Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4) by Aaron Ritchey (best books to read for teens .txt) 📗

“Can I have the chalkdrive now?” he whispered. “I brought it into the Juniper, and I would like to be the one to take it out. Would that be okay?”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t fight. To tell you the truth, I was glad to be rid of it, and for the rest of my life, I’ve avoided any kind of necklace. Even the slightest chain of gold link feels like a noose around my neck.

Wren walked up to the fire, turned, and faced us. “Hey guys,” she said shyly.

“Are you going to do the speech this time?” Pilate asked.

Wren nodded. “Yeah.” She took in a deep breath, opened her mouth, but her voice left her. She looked over at me, then Sharlotte, with begging eyes.

“Don’t know what to say,” Wren said.

“A moment of silence for all of our fallen friends and family,” Sharlotte said.

Wren nodded. Her face grew long. “Yeah, silence. Let’s listen to it for a minute.”

And we all fell quiet, looking at the fire. I felt all the death keenly. Rachel, parts of me, my love for Micaiah, my house, heck, even back to Mama and when I’d first come to the Juniper. I couldn’t exactly pray, but I wished Windshadow well out on the open plain. And that Miley might find him. Their colts would be lightning, oiled up and greased fast. And I prayed for all the other ponies caught up in the battle. And of course, Lucretia Macaby, Tenisha Keys, Rosie Petal, Jenny Bell Scheutz, Annabeth Burton, and all our dead.

I sent good luck to Sketchy, Tech, Peeperz, and the Moby. They hadn’t found us yet. Maybe they were leading the remaining ARK soldiers on a goose chase. No way to know.

Then I missed all my cows, all of them, the whole batch, but especially Bluto, Betty Butter, and Charles Goodnight, the best steer ever to nose through sage to get to the good grass underneath. God bless my cows. And our dogs, Bella, Edward, and Jacob.

Wren’s head was down. I knew she was thinking of Dutch, but there were no tears on her face. I had the feeling she was done crying.

Well, me too.

Wren raised her head. “Now, the good part. I can’t say nice things like Sharlotte or weird things like Pilate, and I can’t convince y’all of things like Cavvy or Micaiah. Hell, I’m the wrong person to be talking right now. But it’s important we celebrate. We beat all them kutias. Used our fists, guns, and three armies, and we beat ’em.”

“I’m so very moved.” Pilate sipped and smirked, all at the same time.

“You can go jack yourself, Peter,” Wren yelled, almost a growl, and yeah, she was changing, her voice came out thunderous.

Made me tired. Made me sad. But I couldn’t give in to the sadness. Wren was trying to find her other side, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to try and help her. “You did good, Wren,” I said. “We’re alive. We did it. We crossed to Wendover and came back with armies and super soldiers and all sorts of crapperjack.”

“Language, Cavvy,” Sharlotte said out of habit. Then corrected herself. “No, that’s about the right word. Cavvy is right. Wren, thank you for the speech. Thank you for trying to get us to celebrate. But I’m thinking we need a song. You want to sing your beer song?”

“No. I have another song to sing. Y’all know it, but I wanna sing the Renee Crowell version.” Wren cleared her throat. And she sang the first verse of “Wayfaring Stranger.” Her voice was bad, but her feelings were true, and she sang it ’cause she knew the role of the outsider, the traveler, the stranger. She’d been playing it her whole life.

“Now, let’s sing it together,” Wren said.

And we did. We raised our voices in the night, and when we sang about our lost sister, I sang for Rachel as loud as I could, so loud that if heaven wasn’t empty, God would hear me, and He’d know my suffering.

We sang the third verse:

I’ll soon be free, a reformed stranger

My mind at rest in my family home

I’ll drop my hate and all my anger

and no more will I have to roam

I am redeemed by my mother’s heartache

I am redeemed by my father’s love

I’m going home just to see them

’Cause I love them, love them so.

And we didn’t sing it like a religious song, but like a war song, ’cause we didn’t have a home. We felt destined to roam forever, and I clung to my hate and anger.

More than that, our war wasn’t over. Unlike Wendover, we knew we’d find more battle in Hays, Kansas.

Chapter Twenty-one

Hold me closer,

Hold me tighter

I’m a terrible web

And you’re the spider

—Lizzy Leigh

(i)

I STOOD IN THE SHOWER for a long time. I had the waterproof radio on, and I was listening to Pearl Cornell, a soft country music song, and I had to smile. Hot water, music, electricity, in the Hays’s Marriott Conference Center and Hotel. I couldn’t quite handle video yet, all the shows, all the channels, the whole library of video I could watch, overwhelmed me. I’d missed an entire season of Lonely Moon.

Heck, I could call Anju, my friend in Cleveland, if I wanted to hear all I’d missed. I didn’t have my own slate yet, but the hotel room did.

I dried off with a big, huge, fluffy towel; it was like a blanket for the bathroom. From the little coffee maker, I retrieved my mocha and took a sip. I closed my eyes at how rich and delicious it was.

If you’re an atheist, sip a mocha, and you’ll believe.

Damn, but Micaiah being rich finally paid off. We got a ride into Hays in frictionless SUVs rented from the Hays Avis, driven by one of his buddies, some slick, rich guy who had a collection of thousand-dollar sunglasses. A single phone call, and Paul had flown in and