Until the Beginning

Whit shakes his head.

 

“Then no,” the rancher says. “I want conditions to be the same as they are for you. Can’t take the risk that one small change might mess up the whole process.”

 

Whit can’t help but look at me at this point.

 

“But all of the conditions aren’t the same,” I find myself saying.

 

“What’s different?” Avery says, crooking his neck so that he can see me.

 

I pause and glance at Whit, whose face is a blank page. “We surround the head with candles and prepare the body with minerals, herbs, and precious stones. We sing, and the children dance,” I say. “Vows are taken, and sacred words are spoken.”

 

“Yeah, well, I know a sacred word, too. ‘Bullshit.’ That’s what you and your clan have been swallowing along with your priceless elixir for the last three decades. Whit here told me the whole story. You all served as a field trial for the drug, and like with any religion, your leader kept you pacified by lies and spiritual juju.”

 

I turn to Whit, who is rubbing his forehead with his fingers. Once again, I want to slap him halfway to Antarctica, but that would give Avery the pleasure of knowing he had upset me. I fight to pull a blank expression over my shock and turn to leave.

 

“Where you think you’re going?” my assigned guard, O’Donnell, grunts.

 

“My job’s over. And your boss said something about food.”

 

“No one’s leaving until I say they are!” Avery bellows, and the electronic beeping kicks up a notch as the doctor tells him to calm down.

 

I have to leave this room. I can’t stand being this close to Whit anymore without wanting to hurt him. I eye the scalpel that Whit used to cut my palm—it’s lying on the counter where he left it. Since I abandoned my crossbow and knife in my dad’s hut, everything has looked like a weapon to me—the silver tongs Avery used to pick up ice, the metal poker standing next to the fake fireplace in the trophy room—everything sharp or heavy or potentially lethal has been calling out to me.

 

Being unarmed in this situation reminds me of the defenselessness I felt in my old nightmares about surprise brigand attacks. But in those dreams I found the closest weapon I could and fought them. I don’t have that option now. Because Avery has a hostage, and I don’t dare do a thing until I know Badger is safely back with his family.

 

But that doesn’t mean the scalpel can’t come in handy later on. I lean back against the counter, positioning myself directly in front of the instrument, and slide my arm back toward it. My eyes flicker to the guards. O’Donnell watches me with a smirk on his face.

 

Just then Avery lets out an anguished cry, and the guards are on their feet, looking his way. I grab the scalpel, retract its blade, and slip it into my back pocket. By the time O’Donnell looks back at me, the deed is done, and I’m making my way to Avery’s side. He’s holding his stomach and cursing loudly, using word combinations I never knew existed.

 

“Stomach pain is a typical reaction to the drug,” Whit reassures him as the beeping noise and wavy lines go berserk. My old mentor looks back at me with a question on his face, and I shake my head. He knows I can ease the pain. But he’d have to shoot me to get me to do it. The song I sing while I’m in my trance, the way I touch the person’s face, arms, and feet, the aromatic plants I hold under their nose—they all help to ease the suffering. But if Avery says he doesn’t want any juju, well, by Gaia I’m not going to give it to him.

 

Retreating to a corner of the room, I sit on the floor and glance up at the clock. Avery’s got a good half hour of intense pain before him, and I feel like enjoying every minute of it. I lay my head against the wall and close my eyes and think about Miles back at our camp at the top of the mountain. I hope he’s forgiven me for leaving him behind. He’s probably fast asleep, snuggled under the blanket on the tent floor. What I wouldn’t give to be back there with him, just for a moment.

 

 

 

 

 

40

 

 

MILES

 

 

CROUCHING IN THE DARKNESS OF THE PORCH, I peer through a window that looks into an office. Everything is made of wood and leather: The room is like a set for Masterpiece Theatre. For a minute, I’m tempted to break in and use the phone or even the computer sitting on the leather-topped desk. If I could reach the police I could tell them what was happening, but what would I even say? That a crazy rancher has kidnapped forty-odd people and is keeping them hostage on his exotic-animal gaming reserve?

 

The police probably already know Avery, and would laugh it off. Hell, he probably owns the local precinct anyway.

 

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