Kelley Armstrong - The Rising

“It’s not just worry,” I said. “I feel responsible. Like they’re waiting for us to rescue them and we have no idea how to do that.”

He put his arm around my waist and pulled me, so I could lean against him. “We’ll do our best.”

I closed my eyes and tried to block the mechanical roar of the city and imagine my forest instead, the sigh of wind through redwoods, the buzz of thrush and the whistle of marmots, the soft drip of rain. It took awhile, but soon I was able to hear them, and when I did, exhaustion took over and I drifted off to sleep.

There was still no answer at my grandmother’s place. She volunteered at the heritage center, most recently in project management. She was Haida, like my mom. Mom wasn’t really active in the Native community, but Grandma was. I help her out with festivals and such, but I always feel a little out of place. I’m adopted and I am Native, but Navajo, not Haida. I don’t know much about that part of my heritage, except that it doesn’t usually come with the ability to shape-shift into a wildcat. I’m just special. Unfortunately.

There was a really good chance, then, that I knew the woman who answered the phone at the heritage center, but not well enough to recognize her voice. And, thankfully, she didn’t recognize mine.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Joy. I know this is going to sound weird, but I’m trying to get in touch with Maya Delaney’s parents.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“I know what happened,” I said. “My mom saw it in the paper. We have a cottage near Salmon Creek, so I’d met most of the kids who died, and I wanted to let Maya’s parents know how sorry I am about everything. But no one’s answering the number I have. I remember she said her grandma worked at the heritage center in Skidegate, so I’m sorry to bother you, but this was the only thing I could think of.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help, either,” the woman said. “Her parents are in Vancouver for the funeral.”

“Vancouver?” I thought I’d misheard and she’d said Victoria.

“Maya’s grandmother was hoping it would be on the island, but the people who ran the town are in charge, and I guess . . .” She trailed off. “I know they took the parents to Vancouver after the crash. Maybe they think going back to the island would be too much of a reminder. It’s all such a horrible tragedy. I think everyone’s just relieved someone else is handling the arrangements.”

Yes, I was sure the St. Clouds were happy to make the arrangements. Get the families to Vancouver—farther from us—after the crash. Hold the service there so it would be smaller. Get this charade over with as fast as possible, then whisk them off to parts unknown.

“Have they had the funeral already?” I asked. “I was kind of hoping to go.”

“It’s the day after tomorrow. You should be able to find details in the Victoria newspaper. Maya’s grandmother has a cell phone, but she’s spending the day on Galiano at a friend’s cabin. A retreat before the funeral. She’ll be out of touch while she’s there.”

We’d spent time at my grandma’s friend’s place on Galiano. I could get us there, and it was a lot closer than Skidegate.

GALIANO IS THE SECOND largest of the Gulf Islands, between the mainland and Vancouver Island. It was an hour ferry ride, after catching a coach bus down to the terminal in Tsawwassen. From the ferry stop, we had a five-kilometer hike to the cabin, which was about as remote as you could get on the island.

By the time we arrived, it was after five. The cottage was a tiny artist’s studio on a small windswept bluff overlooking the strait. There was an empty cabin about fifty meters away, and that’s where we took refuge, hunkering down in its shadow to watch the studio and wait for my grandmother to come out.

Her car was in the drive, and a thin line of smoke rose from the wood-stove chimney, so I knew she was there. I expected her to come out at any moment. It’s a tiny studio and Grandma hates being cooped up inside as much as I do. When we came here for weekends, I’d wake to find her already gone—walking the beach or gathering berries or just sitting on the deck, drinking tea and enjoying the morning. Yet today, despite the rare break of fall sunshine, the doors never opened.

“She’s not coming out,” I said.

This was stupid. Foolish. We should have stayed in Vancouver.

And done what?

That was the question, wasn’t it? And done what? Hide forever? Give up dreams of a reunion with our families and reconcile ourselves to a life on the streets? None of us suggested that. We’d sooner take our chances with the St. Clouds and the Nasts. Corey and I would never surrender the hope of being with our families again. Daniel would—his father was an abusive alcoholic, his mother long gone—but he still wanted to return to some semblance of a normal life.

Corey scanned the quiet road. “There’s no one around. Maya, why don’t you go knock on the door. It’s not like anyone’s going to be watching the place.”

“Are you sure?” Daniel said.

Corey shifted. “Look, I know we need to be careful, but”—he waved a hand around—“we’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s the cottage of her grandmother’s friend. How would we even know she was here? No one’s going to expect this.”

“You’re sure of that? Sure enough to bet Maya’s freedom on it?”

Corey swore under his breath. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re right. We need to take a chance. But it’s almost seven now. It’ll be dark soon. Once it is, I can get to the cabin, get her attention, and get her to let me in.”

Daniel shook his head. “If she sees you through a window, she might react loud enough for anyone watching to overhear. I should—”

“I’ll do it,” Corey said. “First, she knows me the least, so she’ll have the least reaction to seeing me alive. Second, I’m the guy you can most afford to lose.”

“We can’t afford to lose anyone,” I said.

“Let’s not go through this again, okay? I don’t need you guys to make me feel important. You and Daniel got us this far and you’re the ones most likely to get us out. From now on, if someone needs to take a risk, it’s me. Always me.”

We finally agreed that it would be him this time . It was true that Daniel and I had done most of the planning so far. We’d all grown up together in a very small school, where Daniel and I were the class leaders, not because we were awesomely perfect, but because we tended to take charge naturally and the others were happy to kick back and let us shoulder that responsibility. In a crisis, they’d done the same.

Yet everyone had played their part in this ordeal. Often, that role had been the sacrificial lamb. Hayley, Sam, and Rafe had all let themselves be captured so the rest of us could escape. And with every sacrifice they made, the pressure to honor it by saving them grew greater, and I felt less worthy of it.

So we waited for dark. And as we waited, I became more and more anxious. It was already driving me crazy, being this close to my grandmother, with her in there grieving for me. I kept thinking Corey was right, we were being overly paranoid and maybe, in that paranoia, losing our best chance. Maybe it wasn’t just paranoia, either. Maybe we’d become cowards. Unwilling to take a risk if it meant we might be captured, too.

“I need to move,” I said finally as dusk fell.

We were sitting against the neighboring cottage, the long grass hiding us. Nobody had spoken in almost an hour and when I did, the guys both jumped.

“I just want to take a walk.” I glanced down at my trembling hands and clenched them into fists. “I’ll be careful.”