by Alyson Noel
“Okay,” I say. “Now that I’ve heard the story you’ve both agreed on, what’s really going on with Paloma? C’mon, Chay. I need you to tell me the truth. I can handle it, whatever it is.”
“It’s nothing that can’t be remedied,” he says, but again, the words ring untrue. “Leftfoot has tended to her. And he will do so again as soon as he’s finished with Dace. I’ll head over there as well, and stay through the night in case she needs something.” When that clearly doesn’t quash my fears, he creases his brow and goes on to say, “Look, Daire, Paloma’s been under a lot of stress, as you already know. Stress that began sixteen years ago with the death of your father. The stress of losing her only child, the stress of keeping the Santos legacy alive far longer than normal, along with the stress of keeping the Richters contained, especially with Cade coming into his own and branching off from Leandro’s more modest goals in the way that he has—all of it’s contributed to the way she’s feeling now. But make no mistake, your arrival in Enchantment was the best thing to happen to her in a very long time. Your work as a Seeker has not only relieved the burden she bears, but you’ve also made her inordinately proud.”
I sit quietly before him, taking a moment to weigh his words. No matter how guarded his message, I see right through him. He’s trying to assuage my worst fears. Insisting that I’m not one bit responsible for Paloma’s failing health. But I won’t take the bait. Unfortunately, I know better.
“I was a reluctant Seeker.” I frown, plagued by the bitter memory of my ill-fated attempt to run away. “And because of it, I put her through hell. Delayed the whole process. From the moment I finally got my act together, I’ve had the undeniable feeling we’re in a race against time. Time that was lost because of me.”
“You did nothing out of the ordinary,” Chay says, covering my hand with his own. His palm is warm, welcome, but it fails to provide the comfort intended. “Your reaction was perfectly normal, understandable. Your father did the same thing.”
I dismiss the words with a defiant shake of my head, refusing to be let off so easily. Learning from my failures requires me to face my failures. Not to hide behind a bunch of convenient excuses.
“Paloma didn’t rebel against it. She embraced her destiny right from the start. I saw the whole thing. She gave me a lineage transmission. Shared her entire life’s journey. It was amazing. Awe-inspiring. And I was humbled by the level of personal sacrifice she endured for the greater good of all—” My voice falters, needing a moment before I can continue. “Her life’s contained so much hardship and loss, and I—” Before I can finish, Chay interrupts.
“All life comes with hardship, Daire. That’s just the nature of things. Every difficulty, every struggle, serves as a signpost that leads us to the ultimate truth that none of us stands alone. There is no us versus them. There is only we. We are as connected to this earth as we are to each other. But, for most of us, the journey to enlightenment begins with despair. The moment we’re brought to our knees, left with no choice but to admit that the old ways are no longer working, serves as a portal to a greater understanding. Paloma has always been aware of the perils of her position. She was well prepared by her mother, the Seeker before her. She’s always understood that great privilege comes with great responsibility. She has never dwelled on her tragedies. Same way she doesn’t gloat over her triumphs. She stays steady, humble, and present. With one eye fixed on the horizon ahead. And I’m sure I’m not remiss in saying she would wish the same thing of you.” He gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze. The cool silver band of his spirit animal ring pressing into my skin. “She’s stronger than you think. I’m sure she’ll get through this in no time. She’s just a little under the weather, that’s all.”
“Paloma doesn’t get under the weather.” I slip my hand from his, and rock my chair back on two legs. Allowing my gaze to wander, seek solace in the handwoven Navajo rugs hugging the dark wood floor, the short, sloping ceiling overhead, the deep niches carved into the walls filled with all manner of crosses, fetishes, hand-carved santos, and other powerful objects of worship that Dace always refers to as the tools of the light worker trade. “She’s immune to things like cold and flu. She only falls ill when she’s been impaired in some way. Which means there has to be a reason for this. Is her soul still intact? Cade didn’t manage to steal it again, did he?” I return my focus to Chay, relieved to see he’s quick to rebut it with a firm shake of his head. “Well, maybe it’s Wolf then…” My voice fades as I try to make sense of the idea that just occurred to me.
Chay swivels in his chair, tracking my progress as I push away from the table and roam about the room. Stopping before the niche that holds the beautiful wolf fetish carved from a single, shiny, white stone.
“For the last week, up until today, the Lowerworld was in an icy, frozen state that forced all of the spirit animals into hibernation so they weren’t available to guide us. So I’m thinking that maybe Paloma was adversely affected by Wolf’s absence.” I fold the stone in my palm, surprised by its heft and warmth, as Chay leans back in his chair and takes a moment to consider my words.
“Daire, while I can’t know for sure if Wolf’s lack of influence is to blame, what I can say is that the last week without you has taken its toll. In an attempt to hasten your return, Paloma entered into a deep state of fasting and prayer—as did Chepi and Leftfoot—while I was in charge of holding down the fort. I’m sure the fast left her a bit weakened. I’m also sure that now that you’re back, she will start to mend. But remember, you only just returned. It’s going to take some time for her to regain her strength.” He nods as though he’s convinced, but I can tell that he’s not, and neither am I.
I’m about to press further, when I notice a new furrow etched at his brow that makes his eyes appear even deeper, more hooded. This talk isn’t just to quiet my fears, it’s to quell his as well. Paloma is his lover, his partner, his closest companion, and friend. The mere thought of losing her is a burden he’s not ready to bear.
I return the wolf to its niche and cross the room to the sink where I pour Chay a glass of water and place it before him. “Change of subject,” I say, eager to move on to less emotional ground.
He takes a grateful sip and says, “Shoot.”
“What do you know about Oleander?”
“Oleander—as in the plant?”
I nod, watching as he adopts a thoughtful expression as I reclaim my seat. “Phyre made a weird reference to it. Going on about how it’s her middle name. Given to her by her father on her sixteenth birthday. It seemed so strange. So completely out of context, yet she clearly wanted me to know. Is there something unusual about it? What are its properties? What makes it unique from other shrubs that you’d name your daughter after it, other than the fact that the name itself is kind of pretty?”
“Well, I’m a veterinarian, not a botanist,” he says, fingertips tracing the table’s rough wood grain. “But I think it’s safe to say that it’s a common, ornamental shrub that’s considered to be extremely toxic. It’ll kill a horse easily. A person too. What else did she say?” Chay sits up a little straighter, eyes glinting, jaw clenching, granting me his undivided attention.
“About the Oleander—nothing. Though I did watch her pull a bloom from her pocket and eat it.”
Chay leans toward me. “Describe it.”
“You think it was an oleander?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, as someone who never had a home, much less a garden, I can’t say for sure. I’m not that great at identifying different species of plants, but it certainly could’ve been. Especially considering the way she made such a big deal about it. But honestly, there’s not much to describe. It was small, pink, pretty. But when she lit the stem, it emitted this horrible cloud of noxious smoke. Come to think of it, she also had a torch of dried twigs that did the same thing.”
“Were there any other effects?” Chay’s posture grows stiff, his voice tense.
I think back. “Whi
le it didn’t seem to affect her at all, for Dace and me, it was rough going. The smoke was acrid and heavy. And it wasn’t long before I started to grow really dizzy, and my vision went all blurry and weird to the point where everything around me bore this sort of strange halo-effect. I figured it was the influence of the Lowerworld. But you think it might be the oleander?”
“And you watched her eat the flower?” Chay dodges my question for one of his own. Nervously working the eagle ring on and off his finger.
I lean forward, needing to know what he knows. “Chay, what are you thinking? Does all of this actually mean something?”
Without answering, he pushes away from the table and peeks his head into the back room where Leftfoot is still examining Dace. “Chepi,” he calls. “I need you to come out here and join us. I need you to tell us everything you know about poison women.”
thirty-eight
Daire
“There hasn’t been a poison woman for years,” Chepi says. “So many years, most assume it’s a myth. Why do you ask?” Her eyes dart suspiciously toward me. As though she suddenly suspects I might be one.
I locate her son and restore his soul, just like I promised, and she still doesn’t trust me! What more do I have to do to gain her approval?
“Many cultures have stories of poison women,” Leftfoot says. Having finished examining Dace, he comes in to join us as Dace follows behind. “In Eastern Indian culture, they’re known as Vish Kanjas. Japanese myth features them as well, they’re called Dokufu. As the myth usually goes, a poison woman is chosen from infancy when she begins receiving small but regular doses of the poison in order to build up a tolerance. Over time, her bodily fluids become so contaminated that making physical contact with her becomes extremely dangerous, if not fatal.”
“But surely an oleander isn’t capable of that—aren’t they the landscaping plant of choice on the L.A. freeway system?”
“Oleander is highly toxic,” Chepi says, sliding her arm around Dace and pulling him close. “One of the most poisonous of all the common garden plants. Ingesting the nectar from the flower or chewing the leaves can prove fatal.”
“And when burned, it emits highly toxic fumes that can impair vision, cause dizziness, and worse,” Leftfoot adds.
Dace and I exchange a look. Between our dizziness and impaired vision, coupled with Phyre’s bizarre fascination with her saliva, the way her breath alternately inflamed and tempered the fire—it jells.
This has got to be it.
Phyre Oleander Youngblood is a poison woman.
“Her dad’s that crazy snake-handling prophet,” Dace says. “You remember, Suriel Youngblood. The one who used to live on the reservation that everyone sought to avoid? The one who handles the rattlers to prove how righteous he is? Claiming God would never allow him to get bit—and if by chance he did, it would only be to prove his powers to the disbelievers when he was instantly healed.”
“The one who took his wife’s maiden name?” Chepi makes a disapproving face.
“So, you think maybe he’s been feeding her a mix of rattler venom and oleander sap since she was a baby, in place of the pureed bananas and carrots the rest of us were raised on?” I ask, my gaze darting between the elders, before settling back on Dace.
“It’s possible,” Leftfoot says. “But a lifetime of ingesting distilled oleander extract alone is enough to do considerable harm to anyone who became intimate with her. The snake venom would almost be overkill. Though I’m not sure it matters either way. Phyre is poisonous, of that I am sure.”
I picture her waiting outside of Cade’s house, purposely moistening her lips before moving in to kiss him—and I’m convinced Leftfoot’s right. Or at least until I remember Phyre’s intimate history with Dace, and the theory crumbles just as easily.
I turn to Dace, hating to do it, but it has to be asked. “Did anything weird happen to you after you two were together?” I ask, surprised to find that I am apparently the only one who was aware of their history.
Chepi balks, gaping incredulously at her son, as Dace drops his chin and studies the cracked tile floor.
While I’m sorry I’ve made them uncomfortable, now more than ever, I need to get to the bottom of this. Need to either prove or disprove this horrifying new theory that just popped into my head.
“Listen,” I say. “I know this is awkward, but I think by this point, we should all be far beyond embarrassment. The fact is Dace was with Phyre, however briefly, and I need to know if—”
“No,” Dace says, icy-blue eyes meeting mine. “I suffered no ill effects, other than a lingering case of regret.”
I screw my lips to the side, trying to make sense of it. But then I remember something Phyre said.
“I wasn’t given the name until I was sixteen. That’s when my destiny was sealed.”
Which is most likely the same year she became toxic.
The same year she moved back to Enchantment.
The same year her father ordered her to fulfill her destiny by killing either Dace or Cade Richter, thereby commencing the Last Days.
My eyes grow wide. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
“What day is it?” I cry, frantically searching for a clock. It’s impossible to keep track of time in the Otherworlds, and I have no idea what day it is, much less how long Dace and I have been gone.
“December thirty-first,” Chay says. “New Year’s Eve.”
I swallow hard, attempting to ease a throat gone suddenly dry. My voice so gruff I hardly recognize it as mine when I ask, “What time, specifically, down to the exact minute?” I look to the window, horrified to find the sky draped with night.
“Eleven fifteen. Why?” Chay leans toward me, starts to put a comforting hand over mine, but I’m already out of my chair. Already grabbing Dace by the arm and pulling him along with me, as I race for the door.
“Phyre’s going to kill Cade,” I say, glancing back one last time. “And she’s going to do it with a single fatal kiss at the stroke of midnight!”
serpent’s kiss
thirty-nine
Daire
“What’s the New Year’s Eve tradition at the Rabbit Hole?” I grip the edge of my seat in an attempt to keep from vaulting into the roof, as Dace maneuvers his old white truck with the worn-out shocks over bumpy dirt roads. “Since every holiday seems to be celebrated there, I’m wondering if there’s something different about the way they observe it. Something we can use.”
“It’s the usual routine.” Dace pulls a hard right, his fingers gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles go white in sharp contrast to his gorgeous brown skin. “Decorations, noisemakers, stupid hats, music, food, mayhem, chaos, drunkenness, and the countdown to midnight when everyone makes a mad grab for someone to kiss.” He comes out of the turn and punches hard on the accelerator again. Sending the truck rearing and bucking onto another dirt road that’s in even worse shape than the one just before.
“And Phyre will make a mad grab for Cade. It’s the deadline her father gave her when he said, ‘See that it’s done by midnight … Any later is too late.’ It’s her last chance to prove herself worthy of her made-up destiny.” I peer out the side-view mirror, watching the dust swirl in our wake.
“Then she better get in line.” Dace glances my way. “Girls have always been drawn to my brother.”
“It’s the mind control. He’s altered their perception.” I make a frowny face, quick to dismiss it.
“And here I thought you were going to say it’s because he shares my good looks.” He lifts a brow, flashes a grin. And while I’m glad to see he hasn’t lost his sense of humor, it takes a moment for me to lighten my mood and join in.
“You look nothing like Cade.” I make a point to avoid his eyes when I say it, so I can pretend that it’s true. “You’re a zillion times hotter than he’ll ever be.”
Dace laughs—the sound deep and true—adding a welcome bit of levity to an otherwise somber mood.
But the
effect is short-lived. Another moment passes, and once again, our problems intrude.
“Every year it’s the same, but Lita was always there to fend them off, keep them away. This year, without her, it could be a problem.”
“No one stands a chance against Phyre. If our theories are correct, she’ll make sure she gets to him first. She’s beyond determined,” I say. “And it would be a mistake to underestimate her. She’s smart, cunning, and desperate—it’s a deadly mix. She’s also on a major losing streak. Having failed at everything else, this is her last chance to make her dad proud.” I frown at the clock on the dashboard. Less than forty minutes to spare. “Not a lot of time to get the job done.” I pat my pocket for reassurance, grateful for the athame I stashed there.
“And we may have even less. Suriel is convinced the New Year serves as a herald for the Last Days. And while he’s charged Phyre with the task of killing Cade, he’s also lost faith in her ability to get the job done. He might not want to chance it. He might not even let it get to that point.”
“I’ve no doubt she’ll go through with it. You should’ve seen her face right before she fled the Lowerworld. By now, it’s become a matter of principle. If nothing else, she’s tired of being thwarted at everything she sets out to do. If we find Cade, we find her.”
“Or Suriel.” The look Dace shoots me is as ominous as his voice.
“Either way, it’s over by midnight.”
“And we’ll be so busy stopping her, I won’t be able to kiss you. Can our luck get any worse?” He stops at the far end of the alleyway, kills the engine, and swivels toward me with deep haunted eyes.
“It can always get worse. If we’re unable to stop them—”
He leans toward me and presses a finger to my lips, snuffing the words before I can speak them. “We’ll stop them,” he says. “I’ll make sure of it. Now that I have you back, I have no plans to lose you again.” He hesitates for a moment, as though wanting to replace his finger with his lips, then abruptly draws away and jumps free of his truck as I do the same. “If Cade was a reasonable person, we could just warn him that Phyre’s a poison woman and her sudden interest in him is all part of her dad’s crazy, Apocalyptic vision, and get on with our night. But it’s never that easy, is it?”
