by SL Hulen
“I can’t do this alone,” she pleaded, the murkiness in her mind still controlling her tongue. “We’ll need your help.”
“There are so few in-between places left in the world. But even as I appear to you, I am nothing more than a spirit.”
“You’re real enough now, and you are her guardian.”
Despondence overcame his features, and he shook his head. “Know this; what starts with Khara will change the world. You are her protector now.”
“Me?” she protested, but there was no arguing with his expression. Gradually, his face began to shimmer lightly like mercury, and it shifted slightly to the left to reveal that Ben was still underneath. Victoria tried to detain the departing vision. “Wait! Don’t leave!”
Ben collapsed into her arms like a punctured balloon, and there was nothing to do but guide his limp body to the ground and pray that he was still alive. She listened for a heartbeat; it was there, though not as strong as she would have liked. But what did she know about heartbeats? Briefly, Victoria thought about dragging him back to the others, but how could she explain what had happened? Something urged her to wait. For someone who had just spoken with an ominous spirit, she felt strangely calm.
Once, reality had been black and white. But now, as she pondered Nandor’s words, everything had become gradations of grey. She and Ben seemed suspended halfway between heaven and earth. Hazing upward, she saw that the midnight— blue sky was fading; they were halfway between night and day. Although Khara had recounted the story of Nandor’s death, he had appeared at least twice now. He was not dead, but not alive enough to help them. She remembered her mother’s image, so close, so real in the mirror that day. Was she traveling the road to insanity?
Her hand was still resting on Ben’s chest when he sat up, mystified, a few minutes later. “What are you doing?”
All of a sudden you were—do you feel all right?”
Hell,” he spat, “you’re the one drinking mescal.” He dusted off his boots and rose gingerly.
“Remember anything?”
Ben shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t be smoking that stuff at my age.” He rubbed his shins. “Hey, did you kick me?”
She didn’t answer and wondered if she was still just a little high. Victoria resolved that the Mescalero’s drink had conjured her apparition—nothing else. She rose with the need to join others, the ground rolling beneath her feet as she staggered out of the shelter.
Chapter Thirty-eight Celeste
Like a cat hearing a lizard stir in a nearby bush, Celeste’s attention shifted abruptly. Had it been daytime, she could have seen the bare spot in the trees that signaled the direction of her farm. She touched her index finger to her forehead and questioned, Carl, is that you?
One of the best things about her carefully cultivated image as the crazy white woman who talked to cats was that it liberated her from conventional codes of conduct. People weren’t surprised when she suddenly got up to leave a gathering with such explanations as, “I promised Kingsford Charcoal we’d watch the late show.” People would raise their eyebrows and nod their heads, and when someone gave her a patronizing glance and patted her arm saying, “But of course, dear,” she was secretly delighted. For Celeste, crazier was always better.
The last time she’d felt her husband’s presence this clearly had been during a snowstorm in 1993. She remembered the feeling exactly and relished the image of him in a polo shirt and jodhpurs. Even after he’d shaved and showered, the scent of leather clung steadfastly to his skin.
On this night, surrounded by pine trees, Celeste became increasingly intoxicated by the same smell. As though in a trance, she made a few excuses before beginning the long walk to the Jeep, and she asked that someone be kind enough to make sure the girls got back to the farm. Salt of the earth that the Mescalero were, three women insisted on accompanying her. Along the way, she entertained them with a story about how she’d had some pesky raccoons caught and relocated to Big Bear Lake in California. It had cost her a few hundred dollars apiece, but had been worth every penny. The women howled with laughter and told her that, for half the price, they would have turned them into a fine stew.
As soon as she turned off the main road and onto the gravel of the Square-4 Ranch, waves of anticipation rushed through her body and settled in her right leg. Compressed nerves had long ago prevented any sensation—the result of a botched surgery—but tonight it tingled delightfully.
Wheezing and breathless, she entered the main house through the back door, dropping her keys on the counter. From a nearby drawer she withdrew an envelope. After sealing it, she put it in her coat pocket. She left the lights off and called to Shamrock, who arrived in a moment and stretched before placing her head under her mistress’s hand. “Come on. You’re sleeping in the cabin tonight.” Emma and General Lee accompanied their mistress in a slow procession across the yard until Emma rushed ahead and out of sight. Celeste opened the cabin door and stepped inside, where she removed the envelope from her pocket and laid it on top of the stereo console along with the keys to the Jeep. She lingered, smiling, at the cross-stitched sampler and photos—the remnants of her life. Shamrock shoved a paw into her hand. “Now you keep the cats company and don’t make a fuss,” she said tenderly, bending to kiss the dog’s head.
The trip back to the house was a lonely one. Still, there was something spry in Celeste’s steps as she hummed absentmindedly and stopped at a few flower beds, though many of the blooms were closed. Some of the best times in her life had taken place at this time of the night, so she felt no need to hurry—except that there it was again, that intoxicating leathery smell.
Back at the main house, she made her way to the living room and her favorite chair in the darkness. After the long walk, she felt the need of a fire. Lila and Chris always kept the fireplace ready; all she had to do was strike a match and light the bunched-up newspaper. When she was certain that the logs had caught fire, she eased herself into the chair to watch. Fire was a great mystery, and she never tired of studying the chaotic way the flames came to life. It never happened the same way twice and, just like life, you could never be sure what direction it might take.
She rested her eyes for a moment, picturing what Carl must look like now. Well, of course he’d be much older, but he wouldn’t look it at all. She had to admit it was unfair to tell people he’d left her for another woman, but what a benign story compared to the truth! One summer day, the piece of watermelon he’d been eating slid out of his hand—the only signal that anything was wrong. The odd way he slumped in the patio chair, the lack of warning, still haunted her. Concocting a racy story now and then helped ease the pain.
She didn’t immediately notice the man who stepped from the shadows; his were not the wary steps that might have belonged to a burglar. He stopped far enough away to regard her with a detached, sarcastic look “Celeste Szabó?” he inquired, his voice decisive and arrogant.
Although she felt she was prepared, he startled her badly. Hasn’t your grief been waiting for this day? she asked herself. Her voice shook slightly. “I am Mrs. Szabó. I don’t know who you are, but you have no right to be here. Get out of my house.”
“We’re not strangers at all. May I call you Celeste? Such a distinctive name—Szabó. Luckily, there’s only a handful in this part of the country. I pictured you very much as you are from our phone conversation.”
She studied him intently. “So it’s you. You might as well cease with the niceties. They don’t come easily anyway, do they?”
“I was charming enough to get most of what I needed out of you in a single phone call; now I’m here for that one last piece of information. You’re going to tell me where Khara is.”
Celeste smiled weakly, noting that his eyes did not reflect the fire’s growing light. Her hand, resting on the arm of the chair, began to tremble. “You’re in for a terrible disappointment,” she warned him, “but that’s rather the story of your life, isn’t it?”
In an instant he was standing over her. “Now you’ve ruined our good start.”
“I suppose I have,” she said, looking long and hard into his soul. “I see that courage is not a particular strength of yours, either. This is probably going to be far worse for you than it is for—”
He grabbed her throat and spat, “There’s no need for this.” Then he let go and pulled back. “Perhaps if I explain what’s at stake, you’d be more cooperative. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name,” he announced with chivalrous mockery, “is Arlan Mieley.”
A random fact she’d heard on a television show that she hadn’t paid enough attention to as Lila made dinner and Emma snoozed in her lap suddenly came to her; it can take as long as three minutes to die from strangulation.
“I already know more about you than I need to,” she told him. The puzzlement in his eyes bought her some time. “Go on,” she baited him, “ask me. We all have our special gifts, Mr. Mieley; you certainly have yours. Seeing people, really seeing what’s deep inside, is mine.”
He took a step back and crossed his arms. “This gift of yours—it didn’t work when I pretended to be Elias Barrón. If you were as good as you say, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“You have a point. Intelligent and ambitious, aren’t you? You could have accomplished so much, and yet—”
“Not another word. I know you know where they are.”
Celeste shook her head, and his hands were back around her throat instantly, squeezing without mercy. “You don’t know anything about me,” he hissed, spraying spit over her face. “Can your visions see what will happen when I get that bracelet?” He continued to choke her as Celeste fought back, slapping at his arms and kicking him with her good leg.
“Had enough? There now, take some air. Really, people your age are so obstinate. I came here with the best intentions, especially after that nasty business with Max, yet you’re every bit as unwilling to cooperate. I’ll find them without your help.”
“You won’t,” Celeste panted, shuddering as her lungs tried for a full breath.
“I’m running out of patience, you crazy old bat.”
Had she gone part of the way, or would the three minutes necessary for a successful strangulation have to start over? She took a breath—an almost normal one—before holding up a quivering hand. Part of her longed to see the flowers that would be waiting in the morning, gaze on lovely shades of pink that had been born in the night.
Mieley leaned in close. “Tell me where she is.”
You think I’m afraid of you?” she whispered, barely audible. “My boy, I’ve been waiting for you.” She beckoned him with a crooked finger, scarcely able to hear her own voice. “You’re my ticket home.”
He slapped her across the face so hard her ears bled. Celeste had barely noticed that her air had been cut off again when he threw her to the floor, allowing her one last clean breath of air, but at a cost. She felt excruciating pain as her left hip shattered and screamed weakly. For an instant she lamented that the last face she would see was his, dripping sweat, contorted with uncontrollable rage.
It took everything she had not to fight him. Overpowering instinct, Celeste’s hands dropped to her sides as his hands crushed her throat. I’m coming, Carl.
Chapter Thirty-nine Khara
They moved in a half-skip, Oliver’s leg brushing the inside of hers as he guided her backward. Could he know, she wondered, the pleasure his small, accidental movements caused? The subtle pressure of his hand around her waist told her which way to move, when she should hesitate a moment before stepping back again. Every so often, he surprised her by pushing her body away from him and twirling her under his outstretched arm. Afterwards, he would pull her close and they would move quickly again, their bodies pressed together. How much better this was than the composed dancing of pharaoh’s court!
A female figure broke through the trees, moving quickly toward the fire.
“At last, Victoria has returned!” Khara exclaimed.
“She doesn’t look so good. You’d best check on her,” Oliver advised, releasing her with a squeeze.
“Where have you been? Your face is the color of alabaster,” Khara observed when they were face to face.
“Mescal,” Victoria answered miserably. Khara sensed that her friend’s admission was only part of what troubled her. “Where’s Celeste?”
“She insisted on returning home. You know how meticulous she is about taking her medication.”
“How could you let her leave alone?”
“She is not as helpless as you think. Furthermore, it offends me that you think I am so irresponsible. She insisted that I stay—to wait for you, I might add.”
“Khara, I need to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course, but may I ask something of you first?”
“Shoot.”
“At what?”
“I mean, go ahead.”
“In your work as a counselor, establishing a mutually acceptable agreement is far more important than determining what is right or wrong, correct? I do not mean any disrespect.”
“None taken.”
There was little point in circuitous conversation with Victoria. Her ability to force honesty, even from the most unwilling of participants, was unequaled.
“What isn’t some sort of negotiation? Finding the lesser of two evils and trying to do the most good with what you’ve been given to work with?”
“I suppose so. You may find it amusing, how ill-acquainted I am with the art of bargaining. Father would insist that a deity has little need for it; the desires of a pharaoh are to be obeyed.”
“But you’re not pharaoh, yet, are you?” Victoria paused. “Where are you going with this?”
Khara moved closer and slid an arm around her. “Sometimes I think they have forsaken me,” she admitted, pointing to the stars.
“They wouldn’t dare. You, my friend, are one of them.”
Though she was accustomed to adulation, she sensed Victoria’s conviction. Fighting the lump in her throat, she replied, “You mock me.”
“Not at all. I’ve decided the sun would do as you ask. Why else would I still be here? The surprising part is that I don’t miss my life much,” Victoria admitted. “Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.”
Khara hugged her fiercely. “I also find myself wanting to let go of who I am. There are precious moments when I catch a glimpse of who I might be—a wife, a mother, someone lucky enough to enjoy true friendship.”
“Haven’t I been telling you all along that you should stay?”
“You have; relentlessly, I might add. But that possibility remains out of the question. Just once, though, I would like to be nothing more than a woman. A woman in love. Is that so much to ask?”
“No, girlfriend, it’s not.”
“The hour grows late, and I still have not consulted with the shaman.”
“Trust me,” Victoria averred, rolling her eyes, “there are better ways to spend the evening.”
Khara had learned that, sometimes, the fastest way to an explanation from her friend was to remain silent.
“You’re going to be disappointed,” Victoria warned and pointed to the other side of the fire. “That’s him. The one giving us the evil eye.”
“Not the impression I hoped to make. How did you manage to make him dislike you so quickly?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Oliver’s eyes followed them as she and Victoria walked to the far side of the gathering.
Chapter Forty Victoria
Ben greeted their approach with a dismissive look, the same baiting look from the girl in the wickiup, the one that made her guzzle mescal and kick an innocent man who now wanted nothing to do with them.
“Ben.” Victoria’s attempt at a proper introduction felt ridiculous.
He rubbed his shin and gave Khara an uneasy look.
In her bow, Khara achieved the perfect balance of reverence and self-assurance. “Oliver tells
me your wisdom exceeds the realm of the mortal world.”
“Look, I’ve explained it to the boy at least a dozen times. Regardless of whether the two of you stand before the Great Spirits individually or side by side, your paths do not change.” The regret on his face was genuine. “Now I see why he was so disappointed,” he confessed, the hardness of his stare wilting. “I hope you know that there isn’t any prejudice involved. Hell, Oliver’s like a nephew to me. Having no father, we each pitched in as best we could. Still, it is what it is, miss. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”
Wise father, I’ve come to seek your wisdom in an entirely different matter.”
Her deliberate words were accompanied by sorrow. Ben looked deeply at Khara, as though trying to see what yearning lay beyond her cool exterior. And whether he knew it or not, he was well on his way to helping her. Something akin to veneration spread across his face like caramel, warm and almost sickeningly sweet, and he managed a grin. “Promise not to kick me?”
A hint of a smile played on her lips. “I will do my best.”
The three moved away from the group. With each breath, Victoria’s body temperature dipped. Teeth chattering, she asked, “Couldn’t we stay a little closer to the fire?”
“Too noisy,” Ben answered, indifferent to her and the weather. Then he sat down and patted the earth. “This will do.”
Solemnly, Khara seated herself across from him. In the semidarkness, Ben’s face looked rather diabolical. Maybe it’s the aftereffects of that wretched drink, Victoria thought, but he seems to be sneering, and his eyes are dark pools. Victoria inched closer to Khara, rubbing her arms to keep warm.
“What have you come to ask? You said it was not about love, so that leaves destiny.”
“I want to know what became of the Ancient Ones.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “What would a girl like you care about the Anasazi?”
“Is it true that they vanished without a trace? Oliver says there is a rumor—”
