“At that point your mother came forward with a story she had heard as a child—a local legend, as I remember it—from her homeland of Mongolia.”

“Mongolia!” I exclaim. “My mother was Chinese.”

Whit looks uncomfortable. “Apparently her line originated in southern Mongolia. Surely your father would have told you about . . .”

I ignore that twist of the knife. Yes, it hurt—profoundly—that I was hearing this first from the man who betrayed my clan instead of my own father. But getting upset wasn’t going to help anything. I quash the feelings for now, and decide to let them out in target practice later. “Keep talking,” I insist.

“The story involved giving a wounded she-wolf a magical elixir that not only healed the wolf, but allowed it to live for several human-generations, spawning many litters of wolf cubs.

“Your mother began researching the origins of the legend, and the ingredients that could have been involved. I found similar stories in ancient Hindu texts, which called it Amrita. Since he is a chemist, your father began working with some of the plants and minerals mentioned in both your mother’s legend and the texts I had found. Finally, we developed what we thought could be a workable formula. Our target test group was to be Mexican gray wolves, red wolves, and other wild canid species. We tested it first on laboratory mice, and then on a small trial group of dogs. It immediately became clear that animals given the Amrit became immune to disease.

“But before announcing it to the scientific community, we decided to put the elixir to the ultimate test, and took it ourselves. And when we saw that we survived without any noticeable side effects, we decided to expand the trial group to our entire circle. All survived without incident, besides, of course, going through what you know as the death-sleep.

“Thus began a discussion on whether or not it was a moral obligation to reveal our discovery to the world. Some, including me, were for—how could you not share such a groundbreaking discovery with humanity?—but the majority were against. The reasoning was that we should consider the life of the planet—Gaia—over the well-being of its animal species. If Amrit became available to all, it would lead to global overpopulation, and eventually to the destruction of Gaia. That was their hypothesis, at least.

“Around then your father noticed that some of the test animals weren’t aging. And then Emily gave birth to Penelope, who was born with the ocular starburst mutation. We decided to go into hiding—at least until we learned what long-term effects the drug would have. And you know the rest of the story.”

“So you gave up on your goal to solve the endangered species problem?” I ask.

“Your huskies’ mother, Austen?” he says, lifting an eyebrow. I nod, wondering what he’s getting at. “She was actually their great-great-grandmother. If we hadn’t neutered most of the dogs, we would have had hundreds. Thousands, even.”

My thoughts are reeling. The elders never stopped their research. We weren’t the only test studies—our dogs had been treated and monitored for three decades.

Whit pauses to let this sink in, and then continues. “I never lost my conviction that Amrit should be made available to the outside world. I believe that its distribution could be made selective enough that population growth could be controlled. And the money that we could make would guarantee the clan financial stability. If the secret were out, we wouldn’t have to hide anymore. But, if members did prefer their isolationist secession from society, they could buy themselves their own island and equip it with modern conveniences. The ancient elixir of life would be made available to those who could buy it, and our beloved in the clan would be safe and comfortable.”

“The clan was safe and comfortable,” I say. “Now they’re imprisoned, thanks to you.”

Whit holds up a hand. “Let me finish my story, Juneau. I shopped the elixir to two institutions with which I had old contacts and felt I could trust: Blackwell Pharmaceutical, which based its business decades ago on a search for life-extenders. And Hunt Avery, who, since I met him in the sixties, has spent a fortune on cryogenics and disease eradication. Both, I knew, could provide the financial motivation I was hoping to present to the clan. But I wanted to dig further to establish if either would follow through with my plan for an ethical distribution of the elixir, not only making it available to the richest clients, but also ensuring that a quantity of the elixir went to countries with no money and rampant disease.”

There is something not right in his face when he says this last part, but he’s not telling me an outright lie. And then I realize: He’s lying to himself. He used this humanitarian idea as self-justification.

“You see, Juneau,” he continues. “I’m not evil. I care for the clan. I would never have sold them out.”

“Then why are they living behind an electric fence?” I ask.

Whit clears his throat. “Yes, well, it seems that when Hunt Avery discovered that he was not the only interested party, he made a rather desperate move. He did something he felt would persuade me to give the elixir only to him.”

“Kidnapping your clan,” Miles says.

“He calls it courting the clan,” Whit clarifies. “Winning them over to his point of view.”

I shake my head. “He’s holding them hostage, Whit. But for what? He’s got you. He’s got the clan. I’m guessing you must have given him the formula. So why hunt me down?”