What have I got to work with? A crossbow, a map, a flashlight, and a lighter. Oh, and a towel. Fat lot of good that’s going to do me.
What else do I have? I hear a flapping noise and Poe lands on the porch three feet above me. He perches on the edge, peering down at me as if to say, “What the hell are you doing down there?”
Okay . . . I’ve got a raven. And—oh, right, I almost forgot—I’m magic. Not that I know what I can do with that besides figure out how a certain girl is feeling, see visions in fire, and read a bird’s mind.
I close my eyes and try to let go . . . to dislodge the panic inside me. What good is being able to communicate with all of nature if I can’t even beam a message to Juneau? I have a huge beef with Gaia, or whoever it is who came up with the Yara rules.
After a while, I calm down enough to feel twigs sticking into my back, smell the piney scent of whatever kind of bush I’m lying under, and hear mean-sounding rough-guy laughter coming from the guards’ barracks. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I raise my head cautiously to have a look around.
The front of the house is lined with windows, most of which are lit up from the inside. Besides the porch light, there are no outdoor lights, so feasibly I could see in without the people inside seeing me, unless I got too close. But that damned porch light pretty much ruins that plan.
Then all of a sudden, I remember Juneau’s electronics-frying trick. She said she imagined heat or fire or something in order to fry my phone. And then she imagined moisture to flood the spark plugs on my car. A lightbulb must fit into the “fry-able” category. Might as well give it a shot.
I peer up at the bulb, visible inside its glass fixture. In my mind I focus on the filament, fragile and thin like a thread. And as I slow my breath and feel the buzz of the Yara kick in, I imagine a flame underneath it, heating it, messing with the electrical current. I keep this up until—pop—the filament explodes and the light is suddenly extinguished.
No. Way.
I can’t believe I just detonated a lightbulb with mere thoughts. It might sound ridiculous, but I suddenly feel all-powerful. I could join the X-Men. Like SuperNatureGuy. Or the Yara Avenger.
And then I stop. I realize what I’ve just done. Yes, I plugged into the Yara to Read Juneau’s emotions, to Read what the ranch looked like in the campfire, and to Read Poe’s memory. But what I just did doesn’t fit under the category of Reading. I just Conjured. I “manipulated nature,” as Juneau described it. And from what she said, only she, her mom, and Whit were able to do that.
Oh my God, I can Conjure, I think with amazement. That means I must have a whole arsenal of weapons at my disposal. If I just knew what they were. What did Juneau Conjure? The cell phone fry, the levitating rocks, turning invisible, she got Poe to do stuff for her, too . . . what else? I can’t remember. But I’m buzzing with excitement and fear and awe and don’t know if the tingling all over my body is the Yara or a huge adrenaline rush owing to the fact that the rules of nature no longer apply to me.
No time to think about it now. Juneau’s been in the house for about an hour, and I need to find out if a diversion’s going to help her or hurt her. It’s time to find out just what Avery’s doing in there.
I jump up to the now-dark porch and begin the surveillance phase of my not-quite-yet-a-plan.
39
JUNEAU
“THAT IS ONE NASTY-LOOKING CONCOCTION,” says Avery, glancing with disgust at the spoonful of the Rite elixir . . . Amrit. “But, hell, I figure I’ve eaten every kind of wild animal hunted by man; a little girl’s blood mixed with rocks and plants won’t kill me. At least not permanently.” He chuckles at his joke.
Whit hands him a glass of water, and Avery raises it like he’s making a toast. “Well, here goes everything,” he says. “Bottom’s up!” He sticks the spoon of elixir in his mouth, swallows every last drop, and then follows it quickly with the glass of water. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down as he drinks the whole glass, and then holds it back up to Whit for a refill.
“That stuff’s downright vile,” he says, wiping his mouth with his arm and making a face like he’s bitten a sour apple. “And you got every single person in your clan to take it?”
“Every person over twenty,” Whit confirms.
“Well, here’s to you,” Avery says, and drinks down the second glass of water. He hands Whit the glass, and then lies back down on the bed, while the doctor fiddles with the devices attached to the billionaire rancher. There are silver disks attached to wires stuck all over his chest, head, arms, and legs, and a black cuff around his arm. These are all connected to machines that are beeping and making up-and-down lines that measure, I suppose, Avery’s blood pressure, heart rate, and other vital signs.
“Do you want me to give you something for pain or nausea?” the doctor asks.
Avery turns the question on Whit. “Do your people take anything?”