After the End(29)

Your friend? Those two words trip off every alarm in my body. Whit has never referred to himself as my friend before. My mentor, yes. clan Sage, maybe. Either he suspects I am doubting him and wants to remind me that he is trustworthy, or he was forced to write the note and used those words to alert me.

I click my tongue in the universal human-to-animal sound for “come here,” and the raven takes a step closer. I relax, slow my breathing, and reach out to touch him, sharing my calmness with him. He allows me to pick him up, adjusting his wings for comfort as I pull him close to my chest to touch my opal and close my eyes. “Show me what you saw,” I whisper. Like last night, I have to wait a while before the connection arrives. But after a moment I feel the tingling buzz as I connect with the Yara, and the raven becomes very still as it lets me sift through its memory.

I see Whit. He is with the two soldier-like men who I saw him with when I fire-Read in his cave. They hulk over him, watching him write the note. They are making him find me for them, I think. My suspicion is confirmed. Whit’s being forced to act as their pawn.

I see him hesitate and pat the pocket of his jacket. He takes out a telephone. The two men wander off, leaving him alone as he talks into it. After a moment he puts his fingers to his lips to do the loud whistle I’ve seen him do a million times. And then, tying the note to the raven’s leg, he releases it and it takes flight.

My view becomes aerial. The bird looks down as it flies away, and I watch as Whit climbs into the driver’s seat of an army-green military-looking vehicle (the word “Jeep” is written in large letters across the back) while the two men jump into the passenger side and backseat. Whit waits until they close the doors and then drives off.

Stunned, I let go of the bird and our connection is broken. My blood feels like ice in my veins. Whit is no prisoner. Is he working with the men who took my clan? Or could they even be working for him? I am so shocked I don’t know what to think. Nothing makes sense anymore. The pain of the betrayal rushes back, and there is nothing I can do now to dull it.

Through the open tent flaps, I see Miles sit up. He rubs his hair back to front, causing it to stick up in all directions. Whit says I can’t trust him. That’s not exactly new information: Frankie already warned me he wasn’t trustworthy.

But it’s clear now that Miles isn’t the only one I have to watch out for. My father deceived me. My very own mentor is out to get me. I am the only person I can trust. I have never felt so alone.



UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................





24


MILES




WHEN I WAKE UP, SHE IS TALKING TO A BIRD.

That shouldn’t faze me, but I’m not quite awake yet, and a wave of alarm rocks me before I remember that hanging with a crazy person is a means to an end. The end being the look on my father’s face when I finally do something right.

I take my time crawling out of the tent, hoping that the reality fairy will wave her wand and things will suddenly be normal when I look back up. But no, when I stand, Juneau is staring at me, waiting, as if she’s waiting for me to say something ground shattering.

“What?” I ask.

“We have to go,” Juneau says. “Now.”

“No flame-broiled roadkill for breakfast?” I joke. She acts like she doesn’t hear and starts stuffing her pack with the cooking gear.

“Someone’s coming after us. We’ll eat on the road,” she says in that I’m-the-boss-of-you way that’s really starting to get under my skin.

“Ah,” I say, raising an eyebrow purely for my own sake, since she isn’t looking at me anymore. “Would these pursuers happen to be government agents? Or maybe aliens? No, wait. Angry rangers who keep tabs on the park’s bunny population.”

“You can take the tent down if you want to help,” she states simply. And although I really couldn’t be bothered to join in as a willing partner of her paranoia, the way that she says it—like it’s a challenge she doesn’t think I’m up to—makes me turn around and start yanking tent pins out of the ground.

“You might want to take the bedding out first,” she says.

“Yeah, I was about to do that,” I mutter, and pull out the blowup camping pillows and paper-thin thermal blankets. By the time I’ve figured out how to take the folding rods apart, she has everything packed and in the car and comes around to help me. “Have you ever camped before?” she asks, but not in the mean way I was expecting.

“No,” I admit as I shove the final rod into its bag. “Does it show?”