“If this is you trying to apologize again for not having my back at Black Mesa . . .”
“Shit.” He drawls that out, too. Spits to the side like it tastes bad in his mouth.
“I’ve already said you don’t owe me anything. You can stop offering me gigs to try and make it up to me.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
He shrugs, a spare lift of a knobby shoulder. “It’s worth big trade,” he offers. Unconvincingly.
“I don’t need the money.”
“Thought you might. What with Grandpa staying with you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He scratches a knuckle across his scruff. Sounds somewhere between resigned and hopeful when he says, “Could be something big and bad. Maybe fun.”
“And your Thirsty Boys can’t handle it?”
“You’re the monsterslayer.” He gives me another squinty stare. “Me and the Boys are just a bunch of assholes with guns.”
He’s throwing my words back at me, but he says it with a small smile, and I know he doesn’t really mean it. And it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, this is his idea of friendly. He’s inviting me because he does, in fact, want to pleasure of my company. Something inside me shifts. Unfamiliar, but not entirely unappealing.
“All right,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. No need to let him know I’m pleased at the gesture. “I’ll go. But at least tell me what the job is.”
“Tell you on the way. Clock’s ticking, and all.”
I look over my shoulder back into the house. “One problem. I promised Tah I’d take him up the mountain to cut some good logs. He wants to build a new hogan.”
Hastiin blinks a few times. “In Tse Bonito?”
“Here. On my land. He’s staying.”
He nods approvingly. “Tell you what,” he says. “You help me with this bounty today, me and the Boys’ll help Grandpa build his hogan tomorrow.”
It’s a good trade, and better than me hauling them down the mountain by myself. In fact, I’d call it a win, and it’s been a while since I had one of those.
“Let me get my shotgun.”
It doesn’t take me long to get ready. I’m already wearing what Hastiin calls my uniform, which is fairly rich considering he and his Thirsty Boys actually wear a freaking uniform. He tried to get me into a set of those blue fatigues when I first joined up with the Thirsty Boys right after Black Mesa, but I told him that it felt like I was playing soldier, and if there was one thing I’m not, it’s a soldier. I’m surprised I’ve made it this long working with the Boys, but I guess I didn’t feel much like being alone after everything that went down. I hate to admit it, and intend to deny it if he asks, but I like Hastiin. Well, maybe “like” is a bit strong. But I could get-to-like.
I do change my T-shirt. Same black, but it smells markedly better than the one I slept in. I tighten my moccasin wraps. Tuck my throwing knives into the edges just below the knee. One obsidian blade, one silver. Both made to kill creatures that might not be hurt by steel. My new Böker knife is all steel and it goes in the sheath at my waist. It’s a recent replacement for the one I lost in the fighting arena at the Shalimar and the first thing I bought with the trade I earned hunting with the Thirsty Boys. I thumb the hilt of the big knife, memories of the Shalimar wanting to surface, but there’s nothing good there and I’ve spent enough time replaying that night in my head. What I need more than anything is a fresh start. I’m tired of carrying around old ghosts.
As if the threat of memories alone is enough to compel me, I find myself on my knees, reaching behind the narrow space between the head of my mattress and the wall. My hand hits cloth, and under it, I feel the pommel of a sword. I know the rest of the sword is four feet long, its blade forged from the raw lightning that the sun gifted to his son as a weapon. His son that was once my mentor, once the only man I ever thought I’d love. But I tricked that man, trapped him, and imprisoned him in the earth. I know I didn’t have a choice, that it was either him or me. And as much as I loved him, I loved myself just a little bit more.
So now the sword is mine.
I leave the sword where it is. It’s not meant for a simple bounty hunt. It’s too sacred, too bound in power and memories for me to take hunting with Hastiin. But one day, maybe. Until then it stays put.
My shotgun rests on the gun rack next to my bed. It’s a beauty. Double barrel pump-action with a custom grip. I take it from the rack and slide it into my shoulder holster. Adjust it so it sits just right, an easy draw from the left. Glock comes, too. It rides on the hip opposite from my Böker. I pat it all down, reciting my list of weapons softly to myself, just to make sure everything’s where it’s supposed to be.
Tah catches me as I come out of my bedroom, a mug of Navajo tea in his wrinkled hands. “I thought I heard you in there,” he says cheerfully. “I’m ready to go. Just need to find my hat . . .” He trails off as he sees my weapons.
“Hastiin’s here,” I explain. “Some kind of emergency at Lake Asááyi and he needs backup. But he said he and the Boys’ll help us build your hogan tomorrow. They’ll even do all the heavy lifting.”
Tah’s thin shoulders fall forward in disappointment. For a moment he looks all of his seventy-odd years.
And I know that’s my fault, even before today’s small disappointment.
But Tah straightens, smiles. “Well, tomorrow’s just as good as today. I made some tea. Want to at least take a cup? It’s not coffee . . .” He shakes his head, chuckles a happy laugh. “Remember when my grandson brought me all that coffee?”
“And the sugar, too,” I say. “I remember.”
I smile back, but it’s not much of a smile. In fact, it feels like I’m trying to smile past the broken place in my heart. We haven’t much talked about Black Mesa and what happened with Kai. And he hasn’t asked. But I saw him once, heads together with Hastiin, when he thought I wasn’t listening, and I’m sure the mercenary told him what I did. Well, at least his side of the story anyway. But Tah’s never asked me. Maybe he doesn’t want to know the truth.
“Just you wait, Maggie. He’ll come. Kai will come. And then maybe you’ll quit your moping.”
I look up, surprised. “I thought I was doing okay.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe we’ll both quit our moping.” He folds his hands tight around his mug of tea. Stares out the window at nothing. Or maybe he’s staring all the way across Dinétah to the All-American where his grandson is, alive and well.
Alive and well for over a month and he hasn’t come to us. To me. When I asked Hastiin if he knew why Kai hadn’t come, he said, “Ask him yourself.” But I can’t. I’m too proud, or too scared to push it. If Kai doesn’t want to see me, I have to respect that. Even if I crawl into bed every night to stare at the ceiling and think about him. Even if I stumble out of bed blurry-eyed and restless a handful of hours later still thinking about him. Even if every day starts and ends with the image of him lying dead at my feet. My last and most terrible deed, even worse than betraying my mentor. All of it eating me alive.
“When he’s ready,” Tah says quietly, more to himself than to me. “When Kai is ready, he’ll come to us.”
I want to ask Tah when he thinks that will be, but he doesn’t know any more than I do. So, I check my weapons again, my fingers lingering on the comfort of cold metal, and leave.
About the Author
Photo copyright © Stephen Land Photography
REBECCA ROANHORSE is an Ohkay Owingeh Pueblo/African American writer and a VONA workshop alum. She is also a lawyer and Yale grad. She lives in northern New Mexico with her daughter, husband, and pug. Find her on Twitter @RoanhorseBex.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Rebecca-Roanhorse
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. · Text copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Roanhorse · Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Tommy Arnold · All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Saga Press Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 · SAGA PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. · For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. · The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. · Also available as a Saga Press paperback edition · Book design by Nick Sciacca · Jacket design by Nicholas Sciacca · Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Tommy Arnold · CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress. · ISBN 978-1-5344-1349-8 (hardcover) · ISBN 978-1-5344-1350-4 (pbk) · ISBN 978-1-5344-1351-1 (eBook)
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