There are several campfires burning in the valley, and as we swoop down we smell the smoke through our beak, and feel the air separating our feathers for landing. We alight in the middle of an encampment of adobe huts, just as a huge vehicle with a blinding row of headlights pulls up to one of the huts. Juneau is in the doorway, and our heartbeat speeds up as we see her. She’s the goal. She’s what we flew here for.
But then she gets into the truck and drives away, and we are once more in the air, following her trail. When we arrive at the big white mansion, we spot Juneau following Whit into the house. We cannot follow. We get ready to peck on one of the windows, but then something else catches our attention. It’s like a glow—like a warmth inside our breast, and it’s coming from atop a nearby hill. We fly toward it, and once in the trees, we see Miles . . . me . . . standing mere yards away from a tiger. The tiger pounces, and we dive, flapping our wings in its face, distracting it while Miles runs away.
The tiger swipes at us, but we are too fast, and fly up to perch in a tree above. The tiger sniffs the air and growls in frustration before turning around and pacing back to the tree where its two cubs wait. We fly after Miles until we find him here, sitting in the road, and here I come, back up to the surface of the vision. The buzzing in my arms gets lighter, and here I am holding a bird and feeling this amazing feeling because . . . I was flying! I, Miles Blackwell, was up in the air, soaring over the earth.
I jump up and whoop. Poe flaps away, and then turns and peers at me like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s seen in a long time. “I know. I’ve changed. I’m like Juneau and her people now. All Yarafied and immortal and shit,” I explain.
I pull my bag up over my shoulders, and make the clicking noise that I heard Juneau use with Poe so that he’ll follow me. He flaps up and lands on my shoulder, digging his talons into my shirt to keep his balance.
I talk to him as we start toward the mansion. “So, you only came to me because I’m your sloppy seconds, huh? No offense taken. Let’s go find your first choice.”
37
JUNEAU
AVERY PICKS UP A PHONE. “GLORIA, WE’VE GOT A mess to clean up in the cryo room,” he says, listens for a second, and then yells, “For God’s sake, you can leave the damn kid for fifteen minutes. He’s not going to self-destruct if someone’s not watching him twenty-four/seven. And on your way down, tell O’Donnell and Nursall to get in here.”
He hangs up and, yanking a white towel from a drawer, hands it to me, scowling. “Clean yourself up, Miss Newhaven. We’ve got work to do.”
There is a knock on the door, and a man in a blue jeans and a checked cotton shirt walks in.
“There you are, Dr. Canfield,” Avery says, marching up to him and shaking his hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
Avery turns to me. “My trusted medical advisor dropped what he was doing in Roswell and rushed on over as soon as we knew you were over the fence. See how important you are to us?”
The man gives us a little bow, grabs a white jacket off a peg on the wall and pulls it on over his clothes.
“Now let me make introductions. This here is Dr. Whittier Graves,” says Avery, slinging an arm around Whit’s shoulders like he owns him. Which he does. “Graves was involved in the creation of the drug I have told you about. However, he is not a medical doctor, are you, Graves?”
“Philosophy,” Whit says.
“He is the person who administered the drug to the members of his community, along with the indispensable assistance of this young lady, Miss Juneau Newhaven.”
The door opens and in walks a middle-aged woman wearing a white uniform and carrying a roll of paper and a spray bottle. As she mops up my vomit, she glances up and holds my gaze for a couple of weighted seconds. And then, as quickly as she arrived, she’s gone. All the while, Avery continues talking as if she’s not there.
“So, friends, as of this moment”—he looks up at a clock on the wall—“ten thirty p.m., on Thursday, May ninth, everyone in this room is entering a contract situation. I would say it was legally binding, but that’s not how I tend to do things. I prefer to handle compliance to terms myself. So let me explain things as clearly as I can so that everyone understands what they’re agreeing to.
“This is the drug that Mr. Graves approached me with, hoping to make a deal with me for an amount that I will not disclose.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a tray containing several plastic bags and vials. I recognize them immediately: They are the ingredients for the Amrit.