“Nooo.” Just another one of those pesky gaps in my education. “I don’t speak African either.”
Roger smiled. “There are thousands of dialects in Africa—Chad alone has two hundred distinct linguistic groups. But Arabic and French are the official languages of Chad—France used to own Chad.”
I frowned. “Own it? They’re not even connected.”
“The way England used to own America,” Roger explained.
“Oh.” I felt really dumb, which is not a common feeling for me, I assure you.
A few minutes later, Fang was by my side, and we were handing out two cups of raw rice per person. It was all I could do not to just give them everything I could get my hands on. Fang and I kept meeting eyes.
“It reminds me of—so long ago—before Jeb sprung us out of the dog crates…” My throat caught, and Fang nodded. He knew it was a painful memory.
But it wasn’t the memory that was getting me. It was seeing so many people looking like… like they were still waiting to be let out of their dog crates. Despite everything we’d been through—some of it the stuff of nightmares—we were still way better off than the people here.
I was a little dazed by the time Angel strode up to us, leading a small girl by the hand.
“Hi,” said Angel, her face still caked with dust and grit. Her blond curly hair stood out around her head like a halo—which was a bit misleading in her case. “This is Jeanne. Jeanne, this is Max and Fang.”
Angel had that look that made me brace myself and prepare to explain that we could not adopt this sweet little girl. We’d already adopted two dogs (Total and Akila, now back in the States with my mom, Dr. Valencia Martinez, in Arizona). But this Jeanne was so adorable, I was almost afraid I’d just say what the hey.
Jeanne smiled. “Merci pour tout les aides.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. Jeanne came and gave me a hug, her thin arms wrapping around me. She patted my shoulder, her small hand rough against the back of my neck. Then she hugged Angel the same way.
“Jeanne has gifts,” Angel said seriously. “Kind of like us. She’s very special. Let’s show Max, Jeanne.”
Jeanne smiled shyly and held out her hand, palm up, as if she were waiting for us to put something in it. Another hungry child, desperate for food.
Angel pulled an arrowhead-shaped rock from the pocket of her cargo shorts. It was so sharp it looked like the tip of a spear.
“Angel, what the—?”
“Just watch, Max,” she said, as she started to drag the rock’s point across the heel of Jeanne’s open hand.
And blood began to flow.
5
“STOP!” I SCREAMED. Lightning fast, I swept the sharp rock right out of Angel’s grasp, and it went spinning off into the dust. “Have you completely lost your mind, Angel?”
“It’s okay, Max,” Angel assured me, and Jeanne nodded. “Oui, oui.”
I dropped to my knees and examined Jeanne’s hand while she sucked a finger on her other. She had a thin puncture at least an inch long. “Wait here. I’m gonna run to get a first aid kit,” I said breathlessly.
Jeanne grabbed my arm with her nonbloody hand. “Non, non,” she said. “Voici.” She pointed to her oozing wound.
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry, Jeanne!” I babbled. “Please forgive Angel. She’s a little… unbalanced. I’ll fix you up right now. You’ll be fine, I promise.”
“Yes, she will,” Angel said calmly. How badly was I going to kick her butt later?
Jeanne placed the finger she’d been sucking on at one end of the incision and started pressing it.
“Jeepers, don’t touch that!” I said. “We need to keep the wound clean—keep it from getting infected.” I looked around. “Someone here who speaks French! Tell her not to—”
I broke off as I witnessed something unlike anything I’d seen before. And I’d seen a lot of weird stuff—including brains-on-a-stick (check out book three if you’re curious). Most of the weird stuff I’d seen had been nightmarish. But this was… something beautiful. Breathtaking. Miraculous.
As Jeanne ran her finger slowly along the bloody slash, pressing as she went, it closed up right before my eyes.
She had healed herself.
6
“ALL RIGHT, any second now…” The words were clipped, his accent thick. Mr. Chu leaned over his assistant’s shoulder, impatiently looking at a blank computer screen. And then, right on time, the screen flickered and split to show two charts, side by side. Points started blinking faintly, and small words began running along different lines: heart rate, temperature, blood oxygen saturation level, and so on.
His assistant peered at the charts for a moment, then typed “Maximum” on one side and “Angel” on the other. Mr. Chu became lost in reviewing the biological data streaming in from the microscopic monitors.
“Mr. Chu? You have a visitor, sir.” Another assistant stood in the trailer doorway, one hand on his weapon, as required.
Mr. Chu went down the short, narrow hall to the small receiving room. A young girl in a yellow dress stood there, twisting one of her thin braids between nervous fingers.
“Hello, Jeanne,” said Mr. Chu, smiling. Jeanne managed a tiny smile back. “You were successful in your mission,” said Mr. Chu, motioning to an assistant.
“Les filles oiseaux sont trés belles,” Jeanne said sweetly.
“Here is your reward,” said Mr. Chu, taking a lollipop from his assistant and giving it to Jeanne. Her eyes widened, and she eagerly ripped the wrapper off and stuck the candy in her mouth. Her eyes closed in rapture.
Mr. Chu nodded again, and his assistant quickly swabbed Jeanne’s upper arm with an alcohol wipe. The whole length of her arm was lined with dots, marking the sites of hundreds of needle insertions. And here was a new one, as the assistant injected the contents of a hypodermic needle into Jeanne’s almost nonexistent muscle. It was the first of a dozen injections to come in the next twenty-four hours.
Jeanne had learned to put up with all of the drugs—the pills, the drips, the shots. Without them, the side effects of being a self-healer were much, much worse. The treatments were a small price to pay for such rewards, after all.
Jeanne’s closed eyelids flickered a tiny bit as the needle went in, but she swirled the lollipop in her mouth and didn’t say a word.
7
WE WORKED ALL DAY, until dusk. The flock is usually chock-full o’ stamina, but it kind of depends on getting three or four thousand calories a day. By six o’clock, we were running on empty.
“Max?” said Patrick, walking up to me with a lumpy sack in tow. “Here’s some bedding—it’s not much, I’m afraid. There’s a tent set aside for you guys. Do you want to get it organized before dinner? You have about ten minutes.”
“Sure. By the way, Patrick, who was the camel platoon?” I asked.
“Don’t know for sure,” he said. “But some of the locals have a thing against Americans. It’s complicated politics we can talk about later. Right now, if you want to set up…”
“Sure, thanks,” I said, taking the sack. I looked at my tired flock. “You guys wait here—I think chow’s coming. And drink some water.”
“I’ll help you with that,” said Fang, nodding at the tent.
“Sure,” I said casually, but my heart was already speeding up.
We ducked through the worn nylon flap of our tent, and I dropped the sack. In the next moment we had our arms around each other, ignoring the dust on each other’s lips and our hot and sticky skin.
“The flying was amazing, but… I’ve missed you,” Fang murmured, his hands getting stuck in the snarls in my hair.
“Yeah. And this is probably our only chance to be alone for a while.”
“I couldn’t stand seeing you get shot at today,” Fang said, kissing my neck.
I drew back in surprise. “You’ve seen me get shot at, like, a million times!”
He shrugged, scratching my back between my wings, making me shiver. “It�
�s worse now.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said, and held his face so I could kiss him again. It felt like we were in a time-free bubble, the only two people around, and in the ninety-eight-degree weather, I felt like I was burning up from my head to my toes.
“Max! Fang! Dinner!”
I jumped and pulled back. But no one came into the tent, so Fang’s lingering hands stroked up and down my arms as we tried to get normal expressions back on our faces. Part of me wanted to stay in there forever and forget the rest of the world, but I immediately felt guilty, thinking of the flock waiting for us outside. I was still responsible for them; we were still a family.
And always would be.
8
“PASS THE… GRUB,” said Iggy a few minutes later, holding out his hand.
“The brown grub or the yellow grub?” I asked. My face still felt flushed from my time with Fang. I hoped the others couldn’t tell.
“Either.” Iggy ran a hand through his reddish-blond hair, making it stand up stiffly with dirt and sweat. Later I was going to march everyone to the one water pump in this tent village, pump up a couple gallons of water, and try to decrust the flock as much as possible. We’ve got certain standards. They’re way low, but we have them.
“You guys did great today,” said Patrick. “You must be exhausted.”
“Um-hm,” I mumbled, picking up a white ball of millet paste. Dipped in the peanut–goat stew sauce, it was about a three on the Max Culinary Scale—above roasted desert rat or lizard-on-a-stick, but well below, say, a steak.
Roger, the nurse, handed Iggy a small dented bowl. “Dried fish, mixed with… stuff. Try it.”
We ate everything we could get our hands on. Living on the streets had beaten any pickiness out of us. Plus, we burn calories like a race car burns fuel, and we just couldn’t afford to not eat—whatever it was.
The fire leaped in front of us, looking pretty and feeling cozy and warm but smelling to high heaven, since its fuel was camel poop. Yes. I mean, a regular camel is no bed of roses, but its poop? On fire? The only one not wrinkling his nose was Gazzy. But as soon as the blazing sun had set, the desert temperature had dropped about thirty degrees, and the fire was welcome.
I ate, trying not to miss chocolate, and felt the warmth of Fang’s leg pressed against mine, here in the shadows. I was on my third pass of reliving our stolen minutes in the tent and already wondering when we could be alone again. These days I spent a ridiculous amount of time dreaming about someday just being able to spend all day with Fang. Alone.
Now my face was really burning. In my dream, the flock was safe somewhere, Total and Akila weren’t there, and no one was chasing us. I would have no worries, no need to be on alert. I could just relax. Which, okay, I suck at, but I was hoping that with practice…
“You guys met Jeanne today, didn’t you?” Patrick asked. “The little girl in the yellow dress?”
“She’s really special,” Angel said solemnly.
“Yes.” Patrick shook his head. “She used to have a father and four brothers. They’ve all died in the past two years, from either HIV or hunger or the outbreaks of civil war that keep happening. Now it’s just Jeanne and her mother, and her mom has been diagnosed with HIV.”
“Oh, no,” Nudge said, tears welling in her eyes. “So she’ll be an orphan?”
Patrick nodded sadly. “Most likely. In many other countries people can sometimes live long lives with HIV medications. But it’s different here. And there are so many other children like her.”
I choked down another millet ball (Note to self: Do not bother getting recipe) and looked around at my beloved flock, safe in a circle around the fire. Iggy was staring straight into the flames, able to because he was blind. Gazzy was examining each and every last bowl for any morsel that might have been missed. Nudge had her chin in her hands, looking at the ground, and I knew she was bumming about all the misery here. My life would have been incomplete without each and every one of them.
I glanced into Fang’s eyes to find him watching me with dark intensity, and my cheeks flushed again. Could we sneak off, like, into the dark shadows of the desert? Just for a minute?
“Nothing can last forever, Max.” It was Angel, eerily interrupting my thoughts. She was scratching at the dirt with a small animal bone. “And actually—I hate to tell you this, but Fang will be the first to die. And it will be soon.”
9
FIVE BIRD KID HEADS swiveled toward Angel. Nudge’s mouth had dropped open, and Gazzy’s eyes were big. Iggy’s boyish face creased into wrinkles. My dark, mysterious Fang hardly registered his surprise, as if Angel had just said it was about to rain.
As for me, I felt like Angel had kicked me in the gut.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” I finally choked out.
“I’m just saying, Max,” said Angel, still playing with her bone. “You always want everything to stay the same. But it can’t. We’re all getting older. You have a mom. You and Fang are all googly eyed at each other. Nothing stays the same. We can’t last forever. And I happen to know that Fang is going to be the first to die. You’re gonna have to learn to live without him. I’m sorry.”
My eyes narrowed and I stood up. “How do you know that?” I asked tightly. “What makes you say that?” The rest of the flock was watching, wide-eyed. Only Fang didn’t look upset.
“It’s okay, Max,” he said, patting my leg. “Don’t worry about it.”
Angel looked at him sadly and shook her head, and something in me broke loose. I grabbed her shirt and pulled her to her feet. Her mouth opened in surprise.
“What. Do. You. Mean,” I snarled.
Fang jumped up and tried to pry my hands loose. Nudge tried to get between us. I ignored them, focusing on Angel’s face.
“You tell me what you meant,” I said, “or I’m gonna…” I had to think of something almost as bad as killing her but not quite. “I’ll—I’ll cut off all that floofy blond hair of yours while you sleep!”
“Max!” hissed Fang, pulling at me. “Stop it!” But I was still shaking Angel.
“Max, stop,” pleaded Nudge, sounding close to tears.
“Is everything okay?” Patrick’s concerned voice started to filter into my brain as I realized what I was doing. I’d never almost hurt a member of the flock before. Abruptly, I let go of Angel’s shirt. Her face was white.
“Max, gosh,” said Nudge, putting her hand on Angel’s shoulder.
I was breathing hard, and Fang pushed me back gently, moving me away from Angel. How could she say something like that and not explain it?
“Max, come on,” said Fang.
I opened my mouth, but then noticed that two people were approaching our fire. This would have to wait.
10
“HELLO,” PATRICK SAID as the people got nearer. As they got close, we could see that there was a tall man and a tall kid. They were only silhouettes until they were almost on top of the fire.
“Hello, good evening.” The man had a foreign accent and was ridiculously dapper in a crisp, clean seersucker suit.
“Can I help you?” asked Patrick.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I am Dr. Hans Gunther-Hagen. One of my companies is conducting research here—I donated the supply of vaccines your group is using.”
Patrick stood and quickly wiped his hands on his shorts before holding one out to Dr. Gunther-Hagen. “Oh, thank you so much!” he said, beaming. “I can’t tell you what a difference it makes! We really appreciate your generosity.”
The doctor smiled at him. “It was my pleasure. It’s a blessing to be able to share my prosperity with others.”
Roger leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Huge billionaire. Owns a hundred companies, most in pharmaceuticals.”
Another huge billionaire, eh? I wondered if he knew Nino Pierpont, the richest guy in the world, who sometimes funded our little adventures. Like, did billionaires hang out with each other? Talk about the countries they want to buy, that kind
of thing?
“I heard that you have the bird children here,” he said.
My eyebrows went up. Patrick looked nonplussed and deliberately didn’t glance at us.
“Oh?” he managed.
“Yes,” the doctor said, sounding friendly and curious. “I’m most interested to meet them. They’ve gotten such tremendous publicity. I was hoping to ask the leader of the bird children to come have breakfast with me tomorrow morning in my tent.”
Seconds ticked by. Patrick and Roger said nothing.
I rose and stepped forward, saying, “That would be me.”
At the exact same time, Angel stood, saying, “Sure.”
My jaw clenched. On top of everything else, she was now starting one of her campaigns to lead the flock? Your timing sucks, I thought at her, and she flicked her eyes at me.
“Ah, fine,” said Dr. Gunther-Hagen, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Splendid! Both of you come, then. But first, I’d like to introduce my… protégé. This is Dylan.” He gestured, and the tall kid stepped into the fire’s circle of light.
I blinked, wondering what teen heartthrob magazine Dr. Häagen-Dazs had swiped Dylan from. He was as tall as Fang and Iggy, meaning over six feet. His thick, dark-blond hair was shoved carelessly back from a tanned forehead. Expressive turquoise eyes looked at us with guarded curiosity. He was wearing worn jeans and scuffed, dusty boots. A beat-up suede jacket mostly covered his clean white T-shirt. He was ready for a photo shoot—like, for the top twenty-five hottest guys under the age of twenty.
The Sky Is Falling Page 2
