by Alyson Noel
In an instant, Daire is beside me. Her hair disheveled and wind-tossed. Her clothes filthy and bloodstained. And yet, beneath the layers of dirt, her cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes bright and hopeful, and to me, she’s never been more beautiful. I’ve never been more happy to see her.
“I’m here—I’m always here,” she whispers, words intended only for my ears.
But when she bites down on her lip and sweeps a cautious hand over my cheek, I’m quick to close my eyes and turn away. Imagining how repugnant I must look to her.
Battered.
Broken.
Defeated and weak.
Someone she was forced to rescue.
A far cry from the hero I was striving to be.
And it’s not like Leftfoot has any interest in sparing my ego. He’s made it all too clear what he thinks of my pride.
“How many times will I have to patch you up before there’s nothing left to patch?” He continues to mutter under his breath as he motions for Chay to help prop me up.
I steel myself against the pain, but mostly I’m embarrassed for Daire to see me this way.
“We need to remove your shirt,” Leftfoot commands. “Or what’s left of it, anyway. You were in such bad shape when they brought you in, all I could do was a quick patch job. I was afraid anything more would send you over the edge. But now that you’re on the mend, it’s time to put you back together again.” Responding to my hesitation, the furtive look I shoot Daire, he says, “She’s been here all along. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”
Daire flushes pink and looks the other way, as Leftfoot wads up a red bandanna he pulls from a drawer, shoves it toward me, and says, “Here—bite down on this. You’re gonna need it.”
I turn my cheek in refusal. My gaze drifting from Chay, to Chepi, to the back of Daire’s head, before traveling back to Leftfoot again. Nothing more emasculating than a roomful of elders judging me in front of my girlfriend. The very least I can do is tough it out and reject the pacifier.
“Your call,” Leftfoot says, never one to force me, despite how foolish he deems my behavior. “You’re lucky it’s only a dislocation and not a break. Breaks take longer to heal.” He places one hand on my shoulder, as the other grabs at my arm. Muttering one of his healing songs under his breath, he pushes with a great deal of strength, wrenching the joint back into place.
The sudden jerk of bone meeting bone resulting in a pain so staggering, I force myself to focus on the niche full of santos on the other side of the room. Biting back the scream that crowds my throat, I fight like hell not to pass out.
Not like this.
Not in front of Daire.
Though there’s nothing I can do about the constellation of stars that swirl bright and shining before me.
“Funny, I don’t feel so lucky.” I grind the words between clenched teeth, as I fight to steady my breath and get a grip on myself.
“And now … the wounds.” Leftfoot lifts the blood-caked key from my chest. Pausing to give it a thorough inspection, he shoots Daire a look of reproach, then goes about the business of removing the gauze and poultices that held me together like a mummy so he can better inspect my torn and ravaged flesh.
The sight of my wounds causing Chepi to sob into her already soggy tissue, as Daire looks on with a face crowded with guilt-laced sympathy.
It’s a look I can’t bear.
A look that proves just how much I’ve failed her.
“You’re lucky Chay found you when he did,” Leftfoot says.
“How did you find us? How’d you know where to go?” I ask, unable to recall that particular detail.
“Intuition.” Chay’s words are directed at me, though his eyes remain fixed on Leftfoot. “I was out riding when we had a small earthquake and I instinctively headed for the vortex, sensing it wasn’t the usual shifting of the earth. I’d only been there a few minutes when you two appeared.”
“What were you doing down there?” Chepi asks.
Daire and I exchange a look. I have no idea what she told them, so I bypass the question, and tell them about the mine instead. Explaining its connection to all those disappearances Leftfoot told me about.
Glad for the chance to concentrate on something other than the sharp sting of potions Leftfoot uses to sterilize my wounds, before he gets to stitching them closed and mummifying me again in several layers of gauze and herbs.
When he’s finished, he tosses me a clean shirt, tells me to get dressed, and damn if I don’t need his help. As if I wasn’t emasculated enough for one day.
His words directed at Chepi, he says, “Take him home. In order to mend, he’s going to require serious bed rest.” Then turning his focus to Daire, he adds, “Chay can drop you off at Paloma’s. It’s time you two stay away from each other. For good this time. I guarantee you, next time you won’t be so lucky.”
bleeding sky
thirty-six
Daire
When I lose count of the number of times I’ve called Dace only to have Chepi pick up and refuse to put him on, I know it’s time for another approach.
While she may have succeeded in confiscating his phone, while the elders may be working together, doing whatever it takes to keep us apart, there’s no way they’ll prevail.
I need to see him.
Need to check in and make sure he’s okay.
Last I saw, his body was as battered as his ego. And I need to tell him that I don’t think any less of him for being beaten by Coyote.
Twice now Dace has purposely jumped in the path of that psychotic, demonic, bloodthirsty beast—willing to sacrifice himself in an effort to save me.
It’s touching beyond words.
It’s the very definition of heroic.
But the look in his eyes when I left Leftfoot’s adobe, made it clear he felt far more ashamed than valiant.
It’s a look that continues to haunt me—one I’m desperate to change.
The question is how?
How can I possibly get to him when he’s under Chepi’s round-the-clock surveillance?
I heave myself off my bed and move toward the window. Tapping a finger lightly against the feather trim that hangs from the dream catcher over the sill, I gaze at the courtyard beyond. The thick layer of freshly poured protective salt, the coyote fence made of tall pieces of juniper branch, and the thick adobe wall that surrounds the entire property. Remembering a time just after I got here, when I used the strange setup as a reason to run—having no idea just how much it would come to serve and protect me.
I consider sneaking out, tossing a saddle on Kachina, and finding my way to Dace’s window, but Dace isn’t the only one under surveillance. Having decided to heed Leftfoot’s warning to keep Dace and me away from each other, Paloma’s spent the past few days keeping serious tabs on me. There’s no way to escape without being found.
I watch as the sun begins to sink, painting the sky a brilliant orangey hue.
I watch as my cat creeps across the fence, pausing a moment to look my way, before crouching low and leaping onto the street.
I watch as a raven swoops onto a branch, taking a moment to settle as a gentle wind stirs and ruffles its feathers.
Raven.
Wind.
It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!
Raven is my spirit animal. Wind my guiding element. It’s no accident this seemingly innocuous scene is unfolding before me.
There are no accidents. No such thing as coincidence. This is an offering, pure and simple.
If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that life is full of synchronicities—brimming with all manner of omens and signs we choose to ignore. Until we’ve become so accustomed to denying the barrage of miracles occurring all around us, we can no longer recognize them when they unfold right before us.
But not this time. This is exactly the opportunity I’ve sought all along.
I check to make sure the door is completely shut, since the last thin
g I need is for Paloma to come in and find my body lying inert on the floor while my soul journeys alongside a raven’s. Then I turn toward the wind-ruffled bird and focus on him with all of my might. Much like I merged with a cockroach the first time I followed Cade to the vortex—I meld my energy with his until our souls sync as one and our hearts beat in tandem.
As soon as I’m settled, we’re off. Lifting from the branch and soaring high into the sky. Carried by wings as light and fluid as gossamer, we glide across a landscape that unravels like a ribbon beneath us. The experience so glorious, I can hardly believe I allowed so much time to lapse since the last time I did this.
When we reach Chepi’s property, the raven circles in a wide careful arc before landing just outside Dace’s window. The gentle swish of his wing brushing the pane, enough to cause Chepi to look up from her reading with a suspicious gaze. The intensity of her stare so startling, so unexpected, my energy spikes and I nearly lose the connection.
She doesn’t know it’s me, I tell myself in an attempt to rein in my panic. I’m just another raven. It’s not like there’s a shortage of them.
Though clearly it’s a mantra heard only by me. Chepi’s scrutiny continues to deepen. Convinced I’m no random bird. That the scene isn’t nearly as benign as it seems.
The raven grows anxious, starts to scramble about. Tired of playing host, he goes to great effort to evict me by hopping from foot to foot, emitting a low, guttural croak, and thumping his tail feathers hard against the glass. The commotion causing Chepi to frown and Dace to awaken with a gaze that veers straight for me. Intuitively sensing my presence, he directs a subtle nod my way, then says something to Chepi I can’t quite make out. But it’s enough for her to abandon her book and exit the room, as Dace bolts from his bed.
Crossing the room in just a few steps, he shoves the window open and offers his hand. While the raven’s most primal instincts prompt him to flee, I’m able to convince him to creep closer, until he’s nudging his head against Dace’s welcoming fingers. And it’s all I can do to contain myself when Dace responds by lowering his lips to the dome of raven’s head. His kiss so intoxicating it reverberates throughout me.
“I knew you’d come,” he whispers. “I knew you’d find a way. Still, I have to say, this is genius. Wish I’d thought of it. I would’ve visited you.”
Despite the fact that ravens are known for their amazing vocal abilities, this particular raven refuses to cooperate, refuses to speak the words I urge it to share. After too many frustrated attempts, I resolve to convey it with a look. Hoping my gratitude, admiration, and love will somehow beam through the raven’s small beady eyes.
Dace runs a finger down the length of raven’s back, whispering, “There’s no reason to worry. I’m getting better and stronger every day.” He continues to stroke the shiny black feathers, causing me to melt under his touch. “It won’t be long now before you and I are together again.” His voice rings with determination. And though he means to reassure, somehow the words bear the opposite effect.
He’s planning something. That much is clear. But whatever it is, I can’t let him go through with it. Can’t let him go after Cade. Can’t let him get to him first.
To do so would be to play right into the prophecy. And that could only end in tragedy.
“Soon, Daire. Soon…” His voice drifts along with his gaze, traveling to some unknown future event that plays out in his head.
In a desperate bid to get through to him, I urge the raven to head for Dace’s shoulder. About to take another crack at whispering into his ear, when Chepi pokes her head into the room and says, “Dace? Why are you up and who are you talking to?”
And that’s all it takes for the raven to flit back to the ledge.
“It’s nothing.” Dace turns away from the window. “I just needed some air. And a little reminder of the world outside this room.”
Chepi approaches with a gait full of purpose and an all-knowing gaze. “And now that you’ve been reminded, it’s time to get back to bed.” She reaches for the window sash and shoves it down with such force, the bond between the raven and me is instantly severed.
Allowing raven to shoot free of the ledge, as my soul reunites with my body.
thirty-seven
Dace
Daire’s visit was exactly what I needed.
Her showing up on my windowsill via the raven wasn’t just pure inspired genius, it gave me the push I need to get out of this house and make good on my plan.
But first I have to get past Chepi. She’s a formidable obstacle—an eagle-eyed sentinel. And since I’ve already sent her on all the food and water errands I can without arousing her suspicions, the only ruse I have left is another round of feigned sleep. Needing her to think I’m down for the night, that I won’t stir again until morning, I pull the blanket over my head and force my breath to fall slow and even. Remaining like that until she finally relaxes enough to leave.
The second she’s gone, I toss the covers, peer down the hall to ensure it’s all clear, and race for the door. Nearly free of it, when she rushes up from behind, grabs hold of my arm, and demands, “Where are you going?”
I close my eyes briefly. Overcome with regret for what I’m about to do next. Wishing it didn’t have to be this way. But wishing is futile. It’s action that’s needed. And no matter how hard she fights me, there’s no way she’ll keep me from doing what I most need to do.
Still, I make a point to soften my tone when I say, “I need to step out. You’ve kept me housebound too long and I’m feeling hemmed in. I need to swing by my place and take care of some things.”
Her face darkens with disapproval. Causing the lines that cross her forehead and fan either side of her mouth to deepen, as though she’s aged ten years in a matter of seconds.
“C’mon, Ma—you know you can’t keep me cooped up here forever.” I shift my weight from foot to foot, never wanting to leave a place as badly as this.
“You’re going to see her.” Her voice is accusatory, eyes sharp and knowing.
“I don’t even know where she is.” I swipe a hand over my chin, hiding the lie to come. “We haven’t talked for days. But then you already knew that. You’ve made sure of it.” I swallow hard, force myself to meet her gaze.
A fleeting expression crosses her face—a mixture of sadness and apology that’s gone in a blink. “You’re still healing.” She reaches for my arm, attempts to inspect a wound that’s already faded. “I can’t let you go until you’re well. I promised Leftfoot I’d make sure you got plenty of bed rest.”
“You can tell Leftfoot I’m fine, fully healed.” I yank on the hem of my shirt, pull it up over my torso so she can see that not only are the bandages gone, but also, thanks to a thick layer of Leftfoot’s poultice, along with a little magick I’ve worked on my own—magick that’s better left unmentioned—I’m left with only the faintest trail of scars, that promise to fade, if not disappear.
I drop the hem, allow the shirt to fall to my hips. Wondering what argument she’ll try to wage next. Sure there will be one.
Her concern for my health replaced by the plea: “But it’s Christmas!” She stands before me, refusing to let go of my sleeve. She’s playing the mom card—playing on my sympathies. But tonight, it won’t work. Can’t work. I need to get out of here. Need to handle my own business, my own way.
“Tomorrow is Christmas,” I say. “And I’ll be back to spend it with you. I promise.” I bend toward her, depositing a soft kiss on the top of her head as I gently curl my fingers around hers. Giving them a meaningful squeeze, hoping to convey what I’ve failed to say with words. Then I loosen her grip from my sleeve and make for the porch as she calls after me.
I turn. Try to contain my annoyance by reminding myself her intentions are good.
“Be careful.” She steps toward me. Studying me with a critical eye, as her hand finds its way to my cheek. “Don’t let your regard for others compromise your safety. I need you here.”
I close my eyes briefly and send her a silent apology for the hurt I may cause her. But when my gaze meets hers, I just say, “Good night, Mother.”
There’s no need to cause any further alarm.
No need to inform her that during the past several days spent holed up in my room, it wasn’t just healing I’d been focusing on.
She stands on the stoop, one hand hanging loose by her side, the other clutched close to her heart. The bright overhead light falling languidly upon her, engulfing her in an incandescent veil of white light that makes her appear luminous—radiant—angelic and saintly.
Her tortured image the last thing I see before I head for my truck and ease onto the road. Ready to put my newly honed skills to the test.
thirty-eight
Daire
Paloma pokes her head into my room, frowning when she finds me sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor amidst a scattering of feathers, crystals, candles, the pendulum, my rattle, the drum, and the athame, its blade polished and gleaming. The trappings of the Seeker trade—along with the codex propped open beside me. “Any luck?” She leans against the doorjamb, surveying the mess.
I lift my shoulders. Allow my eyes to meet hers. “Sure. I’m loaded with luck—at least where my magick’s concerned. Thanks to you and all that you’ve taught me, I’m amazed at how far I’ve come, and how quickly. And yet, I’m not sure how it’s going to help me defeat Cade.”
“Every bit helps, nieta. Every piece fits neatly into the other.”
I sigh. Having no doubt it’s true, though the pieces I seek seem to lie just outside my reach, and I don’t hesitate to tell her as much.
“What does the book say?” She crosses her arms before her, tilting her head in a way that encourages her braid to slip over her shoulder and fall to her waist.
“The book says plenty, most of which I don’t understand. You’ve read it, so you tell me, what is it I’m missing?”
She glances down the hall, as though she’s worried about someone overhearing, then in a lowered voice says, “I’m not sure that you’re missing anything. I’m not sure Valentina was able to foresee all that you’re up against. Some things are for you to discover on your own. That is always the way.”