by Alyson Noel
“How did he die?” I ask, using my more or less unscathed leg to rub against the one with the cast. The plaster makes it itch, and I can’t wait to be rid of it. “Jennika would never tell me,” I add, when I see the way Paloma hesitates, averts her gaze.
“Why do you call her Jennika?” she asks, her voice soft, eyes returning to mine.
And though it would be just as easy to answer, “Because it’s her name,” I don’t. There’s no need for sarcasm. I know what she meant.
“She was barely seventeen when she had me—I raised her as much as she raised me. Also, I grew up surrounded by adults, which didn’t make for a whole lot of baby talk. Everyone called her Jennika, so one day when I really needed her attention, I called her that too. Of course I didn’t pronounce it correctly, but she got the drift. It was the first word I ever spoke, and it stuck.”
Paloma nods, a small smile sneaking onto her face.
“And now, your turn—what really happened to Django? Was it an accident like mine?” I gaze down at my bruised and battered self, which, thanks to Paloma’s careful ministrations and advanced healing knowledge, not to mention Chay’s having arrived on the scene mere seconds after the impact (just as I’d thought, Paloma had sent him to look for me), I was spared a grave in this place. Actually, I was spared a lot more than that. It was just two weeks ago, and I’m already up and about.
“It was an accident,” she says, her tone becoming earnest when she adds, “but it was nothing like yours.”
I squint. Nod. Wishing she’d hurry up and get to it. I’m dying to know the rest of the story. But I’m also beginning to realize that Paloma works on her own schedule. She is not one to be rushed.
She rises to her feet, brushes the dirt from her knees, and faces the mountains as though speaking to them and not me. “It happened in California—on a Los Angeles freeway. He was riding his motorcycle, on his way to pick up your mother, when the truck in front of him stopped short and the load of lead pipes it was carrying broke free of their restraints and plowed into him. He was thrown from his bike. Died instantly. Decapitation was listed as the official cause.”
She turns, her face bearing the expression of someone who’s told the story too many times. Someone who’s grown used to such grisly facts. Someone unlike me. Which is probably why my insides start to curl as my throat fills with bile.
Decapitation was the official cause.
The words swirl in my head, causing me to toss my crutches to the ground and crumple beside them. My arms wrapped tightly around my waist, as I duck my chin to my chest and fight to steady myself.
It’s only a moment’s delay before Paloma’s beside me. Her hands smoothing over my hair in a way that sends a wave of calm coursing through me, her breath cooing in my ear when she says, “Nieta, what is it? Please tell me.”
Two weeks ago I never would’ve obliged her.
Two weeks ago I fled from her, convinced she was far more enemy than ally.
But a lot’s happened since then.
I’m starting to accept that I’m living in a world most people couldn’t even begin to imagine.
That old saying—ignorance is bliss—finally makes sense.
The ignorant are definitely the lucky ones here.
Though unfortunately for me, I’m no longer part of that group. I’ve split from their ranks.
Now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, know what I know, I can no longer turn my back on the truth, no matter how much I’d like to.
According to Paloma, I have to find a way to embrace it—otherwise, I won’t just be sitting at my father’s grave, I’ll be lying right there beside him, six feet under.
“In Morocco … in the square, the Djemâa el Fna…” My stomach churns, my head screams, warning me not to say it, afraid of having it confirmed, but I force myself to push past it. It’s time I finally tell her. “I saw him.” I lift my gaze to meet hers, needing to see how she reacts to my words, but Paloma just nods in her usual calm, sage way, encouraging me to continue. “The square was filled with horrible, bloody heads hanging from spikes—and the one front and center, the one that called out my name—well, I recognized it from the old black-and-white photo I keep in my wallet. It was Django. I knew it the second I saw him.”
My voice cracks, my eyes start to sting, and Paloma wastes no time in comforting me. Her slim, cool fingers brushing over my forehead, over my cheeks, murmuring a stream of words I can’t understand, as I fight to gain control of myself.
“Jennika mentioned it,” she says, switching back to English, her voice steady, matter of fact. “She relayed the stories you told her. After we spoke, I did a little research and discovered that the area you mention—the name translates to meeting place at the end of the world, and in its earlier history, it was used as a place for the public to view the severed heads of criminals that hung on stakes around the square.”
I pull away. Gaze hard into her eyes. Torn between the relief of confirming I’m not crazy—that what I saw was real—and wondering how that could possibly be considered a good thing in this particular case.
“I’ve no doubt what you saw was as real as the glowing people and the crows you’ve already told me about. Your father had similar visions. I did as well. They’re terrifying, I know. And as you’ve already discovered, you cannot outrun them. They’ll go to great lengths to get your attention—they’ve no choice; there is too much at stake. They can’t afford to lose one, and luckily it’s not often they do. It puts great stress upon the one who is meant to pass down the gift, and leaves everything in a perilous state.”
I’m not entirely sure what that means. She’s always so cryptic, and while she’s willing to answer some of my questions, for the most part she usually just shakes her head and says, “In time, nieta. In time.”
Still, it’s not like that stops me from trying. “You said the official cause of death was decapitation—but what was it really? Was it the crows? Did they cause the accident—or maybe something like them?” I peer into her eyes, desperate to understand.
“It was neither the crows, the glowing people, nor any of the other heralds that might’ve shown themselves to him. It was Django’s refusal to listen—to acknowledge them—to heed their call once and for all. That alone is what triggered his untimely end. Believe it or not, the visions are our allies. Their arrival signals that it’s time for us to wake up, acknowledge our calling, and heed the destiny we are meant for. The signs are sporadic at first, then, sometime around the sixteenth year, they intensify. There is only a short window to act. The training must begin without too much delay. If not…” She pauses, struggling with just how much to divulge, before she adds, “Let’s just say there are other forces at work—those whose sole purpose is to defeat the Seekers so they can rise up and rule. It’s a battle as old as our time here on earth, and I’m sorry to say, but there is no end in sight.”
I squint, unsure I heard right. My voice gone high-pitched and screechy when I ask, “Did you say, the Seekers?” I lean toward her, wait for her reply.
But she just nods, as though it’s not nearly as strange as it sounds to my ears. “Make no mistake, Daire, your calling is an important one. Many people will come to depend on you—the majority of whom won’t even realize it, much less think to thank you. Still, you must learn to persist, just like all of your ancestors before you. There are other forces among us, forces so dark and powerful that at first they’re hard to fathom. But not to worry, I will prepare you to face them. The training consists of several well defined steps. We all endure the same initiation—I did it, my mother did it, as did countless generations before her. Though I will warn you that there is nothing easy about it. It will test every part of your being, and at times it will feel like torture, and during those times you will hate me, blame me, and consider running again. But you won’t.” Her gaze levels on mine. “Now that you know where that leads, you will never run again, will you, nieta?” Her eyes soften, but her words leave me chilled.
>
“There are several purposes to the initiation—to strengthen you in ways you cannot yet fathom and to prepare you for a future that will probably seem unimaginable to you at this point. But soon it will all fall into place, and before you go thinking it’s all bad, be assured you can expect plenty of enchanting moments as well. You will visit mystical worlds you never dreamed of. You will experience magick in its purest form. And then, when it’s time to head out into the community again, you’ll be ready. I’ll make sure that you’re ready, if it’s the last thing I do.”
Her voice so grave, gaze so far away, the jokey retort I had planned dies on my lips. I have no idea what’s in store, but it’s clear that she’s serious and that I need to get serious too. “I think I may have already met that dark, powerful force,” I say, momentarily silenced by the stricken look on her face. “I’ve had dreams—dreams that started off nice, but then they took a turn. And that night at the Rabbit Hole—just before the accident, I met the boys from my dream. At first I thought I was going crazy, hallucinating again, but now I’m not sure. They had similar eyes—strange, icy-blue eyes. And while one is…” my one true love—my fated one—I shake my head and start again. “While one is … nice, the other … well, he turned into a demon.” I stop, pick at a blade of grass I rub between my index finger and thumb. Feeling embarrassed to voice it out loud, but sensing that, unlike everyone else who’d prefer not to hear it, this is exactly the kind of thing Paloma wants me to share. “I guess I didn’t mention it before because I wasn’t sure it was real—but now, well, I’m thinking it might’ve been some kind of warning.”
Paloma nods, her face fixed, serene, though her hands give her away—there’s no missing the way they tremble when she reaches for a tissue she then brings to her nose. “I’m afraid things have advanced far more than I realized.” She crumples the tissue and hides it from view but not quickly enough to conceal the bright spot of blood that blooms wide across it. “I’m afraid we don’t have nearly as much time as I thought.” She shoots me a troubled look.
“So when does the initiation begin?” I ask, watching as she rises to her feet, taking a moment to steady herself before she offers a hand.
“I’m afraid it has already begun, nieta,” she says, helping me settle onto my crutches. “It has already started.”
thirteen
“Ever ridden before?” Chay glances over his shoulder, catching my eye as I stand right behind him, watching as he secures the saddle on the horse, a beautiful paint with a perfectly striped brown and white mane.
“A few times the grooms on movie sets let me ride. Back when I was a kid. But it’s been a while. I’ve pretty much forgotten everything I learned,” I say, feeling both nervous and excited by the prospect of riding this big, gorgeous animal as soon as I’m free of my cast. According to Paloma, graduating from crutches to the Frankenstein boot just isn’t enough.
“Not to worry. I think you’ll find Kachina to be a gentle sort. You two will get along fine,” he says, voice smooth as a smile. “In fact, giving her a treat usually works as an icebreaker. If you look in the back of the truck, you’ll find a cooler.” He nods in that general direction. “And if you look in the cooler, you’ll find a few carrots to feed her.”
I do as he says, returning with two big carrots that, in a bout of overeagerness, I’m quick to shove toward her mouth. The move sloppy, inexperienced, and when she curls her lip to accept them, the size of her teeth causes my hands to shake so badly the carrots fall to the ground, forcing Kachina to lower her head and swipe them up off the dirt.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment as I wipe my palms on the back of my jeans, forcing a laugh as I say, “Do you think she’ll hold a grudge?”
“I’m sure in time she’ll forgive you.” Chay grins, causing his eyes to fan at the sides and his forehead to crease under the rim of his bandanna. “Horses startle easily. For such large animals, they’re all a bunch of scaredy cats. You have to approach them slowly, gently, same way you’d like someone to approach you. Call her by name, coo to her softly. Then take a moment to stand quietly beside her. Keeping your breath nice and even so she can have a chance to adjust to your energy as you adjust to hers. And then, when the time is right, you may pet her like this.” He demonstrates the move, his large hand smoothing her mane in a way that causes his eagle ring with the yellow stone eyes to glint in the sun, as he works his way down the swoop of her neck. Giving her a series of gentle pats, before scratching the space between her eyes, just under her forelock.
“Is she yours?” I watch as Chay presses his mouth close to the horse’s ear and mumbles something in an unfamiliar language, whispering for so long, I’m not sure if he heard.
“Is she mine?” He chuckles, glances at me. “Technically, I suppose that she is. I got her from a client who’d lost his job and could no longer afford to care for her. But in the grand scheme of things—no. Kachina belongs to herself. Now that she’s entered my life, I’ve agreed to watch over her for however long she chooses to stay. Unless you’d like the job, that is?”
I squint. Sure I misunderstood.
“I know Paloma will be keeping you busy with your training, but this also plays a part. Horses have a lot to teach us about stamina, strength, and companionship. And on a more practical level, they make for good transportation—at least until we can get you your license. Paloma has plenty of room at her place for a stall—what do you say?”
My own horse?
I’ve never owned a pet before, even though, according to Chay, I won’t actually own her—still, there’s no way I can turn down an offer like that.
Yet I manage to say, “Shouldn’t she be the one who decides? I mean, I’m the one who made her eat her snack off the floor. She may not want me looking after her.”
Chay takes a moment to consider my words. “Okay then, let’s give you a leg up and see how you two get along.”
I balk, unsure how to respond. “Seriously?”
He nods.
“But what about my cast? Paloma said I should wait ’til it comes off, which might be as early as tomorrow. Still, she specifically told me I could look, touch, but not ride.”
Chay smiles in a way that makes his eyes appear hooded. “Paloma can be a bit overcautious. You’ll be fine. And I doubt Kachina will mind. I tell you what—I’ll take full responsibility should anything happen to either one of you, deal?”
I hesitate, though it’s not long before I nod my consent, and the next thing I know he’s lifted me onto her back.
We ride for a while, my paint and his Appaloosa walking the trail side by side, kicking up dirt. Though we don’t run, we don’t lope, we don’t so much as break into a trot. Chay says there’s plenty of time for that later, but for now, I need to get used to the feel of being on horseback again.
“So, do you live here on the reservation?” I ask, my voice competing with the rustle of wind moving through the trees, the leaves jostling each other like chimes. A bit embarrassed by the question, it seems like something I should already know, but I was looking for something to say, something to break up the silence, and it’s the best I could do.
He squints into the distance, his gaze searching long past the nearby grove of trees, focusing hard on something I can’t quite make out. His voice vague, noncommittal, when he says, “Not anymore. Though my father does. He’s a tribal elder.”
He yanks on the reins, and I do the same, our horses coming to a halt as I strain to follow the length of his stare. But other than a juniper tree with branches so twisted they appear almost deformed, I can’t see much of anything. “He’s nearly eighty,” he adds, returning his attention to me and pulling on Kachina’s bridle until we’re both turned around and heading back the same way we came. “Nearly eighty and still strong as a bear.” He grins in a way that tells me he’s struggling to find his way back to my question, though his mind resides elsewhere. “He lets me keep some of the horses at his place, while the rest stay at mine.”
I gaze around a wide open plain marked by the occasional adobe, thinking that other than the absence of a town (though there is a casino just off the main road, along with a gas station/convenience store), it doesn’t look all that different from the neighborhood where Paloma lives.
“Have you always lived in Enchantment?” I ask.
“Went away to college.” He shrugs. “Then from there, I went on to vet school at Colorado State—but it wasn’t long after I graduated when I found my way back.”
“Why?” I ask, my tone betraying what I’m really thinking: Why would an educated person—a person with choices—choose to remain in this place?
But if Chay’s offended, he doesn’t show it. He just laughs, shakes his head, and says, “Oh, I suppose there’s all sorts of reasons—some more compelling than others.” Then, without stating what those reasons might be, he adds, “So, what did you think of your first ride?”
“I liked it.” I shrug. “I think I’d like to ride her again, if it’s okay with you. And, of course, okay with her.” I reach down to pat Kachina’s neck, but again I’m not very graceful, not yet used to her movements, and I end up teetering so precariously it takes all of my strength not to tumble right off her back. “By the way, what is it you saw back there?” I ask, once I’ve gotten myself straightened out. Jabbing my thumb in the direction we came from, knowing that whatever it was, it was enough to turn us around and cut our ride short.
Chay veers ahead, the words breezing over his shoulder when he says, “You’re not ready to go there just yet.”
I squint at his back, my curiosity more piqued than ever, but recognizing a dead end when I see one, I choose not to pursue it.
Choose to just nod in agreement when he turns to me and says, “So, what do you say we return our rides to the stall, get ’em settled in for the night, and grab ourselves a couple of sodas? Soon as your training kicks in it’s going to be a while before you taste one again.”
