thirty-one
Dace
“You know I can’t let you go any farther,” I say, seeing Xotichl standing beside me so tiny and frail she looks like she’s about to be swallowed by the heavy blue parka she wears.
We were lucky to have made it this far without being seen. Managing to slip past a horde of undead Richters too absorbed in the task of setting up some so-called job fair to take notice of us. Though that doesn’t mean our luck won’t run out. And I’d never forgive myself if Xotichl got hurt on my watch.
“Honestly, I can’t say that I want to,” she says. “Something strange is going on around here.” She tips her chin, sniffs at the air. “Stranger than normal, that is. Those people we passed earlier, the ones setting up the tables and hanging the signs?”
“Yeah?” I slant my brow and lean toward her.
“They’re undead.”
I exhale, amused to find I’m relieved by her words. Shows how much my life has changed in just a handful of weeks. “I know.” I tell her. “It’s Cade’s pet project. He reanimated a bunch of long-deceased Richters on the Day of the Dead, fueling them on bits of souls—both animal and human. Just one more reason he has to be stopped. The last thing we need is more Richters lumbering around.”
Xotichl squeezes her cane, shoulders cringing inward, as she says, “I think the job fair is bogus. I think it’s a front for something far more sinister.” She pauses, allowing me time to respond, but I have nothing to add. I don’t disagree. “Maybe I should go with you,” she offers. “You know, like a bodyguard.” She grins at her joke, but the effect is short-lived when the weight of the situation settles upon us.
“I hate leaving you here. Are you sure you can find your way back?” I glance between her and the wall that’s not really a wall. Musing at how long I remained oblivious to its presence, despite having passed it hundreds of times. How I needed a blind girl to point me toward the truth that was always right there before me.
We see what we want to see. And when we can no longer afford that luxury, we see what we must.
Now that I’m faced with the truth, I’m torn between my desire to charge it head-on, and worried about leaving her behind. Afraid she’ll get lost in this dark and cavernous space that practically reeks of evil and malevolence.
“Never make the mistake of underestimating me. I’ll be fine.” She quirks a brow in a way that leaves no room for doubt. “If anyone catches me, I’ll say I was so excited about the job opening, I got here early so I could be among the first to fill out an application. And if they deny me that right, I’ll threaten to sue them on grounds of discrimination.” She taps her cane hard against the carpeted floor for emphasis. “You have the cigarettes?”
I pat my pocket, confirm that I do. “I always thought that was a myth. You know, the whole tobacco offering for the demons thing.”
“And where do you think myths originated?” she asks. “They began as truths. They only turned to myths when we decided it was easier to live in denial of the things we don’t understand.”
“Okay, Little Wise One.” I clasp a hand to each shoulder and turn her ’til she’s facing the opposite way. “It’s time for us to part ways. You find the exit while I go explore.”
But no sooner have I started to leave than she turns back and says, “Dace—” Her face creases with worry. “What do I tell Daire? You know, if I run into her?”
I study Xotichl’s face. She looks so tiny and vulnerable in this hollow space, I have to remind myself that she’s right—underestimating her would be a mistake. Then I palm the cigarettes, squeezing my fingers around them, as I make for the greasy, pulsing veil, saying, “Not to worry. Thanks to you, I’ve got a solid head start. While Daire probably just walked in the door only to be faced with a full interrogation about how and where she spent her night. By the time she escapes, Cade will be dead. If nothing else, I’ll make sure of that.”
thirty-two
Daire
By the time I get to the Rabbit Hole, the stairwell is crowded with a large group of people forming a somewhat orderly line under a banner that advertises a job fair.
A job fair?
Here—in Enchantment—where there are no jobs to be had?
This is not what I expected.
I was hoping to get here early. Blend with the cleaning crew so I could do a little investigating while hopefully going unnoticed.
I’d planned to enter the Lowerworld directly through the Rabbit Hole vortex. Thinking their point of access would lead me directly to Cade.
And then, once I’d found him, I’d kill him.
A plan that made loads of sense—up until now, anyway.
Despite my late start, I never once considered a scenario where I’d be greeted by a bouncer doling out single-sided job applications.
Still, I decide to go with it and see where it leads. Carrying my form to one of the tall round tables surrounding the dance floor, I take in the mob of job seekers, most of them middle-aged, all of them wearing the same tired, glazed look. Other than dragging themselves here, no one appears all that motivated to do anything more than wander around in a daze.
“Numbers one through twenty—come this way!” I turn toward the voice shouting from behind me. My gaze landing on a man I’ve never seen, but who definitely bears the dark swarthy look of a Richter, scrutinizing the group he just summoned as they slowly file past.
I stare down at my slip, the hand-scrawled 27 in the upper right corner placing me in the next group to be called.
Should I go?
Should I fill this thing out and see where it leads?
Will I live to regret it?
Will I live?
I bury my face in my hands, unsure what to do. Comforting myself with the thought that at least I don’t have to worry about Dace and Xotichl. Even though they probably ignored my protest and came here the second I left, I’m sure they turned back the instant they saw this.
My thoughts interrupted by a woman asking to borrow a pen. Her eyes so tired and with wrinkles so deep they seem to recede into her skull.
I dig through the contents of my bag. Locating a pencil, I hand it over and say, “Not exactly a pen, but I doubt they’ll care.”
Without a word, she takes it from me. Her hand shaky, jaw clenched, as she concentrates on the simple task of writing her name.
“So, what kind of jobs are they offering?” I ask, desperate to get a handle on what I’m about to get myself into.
“Dunno.” Her voice is as flat as her gaze. Returning the pencil, even though, other than adding her name, the remaining boxes are blank. “Heard it offers free room and board. ’At’s all I care about.”
She slumps toward the stage where she waits for the next group to be called. And while I’m still no closer to knowing what this is about, it’s safe to assume that this so-called job fair is not what it seems. The Richters aren’t exactly known for their altruism—there’s always something in it for them. Still, there’s only one way to be sure.
I fill out my form with a false name and address. Having a little fun with the ruse until I reach the part where the questions start to get weird, asking things like: Any diseases? List them here.
And just under that: Maximum weight you can easily lift?
Though the one that really disturbs me is: This job requires you to be gone for an indefinite period of time. List the names of all those who might miss you. If necessary, feel free to continue on the back of the page.
What the heck kind of job is this?
A moment later, when my group is called, I unzip my hood from its hiding place in the collar and sling it over my head. Then I slump my shoulders, crumple my application into my hand, and join them. Giving my best impersonation of a lonely, defeated, downtrodden person with a talent for weight lifting and no serious diseases. Which is not nearly as easy as it seems.
I merge with my group. Shrinking deeper into my hood when I pass the stage where the Richter with the microphone studi
es us with a sharp eye before waving us down the hall that ultimately leads to the demon-guarded vortex beyond.
Shuffling along with the rest of them, I manage a few covert peeks at my fellow job seekers. All of them bearing the same glazed look, reminding me of the patrons who sat at the bar the first time I came here. How they looked like they’d been teetering on their bar stools for the better part of the day—if not the better part of their lives. Numbed from the endless stream of alcohol pickling their brains.
A new group of applicants join us, and it’s not long before several more are told to follow. Too many years spent under the Richters’ control have left these people hopeless, desperate, and all too eager to trade the hell they know for one they can’t even imagine.
A muffled sound comes from the front, and while I can’t quite make it out, its tone is familiar in a way that sets me on edge.
I rise onto my tiptoes, straining to see over the tops of too many heads. Getting a glimpse of yet another undead Richter, before the bodies surge forward and I’m forced to slouch along with the rest of them. Bearing the sort of poor posture Jennika sought to break me of as a kid, I slip the pack of cigarettes into my palm and shove the athame up my right sleeve. Ready for any number of possibilities, since I have no idea where this might eventually lead.
We trudge down the hall, heading straight for the wall that disguises the vortex, where we’re stopped by that same undead Richter I glimpsed a moment ago. From what I can tell by peering over several rows of shoulders, he’s in charge of inspecting the applications and deciding who gains admittance.
But after watching a bit, I realize it’s really just a ploy intended to heighten the tension. Make people yearn for admission, then breathe a sigh of relief once they’re in. From what I can tell, no one’s rejected. No matter how they fill out the form, the Richters will find a way to squeeze ’em dry before they discard them.
When it’s my turn, I hand over my application and stare blankly ahead, trying not to cringe under his scrutiny. All too aware of the sound of warning bells ringing in my head, urging me to run—to ditch this place and never look back. Imagining all the horrible ways this could blow up in my face.
My heart begins to race. My weight instinctively shifts onto my toes. Driven by my most primal instinct to save my own skin no matter the cost, I’m just about to flee when that creepy undead Richter grabs hold of my chin and tilts it toward his. His gaze probing mine while his dry, papery, undead fingers squeeze so tightly it hurts.
I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t run. Can’t do much of anything but meet his stare with my own. Overcome with regret for the situation I find myself in.
I shouldn’t have come here.
I’ve completely underestimated them.
And now, because of it, I’m just seconds away from being conquered and crushed.
His gruesome lips tug at the side, but otherwise, his expression remains so unreadable there’s no way to guess what he’s thinking. All I know for sure is that I have to get the heck out while I still have a sliver of a chance of surviving.
I turn my head sharply, desperate to wrench free of his grip, when he slams his other hand hard against my back and shoves me smack through the vortex.
thirty-three
Dace
I creep through the cave, relieved to find it free of undead Richters and demons—guess they were needed to set up the job fair—yet disappointed to find that I’m still in the Middleworld.
Another dimension of the Middleworld—but still a far cry from the Lowerworld I was hoping for. Though I’m sure it’ll lead there eventually.
The place is luxurious. Plush. With its rare antique furniture and priceless art covering the walls, it’s clear they’ve spent a great deal of time here. Plotting. Planning. Waiting for the entry to yawn open again.
Throughout history, whenever they managed to invade the Lowerworld, this is the place that served as their main point of entry. Once in, they immediately set out to corrupt the spirit animals by contaminating their land and stripping them of their power and light, rendering them incapable of guiding their human attachments. The loss resulting in horrific episodes of madness, chaos, and war across the Middleworld—and untold riches for the Richters.
Or at least that’s the story according to Leftfoot.
And its just one more reason why I need to kill Cade.
Then as soon as that’s done, Leandro is next.
With his sights mostly confined to ruling Enchantment, and not exactly interested in Cade’s broader goal of world domination, he may not be as dangerous, though he still has to go. If for no other reason than I can’t bear to look at him after knowing what he did to my mom. Despite what the elders say, keeping him balanced and contained just isn’t enough.
Not for me.
Never will be.
It’s time to redefine a few things.
Time to shake up the prophecy.
Time to make sure the whole lot of them dies.
This is so much bigger than my being with Daire.
And yet, while I know this is true, as I make my way through this long, hollow space, ultimately pushing through the far wall, where I find myself surrounded by sand, Daire is all I can think about.
I stop. Gaze all around. Remembering what Leftfoot taught me—to seek the truth that lies beneath the things that I see. To question my sight just as I should question all of the thoughts I’ve been conditioned to believe.
There is much more to this world than meets the eye. A whole other truth people strive to deny. Don’t be blinded like them. Look deeper. Think deeper. Allow yourself to go quiet and still, and allow the truth to reveal itself to you.
I close my eyes and do as he said, and when I open them again, it’s as though a path has been laid out before me. Seeming to end at the crest of a very large sand dune that, once reached, drops straight into the Lowerworld.
I slip through the earth, ultimately landing hard on my side. I’m quick to pull myself up and survey the place. Not having been here since my last hunt with Daire—I’m stunned to see how much it’s deteriorated in only a handful of days. The spirit animals, once happy and active, are now sluggish and listless—barely able to attend to their most basic needs. And the more I explore, the worse it appears. Every step revealing further corruption, spoilage, and ruin—all of it unfolding under an eerie hush that’s soon broken by the unsettling sound of branches snapping, trees toppling, and the amplified hum of animalistic grunting and huffing reverberating all around.
I dart behind a large boulder just as a flash of beige fur and red glowing eyes bursts into the space where I stood.
Coyote.
Cade’s coyote no doubt.
He skids to a stop with his snout pitched high, catching my scent. And it’s only a moment later when another coyote appears—its fangs and fur coated with blood and the slimy remnants of some unfortunate kill.
The second I see them I know Leftfoot was right.
While Cade may not be a skinwalker in the traditional sense, he is able to assume other forms.
My fingers snake into my pocket, in search of the blowgun Leftfoot once gave me that was given to him by Alejandro, a Brazilian jaguar shaman, who also happens to be the grandfather Daire never met. According to Leftfoot, the weapon was carefully carved from a rare wood found only in the Amazon rain forest. But before he agreed to hand it over, he forced me to promise that I would only use it for self-defense.
The coyotes crouch side by side—noses twitching, eyes darting—just seconds away from discovering the place where I hide.
So why let it get to that point?
Why wait for them to attack me—just so I can claim self-defense—when I can easily snuff them out now?
I reach for a dart, pinching it by its raven-feathered fletch as I load it inside.
Then I slide one eye closed, narrow the other in focus, lift the small tube to my mouth, and take aim.
Watching as Coyote snarls. Lungin
g in a flash of gleaming eyes, gnashing teeth, and hot rancid breath pelting hard against my cheek. His jaw widening, ready to take another chunk out of me—
When he falters.
Stumbles.
Collapsing to the ground and howling in pain.
I smile triumphantly, though the smile soon fades when I lift my gaze to find Cade looming naked and bloodied before me, bits of animal carcass clinging to his skin.
I’ve hit the wrong mark.
“What the hell are you doing?” He drops beside Coyote, cursing bitterly as he drags on the fletch, yanking the dart from his neck. And damn if he isn’t smart enough to know it doesn’t end there. He lowers his head to the hit, molds his lips around it, and siphons the poison I’d placed on the tip, before spitting it onto the ground. “You’re a real idiot, you know that?” He shakes his head and glares, watching as I reload the blowgun and take aim once again. “Trust me,” he says. “You do not want to do that.”
“You have no idea what I want.” I wrap my lips around the tube, inhale a deep, purposeful breath, and blow once again.
Blow with everything that I’ve got.
Letting loose my own stream of curses when Cade dances free of the dart’s path, and turns into a coyote again.
The other one now fully recovered, they stand in solidarity before me—shoulder to menacing shoulder.
Eyes blazing with vengeance, leaving no doubt it’s my blood they’re after. And before I can run, before I can reload and take aim—they descend on me in a frenzy of ragged claws and sharp fangs.
thirty-four
Daire
The first thing I notice when I burst through the wall is the demon.
Or should I say, demons. After all, there’s an entire army of them.
The second thing I notice is how no one seems to be the least bit alarmed by the giant-sized, malevolent beings that surround them. Barely sparing a glance at the variety of tails, and hooves, and horns, and misshapen heads. Not to mention the faces that appear to be a grotesque mix of animal, human, and some other unidentifiable beast that originated in a very dark place.