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My eyes bug, as her words repeat in my head. My reply just shy of hysteria, when I say, “Then why am I here? Why’d I travel all this way if you can’t help me? What’s the point of all this? Why’d you take me away from Jennika?”
“You’ve misread my words.” She pushes away from the kitchen and motions for me to join her in the den where she stokes the vertically stacked logs in the fireplace, causing them to spark and spit, before she moves to the couch and lowers herself onto the cushions. “I didn’t say I can’t help you, I said I can’t cure you. There is nothing to be cured, Daire.”
I glare. Fidget. Pull hard on my robe, yanking it so tight it practically wraps twice around me. Perching on the arm of a chair, having no idea what she’s getting at. It all sounds suspicious, like some kind of doublespeak.
I’m this close to calling Jennika. Demand she fly here right now and come get me, when Paloma says, “It happened to your father as well. The onset is always around the sixteenth year.”
I heave a deep sigh. Shake my head. “So I am psycho. Great. And, according to you, I got it from my dad!” My teeth grind, as I twist my sash so hard I hear the fabric give way.
This is great.
Just great.
I travel all this way only to receive the same diagnosis I got in Morocco and L.A.
“No.” Paloma’s voice is as stern as her face. “You are not crazy. It may feel like crazy—even look like crazy—but it’s anything but. What you’re experiencing is the onset of your biological inheritance—the family legacy that’s been passed down through each generation, always to the firstborn.”
Wha—?
I shake my head, peer at her again. Her mouth is still moving, desperate to explain, but it’s too much to take in—too weird to comprehend. My head so muddled with the sound of her voice, her nonsensical words—the best I can manage is, “So why keep having kids if you all know this? Seriously—you have no idea what it’s like. Why would Django take the risk? Why wouldn’t he use protection or warn Jennika at the very least?”
“Because Django was as young and idealistic and stubborn as any other sixteen-year-old. He refused to believe. Refused to acknowledge my warnings. He thought that by running away, he could outrun the visions, outrun what I told him. But as you’ve already seen, there is no escape. The visions found you all the way on the other side of the world, and if you try to run, they will find you again. I’m told the symptoms appeared in full force in Marrakesh. Though I’m sure you experienced signs long before that.”
My stomach twists. My lungs shrivel and shrink. Forcing me to fight for each shallow breath as my eyes cast about wildly, urging me to flee.
“I couldn’t reach Django. I failed to reach my one and only son—failed to convince him of his duty. His responsibility. His destiny. But, Daire, I will not fail with you. I know exactly what you’re going through. Sure, the
visions are different for each of us, but the message stays true. You need to heed the call before it’s too late. ” Her short, unvarnished nails pluck at the hem of her dress. “And while I’m sorry for your current state of suffering and confusion, I can promise you that it won’t always be this way. With the right guidance, the right diet, and the right training, you will surpass all of that and realize your destiny, your birthright, the role you were born for.”
I blink. Stare. Blink again. Aware of myself saying, “What?” as I shake my head and shoot her a baleful look. “Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
“I do indeed.” She nods. “My own reaction was quite similar, I assure you. But you must work past your prejudice—you must look beyond the ideas you’ve been conditioned to believe. There is too much at stake. This town holds secrets you cannot begin to imagine. It is full of coyotes, and Coyote is a trickster you must learn to outsmart.” Her gaze levels on mine, letting me know she means business. She will not mince words. “If you fail to learn, if you fail to accept what you were born to do, I’m afraid I can’t save you—no one can. If you continue to fight your calling, it’s just a matter of time before your fate will become that of your father’s. And, Daire, sweet nieta, I can’t let that happen. I won’t lose you, and I won’t let them win. Until you’ve made peace with what you must do, until you fully understand what’s ahead of you, what’s being asked of you, the only safe place for you is right here in this house. My property is protected—you have nothing to fear as long as you’re here. It’ll be weeks until you’ve learned enough to leave.”
I balk, my expression incredulous—her words ridiculous. No way is she holding me prisoner. No way will I listen to another crazy word.
And before she can stop me, I bolt from the room and race down the hall—her voice chasing behind me until it’s blocked by the slam of my door.
ten
I dress in a hurry. Swapping my wrinkled white robe for a freshly laundered black tank top, slipping on the same dark denim jeans I arrived in, the black flats too. Then after reaching for my olive-green army jacket, and scraping my hair into a haphazard ponytail, I zip my bag shut, swing it over my shoulder, and call Jennika.
Again.
Only to have her phone go straight into voice mail just like it did the first time I called.
Flying is out of the question. I’ve been banned from all commercial aircraft.
Driving is out too. I may be sixteen, but I don’t have a permit, much less my license. Up until now, I had no real need of it.
All I know for sure is that I can no longer stay here. It’s not even an option. I’ll take a bus—walk if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the hell out of this horrible place.
I glance at my father’s portrait—taking Django’s restless, troubled gaze as a warning to bust free before it’s too late.
No wonder he fled—Paloma’s a freak.
She knocks, whispers through the wood, calling me nieta as she twists the handle and tries to come in. Her efforts rebuffed by the old wooden chair I’ve wedged under the knob, barring her from entering ’til well after I’m gone.
I press my ear to the door frame, listening for the reassuring sound of her retreating step—a temporary surrender I’m determined to exploit by making a run for the window, propping it open, heaving myself up to the ledge, and dropping my bag onto the stone courtyard below where it lands with a thump. My gaze fixed on the big blue gate and the adobe wall that surrounds the place, noticing for the first time the strange wooden fence constructed from juniper branches that sits just inside it, and just inside that is a thick border of something grainy and white—as though someone went a little crazy with the saltshaker.
