He scans the night sky. “The last time I was conscious we were in my buddies’ old drinking shack outside L.A.,” he says.
“We’re a few hours away, in the Mojave, hiding from your dad and Whit.”
His eyes meet mine. “Have you seen them?”
“Yes,” I respond. “Your dad and his men drove past the cabin, but I camouflaged us. They didn’t see a thing.”
“Good party trick,” he says, and that old teasing smile spreads across his lips. He’s regaining control of his facial muscles. “What about Whit?” he asks.
“If he survived the crash and managed to get the jeep back on the road, he’ll be after us, too. But we’re well hidden, and you’re going to want to sleep pretty much nonstop for the next few days.”
Miles’s eyes move left and right. “Where am I lying?” he asks.
“In the back of a Chevrolet pickup truck.”
“Which you got by . . . ,” he prompts.
“. . . trading it for your car.”
A bemused smile forms on Miles’s mouth. “You traded my BMW for a Chevy pickup?”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Let’s just say that the other guy must be pretty damn happy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I needed a car no one would recognize.”
“It’s okay,” Miles says. “My Beamer didn’t really suit you anyway. But this Chevy . . . yeah, I can see you driving one of these. I mean, if there are no available dogsleds.”
I smile and throw my arms around him, pulling him up off the truck bed. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a temporarily paralyzed guy, would you?” he asks, his voice muffled by my shoulder.
“Of course not!” I say, pulling away with mock horror.
“That wasn’t a question,” he says, his eyes shining with mischief. “It was a request.”
I smile. And leaning forward, I kiss him.
8
MILES
I’M BACK. AT LEAST I THINK I AM. MAYBE THIS IS hippy-dippy New Age me, and as soon as I can move again I’ll start craving tofu and Birkenstocks.
I’m just glad I’m here. Juneau saved me. Back there in the cabin I could literally feel my life flowing out of me. I know I passed out a couple of times, and each time I came to feeling less connected. Like I was becoming immune to gravity and might just float off into space.
And as I began to drift, one thought outweighed all the rest: I didn’t want to die. Not just because I was afraid of death. But because what was previously a pretty empty existence for me has finally begun to take on some meaning. And it’s all because of the girl lying next to me in the back of this pickup truck. Juneau.
I guess that means she’s saved me twice: from death and from myself. I’m in her debt. But this is one debt I’m going to enjoy repaying.
9
JUNEAU
WITHIN MINUTES, MILES DRIFTS OFF TO SLEEP. I wish I could lie back down, press myself close to him, and shut off all of my worry and fatigue for a few short hours. But I have a lot to do before he recovers. And once he does, we must be ready to leave.
Recovery from death-sleep varies from person to person. Everyone awakens paralyzed, but since I’ve helped Whit perform the Rite, I have seen people walking in as few as three days and as many as six. Which means I have no idea how long Miles will be incapacitated.
Although it would be pretty much impossible for Mr. Blackwell to find us here, Whit might be able to Read and Conjure his way straight to us. So my first step is to find out where he is, and in order to do that I’m going to need a fire.
I scan the bone-dry landscape, and spot a few lone trees against the moonlit horizon. I can’t tell how far away they are, and am hesitant to leave Miles here by himself. So I take him with me, driving a mile that would have been easy to walk. I make the ride as smooth as possible, even though I know I he won’t awake.
I worried that my bowie knife wouldn’t be sharp enough to cut through thick branches. But in the end, I don’t have to hack limbs off—I find a couple of smallish trees lying dead on the ground. They are brittle enough to break apart with my hands. Once I gather enough wood, I load it into the back of the truck, propping the branches across the truck bed from Miles so that he won’t get banged up in his sleep.
Back at the camp, I build a small fire—just big enough for my purpose. I sit down in front of it and slow my breathing, focusing on each heartbeat as I slip into the state I need to connect to the Yara.
My body actually shudders with the jolt of the connection, and energy fills me with what feels like a burning light. Now that I have stopped using totems to link to the Yara, my connections have been increasingly stronger. I try to ignore the power coursing through me and focus on the Reading. “Whittier Graves,” I say, and stare at the tip of the flames, just above the blaze. And, after a second or two, I see him.
Whit lies in a bed in a white room, his head and arms wrapped thick in bandages. Next to him is a rolling tray with a pitcher of water on it.