Avery steps out from behind the curtain wearing paper clothes: blue pants and a short-sleeved shirt. He notices my stare-down with the guard. “Ah yes. You recognize Mr. O’Donnell, Juneau. I thought since you were already acquainted, I would ask him to be your personal escort.”
O’Donnell’s lips curl into a cruel smile. But Whit interrupts this tender moment by calling my name. I walk over to see what he wants. “It’s time, Juneau. Remember, you’re doing this for your clan.” He pauses and, for the first time today, he looks me in the eyes.
“Give me your hand,” he says, and picks up a scalpel.
38
MILES
THE NIGHT IS SO DARK THAT I TAKE MY CHANCES on someone driving up behind me and walk in the middle of the road. At least I’ll have some hope of spotting a dangerous predator before it has a chance to attack. Poe grips my left shoulder as we walk, and his raven talons pinch enough to give me a double dose of alertness.
It takes us around twenty minutes to get to the fence, and probably another fifteen minutes of walking back and forth along it before I decide it’s electrified. The part that crosses the road looks like a swinging gate, and a yard or so in front of it is a pole with an intercom.
I’m a good way off the road, trying to see if there are any trees close enough to the gate that I might be able to climb over (there aren’t), when I see headlights coming. Poe flaps down from my shoulder as I duck behind some undergrowth to hide. A car pulls up to the intercom. The window comes down, and the driver pushes a button. “Yes?” a tinny voice says.
“Dr. Canfield,” the driver answers, and the gate swings slowly open. This is my chance, I think, as I sprint toward the gate, hunching over as I get near. The car is waiting for the gate to open wide enough, and I scramble up behind its back bumper as it begins to drive through. Staying low, I follow it through the gate, and immediately head for some trees off to my right. I hide there and watch the car pull into a parking garage. The driver gets out and jogs over to the front door, letting himself in without knocking or ringing a bell. The good doctor has obviously been here before.
I judge the distance between myself and the house, and secure my crossbow for another run. Since my face-to-face with the tiger, I’ve kept it slung across my back. This time I’ll be ready if something or someone attacks. But I wonder if I will actually be able to shoot a person, if things really come down to it. I remember how Juneau aimed for the guards’ arms back in Salt Lake City, and reassure myself that I would be capable of shooting if I weren’t aiming to kill. But honestly, unless someone was attacking me, I’m not sure I could even go that far.
I’ve been in one fight in my entire life, and that was when I saw one of my middle-school friends get punched by a bully. I remember the rage I felt—the blinding red fury that came over me at the big-kid-hurting-little-kid injustice of it. If I can channel that, then I might be able to shoot someone. These people are keeping Juneau’s clan captive, and the guns they’re toting make my crossbow look like a slingshot. They’re the big kids, and I’m definitely the little kid in this case. Even so, I think I’ll opt for hiding as my first line of defense.
There is a light on over the mansion’s front porch. A decorative fountain the size of one of those aboveground swimming pools sits lit up in the middle of the drive, a massive sculpture of two stags fighting perched in the middle. The road winds in a circle around it. I make my way toward the fountain, scrambling from tree to tree, until all that’s left between me and it are a few yards of grass.
I take the last stretch standing up, running as if my life depends on it, which, in fact, it does. Because just before I reach it, two guards walk around the side of the house from the barracks. I hit the ground and crawl the last yard, then crouch behind the outer rim of the fountain, which is just tall enough to hide me. I wait, wondering if they saw me, until I hear the front door slam. After a few seconds I inch my head up to see the coast is clear. I scramble to my feet and crouch-run the rest of the way to my destination: the thick hedges that border the front porch. There’s just enough room for me between the hedge and the porch, and I wedge myself in and lie down.
My heart feels like it’s going to pound its way right out of my chest. For the first time I seriously doubt the wisdom of this rescue mission. If those guys had seen me hiding behind the fountain, they could have walked right over and filled me full of bullets. And—bam—I would be dead. After days of angsting about my immortality, I’m suddenly wishing that the Rite had given me bulletproof skin as well.
The night isn’t cold, but I’m shaking from my second near-death experience of the day. Who do I think I am, anyway, to think I can take on someone’s private army?
Stop! I command myself. I can’t keep thinking like this, or I’m going to psych myself out. And what good’s that going to do me?