“Okay, that’s weird, but I’m sure it can be explained.” I feel a twinge of guilt for forcing her to this point, but it has to be done. She has to accept reality.

“Don’t ask me to prove things to you now. I’ve just begun to work it all out in my mind.” She looks like it cost her every ounce of pride she possesses to admit that to me.

“You claim you were able to conjure Poe into finding me,” I say.

“That was really difficult. It took all afternoon.”

I shrug, as if to say, See? “Well, go ahead. Do something.” I feel like a shit for insisting, but I stand my ground.

Her eyes widen in dismay, and she gives me a look like the one thing in the world she wants to do is slap the smug smile right off my face. Turning, she limps over to her bag, digs around in it, pulls out the rabbit feet, holds them in her hand, and closes her eyes. She’s concentrating so hard that she looks like she’s about to explode.

I wait. “Is something supposed to be happening?” I ask after a moment.

Her eyes fly open, and I know that if she could shoot a laser at me out of her starburst thingy, she’d be doing it right now. “It’s probably the rabbits’ feet,” I hear myself saying, though I know I should keep my mouth shut. “Maybe the magic in them doesn’t travel well.”

She glowers at me, pure unadulterated hatred blazing her eyes, and then she pitches the rabbit feet forcefully into the fire, where they ignite in a puff of blue flame.

“Holy crap!” I say as she advances toward me, arms folded across her chest. “I didn’t mean you had to go all Firestarter and destroy your charm. I was just suggesting . . .”

My voice trails off as I begin to scramble backward. Forget the conciliatory Juneau of ten minutes ago, ready to make a deal so I’ll keep driving her. This girl is an irate goddess. A Fury. Five foot five inches, and she’s going to rip my head off.

“I’m sorry!” I blurt out, because I am—for all sorts of reasons. Sorry I tried to impress my dad by finding her. Sorry I’ve been making fun of a brainwashed girl for a delusion she can’t help. Sorry I egged her on just to make my point. “Honest, Juneau, I’m so sor—,” I begin to repeat, but the words freeze on my lips.

Because Juneau has come to a stop three feet away from me. She gazes down at me, arms loose, fingertips grazing her thighs. And disappears.

It takes me about three seconds flat to throw my things together, toss them in the car, and leap behind the steering wheel. I turn the key in the ignition, throw the gear into reverse, and then . . . the car stalls with a wheezing cough of the motor. Juneau appears, illuminated like a slasher-film killer in the harsh glare of the headlights. One finger rests on the car hood and the other on her waist, as she regards me with an icy glare.

I try to start the car again. Nothing. Juneau walks over to the passenger side, opens the door, gets in, and slams the door behind her. “Believe me now?” she says. She peers out at the bird, who flaps anxiously around like it’s afraid we’re going to leave him.

“Now you’ve fried my car” is all I can say. I’m in shock. The door handle is poking my back, and I realize that I’ve backed as far away from her as I can.

“You were leaving me,” she retorts, meeting my eyes. She looks angry. Hurt. But there’s something else there that wasn’t there before. Something hard and cold that runs a hot needle of fear through my chest.

I break our gaze and breathe deeply. “You freaking disappeared,” I say.

“Did it scare you?” she asks, a flicker of curiosity in her tone.

“Yes, it scared me,” I admit. “You could have warned me.”

“I’ve been telling you the truth this whole time,” she says bitterly.

“Yeah, well, would you believe me if I told you I could fly? Or, I don’t know . . . turn blue when I eat blueberries?” Fear has pumped my voice up an octave, and I can feel myself sweating.

Juneau looks at me strangely for a moment and then bursts out laughing. The scary gleam in her eye is gone, and I’m so relieved I put my head down on the steering wheel and try to calm the drum-machine staccato of my heart.

Finally I look up and see her sitting with her head leaned back against the headrest and eyes closed. “You did it,” I say in awe. “You did magic.”

“Conjured,” she corrects me.

“Whatever.”

49

JUNEAU

I SIT DOWN IN FRONT OF THE FIRE, SUDDENLY exhausted. I can barely believe it. I Conjured and did it without an amulet. And it didn’t feel anything like the Reading and Conjuring I’ve done before.

I have always experienced a tingling sensation as I connected with the Yara. The adults who lived in a world of electricity before the war—before they secluded themselves from society—described the sensation of the Yara connection as feeling like a tiny electrical shock.

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.”