by L. M. Hawke
“I really need to head back to Flagstaff,” Ellery said, turning toward the pickup truck. But as she reached for the door’s handle, a thin banner of dust in the distance caught her eye. Someone had pulled off the main highway, and was heading up the long dirt road toward Roanhorse’s hogan.
“Shit,” she muttered, freezing in place. Her heart pounded in her ears. “Hosteen, somebody’s coming!”
He looked casually down the road. “I know. It’s my partner from the force. I asked her to—”
“No one can see me, damn it!” Ellery whirled toward him. “Don’t you understand what could happen to me if I’m recognized? I’m not playing around here, Hosteen! Why do you think I ran from you last night?”
“Calm down,” he said, raising his hands in that now-familiar, soothing gesture.
But Ellery was beyond all hope of calm. The news about Roanhorse, the sting of being back in his home again, and the constant, tingling fear of being on the Rez once more had built to a crescendo inside her. And that was to say nothing of the dragging pull she still felt, the strange summons calling her from somewhere—something—not too far away.
She gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t keep her fury in check any longer. “God, Typs are unbelievable! I tried to help, but you knew I didn’t want to be seen; an idiot could have figured that out by the way I acted last night!”
Hosteen stared at her blankly, his arms hanging limp at his sides.
“I can’t work with you anymore, Hosteen—I won’t. No Para can trust a Typ. That’s just the way the world is. It’s the reality we’ve both got to face.”
“Can’t you try to trust me?” he asked, his voice just this side of plaintive. He stepped closer, and she seemed to hear the echo of his previous words. I can protect you. For a moment Ellery wanted to throw herself into his arms, to feel their strength wrap around her and shut out all the threats that seemed to assail her from every direction.
But his strength was just an illusion, and Ellery knew it. What could one man do to alleviate all the fear and mistrust Paranormals faced? How could Hosteen even understand her well enough to protect her?
There is no protection in this world, except whatever shield and armor you can make for yourself.
The thought was grim, but she knew it was true. She stepped back, resisting the urge to slide closer to him, to feel his height towering over her and his body solid as a bulwark beside her own.
“I already did try trusting you,” Ellery said. “More fool me.”
She glanced again at the car approaching, growing steadily larger in the desert landscape, the dust billowing up behind it as it came toward them far faster than Ellery would have liked. She reached through the bracelet again, ignoring Ghost Owl’s protests.
“Wait,” Hosteen said. “I really need you; please don’t go.”
Ellery ignored his protests, too. She shifted in a flash of blue light, and was winging across the open desert before Hosteen could say another word. Red earth sped by far below as she flew south, back toward Flagstaff, and the breeze in the higher altitudes was cool and crisp as it passed through her feathers.
But Ellery’s only thoughts were for Vivi, and for what an idiot she’d been to believe Hosteen could understand her in the first place.
CHAPTER SIX
The owl was tired and sore by the time Ellery winged all the way back across the Navajo Nation and over the city limits of Flagstaff. She focused on the aches in her wings and chest, attempting to keep her mind diverted from her anger at Hosteen. But the pain wasn’t enough to drive those thoughts away entirely.
Damn him, she thought as she cruised the air currents, gliding toward the city’s north end. He knew I was reluctant to go back to the Rez—to be around any other Diné. And he called in his stupid partner anyway.
Relief rippled just below the simmering currents of her anger. Who the hell could say whether Hosteen’s little cop buddy would have recognized Ellery—how she would have reacted to the runaway Ellery Chee, suspected skinwalker, standing right there at the scene of a crime that could only have been committed by a shapeshifter.
I could have been killed. Is he really so dense that he didn’t know that?
Another possibility struck her then, with such a chill that the owl’s body shivered violently as it flew. Maybe Hosteen was setting her up. Maybe he’d lured her back to the Nation on purpose to take her into custody, to do away with the last of her line for good. And she had walked right into the trap, like a perfect moron. She had trusted Hosteen—more or less—just because he was good-looking and reminded her of home.
The Rez isn’t my home. Not anymore. My place is with the people who understand me; other Paras. Not with people who fear me.
And speaking of home…
She spotted her apartment building below. The tiny balcony of her third-floor apartment faced a greenbelt of cottonwood trees and piñons, which provided a little privacy for her comings and goings. She descended through the warm daytime air currents, turning on the wing and gliding toward her balcony. She fluttered down to perch on the balcony’s wooden rail, then looked carefully around the area to be certain no one had seen her.
When she was sure the coast was clear, Ellery hopped down to the balcony’s floor and shifted back to her human form. Ghost Owl hissed inside her head, miffed that he’d been made to fly for so long.
Relax, Ellery told him, half annoyed, half bubbling with affection for the bird. It’s not like you get to fly much at all anymore; you’re dead, remember? I’d think you’d be grateful to stretch your wings now and then.
But as she stooped to retrieve the key to her sliding door from the planter where she hid it, Ellery stifled a hiss of her own. Her muscles protested every movement—especially her arms, which felt limp as overcooked noodles and ready to drop right off her body.
Sorry, she told Ghost Owl. I wouldn’t have made you fly all that way if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary.
She felt him ruffle his feathers in an I told you so manner.
Once back in her apartment, Ellery sighed heavily with exhaustion and flopped down on her raggedy old couch, allowing the stillness of her small, humble home to be her refuge… for a few moments, at least. She had no idea whether Vivi was still missing, and that fear weighed heavy on her heart. But she was no longer in immediate danger of being put on trial as a skinwalker, and for the moment, that knowledge was a bliss that blotted out even the throbbing her arms and the ache in her chest and neck. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t motivate herself to get up and scrounge in the kitchen for something to eat. It felt too good to lie still, to know that she had slipped out of danger’s grasp.
Her phone buzzed her pocket; Ellery groaned at the interruption of her much-needed quiet time, but she pulled it out and tapped to bring up her text messages. The message might be from Vivi, after all—she might be safe and sound and apologizing for her weird texts the night before.
But it wasn’t Vivi. Instead, Ellery read the message from her friend Sylvia, another Para who called Flagstaff home.
Have you heard from Vivi? Nobody can get hold of her.
“No rest for the weary,” Ellery muttered as she pushed herself up from the couch. She tapped out a response in the negative, and a few moments later another message from Sylvia appeared on her screen.
Come over to my place. Something’s going on.
“You’re damn right, something’s going on.” Ellery scowled at her phone as if this were all its fault.
But she sent her message back promptly as she headed for the door: Be there in five.
Ellery was still plenty sore and bone-weary when she arrived at Sylvia’s house. The small, pink-adobe duplex was only a few blocks away from Ellery’s own place, and the walk gave Ellery some time to put a little more distance between herself and her anger with Hosteen’s blunder. The news that Vivi was still missing had snapped her back into focus. She could be pissed off at Hosteen after her friend was found. For now, Vivi des
erved all of her attention and energy.
She entered Sylvia’s place without knocking. That was the kind of friendship she and the earth-witch had enjoyed since they’d first met, years ago when Ellery was a frightened runaway trying to scrape by on the streets of Flagstaff.
Brandon, Sylvia’s warlock boyfriend, looked up from his laptop, narrowing his eyes with an air of faint distaste. Ellery didn’t take it personally. That was the way Bran always looked—a little bit pissed off, a trifle dissatisfied with life.
Ellery gave Bran a friendly nod, which he didn’t return. “Where’s Sylvia?”
He shrugged one wiry shoulder and jerked his head toward the kitchen in the rear of the duplex, sending a ripple through the dark, wavy hair that hung just to his shoulders.
“Thanks,” Ellery said, knowing Bran would make no response. She saved her eye-roll for when she was safely beyond his line of sight.
As she approached the kitchen, Ellery could hear Sylvia’s low, musical voice. The witch was speaking to somebody—who else had come? Ellery paused just outside the kitchen and felt a subtle, warm prickle wash over her skin, an indication that a Chanter was nearby. For a moment she frowned, remembering the vampire at the club the night before. But then she heard the other person answering Sylvia, and her heart surged with happiness.
There was no mistaking that smooth, pleasant voice, a little higher and more melodious than most men’s voices were.
“River!” Ellery said as she stepped into the kitchen.
River, a fae, jumped up from his seat at the kitchen table to wrap Ellery in a hug. Graceful and hauntingly gorgeous as all his kind were, his natural enchantment enfolded Ellery just like his long, strong arms did. She didn’t mind, though. Fae were Chanters just as vampires were, but unlike vampires, there was never any malign intent in the fae, no matter how long they lived.
Ellery had heard some Paras call fae useless, the most un-magical of all the magic-users. That, like most other discrimination that whizzed around the Para world (from without and from within) was due to simple misunderstanding. Fae magic wasn’t weak or simplistic. It was intensely personal, though, so it often made little obvious impression on others. Fae paranormalcy mostly extended to looking so pretty it was scary, and creating amazing works of art. The greatest effect most fae had on the world was to imbue it with beauty: creating stunning works in various arts, for example.
Sure, plenty of Paras looked down on the fae for their unique take on magic, but Ellery would rather hang around with a whole army of good-looking, art-making fae than spend twenty minutes with a sketchy vampire who may or may not lull her into psychological slavery—or worse, drain her of her blood. No thanks.
She hugged River back. “I haven’t seen you for months!”
“I’ve been busy with my sister.”
The lowering of River’s voice told Ellery things weren’t going so well with River’s twin sister, Thorn. She had always been troubled—extreme sensitivity and emotional struggles often plagued the fae—and Ellery knew how hard River worked to keep Thorn safe and happy.
River toyed absent-mindedly with a string of lustrous glass beads that half-hid inside his shirt as he spoke. He was a glassblower—that was his special art—and the beauty of the beads was mesmerizing. “Sylvia called me here to see if I could help figure out what’s going on with Vivi. I’m doing my best, but it’s a mystery to me.”
Ellery sat at the table opposite Sylvia. The witch’s pale face still held a trace of flush, and the end of her red-gold braid was frazzled from nonstop twirling between her fingers. She eyed Ellery over the rim of her glasses.
“No one has heard from Vivi since last night,” Sylvia said. “And her messages were—”
“Strange,” Ellery said. “I know. I’ve been worried about her. When she wouldn’t answer any of my texts or calls, I went out looking for her last night. But she wasn’t at any of her usual haunts.”
“River stopped by her house, but she’s not there.”
“I have a spare key,” River added. “I checked thoroughly.”
“Did it look like she packed up her things and left?” Ellery asked.
“No. Everything looked normal; it was like she simply vanished in the middle of her daily routine. There was even a mug of tea sitting on her kitchen counter, with the tea bag still in it. I can’t figure it out.”
Ellery shifted to lean her elbows on the table, but she winced at the tightness in her arms.
Sylvia noticed. “What’s the matter?”
Ellery couldn’t resist a self-deprecating smirk. “I just flew back from the Rez, and boy are my arms tired.”
“The Rez?” Sylvia goggled at her. “Ell, you said you’d never go back there!”
“I didn’t intend to. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten how dangerous that place is for me. But let’s just say that the Rez came looking for me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” River sipped at a cup of coffee, squinting at Ellery over its rim.
She explained about Hosteen, the murder, and the stolen tokens as quickly as she could. She was surprised that she could talk about Roanhorse’s death and the sight of his empty hogan without choking up.
“God, that’s awful, Ell,” Sylvia said. “I’m so sorry.”
But the red-haired witch shared a cautious glance with River, and Ellery wasn’t sure she was meant to see it.
“What?” Ellery demanded. “What are you two eyeing each other for?”
“Y—ou didn’t happen to read the ParaNet feed today, did you?” River asked.
Ellery shook her head.
ParaNet was a social network of sorts for Paranormals, a place for them to share crucial news and information that would be of little interest to Typs. Ellery seldom kept up with it; she had never been the social-media type.
River slid his phone across the table. “You’d better check this out, Ell.”
She scanned the article quickly. A young man, a trader, had been found dead in his home on the eastern edge of Flagstaff. His mother had informed ParaNet that he’d suffered grisly injuries. The description of the wounds sounded a lot like those Hosteen had described on William Roanhorse’s body. And the victim’s poor mother had also confirmed that his tokens were nowhere to be found.
“Oh my God,” Ellery mumbled. “This is exactly what happened on the Rez.”
Sylvia’s cheeks darkened again; she blinked tears away from her big blue eyes. “I’m really worried about Vivi. If some creep is out there targeting traders, she may be in danger.”
“And you may be in danger, too, Ellery,” River added soberly. He wrapped an arm around Sylvia’s shoulders, trying to comfort her.
“Don’t worry about me,” Ellery said. It was a knee-jerk response, as automatic as could be. But a cold knot of fear was twisting in her stomach, and she had no idea what she ought to do about it.
River squinted at Ellery in an appraising way. “What?” he demanded.
My friends are far too observant for my own good. “Nothing,” Ellery said, folding her arms defensively.
“You’ve got some serious anxiety right now,” River said. “More than we’re feeling.”
Who says fae don’t have strong magic? she thought sourly. River’s ability to pick up on other people’s most deeply hidden emotions had always struck Ellery as thoroughly Paranormal. Creepy, even.
She sighed and gave in to River’s expectant stare. “Ever since last night, I’ve been feeling this… call. Like something’s telling me to come toward it. Like something’s forcing me to come toward it. It’s very hard to resist.”
“What is it?” Sylvia asked.
Ellery snorted. “Hell if I know. I’m not going to go toward it, though; I can tell you that much. And last night, I tried to shift but couldn’t. It was like there was some kind of barrier between me and my animals—some kind of interference with my magic. I couldn’t get to Ghost Owl or Dusty, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t know if that’s related to the call or
not, but it was scary. Real scary.”
“Do you think whatever’s calling you is doing the same to Vivi?” Sylvia said. “She’s a trader, too, after all.”
“Obviously I can’t say for sure. But with two traders in the area murdered and one missing, I think we’d be crazy not to assume there’s some kind of link here. And I spoke to somebody last night at the Blue Room—a vampire.”
River grimaced.
“He told me that other people have reported that their trader friends missing,” Ellery said. “Something’s not right in Flagstaff… at least, something’s not right for traders.”
She reached into the pocket of her jeans and found the turquoise bead, small and hard between her fingers. She pulled it out, held it up where her friends could see it clearly.
“This is the only clue I have—if you can even call it a clue. Along with his shifting tokens, William Roanhorse’s ceremonial turquoise was taken from his home. I found this dropped in the killer’s tracks. I don’t know if it’s of any use to us, or what the theft of turquoise might mean, but—”
Sylvia leaned forward eagerly. As an elemental earth witch, she had a strong affinity for all kinds of rocks, minerals, and metals. Her eyes blazed with interest, as bright and shining as the turquoise itself.
“Can I touch it, please?”
“Sure.” Ellery dropped the bead into Sylvia’s palm.
The moment it touched her skin, Sylvia gasped. She closed her fist around the bead, and then closed her eyes, concentrating. Ellery felt the faintest throbbing in the air, a shift in the local energy so slight she almost wasn’t aware of it at all. She knew Sylvia was working her Caster’s magic, but she had no clue what the witch might be doing.
Finally, after a long silence, Sylvia opened her eyes. “This bead was once a part of a much larger rock,” she said. “I can still feel that old memory inside it. The rock was cut into many smaller pieces, and then turned into beads just like this one.”
