“You don’t have to be like us, Miles,” I say. “You can go back to California and live an extremely long life, aging imperceptibly for eons—as long as you don’t get in the way of any speeding cars or bullets.” I keep my eyes on the hawk. Sometimes it’s easier to say something you don’t like when you don’t have to watch the listener’s reaction.

“No, I can’t, Juneau,” he says, touching my arm and turning me to look at him. There’s pain in his eyes, but along with it is a defensiveness I haven’t seen for a while. “And even if I wanted to, I would have to move on a regular basis. People would notice after a while when I don’t age. I would have to live like a nomad: setting up my life in one place, and being forced to leave once things looked suspicious . . . like every ten or twenty years. What kind of life would that be?”

“Some would think it was pretty amazing. Think of how many different lives you could live. How many places you’d see and professions you could have.” But I know as I speak that he’s not going to accept it. He hasn’t had enough time to think things through. To get used to the repercussions of what he is. For me, it was always an inevitable part of life in my clan: a state I wanted to enter.

I see Miles’s jaw clench as he deflects my words, refusing to let them sink in. There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better right now. But there is something I can do to distract him. I squeeze his hand. “Feel like joining me for another round of target practice?”

“Now?” he asks, inching out of his dark mood. “Shouldn’t we be getting ready to leave?”

“No, I think we should stay here tonight and leave in the morning. I want to try to get a message to my father before we get any closer. And you could use another night of rest to recover from your death-sleep. Plus, it would make me feel better if you get some more practice in before you have to actually use your weapon. If we’re going up against a man with an army,” I continue, “we better be able to defend ourselves.”

The corners of Miles’s lips barely move, but the pain in his eyes has disappeared. “As long as we stick with targets that aren’t cute and furry,” he says.

“Inanimate objects only—at least for you,” I promise, and loop my arm through his as we turn and walk back to camp.

22

MILES

“MILES, I SHOWED YOU THIS YESTERDAY. TWICE. You were doing just fine then.” Juneau looks at me, confused.

“I know, but I just like hearing you explain things. It’s that bossy tone you get when you tell me what to do that just . . . drives me wild.”

She grins and rolls her eyes. “Use the pull cord to cock back the bowstring,” she says, showing me once again how to stretch the braided string back until it is tight.

I don’t want to admit that I wasn’t listening the first two times because of the way she was standing, her chest pressed closely to my back as she showed me how to hold the weapon.

“That’s right,” she says. “You loop it around this peg, the nut, which holds it in place.”

I try not to get distracted again by her being basically wrapped around me, one hand holding the crossbow under mine and the other around my shoulder as I kneel with one leg on the ground. I can’t imagine target practice has been this sexy. For anyone. Ever.

“Now you fit the bolt in,” she continues, handing me one of her super-sharp carved wooden arrows.

I turn my head to glance back at her, and her cheek is an inch from my own. My face grows warm as electricity pings between us.

Juneau lowers her arms and stands up from her crouching position. She puts her fists on her hips and says, “You’re not concentrating. This is important. Even if it’s just for defense, since we won’t be ‘barging in like gangbusters to mow them down,’ as you put it.”

“Got it. I understand,” I say. “Now can you take that position again? I don’t think I can fit this bolt in on my own.”

“Ha!” Juneau says, but with a twinkle in her eye she wraps her arms back around me and helps me fit the arrow into the track carved into the wood.

“Hold the crossbow up, in front of your face, high enough so that you’re looking at your target just over the top of the tiller.” I do as she says, and squint over the weapon toward my target tree, which stands about thirty feet away.

“Now with two fingers, you’re going to pull the trigger, which releases the nut,” Juneau says, and brushes her finger along a long piece of bone that runs along the bottom side of the crossbow.

“You’re so sexy when you speak crossbow to me,” I murmur, and then squeeze the bone lever like she’s showing me, and the crossbow recoils against my shoulder as the arrow goes flying across the clearing . . . and right past the tree.

“You did that on purpose,” Juneau says, standing up from her crouch. “Your aim was good the first time we tried this.”

“Why don’t you shoot?” I ask, rising to my feet. “That way I can watch your technique.”

“Okay,” she says, and taking the crossbow from me, uses one smooth motion to cock the bowstring and slip a bolt into the track. She raises it to face level and aims, and the movement is so natural that the crossbow looks like an extension of her body. Like she’s a part of the forest she carved her weapon from. She’s a puzzle piece that fits perfectly in its place.

Watching her shoot is just one more example of why Juneau was so uncomfortable in Seattle, all nervous and jumpy, like a fish out of water. She belongs in nature, and it belongs to her.