Until the Beginning (16 page)

AVERY PICKS UP A PHONE. “GLORIA, WE’VE GOT A
mess to clean up in the cryo room,” he says, listens for a second, and then yells, “For God’s sake, you can leave the damn kid for fifteen minutes. He’s not going to self-destruct if someone’s not watching him twenty-four/seven. And on your way down, tell O’Donnell and Nursall to get in here.”

He hangs up and, yanking a white towel from a drawer, hands it to me, scowling. “Clean yourself up, Miss Newhaven. We’ve got work to do.”

There is a knock on the door, and a man in a blue jeans and a checked cotton shirt walks in.

“There you are, Dr. Canfield,” Avery says, marching up to him and shaking his hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

Avery turns to me. “My trusted medical advisor dropped what
he was doing in Roswell and rushed on over as soon as we knew you were over the fence. See how important you are to us?”

The man gives us a little bow, grabs a white jacket off a peg on the wall and pulls it on over his clothes.

“Now let me make introductions. This here is Dr. Whittier Graves,” says Avery, slinging an arm around Whit’s shoulders like he owns him.
Which he does
. “Graves was involved in the creation of the drug I have told you about. However, he is not a medical doctor, are you, Graves?”

“Philosophy,” Whit says.

“He is the person who administered the drug to the members of his community, along with the indispensable assistance of this young lady, Miss Juneau Newhaven.”

The door opens and in walks a middle-aged woman wearing a white uniform and carrying a roll of paper and a spray bottle. As she mops up my vomit, she glances up and holds my gaze for a couple of weighted seconds. And then, as quickly as she arrived, she’s gone. All the while, Avery continues talking as if she’s not there.

“So, friends, as of this moment”—he looks up at a clock on the wall—“ten thirty p.m., on Thursday, May ninth, everyone in this room is entering a contract situation. I would say it was legally binding, but that’s not how I tend to do things. I prefer to handle compliance to terms myself. So let me explain things as clearly as I can so that everyone understands what they’re agreeing to.

“This is the drug that Mr. Graves approached me with, hoping to make a deal with me for an amount that I will not disclose.”
He opens a drawer and pulls out a tray containing several plastic bags and vials. I recognize them immediately: They are the ingredients for the Amrit.

Avery continues. “After an alternate deal was precipitated by the appearance of a competitor, Mr. Graves revealed that one vital component was missing—the blood of this young lady, who we needed in person since a workable alternative has not yet been found.” He pauses and frowns at me before continuing.

“I am willing to meet his price, as long as I know for sure that this elixir works. Sure, I’ve got the proof that this man is what he claims to be. He looks the same as when I met him in the sixties, and a thorough medical examination gives pretty clear evidence that he has not aged in the last thirty years. And Dr. Canfield, you yourself have analyzed blood samples from members of Mr. Graves’s community, and have found them to be immune to every disease you tested.”

The doctor nods his agreement.

“However, being that I’m fond of that old dictum, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ I prefer to test the drug myself. Therefore we will proceed as follows: Mr. Graves and Miss Newhaven will carry out the procedure under the surveillance of Dr. Canfield.”

My face becomes numb as I understand what is about to happen. I glance over to Whit, and his blasé expression informs me he already knows about these arrangements.

“As I agreed with you, Dr. Canfield, if it succeeds, or even if it fails, and you are able to revive me, you will receive one million dollars. If not, all you stand to lose is one day out of your busy
schedule. Are those terms amenable to you, good doctor?”

“Yes, they are,” says the man, adjusting his glasses.

“Good, good,” says Avery. He turns to Whit. “Let me confirm in the presence of Dr. Canfield that the immediate effects of the drug are violent and resemble a poisoning. I will then be without breath or heartbeat for eight hours . . .”

“On average. The maximum we have seen is nine hours,” corrects Whit.

“All right then, if at the end of nine hours my breathing resumes, it is understood that I will be aware, but paralyzed for a maximum of four days. At that point, I will regain my mobility and test negative for all known diseases. In this case Mr. Graves will receive the sum he has requested. The boy will be returned to his mother, and the entire community will be free to leave. They will have my assistance getting wherever it is they want to go.”

Avery stares at the dregs of his whiskey as he twirls his glass, then tosses it back in one gulp. “However, if I do not regain consciousness after nine hours and Dr. Canfield is unsuccessful at reviving me, my guards have instructions for how to take care of you”—he focuses on me, and the cold in his eyes freezes my soul—“you,” he says looking at Whit, “and the boy. I don’t think we need to go into specifics. Let’s just say that your community will be free to leave my ranch . . . if they are able.”

“Wait a minute,” Whit says, looking as shocked as I feel. “You never mentioned any of that last part before!”

“I didn’t need to,” says Avery, “because you’re going to make damned sure that this thing works. Then all those nasty
consequences just disappear.”

“And what about our other agreements?” Whit asks.

“Such as?”

“The promise that for each dose of serum sold by you on the market, you will provide one free dose to the underprivileged in developing countries.”

“We can speak about that issue later. I might not want to sell any of the drug at all. As I have always maintained, the main concern here is my own longevity. If the drug works on me, then I will consider its possible distribution later.”

“But . . . ,” Whit starts.

Avery strides past him and opens the door. “Please join us,” he says, and two guards step into the room. “Since I’m counting on Dr. Canfield to monitor my vital signs while I am ‘dead’”—and he uses his fingers for quotation marks—“I have asked a couple of my men to personally accompany you wherever you wish to go. Within my house, that is. You can grab a meal in the kitchen. And you each have a room assigned to you if you need to rest.
Mi casa su casa
: You are my honored guests. How’s that sound to you?”

Not waiting for a response, he claps his hands and rubs them together expectantly. “Good, good. Men, please take a seat. Everyone, please excuse me while I change.” He goes to the back of the room and steps behind a screen, while the two guards pull out chairs and, laying their guns across their laps, sit down. Whit walks past me and, pulling a mortar and pestle out of a cabinet, begins grinding the herbs and minerals together. I want to jump
on him, beat him with my fists, shake him until he turns into the old Whit I knew . . . not this cold, emotionless monster.

I glance at the guards and see that one is staring holes through me. Something looks familiar about him. His gaze locked on mine, he pulls aside his jacket to show me a bandaged upper arm. My heart drops. It’s the man I shot in Salt Lake City.

Avery steps out from behind the curtain wearing paper clothes: blue pants and a short-sleeved shirt. He notices my stare-down with the guard. “Ah yes. You recognize Mr. O’Donnell, Juneau. I thought since you were already acquainted, I would ask him to be your personal escort.”

O’Donnell’s lips curl into a cruel smile. But Whit interrupts this tender moment by calling my name. I walk over to see what he wants. “It’s time, Juneau. Remember, you’re doing this for your clan.” He pauses and, for the first time today, he looks me in the eyes.

“Give me your hand,” he says, and picks up a scalpel.

THE NIGHT IS SO DARK THAT I TAKE MY CHANCES
on someone driving up behind me and walk in the middle of the road. At least I’ll have some hope of spotting a dangerous predator before it has a chance to attack. Poe grips my left shoulder as we walk, and his raven talons pinch enough to give me a double dose of alertness.

It takes us around twenty minutes to get to the fence, and probably another fifteen minutes of walking back and forth along it before I decide it’s electrified. The part that crosses the road looks like a swinging gate, and a yard or so in front of it is a pole with an intercom.

I’m a good way off the road, trying to see if there are any trees close enough to the gate that I might be able to climb over (there aren’t), when I see headlights coming. Poe flaps down from my
shoulder as I duck behind some undergrowth to hide. A car pulls up to the intercom. The window comes down, and the driver pushes a button. “Yes?” a tinny voice says.

“Dr. Canfield,” the driver answers, and the gate swings slowly open.
This is my chance,
I think, as I sprint toward the gate, hunching over as I get near. The car is waiting for the gate to open wide enough, and I scramble up behind its back bumper as it begins to drive through. Staying low, I follow it through the gate, and immediately head for some trees off to my right. I hide there and watch the car pull into a parking garage. The driver gets out and jogs over to the front door, letting himself in without knocking or ringing a bell. The good doctor has obviously been here before.

I judge the distance between myself and the house, and secure my crossbow for another run. Since my face-to-face with the tiger, I’ve kept it slung across my back. This time I’ll be ready if something or someone attacks. But I wonder if I will actually be able to shoot a person, if things really come down to it. I remember how Juneau aimed for the guards’ arms back in Salt Lake City, and reassure myself that I would be capable of shooting if I weren’t aiming to kill. But honestly, unless someone was attacking me, I’m not sure I could even go that far.

I’ve been in one fight in my entire life, and that was when I saw one of my middle-school friends get punched by a bully. I remember the rage I felt—the blinding red fury that came over me at the big-kid-hurting-little-kid injustice of it. If I can channel that, then I might be able to shoot someone. These people are
keeping Juneau’s clan captive, and the guns they’re toting make my crossbow look like a slingshot. They’re the big kids, and I’m definitely the little kid in this case. Even so, I think I’ll opt for hiding as my first line of defense.

There is a light on over the mansion’s front porch. A decorative fountain the size of one of those aboveground swimming pools sits lit up in the middle of the drive, a massive sculpture of two stags fighting perched in the middle. The road winds in a circle around it. I make my way toward the fountain, scrambling from tree to tree, until all that’s left between me and it are a few yards of grass.

I take the last stretch standing up, running as if my life depends on it, which, in fact, it does. Because just before I reach it, two guards walk around the side of the house from the barracks. I hit the ground and crawl the last yard, then crouch behind the outer rim of the fountain, which is just tall enough to hide me. I wait, wondering if they saw me, until I hear the front door slam. After a few seconds I inch my head up to see the coast is clear. I scramble to my feet and crouch-run the rest of the way to my destination: the thick hedges that border the front porch. There’s just enough room for me between the hedge and the porch, and I wedge myself in and lie down.

My heart feels like it’s going to pound its way right out of my chest. For the first time I seriously doubt the wisdom of this rescue mission. If those guys had seen me hiding behind the fountain, they could have walked right over and filled me full of bullets. And—
bam
—I would be dead. After days of angsting
about my immortality, I’m suddenly wishing that the Rite had given me bulletproof skin as well.

The night isn’t cold, but I’m shaking from my second near-death experience of the day. Who do I think I am, anyway, to think I can take on someone’s private army?

Stop!
I command myself. I can’t keep thinking like this, or I’m going to psych myself out. And what good’s that going to do me?

What have I got to work with? A crossbow, a map, a flashlight, and a lighter. Oh, and a towel. Fat lot of good that’s going to do me.

What else do I have? I hear a flapping noise and Poe lands on the porch three feet above me. He perches on the edge, peering down at me as if to say, “What the hell are you doing down there?”

Okay . . . I’ve got a raven. And—oh, right, I almost forgot—I’m magic. Not that I know what I can do with that besides figure out how a certain girl is feeling, see visions in fire, and read a bird’s mind.

I close my eyes and try to let go . . . to dislodge the panic inside me. What good is being able to communicate with all of nature if I can’t even beam a message to Juneau? I have a huge beef with Gaia, or whoever it is who came up with the Yara rules.

After a while, I calm down enough to feel twigs sticking into my back, smell the piney scent of whatever kind of bush I’m lying under, and hear mean-sounding rough-guy laughter coming from the guards’ barracks. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I raise my head cautiously to have a look around.

The front of the house is lined with windows, most of which
are lit up from the inside. Besides the porch light, there are no outdoor lights, so feasibly I could see in without the people inside seeing me, unless I got too close. But that damned porch light pretty much ruins that plan.

Then all of a sudden, I remember Juneau’s electronics-frying trick. She said she imagined heat or fire or something in order to fry my phone. And then she imagined moisture to flood the spark plugs on my car. A lightbulb must fit into the “fry-able” category. Might as well give it a shot.

I peer up at the bulb, visible inside its glass fixture. In my mind I focus on the filament, fragile and thin like a thread. And as I slow my breath and feel the buzz of the Yara kick in, I imagine a flame underneath it, heating it, messing with the electrical current. I keep this up until—
pop
—the filament explodes and the light is suddenly extinguished.

No. Way.

I can’t believe I just detonated a lightbulb with mere thoughts. It might sound ridiculous, but I suddenly feel all-powerful. I could join the X-Men. Like SuperNatureGuy. Or the Yara Avenger.

And then I stop. I realize what I’ve just done. Yes, I plugged into the Yara to Read Juneau’s emotions, to Read what the ranch looked like in the campfire, and to Read Poe’s memory. But what I just did doesn’t fit under the category of Reading. I just Conjured. I “manipulated nature,” as Juneau described it. And from what she said, only she, her mom, and Whit were able to do that.

Oh my God, I can Conjure,
I think with amazement. That means I must have a whole arsenal of weapons at my disposal.
If I just knew what they were. What did Juneau Conjure? The cell phone fry, the levitating rocks, turning invisible, she got Poe to do stuff for her, too . . . what else? I can’t remember. But I’m buzzing with excitement and fear and awe and don’t know if the tingling all over my body is the Yara or a huge adrenaline rush owing to the fact that the rules of nature no longer apply to me.

No time to think about it now. Juneau’s been in the house for about an hour, and I need to find out if a diversion’s going to help her or hurt her. It’s time to find out just what Avery’s doing in there.

I jump up to the now-dark porch and begin the surveillance phase of my not-quite-yet-a-plan.