But to my surprise, Kai is staring at me, himself struggling to find words. “You look . . .”
“Hired-gun hot?” Clive offers from behind me. “Bodyguard sex bomb?”
“Please stop helping,” I mutter, and tug again at what’s pretending to be my shirt.
Kai’s eyes never leave me, and I shift uncomfortably, heat rising on my cheeks. “Dangerous,” he says. “I was going to say you look dangerous.”
I exhale, clap my hands together. “Good. You look pretty spiffy yourself. Lots of bling. Very regal.”
He chuckles softly.
I know I’m babbling, but his eyes on me feel like fire. “Now that compliments are out of the way, can we go?” I head to the front door. “You have Ma’ii’s hoops?” I ask as I walk. Ma’ii insisted we take them with us, just in case we feel the need to go to Canyon de Chelly. Kai agreed to carry them, so I didn’t argue.
Kai pats a small sack tied to his belt. “Had to lose Coyote’s bag, but Grace helped me out with the sack and the outfit. And the bling. And all I had to do was promise her my soul as payment.”
“You got off cheap,” I mutter. “She took my coffee.”
Coyote is standing at the bottom of the stairs, and he turns to take us in. His mouth falls open and for once the trickster is speechless.
I come down the stairs first. “So how does this work?”
“You are truly a creature made for violence,” Ma’ii murmurs, eyes taking in my slayer chic. “What is it that Neizghání called you? Chíníbaá?”
I point a finger at him. “Do not,” I warn him.
He raises his hands, the picture of innocence.
We gather in a clearing between the trailer, bar, and garage. Kai and me, with Ma’ii between us. Rissa joins Clive on the porch to watch, and even Grace comes out to stand at the back door of the bar and see the show. The bar opened a quarter hour ago, and there’s already a few patrons gathered there at the door with her.
“An audience. Great,” I mutter.
“People enjoy spectacle,” Coyote chides me. “And truly the two of you are a spectacle tonight. I did not know you were capable of such splendor, Magdalena. All this weaponry becomes you.”
I sigh and tug on the damn straps digging into my back. “Thanks, Ma’ii. Just what a girl likes to hear.”
He holds out his hands, one to me and the other to Kai.
I frown. “We have to hold hands?”
“Perhaps not,” he confesses, “but allow an old Coyote to indulge in the brief pleasure of young flesh tonight, even if only to hold your hand.”
Kai grasps Coyote’s hand tightly and leans forward to whisper to me, “Be happy he didn’t say we have to cuddle.”
He’s got a point.
“Ready, children?”
I take the trickster’s hand and look over at Kai, and despite the sorrows of the past few days, a grin breaks across my face. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” I admit. And then the smell of ozone fills my nostrils and the world ignites in flames.
Less than a second later, lightning strikes in Tse Bonito and there we stand—a monsterslayer, a Diné prince, and a trickster. I half expected to land in a sea of Law Dogs or in front of a blockade, but the street we’re on is empty, not a soul in sight. Like we’re in our own little pocket of the world.
I flip my hair out of my face and look up at the building looming before us. It’s some sort of abandoned motor inn, a wide parking lot fallen to cracked asphalt and tumbleweeds, a breezeway drive-up in front of glass double doors, leading to a check-in desk and a gift shop. Or used to, at least. Now the doors are boarded up and the inside is dark and slightly ominous. A sign outside proclaims the place THE SHALIMAR in a dated script right out of the 1950s. Which is probably the last time someone actually stayed here.
“What now?” I ask.
Kai stares up at the building, his face inscrutable. “We go inside.”
“There’s nothing here. It’s abandoned.”
“Not after sundown,” Ma’ii corrects me. “And not if you know how to look.”
“You coming in?” I ask him.
“I have a previous engagement,” he says, fluffing his robin’s-egg blue cravat with his claws. “The one you seek is called Mósí. She will have what you desire.” He checks his pocket watch.
“Thank you, Ma’ii,” I say. For all that we bicker, I can’t deny that he is holding up his end of the bargain.
“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” he warns me with a smile. “You may well curse me before this is over. Now . . .” He waves a hand at the entrance.
I turn toward the front door, but Kai lays a hand on my arm. “Wait,” he whispers, eyes tracking Coyote. We stand a moment and watch as he strolls down the deserted Tse Bonito street, walking stick swinging.
Kai waits until Ma’ii’s completely gone before he reaches into his shirt and lifts up a small yellow bag he has tied to a leather string around his neck. He opens it to remove a pouch of what looks like fine yellowish sand and a small container of silver-colored salve.
“Why didn’t you want Ma’ii to see your medicine bag?”
“It’s not something he needs to know about.”
I’m curious what he’s worried about Ma’ii knowing, but I can’t say I disagree. Ma’ii’s helping, but it’s for his own purposes. He’s still not entirely trustworthy. Kai opens the yellow sand pouch first. “Take this,” he says as he offers it to me. “Lick your pinkie and dip it in, and then into your mouth.” He sighs at my look of suspicion. “I promise it won’t hurt you.”
I do as I’m told. It tastes sharp and unpleasant. “What is it?”
“Bitterroot. It wards off bad medicine and those who wish you harm. Won’t do anything about a fist or a gun.” He looks at me pointedly. “Any danger in here will be more subtle. Mósí is a Bik’e’áyée’ii, not an irate cop or even a mindless monster, and this”—he holds up the silver jar of paint—“will help you fight the things you can’t always see.”
I eye the small container. “What is that, more makeup? I think I’ve got on enough makeup.”
He gives me a half smile. “I’m wearing it.”
“That’s your prerogative, pretty boy.”
“It’s medicine,” he explains. “Put it on your eyes and it helps you see through illusions.”
His fingers are gentle on my skin as he dabs the mixture across my eyelids. His face is inches from mine, and his warm breath makes my lashes tremble. This close, he smells of cedar and a hint of clean tobacco. It’s the smell of good medicine, the smell of Tah’s hogan. I close my eyes and breathe it in. After a moment I feel him step away.
“What do you see?”
My eyes flutter open and I look around, uncertain, until he touches my shoulder and gently turns me to face the old hotel. Except now it reads in great sparkling letters:
THE SHALIMAR INDIAN TRADING POST AND DANCE HALL
“How have I never known this was here?” I whisper, awed at the metamorphosis.
“Spend much time in Tse Bonito?”
“I hate this place. I only come here when I’m forced to.”
Kai chuckles. “I found the Shalimar the first night I was here.”
“Yeah, how is that?”
He shrugs. “I like people, unlike you, and it’s a meeting place of sorts. When I first got here, I was bored. Lonely. Figured I’d get to know the locals. No harm in that.”
“Don’t tell me,” I say, giving him my serious face. “They serve champagne.”
He laughs. With a small thrill I realize I’m starting to rely on that laugh.
His breath hitches for a second before he says, “I know you never gave me an answer on that ‘being friends’ thing, but after everything that’s happened . . . ?” He leaves it hanging.
I grin. “Don’t push your luck, Rabbit.”
He groans. “Please don’t.”
“What? I heard boys love nicknames. Makes them feel special.”
“ ‘Rabbit’ do
es not make me feel special. It makes me feel the opposite of special.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it.”
Shaking his head in mock despair, he offers me his arm. I don’t take it, preferring to keep one hand near my gun and the other free. But I do hold the door open for him, and we walk into the Shalimar together.
Chapter 28
The first thing that hits me is the noise. Dance music thumps in my ears, the heavy bass drum sending vibrations through the soles of my feet. My hand strays nervously to the Böker. If someone wants to sneak up on us in here, I’ll never hear them coming.
We stand at the top of a long expansive stairway that stretches down at least two dozen wide stone steps before disappearing into a hazy underworld. Lights pulse through the clouds of fog below—pink, violet, burgundy, and purple.
“You have got to be kidding me. A dance club in the middle of the freakin’ reservation?”
“What?” Kai shouts.
I shake my head. When I saw the sign outside that read DANCE HALL, I pictured something more like Grace’s All-American. Two-stepping to Hank Williams and Loretta Lynn. This place is not that. The dissonance is overwhelming.
“ID?” someone to my right asks.
I turn, hand on the hilt of my knife, before I realize I’m being carded. A young man sits on a lone barstool, staring at me expectantly. He’s Diné, fairly nondescript in his sagging pants and oversize canvas jacket, except for one thing. His ears. He’s wearing some kind of prosthetic over his ears that makes them curve gracefully up to rise past his hairline and meet in a fine point.
I tear my eyes away from his ears long enough to notice he’s holding a clipboard. “Do we have to be on some kind of list to get in?”
Kai nudges me. “Introduce yourself,” he whisper-shouts in my ear.
“What?”
“Navajo way. Tell him your clans, just the first two is enough. That’s how you get in.”
I do what he says. “I am called Magdalena Hoskie. I am of the Living Arrow clan. I was born for the Walks-Around clan. In this way am I Diné.”
The big-eared kid makes a notation on his clipboard and then grunts, satisfied, and turns to Kai. He rattles off his introduction, bending in low so I can’t quite hear. The doorkeeper dutifully writes Kai’s clans down too, then motions us down the stairs.
I stay where I am. “We’re looking for someone named Mósí. Do you know her?”
The doorman jumps like he’s not used to being addressed directly. Stares at me stupidly.
“She’s expecting us,” I say. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s worth a shot.
Now he’s really looking confused. He licks his lips, and his eyes stray to my weapons. “No one gets to see Mósí tonight,” he says, his voice a high nervous squeak. “That’s orders.”
“It’s important,” I insist.
“No one,” he shrills, eyes scurrying between Kai and me before he latches onto Kai, begging. “Even the high rollers!”
Kai’s been quiet, watching us, but now he touches my arm. “Come on, Maggie,” he says. “He can’t help us.”
“But he knows—” I start. And I’m talking to air because Kai’s halfway down the stairs. I hurry after him. “Why didn’t you let me push that guy a little? I could have gotten him to let us in to see Mósí.”
He throws a quick glance over his shoulder, and then his mouth is next to my ear and he whispers, barely making a sound. “The guy at the door? Jaa’yaalóolii Dine’é—Sticking-Up-Ears People.”
“His clan? Is that why he’s wearing the ear things?” I gesture to my own ears.
“He’s not wearing anything. Those are his ears. They also have excellent hearing,” he continues, “and rumor is, they can tell the difference between lies and the truth. Assume somebody is listening to everything we say from here on out. I know they’re definitely watching us. If Coyote’s associate is expecting us, she’ll know we are here. Trust me.”
I look back over my shoulder. The stairs behind us are empty except for the Jaa’yaalóolii Dine’é doorman. And he’s staring right back at me, eyes cold and calculating, all of his earlier timidity vanished like it never was. Shivers ripple down my spine and my instincts whisper threat. I was expecting the Shalimar to be strange. I wasn’t quite expecting it to be full of monsters.
I turn back to Kai, lean in close to talk. “So this medicine on my eyes cuts through illusions?” I ask.
“Yes. Normal ears are the illusion.”
“The monsters hiding in plain sight,” I murmur. And here we are, walking right into their den.
We reach the bottom of the stairs. I squint into the darkness before us, the colored lights offering only a hazy illumination of the depths beyond. The music still thumps deafeningly. My stomach roils. Suddenly, going in there feels like the wrong thing to do. I stop Kai, hand on his arm.
“What are we walking into, Kai?”
Kai doesn’t respond, already absorbed by something in the darkness I can’t see.
“Kai.”
He comes back to me. Blinks slowly a few times. “Just remember to keep an open mind. And don’t be surprised if you see some strange stuff. It’s going to get weird.”
“Weird” doesn’t quite do the Shalimar justice.
Logic tells me we are underground. I know we came through the doors, walked down the steps. We have to be at least twenty or thirty feet below ground. But the ceiling of the Shalimar stretches far into the dark of a starry desert sky at least a hundred feet above my head. The logic-defying ceiling should make the place feel expansive, but instead it feels claustrophobic, and I can’t shake the knowledge that we are deep below the surface.
We’re in a long warehouse-like room that stretches for probably a hundred yards into the distance. I can’t see clearly where it ends, just a hazy suggestion of a far wall. The space isn’t nearly as wide as it is long. The whole place is maybe half as long across, and the walls are painted to resemble the courtyard of the motor inn from upstairs, circa 1950. But it’s all two-dimensional, like the cutouts of a Hollywood set—there’s a fake lime-colored motel room complete with fake door that doesn’t actually open, and next to it an equally fake diner interior with red vinyl barstools and neon jukebox, with paintings of smiling girls in bouffants and poodle cuts on the walls. All flat and strangely disconcerting. Long tables, the white plastic kind my nalí used to buy at Walmart, are set up around the perimeter of the club, and stationed behind every third or fourth one is a bartender doing a brisk business in agave tequila and cactus beer. In between the bar stations, merchants have set up tables filled with various goods and are shouting over the ever-present thumping bass music, hawking their wares with enthusiasm. I see everything for sale. Old dissected electronics, their guts spread across the tables in wires and motherboards. Piles of clothing, much of it looking like it’s used or handmade. There’s a table of weapons, most of them knives or things sharpened to act like knives, but I also see a locked case against the wall that holds firearms. They’re arrayed on a glass shelf and next to them are magazines of ammunition. Just to the right of the weapons dealer is a young woman selling cedar bundles and leaf-wrapped tobacco, and farther down from there I see a kid offering dented cans of Campbell’s soup and pinto beans, stacked high in pyramids, behind a hand-scrawled sign that says ALL TRADES WELCOME.
But it’s not the black-market shopping or the physics-defying dimensions and otherworldly atmosphere that makes me glad my guns are within reach. It’s the customers.
With Kai’s medicine on my eyes, the children of Dinétah, stripped of all illusions, become the stuff of dreams. Or nightmares.
Many of the clans I recognize. Ats’oos Dine’é, the Feather People, are easy to spot, their feathered bodies covered in the grays, browns, and whites of hawks. Others have more elaborate plumage, showing reds and yellows and blues. All have a third eyelid that moves horizontally across staring eyes. By the bar sit two Big Deer People, huge three-point antlers
rising from their heads. They wear wide buckskin skirts and their feet peek out from underneath, dainty black hooves. A man wearing a patchwork fur coat and rummaging through a pile of random car parts can only be Rabbit clan, the ears and oversize teeth unmistakable.
A couple cross in front of us, drinks in hand. They’re robed in elaborate costumes, the woman sheathed in a pale pink dress covered in rhinestones and towering stiletto heels. The man has on a white zoot suit like something out of an old gangster film. Where they could have found such clothes, I have no idea, but considering the clothes Clive came up with for Kai and me, I shouldn’t be surprised. But it’s not what they are wearing that has me gawking. Both the man and woman are skeleton gaunt, their skin stretched too tight over bones, cheekbones jutting forward obscenely. Their hair is lank, their bodies so thin their fancy clothes hang off their withered frames.
“Dichin Dine’é,” Kai says when he sees me staring. “Hunger People.”
Kai guides me toward a long kidney-shaped bar. A few patrons, mostly women but a few men, too, stare as he passes. I can see their eyes taking in his handsome face and assessing the wealth in jewelry he’s wearing. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he ignores it well. I move a little closer to him, rest my hand on the hilt of my knife until the avaricious eyes catch me watching and turn away.
I lean into Kai. The music has actually lessened a little, and we can speak at a normal volume, but I’m wary of the Sticking-Up-Ears spies in our midst, so I keep it to a whisper. “Do I seem different to you?”
“Hmm?”
“With that medicine on your eyes. Am I—?” I stop. I know I should be focused on finding Mósí, but I need to know. I need to know if stripped of illusion, Kai can see the real me. And if he can, is it monstrous? Is the evil there, like the taint Neizghání warned me about?
But I can’t quite bring myself to ask it, sure that I already know the truth.
Kai catches the bartender’s attention and signals for a drink, then looks at me expectantly. I shake my head. Kai drops one of the half-dozen bronze rings he’s wearing on his pinkie finger on the bar as trade and then turns to hand me a long thin glass of tequila. I open my mouth to protest when he whispers, “You don’t have to drink it. Just pretend like you are, and try to relax. You look like you’re about to shoot someone.” He says it all through a smile as he sips from his glass, scanning the crowd.
Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World Book 1) Page 19