk to the door of my father’s hut. Whit sits behind the wheel of a huge monster of a truck-like vehicle, while two of the armed guards step out.
I turn to my father, who has risen to stand behind me. “Keep these for me,” I say, glancing at the corner where I stashed my pack and crossbow.
“You don’t have to go with Whit,” he says.
“I’m the life of the clan. Literally,” I say, and though I want to reassure him that I still love him, I can’t bring myself to speak the words.
I step outside the door and squint into the blinding beams of the headlights. I lift my empty hands in the air and, staring straight at Whit, say, “You wanted me? Here I am.”
34
MILES
I ARRIVE AT THE EDGE OF THE TREES AND FIND myself on a hill overlooking the Avery ranch. From where I lie, I have a side view of the mansion and the guards’ barracks behind. Between me and the estate is a fence that’s about half the height of the one around the perimeter, and not nearly as scary looking. I can’t tell if it’s electrified or not.
The river runs along one side of the property, and disappears off into the distance. In spite of the moonlight, I can’t see much. Though the buildings are lit up, the rest of the estate is draped in darkness.
This hill provides such a good vantage point that I decide to stay and watch for a while—to see if anyone’s coming and going, and basically get a feel for the place.
I wonder how Juneau’s doing. Where she is. I’m betting she went straight to her clan, but have no clue what her next step will be. She didn’t seem to know either—at least the last time we talked.
I unstrap the tent bag from my back and lie down on my stomach. Taking out one of the rabbit legs, I wash it down with the rest of the bottle of water. I only have one bottle left, but am not worried. Maybe I’ll sneak down to the river later tonight and refill.
So I’ve got my plan for staying hydrated, I think. How about one for deciding my next move?