by Alyson Noel
I’m just about to duck back inside when he jumps to his feet and says, “There you are. Well done, boy. Well done.”
I make for the belt loop, in search of a better view. Thankful to be here in cockroach form and not human form, if for no other reason than it keeps me from shrieking in horror when my gaze darts from Coyote to the group gathered before us, which can only be described as an army of … undead beasts.
A small army of truly monstrous beings with partially decayed faces and protruding bones, some with crucial body parts missing. The sight of them gathered like that reminding me of some of the more intense, special-effects makeup jobs Jennika used to do for the scarier horror movies.
Only this is much worse.
This is real.
They gather before him with their tongues—well, those who have tongues—lolling with anticipation, eyes bulging expectantly—as Cade makes for the icebox, returning with a large, metal container he places on the glass table before him.
“Back off,” he says, glaring at one in particular that’s creeping too close. Waiting until it returns to the group, rejoining the rest of the freak show, before he plunges his hand into his pocket, fishes around, and retrieves a small silver key he uses to open the lock.
The group presses forward, their gruesome faces naked with craving, as I brace for a big, messy pile of squishy gray matter. Figuring the brains will most likely be human, since, according to legend, that’s the preferred undead/demon/monster treat.
But instead of the sludge I expect, when Cade pops the top, the most beautiful, incandescent glow fills the room. The sight of it causing a hushed chorus of Ahhhhhs soon chased by excited yips, snarls, and growls, as Cade cups his hands, scoops them both in, and comes away with a heap of beautiful, gleaming, white orbs he admires briefly, before tossing them to the beasts, as though tossing bread crumbs to pigeons.
The freaks dive-bomb each other—going absolutely mad in their attempt to score more than their share of orb. A spectacle Cade seems to enjoy, judging by the way he takes his sweet time doling it out. Preferring to make them fight for it, no matter that there seems to be more than enough to go around.
“That’s it,” he says, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans, the lined expanse of his palms hovering dangerously close to me. “Show’s over. Feel better now?” He glances among them and laughs. “You certainly look better,” he adds.
And that’s when I see it.
That’s when I see the way they’ve transformed into something not nearly as gruesome as they were just a few moments earlier.
Some of that decayed flesh is intact.
Some of those broken bones are repaired.
Some of those missing parts have regenerated.
Regenerated.
What the heck is he feeding them?
I study them again, taking in dark hair, dark features, light eyes … and I know—I immediately know it’s more than a coincidence.
When Paloma spoke of them communing with their long-dead relatives on Día de los Muertos or Day of the Dead—claiming that they don’t so much honor their relatives as resurrect them—she was also quick to assure me that it wasn’t what I assumed. That it wasn’t the physical bodies they resurrected but more their spiritual essence.
They call upon the energy of the dead and infuse themselves with the dark power of their lineage—an effect that lasts a few days at best … they’re not necromancers, or at least not yet, anyway, she’d said.
But as I gaze upon them again, I realize Paloma is wrong. Cade has brought them back. There’s an entire army of long-dead Richters lined up before me.
“Leandro’s gonna freak when he sees you,” Cade says, his voice nudging me back to the present. “And once Daire’s on board … the whole world is ours…”
I swivel around until I’m peering at him—staring into the eyes of a narcissistic roadkill-snacking psychopath who seriously thinks he can convince me to join him.
This is far worse than I was warned it would be.
I squinch my eyes tight, striving to break my bond with the cockroach, when Cade slams the lid of the metal container so hard it severs the thought. Turning away from his family of freaks, he yells at them to scram, and they do. Not necessarily leaving in the most orderly manner, though they are obedient, leaving no doubt who’s in charge around here.
“Now what?” Cade glances between his watch and Coyote. “Time for a run?” Coyote howls, excited by the idea, but Cade hesitates, scrunching his face when he says, “I don’t know. I should probably get back, keep an eye on things in the club.”
Coyote ducks his head low, looks up at him with sad, red-glowing eyes. The sight causing Cade to laugh softly, chucking him under the chin as he says, “Okay, but just a quick one. I can’t let that Santos out of my sight for too long.”
They move through the place, heading toward a wall at the far end. But just like the wall that led us here, this one is also a mirage that allows us to push through to its other side—staring upon a wide, seemingly endless expanse of desert, with hard-packed, well-traveled sand.
Cade kicks off his left boot as the coyote races excited circles around him, and I hang on for dear life, convinced there’s no way I can survive a run without falling off and getting lost here forever. Even though it’s not technically me who’ll be lost but rather the cockroach, it’s still not something I’d wish upon him. He’s served me well. He deserves better.
I steel myself. Committed to making the journey, doing whatever it takes to hang on so I can eventually find my way back to the club, where I can deposit the cockroach in a nice, dark, damp spot where he can live out the rest of his days with hopefully no memory of all the wretched things I forced him to witness—when Cade unbuckles his pants.
It’s a move I didn’t expect.
His jeans dropping to the ground as I spring toward the hem of this T-shirt, where I cling with all of my might. Overcome with relief to have nailed my target, when he begins to remove that as well, and I’m swept across his torso, up over his armpit (ick)—and then—
“What the—?”
He shrieks.
Or maybe that was me shrieking in my own head, I can’t say for sure.
All I know is right after he yells, “Filthy … disgusting…” time seems to stop as we glare at each other.
The moment suspended, on pause, and I’m just about to break it, just about to make a run for it, when his eyes turn to slits of rage and he snaps the T-shirt toward the ground so hard I lose my grip. Sent sailing, soaring, flying through the air—so startled and flustered and helpless, I’m unable to use my wings to propel myself anywhere.
Then the next thing I know, I’m belly-up on the ground. Staring into a pair of cruel, nonreflective, icy-blue eyes, as Cade lifts his shoe high and slams it so hard I become one with the heel.
thirty-seven
“Hey—hey there. You okay?”
The voice sounds male. Concerned. A male who’s concerned about me?
It’s gotta be either the ghost of Django or Chay’s come to get me—those are the only two males who would care.
“Do you need a doctor? Come on, open your eyes and look at me, please?”
I do as he says. I see no reason not to. And I find myself staring straight into a pair of icy-blue irises.
I flinch at the sight, squirm backward, try to get away. But then when I see my own reflection gleaming back, my entire body goes soft once again.
“Whoa, there.” He eases me back onto the seat.
Onto the … toilet seat?
I sit up straighter, gaze around wildly, wondering what I’m doing here, in this stall, and why Dace is here with me.
I start to stand, but my head’s too dizzy, refuses to allow it, and it’s only a second later when I’m down again. Landing so awkwardly my foot kicks at something that rolls across the ground.
A jar.
An empty jar.
And then I remember. I remember it all.
&n
bsp; “I have to go—” I push against him as hard as I can, which, in my weakened state, isn’t hard at all. Visions of Coyote, demons, and long-dead Richters flooding my mind. And when I get to the part where his twin licked slimy globs of gore from his fingers, I say it again and push harder this time. But for the moment anyway, he’s stronger than me.
“Relax,” he coos, voice hushed, soothing—a melody hummed solely for me. “There’s no rush. Take all the time you need to gather your strength, get your bearings again.”
“No. Really—I have to…” I look at him, having no idea how to explain. “I have to find Xotichl,” I say. It’s the first reasonable thing that springs to mind.
“Xotichl’s gone.” He squints in study. “The club closed a while ago. I was just making final rounds when I found you. What happened?” he asks, voice laced with concern.
“I…”
I merged with a cockroach—caught a ride next to your twin’s Calvin Klein underwear label—and after I watched him play with a demon coyote and snack on bloodied bits that could’ve been either animal or human, he fed glowing, white orbs to the walking dead—then crushed me under the heel of his boot …
“I’m not sure,” I say, willing my head to feel better, to stop spinning, and a moment later it does. “I guess I passed out, or something…” I cringe, hating the lie but knowing there’s no way I could ever present him the truth.
I start to stand, pretending not to notice when he offers a hand. “I need to call my ride.” I fumble for my phone, reluctant to bother Paloma and Chay at this hour, but they’re pretty much my only real option.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you.” Dace follows me out of the stall, watching as I call Paloma’s number, then Chay’s—face scrunching in confusion when they both fail to answer. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Daire—why won’t you let me help you?” he says. My name on his lips sounding just like it did in the dream. Our eyes meeting in the mirror, mine astonished, his chagrined, when he adds, “Yeah. I asked around. Uncovered your real name. So shoot me.”
And when he smiles, when he smiles and runs a nervous hand through his glossy, dark hair—well, I’m tempted to shake my head and refuse him again.
Maybe he goes by the name of Whitefeather, but technically, he’s still a Richter. A good Richter—a kind Richter—still, I need to do what I can to avoid him. To ignore that irresistible stream of kindness and warmth that swarms all around him.
Need to cleanse myself of those dreams once and for all. We are not bound. Nor are we fated. I’m a Seeker—he’s the spawn of a Richter—and my only destiny is to stop his brother from … whatever it is that he’s doing.
But, more immediately, I need to get home. And there’s no denying I could do a lot worse than catching a ride with gorgeous Dace Whitefeather.
Dropping the phone in my bag, I reluctantly nod my consent. Heading out the door as I ask, “Are we the last to leave?” I survey the club, noting how different it looks now that it’s empty. Wondering if Cade’s holed up in his office, watching us from his wall of screens.
“Naw, my cousin Gabe is still here. Probably Marliz too, since they’re engaged. But Raul, my uncle, is always the last one out. Especially on the nights when Leandro leaves early.”
I wait for him to mention Cade, but the name never comes, and it’s not like I’m about to bring it up. “Sounds like you come from a really big family,” I say, wanting to learn more about that family—greedy for whatever he’s willing to divulge.
He holds the door open, exiting behind me when he says, “Feels like I meet a new member every day.” He laughs—the sound magnetic and deep, the kind of laugh you want to hear again and again. “I grew up on the reservation—my mom and I lived in our own little world, which didn’t leave room for much else. But when I hit my teens, I wanted more. And after some initial reluctance, my mom agreed to let me go to Milagro. That’s when I learned I had this whole other family.”
“That must’ve been … strange.” I peer at him sideways, the question more baited than it seems.
“It was.” He shrugs. “Strange is definitely the best word to describe it.” He falls quiet, stares into the distance.
“So you still live on the reservation?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation going, remembering how Paloma failed to say either way.
“Only when I visit my mom. The rest of the time I rent a small room in town, paid for with what I earn working here.”
My stare hardens; I have no idea how to reply. Shocked that he’d go to all that trouble, work so hard for his creep of a brother, just so he could attend a school that hasn’t been all that accepting of him.
He meets my gaze, reads the unspoken question written on my face, but instead of elaborating, he stops beside a primer-gray Mustang—same car he drove at the gas station that day—saying, “You’re staying with Paloma, right?”
I nod in reply, duck my head low, and settle inside. Noting the interior is a little worn, a little worse for the wear, yet surprisingly neat and clean. And it definitely smells really nice—sort of earthy and fresh—like him.
“So, now that you know about me—what about you?” He starts the engine, backing out of the space and onto the street. “Or should I ask around to uncover that too?”
I stare out the window, tempted to say something glib, noncommittal, but he’s so kind and sincere, I go with the truth. “For as long as I remember, it’s been me and my mom. She’s a Hollywood makeup artist—though the job title’s a little misleading, since we spend most of our time traveling the world, only stopping in Hollywood between gigs.”
He swerves onto a rutted dirt road, the first of many, eyes slewed toward me when he says, “Sounds rough.”
I sharpen my gaze, searching for signs of sarcasm, insincerity, something—but coming away empty, which really surprises me. Usually when people respond like that it’s with an undertone of envy.
“I mean, I’m sure it had its good parts.” He recovers quickly, worried he might’ve upset me. “Still … never having a real place to settle, to call home … I’m not sure I could do it.”
“Sometimes it was tough,” I say. “Sometimes it got really lonely.” I settle deeper into my seat, wondering why I saw fit to confess that when I’ve never admitted it to anyone, much less myself. Quick to add, “Then again, when it’s the only life you know, then you don’t really know what you’re missing.” Not wanting him to feel sorry for me.
My fingers twist in my lap, watching as he considers my words. Gripping the wheel tighter as he slows to a crawl in order to navigate a particularly rough patch of road.
“So I’m guessing this is the reason everyone drives four-wheelers around here?” I grip the edge of my seat, cringing when the bottom of his car scrapes hard against the ground.
“I have an old truck I usually save for these roads. I’m a bit of a grease monkey. I like fixing up cars and other broken-down things. But since I didn’t plan on coming this way…” His shoulders lift, ending that topic as he segues to the next. “So tell me, for someone who’s traveled the world, what do you make of Enchantment?” He removes a hand from the wheel to tuck some loose strands of hair back behind his ear, and it’s all I can do to keep from reaching toward him—entwining my fingers with his.
I bite down on my lip, having no idea what to say. So instead I just stare at his profile—noting how it’s so perfectly chiseled it should be minted on coins.
“That bad, huh?” He shakes his head and laughs.
“Aside from school and Paloma’s, I really haven’t seen all that much.” I shrug, deciding to leave out my visit to the graveyard, the cave, and the time I went riding on the reservation with Chay.
“Well, I know it pretty well, and I’m more than happy to volunteer as your guide—just say the word. It’s not nearly as bad as you think. There are some truly enchanting places, if you know where to look.”
I nod as though I’m already considering it, but as tempting as i
t is, I know I can’t do it. After tonight, I have to do whatever I can to avoid him. Getting to know him is not a viable option. I have a job to do—one that’ll require all of my focus. I can’t allow myself to get distracted by a boyfriend—or even a boy that’s a friend.
The rest of the drive passes in silence, but, strangely, I have no need to fill it and neither does he. It’s only when he pulls up to the big blue gate that he turns to me and says, “This is it, right?”
I reach for my bag, intending to give a quick thanks for the ride and be on my way. But when our eyes meet again, the words melt on my lips.
He holds the look. Holds it with such intensity, no matter how hard I try, I can’t break away.
Everything my head is telling me: Open the door—say your good-byes—and get the heck out of this car!—is in direct conflict with what my heart is saying: Stay—talk—hang out for a while—give it a chance—see where it leads …
His blue eyes gleaming, lips parting and curving, as a slant of moonlight creeps through the window and finds its way to the top of his head where it glows like a crown.
The sight of it forcing me to shut my eyes, shut out the whole glorious sight of him. Needing to see if I’m merely drawn to his beauty, since it wouldn’t be the first time. But when I turn the focus from my eyes to my heart, when I tune in to what it tells me—well, the impression I get is the same as the first time I saw him that day at the Rabbit Hole and again at the gas station, then today at school, and earlier tonight when I ran smack into him in the club …
A swarm of kindness, followed by the deepest, most unconditional love—all of it directed at me.
“Daire…” he says, voice husky and thick.
The lilt of my name on his lips causing me to sway toward him. Ignoring the warning in my head, in favor of the yearning in my heart. Lured by the invisible magnet throbbing between us.
“Daire,” he repeats, the words barely a whisper. “Someone’s here.”