“Yes, they’re usually invited to hunt with us,” O’Donnell replies.
“Well then,” Blackwell says succinctly. And with O’Donnell leading me by the arm, he follows us to the car.
46
MILES
WITHIN MINUTES, THE CLAN HAS MOBILIZED. Juneau’s father seems to be in charge, but he barely needs to do anything. You can tell these people have been preparing for emergencies their whole lives.
The children are awakened, dressed, and out of the huts within minutes. There are about a dozen of them, and it seems that one parent has been chosen from each family to accompany their kids, bringing the number of people meeting Tallie up to seventeen.
For some reason, in my head, it was women and children who would be going with Tallie. But there are more men going with the children than women, and I wonder if Juneau’s group was able to move past the typical male/female family roles along with the rest of society’s “ills.”
A tall girl with blond hair pulled back into a braid walks up to me, looking like a female Viking: suntanned and bold and outdoorsy. She has the same fearless aura that Juneau has, and I know who she is before she even opens her mouth.
“Nome?” I ask.
She smiles broadly and hands me a wet cloth. “Kenai said you might want to wash your face.”
I take it and scrub my skin until she nods. She crosses her arms and brazenly inspects me. “So you’re the guy Juneau’s been hanging out with,” she says. “You’re cuter than you looked in the fire.”
“Um, thanks?” I say. Juneau told me her people say exactly what they think. She wasn’t lying, I think, as I feel my ears get hot.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend here,” says Kenai, walking up with a big pair of wire cutters. “No manners. It’s what you get from growing up in the wild. Try to stop drooling, Nome. He’s with Juneau, remember?”
Unembarrassed, she just winks, takes the wire cutters from Kenai, and strides toward the fence. “Can’t ask the little ones to climb that high,” Kenai explains. “Cutting an opening’s a better option.”
“Where did you get wire cutters?” I ask in astonishment.
“Stole them off the back of a jeep. They were to be used in our last escape attempt, but once Badger was taken we buried them. Saved them for a rainy day.” Kenai laughs, and his teeth glow white in the firelight. “Walter needs you back there, by the way. Wants you to draw them a map to where your friend with the truck is waiting.”
“Walter?”
“Juneau’s dad. Mr. Newhaven, for outsiders.”
“Oh, right,” I say. Would he still consider me an outsider if he knew I’d gone through the Rite? I wonder if I would ever be able to fit into this group. I doubt anyone could, unless you were born into it.
“Miles,” Juneau’s dad . . . Walter . . . calls. I meet him by the fire, take the piece of paper and pen he offers me, and sketch where I remember the road was in relation to the adobe village.
By the time I’m done, the children and accompanying parents have gone through the hole Nome cut in the fence and immediately set out to find Tallie.
Those who stay spread out and begin preparations. The woman I guessed was Badger’s mother walks up to me. “Holly,” she says, introducing herself. “How did my son look?”
“He was asleep in bed. He looked fine to me.” She nods, relieved, and swings a crossbow over her shoulder. I look into the nearest hut, and see one of the men digging in the earth floor and pulling out a homemade crossbow of his own.
Holly sees me watching. “We haven’t just been sitting around.”
“Were you preparing to attack?” I ask.
“We were waiting for Juneau. Seeing how things played out. So not planning for attack per se, but readying ourselves for any contingencies. Our strategy has always been to be prepared for anything.”
“Everyone ready?” Walter says to the group, and counts us: twenty-four. About half are armed. They huddle around us, waiting for instruction.
“What is the situation with the guards?” Walter asks me.
“Besides the two in the house watching Juneau and Whit, the only others I saw were sitting outside the barracks, playing cards and drinking,” I say, loudly enough for all to hear.
“They have been doing random checks on us throughout the night,” Walter says, “so we’ll have to be careful, but if Juneau’s just given Avery the Rite, I doubt his people will be focusing much on us.” He looks up into the clear night sky. “Storm’s coming,” he remarks, and the others nod their agreement. “Okay, people, let’s go. Miles—take us the way you came in.”
I sling my crossbow over my shoulder and begin walking, hyperconscious of the fact that I am leading two dozen people toward danger. Leading anyone at all is a foreign-enough concept. But these are Juneau’s people, and they know more about the land than I do.
Fear pricks my skin and dread sharpens my senses. But I feel an overwhelming sense of being where I am supposed to be. Finally doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
47
JUNEAU