But when I Conjured a physical metamorphosis without use of the rabbit feet, I wasn’t just connecting to the Yara. I wasn’t merely tuning into the wavelength of all living things. I plugged myself directly in. Melded with it. I felt like every molecule of my being merged with the energy of the universe. This was no tiny shock. It was more like a lightning bolt.
I know I’ve finally done something right. Something true. And even though I have only done one Conjuring unaided by an amulet, I’m suddenly sure that my theory was right: all the stones, powders, and herbs Whit taught me to use are truly just props. Crutches. Like a stepladder to get to a height that I just leapt to without assistance.
I hear the car door shut and footsteps walk in my direction. Miles stands near me—but not too near—and lowers himself to sit facing the fire.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to believe me.”
He nods and wraps his arms around himself. After a moment he says, “So all those other things you told me about . . .”
“Everything I’ve told you has been true,” I say. “When Frankie told me I had to be honest with you, I took that seriously. Which is why I’m here. You are the one who has to take me far.”
Miles nods again and watches the fire. “What would happen if you tried on your own?” he asks, not looking at me.
“I’m guessing I probably wouldn’t get the next sign that I need,” I say. “Or I would make a vital mistake.”
He tips his head and looks at me out of the corners of his eyes. There’s something about his expression that tugs inside me. He looks . . . not scared but vulnerable. I realize that he prefers to be in control of the situation, and now I’ve put him in a position where he has no control at all. And no idea what to expect.
“Miles, it’s not like I have magical powers or anything. I’m just more skilled than the rest of my clan.”
He nods, pensive. “Okay, new subject: how are we going to go anywhere if the car is fried?”
“I think I can reverse it in the morning.”
He looks back toward the fire. This conversation is difficult for him, I can tell. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and turns to look at me. “So what’s the next step?”
“It’s another prophecy you gave me. I haven’t figured it out yet.” I reach out to take his hand, but he pulls it away.
“Sorry. I’m too weirded out.”
“So it was better when you thought I was insane?”
“Almost. Because at least there’s an explanation for that. I thought you were delusional when you said you used me as your oracle. Did I really tell you things that turned out to be true?”
I nod. “At least I think so,” I say. “Otherwise we’re in the wrong place to figure out the next prophecy. And it wasn’t exactly you who told me. You were just my channel to nature’s collective unconscious.”
“Please don’t say that again,” he says, eyebrows knit in concern. “Thinking of myself as a channel to anything is extremely freaky.”
I stop myself from trying to touch him again. I want to comfort him. To tell him it’s no big deal. But that would be wrong. It is a really big deal to him. And I need to give him time to process it. To give him space.
“I’m going to go to bed,” I say. He glances up at me, and I read the look on his face like it’s in flashing neon. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch you,” I say. “I won’t ever do anything to you again . . . without your consent.”
He nods and looks back at the fire.
I turn away from him, exhale, and walk toward the tent. I hope I won’t need to.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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50
MILES
I CRAWL INTO MY CORNER OF THE TENT, although I’m sure I won’t sleep tonight. I lie on my side and watch Juneau. She has the crossbow within hand’s reach and sleeps on her side, curled in toward it. She looks like a totally normal girl, but she is anything but normal.
She says it’s not magic. Right, I think, my chest constricting with fear as I remember the look on her face the second she disappeared. Not magic? Bullshit.
Suddenly, and randomly, I have this flashback to history class, when we learned about how afraid the Native Americans were when they saw the European explorers’ rifles for the first time, calling them magical “fire sticks.” Right now I feel like them: just because I don’t understand the Yara doesn’t mean it can’t have a logical explanation. If I ever understand the mechanics of what she’s doing, maybe I’ll be able to accept it as merely a tool, the way she seems to.