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“Come on, Daire.” Her voice rings much sterner than the words imply. “Get your stuff, so we can get the heck out of here. Oh, and when you’r
e done packing, be sure to leave a note for Paloma, thanking her for doing such a stellar job at screwing up as badly with you as she did with your dad.”
“What?” My eyes widen, casting frantically around the room.
But Jennika just shakes her head, brows slanted, lips flattened in fury.
I push away from the counter and race down the hall—the sight of Paloma’s empty bed confirming the worst. “How’d you get in?” I whirl on Jennika, voice filled with panic.
Reading her look of confusion when she glances between the bed and me, saying, “What do you mean? The door was wide open.”
thirty-nine
“I stopped by with Kachina—had just gotten her secured in her stall when I found Paloma collapsed at the table in her office.” Chay meets us at the door of the tiny adobe. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, tainted with worry. “Looks like she hit her head pretty hard when she went down, which only complicates matters.”
“And so you brought her here?” Jennika plants herself in the entry—hands clutching her hips as she eyeballs the room and everyone in it with a disapproving glare.
But Chay knows how to handle her, which means he ignores her by directing his focus to me. “She’s slipping in and out of consciousness, but every time she wakes up, she asks to see you.”
“Hey, I’ve got a question.” Jennika pipes up, her voice as condescending as the look on her face, insisting on being heard even though no one wants to listen. “Why isn’t she in a hospital? Don’t you think they can help her more than these people can?” She arcs her arm in a wide sweeping motion, indicating the older Native American, who I assume is the medicine man, and his much younger apprentice who sits at a small hand-carved table beside him. “No offense,” she adds, looking at them, but their faces remain stoic, immobile, completely unmoved by her words.
“Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it lacks validity,” Chay says, his voice calm and even, his gaze prompting Jennika to clamp her lips shut and find a wall to go sag against.
“Can I see her?” I direct my words at Chay, the medicine man, and his apprentice, unsure who’s in charge.
The medicine man nods his consent, as Chay reaches for my elbow and steers me toward her room. The sight of it prompting Jennika to push away from the wall, eager to follow, but I nix it just as quickly. Shaking my head in warning, I chase it with my very best don’t even think about it look. Knowing I’m just buying time—that I’ll pay for it later—but I’ll face that hurdle when it comes, for now I just need to deal with the present.
Chay ushers me into a small, spare room, stopping beside a dark-haired woman leaning over Paloma, her hands moving in the space just a few inches above Paloma, as though working the energy.
“Chepi,” he says. “Her granddaughter is here.”
Chepi?
I watch as Dace’s mom—Cade’s mom too—finishes her ritual and turns away from the bed. Her eyes meeting mine with a look I can’t read, before Chay escorts her from the room and closes the door behind me. Leaving me to stand in the entryway as I study the space, taking in a scattering of handwoven Navajo rugs hugging a dark wood floor, a short, sloping ceiling, and three identical niches along the far wall crammed with fetishes, carved wooden santos, large silver crosses, and other assorted objects of worship. My breath catching when I face the small, slim figure on the narrow bed, with a fan of silver-streaked hair spread wide across her pillow, and realize it’s Paloma. Her pallid complexion providing sharp contrast to the trickle of blood that seeps from her nose and onto the sheets.
I claim the seat beside her, reach for a tissue, and gently bring it to her face. But the moment the blood’s cleared away, it starts flowing again—a constant stream that refuses to cease.
“Nieta,” she murmurs, the word requiring obvious effort, demanding the kind of strength she no longer has.
I stroke her cheek softly, lean closer, and say, “It’s me, abuela.” My voice catching on the word—Spanish for grandmother. And though I took the time to learn it, I could never bring myself to use it. I guess it felt too risky—hinted at the kind of bond I wasn’t sure I could handle. But now, seeing her like this, there’s no denying how much she’s come to mean to me—how much I’ve come to trust her, rely on her, love her. I have no idea what I’d do without her. I can’t stand to see her this way—so vulnerable and frail.
I rub my lips together, steady my voice, and say, “Don’t worry, I’m fine, perfectly fine.” I swallow hard, blinking back the tears as soon as they come. “Please don’t waste your energies worrying about me. You need your rest. We’ll talk later. For now, get some sleep.”
She lifts her hand from the bed, ignoring my words. Her fingers cold and thin as she makes a grab for my wrist, asking, “Did you find it, nieta?”
I glance behind me, ensuring we’re alone, that Jennika didn’t find a way to sneak in. “Cockroach worked like a charm.” I smile, wanting her to be proud of me. “I not only found it—I got in. And I know you warned me against it, but I didn’t have much of a choice. It just sort of happened, though I made it out fine, with no one the wiser, so all’s well that ends well, right?”
“And which way did you travel? Up, down, or sideways?” she asks, voice disturbingly frail.
“Sideways,” I say, remembering the sewer-like tunnel that led to the well-appointed cave, noting the way her face floods with relief.
“The Middleworld.” She sighs, her lids drooping halfway, fluttering for a moment, struggling to rise, until they lift once again. “Still just the Middleworld. I am grateful for that.”
Not wanting to upset her, but knowing she needs to hear it, I take a deep breath and say, “Well, even if it was just the Middleworld, what I saw wasn’t good. He’s planning something…” I lean back in my chair, gaze flitting toward the niche and its collection of carvings. The memory of everything I saw blazing in my mind so brightly I wish there was a way to transmit it to her. I’m not sure I can relay it with the kind of accuracy it deserves. Though knowing I have to try, I lean toward her and say, “He has big plans to break away from the family tradition—wants to extend his reach—rule all the worlds—and the bizarre thing is, he’s asked me to join him. He sees no reason why the two of us can’t work together. He thinks of it as a peace treaty, but that’s because he’s totally crazy. No peace could ever come of such a thing.” I study her carefully, see the way her lips tighten, pulling under her teeth. “While I have no idea how he plans to pull it off, I’m sure it has something to do with a bunch of dead Richters. They’re no longer just communing with their spirits—Cade’s communing with the ancestors themselves—apparently without Leandro’s approval. You should’ve seen it—there was an entire army of undead Richters, and I watched as Cade fed them these strange, glowing white objects, which made them transform right before me. Making them a lot less gruesome and zombie-like, and a lot more … human-like.”
Paloma gasps. Her face stricken, blanching so badly I’m about to call Chay. Only to have her fingers find mine, her voice a forced whisper when she mumbles something in Spanish I can’t understand. Figuring she’s too exhausted to say it in English, but sensing it’s important, I start to rise so I can get someone to translate—only to have her shake her head in frustration and blurt, “What day is it?”
I consult my watch. “After midnight, so that makes it November first. Why?” Wondering what sort of significance the day might hold.
