“So we need water. Didn’t you say we’re near the Rio Grande?” I ask.

“It’s just a couple minutes that way,” Juneau says, pointing into the trees. “But it’s dark now. I wouldn’t be able to see much. We’ll try that tomorrow morning.”

“Is that the only option?” I ask.

Juneau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sure there are a lot of things I don’t know. Either intentionally or out of his own lack of knowledge, Whit’s kept me . . . kept all of us . . . in the dark about the limits of the Yara. Now that I’m sure he was mistaken about the totems, I wonder what else he was wrong about. What else he didn’t know. I’m just learning what I’m capable of. The possibilities could be endless . . .”

I nod and take a swig from the bottle.

“There is, of course, one option for Reading that I haven’t mentioned,” she says slowly. “An oracle.”

I choke on my mouthful of water.

“But I won’t ask you to do that again,” she adds quickly, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.

I feel the blood drain from my face. “Please don’t,” I squeak, and then hit myself on the chest to get the water out of my windpipe. When I can once again breathe, I reach over and put my hand on Juneau’s. “I’m sorry. I want to help. But I really, really don’t want to do that again. Spouting out prophecy while you’ve got me in a trance. I just . . . I can’t.”

“I know,” she says, and pulls her hand away from mine. “That’s okay.”

“Juneau—” I begin.

She interrupts me. “I was wrong to do it like that the last time—without your consent. My manipulating you—”

“Drugging me,” I interject.

“Yes—drugging you—made it a traumatic experience instead of something that can be beautifully mystical. That was totally my fault.”

“Well, thank you for the belated apology,” I say with a smile. “But I already forgave you.”

“I know.” She stares at the fire.

“But that doesn’t mean I want to do it again.”

“I know,” she repeats, pushing her foot over to rest against mine.

We sit in silence. The only sound is the rippling of nearby water and some very loud bugs chirping away in the dark.

“Juneau,” I say finally.

“Yes?”

“Want to show me how to put bullets in my new rabbit killer?”

Juneau laughs, and the heaviness lifts. “They’re called bolts,” she says. “And I think we can come up with a better name for your crossbow than that.”

“What? Not Rabbit Killer?”

“Lame,” Juneau says, grabbing her backpack and unzipping the top.

“Bunny Slayer?” I offer.

“Lamer,” she replies, hiding her grin as she pulls out a handful of sharp wooden pegs.

“Well, what’s yours called?” I ask, taking a bolt from her and rolling it around in my fingers.

“My last one was Windspeed. I’m not sure about this one, but I was thinking maybe Ravenflight.” She looks at me, gauging my reaction.

“You’re naming your crossbow after Poe?” I’m incredulous.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asks defensively.

“Well, ‘deadly’ isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind when I think of that bird. ‘Bumbling,’ maybe. ‘Annoying,’ definitely.”

Juneau’s jaw drops in feigned shock. “How dare you?” she says. “Poe is my noble messenger. My faithful companion. Besides, I think you’re jealous of him.”

“How faithful can he be if he’s off playing house-raven with that mountain woman?” I ignore the jealous jab.

“Poe is noble,” she insists. “And Ravenflight it is.”

“Just to spite me,” I challenge.

“Yes.”

“Fine. If we’re using avian nomenclature, I’m calling mine the Hoot of Hedwig.”

Juneau is baffled. “What in the world is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a reference that pretty much everyone would recognize.”

“Besides me,” Juneau says slowly.

“Exactly,” I respond. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

“Not in the least,” she says, lifting her chin and glancing off into the night with an air of supreme disinterest. She sighs and, taking a bolt, fits it into a groove on the top of my crossbow.

“Literary reference?” she asks, still concentrating on the weapon.

“Oh, wouldn’t you love to know . . . crow lover,” I reply.

She bursts out laughing. And the look of pure happiness in her eyes makes everything that has happened, and everything that we are still facing, unquestionably worth it.

15

JUNEAU

ALTHOUGH MILES SAYS HE’S AFRAID HE WON’T BE able to sleep, he starts nodding off right after a short but successful round of target practice. I send him to the tent, but remain by the fire so I can Read it as it burns itself out.

This time, I go through my entire list of names. Everyone of interest. When I Read for Dad, I see inside the same adobe hut, where he lies on a cot staring at the ceiling, a candle flickering on the floor next to his palette.

It is dark in Tallie’s cabin, the windows softly illuminated by the glow of moonlight.

Miles’s dad is sitting in front of a computer screen in his office at the top of the Blackwell building. The lights of L.A. twinkle through the glass walls surrounding him.