After the End

23 JUNEAU

MY SLEEP IS PLAGUED BY NIGHTMARES. EVERY night the same image appears: brigands descending on my clan’s encampment. Dressed in torn leather and blood-matted furs, their eyes glowing green with radiation. Using an assortment of handmade weapons as well as high-tech guns, they swarm my village, killing first the dogs, who rush out to protect us, and then my clan. I stand there in the midst of the slaughter, paralyzed. Unable to react. And then I hear my father’s voice calling to me: “Use the Yara, Juneau. Use your gifts.”

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.

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.