After the End(28)

I awake as the sun begins to rise, the stench of burning yurts still stinging my nose until I sit up and breathe in the pure mountain air. Through the mosquito net I see the dew-kissed world around us turn rosy pink in the blush of daybreak. There was no war. There are no brigands. I remind myself that an apocalyptic world war never happened. But that image is such an integral part of me that this new world seems like the tall tale—a fairy-tale world, wrapped loosely like colorful paper around the burned-out husk of a postwar planet.

I glance over at Miles. His lips are slightly parted, and his breath is slow. I force the scary images out of my mind and remind myself that this is my world now. It’s just me and this boy, who I apparently need in order to complete my quest. Once again, I wonder why Frankie told me to find him. Wouldn’t I be better off on my own?

His curls tumble across his forehead, and his chin is slightly lifted. I wonder how old he is. Probably the same as me, I guess. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. I let myself see him as Nome would for a moment: he would definitely rate a 10 in her book. Considering that John F. Kennedy is a 7.5. Oh, Nome, I think. I sure the hell hope you’re safe. I turn my thoughts back from my best friend to the boy sleeping beside me.

What was he doing following me around? What is it that he needs from me? When I asked him, he wouldn’t answer. My only other option is to Read him, and I’ve never Read anyone against their will. I force that thought away and prepare myself. There are some things I must do before we leave. I slip quietly out of the tent, careful not to wake him.

Last night after Reading the fire, I consulted the wind. A fresh breeze was blowing. I raised my arms and clutched my opal in one hand. It was a long time before I felt my connection with the Yara, and when I visualized my clan, I received nothing in return.

My frustration cut sharp, like a knife on flesh. What is wrong with me? Am I losing my connection? I changed my request and whispered, “Whit.” And after a moment, the smoke of a far-off campfire tickled my nostrils. I turned in a circle, trying to figure out which direction it was coming from, but got nothing else. Whit must be outdoors as well. Maybe he is near. Perhaps his captors are transporting him to where our clan is being held. Or maybe he escaped and is looking for me. He should be able to find me by Reading. In fact, if he had been free to, he could have probably found me in the streets of Seattle.

As I think of him, a feeling of uncertainty—of mistrust—creeps its way into my mind, but I do my best to ignore it. Yes, Whit was probably the one who traveled out into the world as recently as a few years ago—when he bought the book. But all the clan elders had to have been in on the deception. He isn’t any guiltier than the rest of them. They all lied, not just him.

But he was the one who was supposed to be revealing truth to you, something nags. Revealing truth while simultaneously feeding you lies. The sting of betrayal returns, and I banish it into a far corner of my mind to deal with later.

The burden of responsibility I used to feel when Whit talked to me about being his successor weighs heavily on me now. I can’t be sidetracked by childish emotions. I am responsible for my clan. Besides Whit, I am the only one who isn’t imprisoned. I must think of him as my ally and not let petty feelings get in the way. I will be strong.

But how to contact Whit? He must be outside a city if he’s near a campfire. If only I could get a message to him. I wish he had shown me more Conjuring. The few simple tasks he did aren’t going to help me now: camouflage through metamorphosis. Keeping ice from melting so our meat stocks wouldn’t go bad. Creating intense heat to liquefy a solid, like we used to repair our decades-old metal sled runners and wheels. Or to fry a cell phone, I think, and smile.

I know I’m better than Whit at Reading. Even he admitted that “the student had surpassed the teacher,” and attributed it to my being raised so close to the Yara my entire life. But as far as Conjuring, I don’t even know yet what is possible.

Just as I am mulling over my options, a raven the size of a large cat alights on the ground in front of me. It cocks its head to one side, regarding me suspiciously, and then walks straight up to me and squawks loudly, ruffling its feathers. Something is tied to its leg. A message from Whit.

“Thank you,” I say, and detach the piece of paper from the raven’s claw. Unfolding it, I see Whit’s spindly writing.

Juneau, I can Read you are near and that you are okay. Time is of the essence—help me find you. Write a note saying where you are, and the raven will bring your message back to me. After that, STAY PUT and I will come get you. My fire-Reading showed you camping in woods with a boy. Whatever you do, do not trust him. Your friend, Whit