by Alyson Noel
It’s happening.
I’m getting pulled under. Lost in the noise.
The atmosphere turning first hazy, then shimmery, and it’s not long before everything stops, and time screeches to a big slamming halt.
The waitress now frozen with a tray of plates balanced on her palm—as the busboy pours a solid arc of water that never reaches the bottom. The dancing girls caught in mid-wiggle—lips puckered, eyes slitted—their boyfriends’ tattooed arms caught reaching for freshly poured beers.
No matter how many times I blink, the scene refuses to change, refuses to march forward again. The beat so insistent, so rhythmic, it causes something inside me—something ancient and deep—to tremble and stir and rise to the surface.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Fight for control of myself. Aware of the crows swooping down all around me, landing on my shoulders, the table, pecking hard at my fingers—as the glowing ones nudge up against me, urge me to listen, to heed their warning.
I reach for my bag, fumbling for whatever remains of the herbs Paloma gave me. They’ll make me sleepy, there’s no getting around it—still, sleepy is better than this—anything is.
Dumping it into my soda, I give it a quick swirl with my straw, then chug it so swiftly it spills out the corner of my mouth, flows down my neck, and lands in small sticky globs on my chest. Then I lean back in my seat, wrap my arms tightly around me, and wait for the vision to end, for time to pick itself up and march forward again.
My eyes still shut when the waitress comes by and says, “That it?”
I lift my head, meeting a pair of eyes caked with eyeliner so thick I’m not sure if Jennika would cringe or cheer. Nodding when she repeats the question, too shaken to say anything more, all of my energy spent hoping the herbs will hold long enough to get me to Albuquerque. If not, who knows where I’ll end up?
“Better get moving then, don’t want to miss your bus now, do you?”
I narrow my gaze, searching her face once again. Noting a pair of overplucked brows that leave her looking more surprised than she’s probably capable of. “How do you know I’m catching the bus?” I ask, pretty sure I hadn’t mentioned it.
But she just smirks and plops the check down before me, voice trailing over her shoulder when she says, “If you’re smart, you’ll get out while you can. Don’t be a lifer like I am.”
I stare at her retreating back, calling, “I gave my phone to the bartender, do you know where he took it?”
She cocks her head toward the long corridor and disappears into the kitchen. So I toss some bills on the table, grab my bag, and head in the direction she sent me.
The place is big—much bigger than it appears at first sight. A huge, cavernous, underground space with numerous corridors that lead off in all different directions, reminding me of an old bunker from a movie set Jennika worked on back when I was a kid.
Since I have no idea where I’m going, I just follow the noise. Figuring at the very least it’ll lead me to someone who might be able to help, and finding myself even further surprised when I enter a really large, crowded room with a stage, and a band, with a whole swarm of teens dancing before them.
Teens.
People my age.
Who would’ve thought?
They’re even dressed like teens—though I can’t imagine where they shop. The only boutique I saw didn’t sell anything even remotely trendy and cute.
Maybe there’s more to this town than I thought? Though it’s not like I’ll stick around to find out.
I head toward the bar, hoping this bartender will be nicer than the last, and after screaming to be heard above the noise, I head in the direction she sent me, attracting all kinds of unwanted attention as I push my way across the dance floor.
Two dark-haired girls snicker and glare as I make my way past, muttering a word I can’t understand. But with only twenty minutes standing between me and my permanent emancipation from this gawd-awful place, I choose to ignore it—can’t afford a delay. Can’t afford the slightest mistake.
I rap hard on the door. Once. Twice. Desperate to get some traction, I raise my arm again, ready to bang even harder this time, when the door springs opens, and an older man catches my flailing wrist in his fist as he says, “Yes?” His eyes dance, his teeth flash, and on the surface at least, he appears to be the friendliest person I’ve met so far, but something about him makes me step back—makes me wrench my hand from his grip.
He stares, blinks, waits for me to speak up, and knowing I need to get this over with quick, I force the words from my lips. “I’m here for my phone.”
He gives me a quick once-over, and while it’s pleasant enough, I can’t help but notice the chills that run down my arms, prickling my skin in a way that’s disturbing. Then he swings the door wider, motions for me to step in. Calling to a guy staring at a wall of security screens documenting everything happening inside and out of this place, saying, “Son, the girl needs her phone.”
I glance around the office, taking in desks, phones, computers, printers, chairs—all the usual stuff, nothing ominous about it, and yet, something about it leaves me on edge.
The boy reaches toward the wall and yanks hard on the plug, his glossy black hair gleaming under the fluorescent light in a way I can’t miss. And when he turns, my phone and charger in hand, I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but stare hard at his eyes.
Cold. Cruel. Icy-blue eyes banded by brilliant flecks of gold that fail to reflect.
Eyes I’ve dreamed about.
“This yours?” His voice is light, flirtatious, overly confident—a voice that belongs to a guy used to charming girls speechless.
A voice that recently asked for a light just outside the liquor store.
My hands tremble, my heart hammers, as I reach toward him, reach for the phone, only to find he has other plans.
His fingers curl around mine, catching my hand in his—as his strange blue eyes deepen in a way that challenges me to resist.
Though his touch is cool and smooth and undeniably inviting, something about it makes me jerk back, causing my phone to crash to the ground, and it’s all I can do to tear my gaze away long enough to kneel down and retrieve it.
“I hope you’ll stick around long enough to check out the band.” His voice floats over my head. “They came all the way from Albuquerque. They’re only here for tonight. Be a shame to miss it.”
I swallow hard, settling my bag high on my shoulder, as I struggle to settle myself, needing to play it cool for now, then bolt when I can.
“’Fraid I’ll have to miss it,” I say, striving for nonchalant, but my voice betrays me with the way it trembles and pitches. “Gotta bus to catch, so … if you don’t mind.” I wriggle my fingers, motioning for him to step out of my way. But he remains right where he is, blocking my exit with a grin on his face.
He cocks his head, allowing a clump of hair to fall across his eyes as his gaze sweeps over me and his tongue flicks across his front teeth. “Now you’re just being mean,” he says, smile broadening as he rakes a hand through his bangs. “Least you could do is stay a while. Give us a chance to get to know each other better. I had no idea Paloma was hiding such a pretty granddaughter—did you?” He turns to his father, their eyes meeting in a private joke that escapes me.
I start to speak. Start to ask how he knows about Paloma and me. But before I can get there, he says, “Trust me, Enchantment is even smaller than it looks. Hard to keep a secret in a town where everyone knows everyone.”
His eyes meet mine, but instead of that odd, nonreflective blue they once were—they’re now crimson. And when his lip quirks to the side, they part just enough to allow the snake to slip out and dart straight for my chest.
I gasp. Shove him aside and make for the door. Fingers straining for the handle, just inches away, when the walls begin to melt, the roof begins to sink, and the space shrinks so small it swallows the door and bars my escape.
The room crushing, pressing, fo
rcing me to the floor, forcing me to my knees—depleting it of oxygen, making it impossible to breathe—to see—to do much of anything other than scream.
I scream until my head swells with the sound of it.
Scream until my eyes fill with bright swirling circles.
Scream until I realize I haven’t screamed at all—the sound stayed inside me, never found its way out.
A cool, firm hand clamps hard on my shoulder, as the boy peers at me and says, “Hey—hey there, you okay?”
I stare at him sideways, seeing him for what he truly is—no longer a demon but rather a beautiful, overconfident boy wearing a false mask of concern.
“Can I get you some water? Do you need to sit down?” His eyes crease with amusement as the room settles around me, returning to normal again.
He reaches toward me, offers a hand, but I’m quick to jump up, slip out of his grip. Noting the way his dad watches, his face placid, unreadable, while the boy hovers beside me, pretending to care.
“Get away from me,” I mumble, my voice weak, whimpering—my body a trembling mess of nerves. Assuring myself that what I saw was real, even though it’s ridiculous, even though they do their best to pretend not to have noticed.
“Hey now.” He reaches toward me again. “That’s no way to—”
“I said, don’t touch me!” I grab hold of my bag—bolt for the door.
The boy calling after me as I shove through crowds of people my age, people I might’ve befriended had Paloma succeeded in keeping me here.
Knocking into girls and bouncing off boys, until one in particular catches me, steadies me. His fingers circling my arm as he peers down and says, “You okay?”
I struggle against him, fight to break free. Though it’s not long before I’m overcome by a cool wash of calm chased by a comforting warmth that folds like a blanket around me. My movements slowed, my thoughts becoming so hazy and loose, I abandon my flight. Robbed of all recollection of why I wanted to leave when I’d do anything to always feel so secure—so safe—so loved and at peace.
So at home in his arms.
I melt against his chest—lift my gaze to meet his. Gasping when I stare into a pair of icy-blue eyes banded by brilliant flecks of gold that shine like kaleidoscopes, reflecting my image thousands of times.
The boy from my dream.
The one who died in my arms.
Brothers.
As the boy claimed they were:
“Not to worry, brother—it’s the soul that I want, the heart is all yours.”
But I know it can’t be. My mind is deceitful. I can longer trust the things that it shows me.
I break free, jolted by the sudden loss of warmth—the crushing chill that surrounds me the instant I sever his touch.
“I’m sorry—I just … I thought you needed—” He peers at me, gaze fraught with worry, head cocked in a way that causes his long, glossy black hair to spill down his side.
But before he can finish, I’m gone. Racing across the room, I blow past the exit and make my way up a steep flight of stairs—convincing myself the boys aren’t real, or at least not in the way that I think.
The hallucinations and dreams are merging as one. I just need to get out of here—just need to—
I’m about halfway down the alley when I allow myself to stop beneath the only street lamp that’s lit, where I sag against the wall and fight to catch my breath. My body bent forward, fingers clutching hard at my knees, as slick waves of hot, clammy sweat course under my clothes—thoroughly wetting me.
I yank on my ponytail, pry it away from the place where it clings fast to my neck, and when I return my hand to my knee, my gaze is caught by the stamp I’d failed to notice ’til now:
A red ink coyote with glaring red eyes.
This town holds secrets you can’t even begin to imagine. It is full of coyotes, and Coyote is a trickster you must learn to outsmart.
The memory of Paloma’s words causing me to push away from the wall, fumble blindly toward the street, as the glowing ones surge toward me, their numbers increasing until they surround me.
Having overpowered the herbs, they jump out of windows, leap from shadowed doorways—as the crows swoop down to my ankles and peck at my feet—squawking in outrage as I stumble right over them, turning them to clumps of bloodied feathers that cling to my shoes.
Only a few yards of asphalt lying between the bus stop and me—one double lane road and I’m free.
Free of the Rabbit Hole, this alleyway, this horrible town, the glowing people, the crows, and the boys with the unearthly blue eyes.
I can make it.
I can do it.
I have to.
I’ve no choice.
Never mind that my vision is narrowing, turning everything to bright shining spots that shimmer before me.
Never mind that my legs are wobbly, knees no longer willing to carry me.
I bang into the street, arms outstretched, struggling to see through the glare. My lips moving in a silent plea:
Help me—please—just a few more steps and I’m there!
The sound of tires squealing, voices shouting, now crowding my head. Leaving me blinded, swaying, darting around the shadows dancing before me. My vision filling with bright wavering circles of light as a sudden thrust of hot metal sends me flying, flailing, soaring high into the sky with arms spread wide, raven-like—until gravity hits and the asphalt roars up to catch me in a bed of razor-sharp rocks that slice through my clothes and embed in my flesh—jamming my nose with the stench of burnt rubber, charred skin.
An image of the old black-and-white photo bearing my dad’s smiling face the last thing I see.
His dark eyes narrowed in judgment—disappointed with me.
I didn’t listen to his warning.
I was too focused on the gruesome state of his head back in that Moroccan square to listen to the words he tried to tell me.
And now, because of my failing, I am like him.
Only worse.
I failed to escape.
Failed to find a way out.
And now, because of it, I will die in this town.
the spirit road
twelve
Paloma leans over the grave site; murmuring in her native Spanish, she clears the film of dirt with her fingers before placing the flowers just so. A handful of blooms plucked straight from her garden—bright blossoms of violet and gold that continue to flourish despite the onset of fall.
Her gaze solemn, mouth set, knees pushing into a patch of dried grass, as her long dark braid slips over her shoulder and sweeps the length of the simple, rectangular marker, before she grabs the braid, tames it, turning to me when I ask, “So, is this where he rests?” Regretting the way my words came out much louder than planned.
She shakes her head, eyes fixed on mine, surprising me when she says, “No.”
I cock my head, peer at the grave marker again, ensuring the mistake isn’t mine.
“This is where he was laid to rest. This is where we buried his body. But make no mistake, Daire, he no longer remains in this place.”
I do my best not to balk, but I’m pretty sure I did anyway. You’d think I’d be used to Paloma’s plainspoken ways, but really, it’s just so odd to hear a parent speak about her dead child’s body in such a frank and clinical way.
“Don’t make the mistake of confusing this place with your father.” Her eyes narrow, urging me to listen. “This is not where he lives. If you want to come here to visit, have a place to speak with him, commune with him—if you find that it helps, then by all means, go ahead. It’s perfectly understandable, and I would never move to stop you. But never forget that your father is everywhere. His soul’s been released, unbound from this earth, left to become one with the wind that blows through your hair, the dirt that shifts under your feet. He’s the rain in the storm cloud that hovers over those mountains beyond.” She extends a slim, elegant arm, gesturing toward the beautiful Sangre de Cristo Mountain range
—a wide sweep of navy and gray with a cap of white snow at the top. “He’s the bloom in every flower. He is one with the energy of the earth. He is everywhere you look. Which means you can speak to him here, just as easily as you can speak to him anywhere. And if you go very quiet and listen with care, you just might hear his reply.”
I swallow hard, still caught on the part about my dad being one with the wind, and the dirt, and the rain. Her words reminding me of the dream I had the first night I arrived. The one where I realized that I was an integral part of everything—and not long after that, my true love was dead.
I lean hard on my crutches, my gaze sweeping the length of the graveyard, still unused to the quiet humbleness of this place. In Los Angeles, the cemeteries are carefully planned, heeding strict zoning laws and consisting of wide, grassy, well tended knolls with the occasional pond near which to pause and reflect. They go by glossy Hollywood names like Forest Lawn Memorial Park—encouraging the illusion that your loved one isn’t really gone, but rather they’ve been recruited for some elite, afterlife golf tournament.
But this place is nothing like that—it’s raw and accessible, with no fancy, euphemistic name, no shiny marble mausoleums. It’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is—a place for common folks to bury their loved ones. Set right off the side of the highway, pretty much in the middle of nowhere—it seems random, unplanned, crowded with handmade crosses and markers that, at first look, all seem to clash.
But as shabby as it seemed at first glance, now I see that the graves are often visited and well kept. Marked with generous handfuls of flowers—some plastic, some real—set alongside freshly filled balloons grounded by rocks and left to sway in the wind. All of it making for so much color, so much comfort and love, I can’t help but feel oddly peaceful here. And it’s not long before I realize I’m in no hurry to leave.
