“Yeah,” Xotichl agrees. “And for some, it’s not over yet.” Her attention drifts to the far side of the alleyway as she burrows deeper into Auden’s chest.
And I’m just about to ask her what she meant, when Lita says, “Xotichl’s way more of a hero than she lets on. After I jumped on stage to tell Auden to yell fire to get everyone out, Xotichl centered her energy on the doors and blew them all open, making for a quicker getaway.”
“You did that?” I study her with open admiration.
Lita nods to confirm it, as Xotichl works her jaw, and continues to gaze toward the alleyway.
“What is it?” I ask, disturbed by the look on her face. Xotichl never looks frightened, and while she doesn’t exactly look frightened now, it’s the next best thing. I follow the length of her gaze, but I’m unable to make out anything other than a team of emergency workers hovering over Suriel’s remains.
“The preacher is stuck.” She fields our collective blank stares when she adds, “His spirit is hovering near his body, and he’s angry as hell. Can’t believe what became of him. It’s only a matter of time until he sees us and exacts his revenge. I just hope his spirit guide gets to him first.”
“Why wait?” Lita makes a beeline for Auden’s wagon. “A scary preacher in limbo, and a blown-up version of the Rabbit Hole that’s even creepier than the non-blown-up version—never a better reason to vamanos as far as I’m concerned!”
We head for our respective cars, having agreed to meet at Paloma’s. And once I’m inside Dace’s truck, I slide across the worn leather seat, eager for the comfort of his body beside me.
He shifts into reverse and backs onto the street. And after he’s put a good distance between us and the Rabbit Hole, I look at him and say, “Not to sound callous, but…” He turns to me, eyes creased with curiosity. “Do you think it’s too late to claim that New Year’s Eve kiss? I hear it’s bad luck to miss it, and I don’t think either of us can afford to risk it.”
Without another word, Dace pulls to the side of the darkened dirt road and drifts toward me as eagerly as I drift toward him.
At first, I keep my eyes wide, stealing a moment to revel in the sight of his beautiful face looming before me, his lips angling to meet mine. Then my lids softly drop as I merge into the kiss. Savoring the heated press of our bodies coming together after what feels like so long apart.
His mouth moves on mine, and I meet his tongue with an earnest intensity matched by his own. Relishing the moment for all that it is—a welcome reprieve from a life fraught with problems—a just reward after a battle hard-won—a New Year’s Eve tradition meant to bring good luck—a life-affirming action in the face of senseless death.
But more than anything, it’s the promise we give to each other—to never give up on ourselves.
His arms providing safe haven. His lips offering the sort of comfortable permanence I’ve never been able to claim until I met him.
Here, in his arms, it feels like I’m home.
A low groan escapes from his lips as he molds his body hard against mine until there’s nary a breath spanning between us. His touch growing urgent, heated, as our hearts thrum in tandem. Rising and falling in deep fervent melody, as though keeping time with the chiming and swishing of the keys at our necks.
I settle into his warmth, linger on the sweet deliciousness of his tongue. Ready to act on the heated desire rising within me, when he draws away and says, “Listen, my place is a mess, but—if you don’t mind.” His heavy-lidded gaze displaying the depths of his need.
“I can’t imagine I’ll notice.” I kiss him again. And though it’s meant to be brief, once there, I find it hard to leave. “After Paloma’s. I’ll sneak out if I have to, but I doubt that I’ll have to.”
Planting a final kiss on my cheek, he settles back into his seat, and heads for my grandmother’s. That luminous white wolf with blazing blue eyes appearing before us throughout the entire ride. Its spectral form bobbing in the headlights’ glare, almost as though it’s leading us home.
“Tell me you can see that,” I finally say, plagued by the fear that the hallucinations that landed me here have returned. But when I see the way Dace reluctantly nods, gripping the wheel so firmly his knuckles leach of all color, it leaves me so uneasy, I ask, “What do you think it means?”
He sits silently beside me, pressing hard on the accelerator.
“Dace—” I swivel in my seat until I’m fully facing him. “What do you think it means?”
He lifts a hand from the wheel, rubs it over his chin. “I’m not sure,” he finally says, purposely avoiding my gaze. “Just … we’ll be there soon. I’m going as fast as I can. So … here … here we are…”
From halfway down the street, I can already see that all the lights are on and Paloma’s blue gate is wide open. And before Dace can properly stop, I bolt from the truck.
My feet barely hitting the ground when that luminous, blue-eyed, white Wolf appears right before me. His ears perked, his eyes bright and glistening, he throws his head back and lets out a long mournful howl that lasts until he centers his eyes on mine and urges me toward the doorway, vanishing the moment his paw crosses the threshold.
I race into the house, my vision swimming with blurred images of Chay, Leftfoot, Chepi, Cree, and—Jennika and Harlan?—all of them rushing toward me.
Chay reaches me first. Wrapping a solid arm around me, he whispers my name.
But it’s Jennika’s tearstained face looming before me that tells me the story I never wanted to hear.
“Where is she?” I cry, pushing past the hands that try to hold me, comfort me. Try to stop me from seeing what I don’t want to see. “Tell me where she is! What happened? Bring me to her—now!”
My gaze moves among them, taking in a sea of grief-stricken faces. And when I hear that plaintive howling again, coming from the direction of Paloma’s bedroom, I race toward it. Praying for a miracle—praying to disprove what I know in my soul. The truth I’ve fought to deny since the moment I first saw Wolf at the Rabbit Hole.
When I reach the doorway—when I see my abuela lounging peacefully—with her eyes closed, hands softly folded over her chest—I allow myself to live in the lie.
I pretend all is well.
I pretend that she’s napping.
Dace calls my name in a voice choked with emotion, but I’m not yet ready to heed it.
“Someone get her a blanket!” I shout, reaching for Paloma’s cold hand. I rub it furiously between mine in a futile attempt to warm her cold flesh. “She’s freezing! Why won’t you help her? What’s wrong with all of you?”
I glare at them accusingly, but the truth is, I don’t really see them. Can’t make out much of anything.
Only vaguely aware of Dace standing helplessly beside me, as Jennika soothes a comforting hand over my hair, mumbling an incoherent stream of explanations and apologies.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, her voice like a soft, distant hum that bears no real significance. “I wanted to see you, the flights were all booked, so Harlan and I drove instead. By the time we arrived, we found Paloma like this.”
“You mean, sleeping?” I turn to look at Jennika’s grief-stricken face, as Harlan stands with his head bent behind her. Watching as she chews on her lip, swipes a finger over the fresh purple crescents hanging under each eye.
Still, her gaze never leaves mine as she says, “Daire, Paloma’s not … sleeping.”
I look at her for a long moment, then I focus back on Paloma. The reality of the situation looming before me—exposing a truth that cannot be denied—I hurtle headfirst into the dark madness of grief. Which for me, looks nothing like I would’ve expected.
After a few long moments, I lift myself from Paloma’s lifeless form, and replace her hand to the space where I found it. In a foreign, almost robotic voice, I say, “Exactly how did you find her?” I turn my attention to my mother, sparing only the briefest glance at Dace standing beside her.
“I fou
nd her lying unconscious. I tried to revive her, but it was already too late, and so I called Chay.”
“Did you move her?”
She plays with the small diamond stud flanking her nostril. Striving to match my serious tone, she says, “I couldn’t stand to see her like that … and since it didn’t appear to be a crime scene, we lifted her onto the bed.”
“So she was in here?”
Jennika nods, motions toward Paloma’s effects. “It seemed like she was getting dressed, getting ready to go out, or something. I found her lying in front of the closet.”
I whirl on Chay, disbelief marking my gaze. “Were you two going out? I thought you said she was ill?”
“We were planning to stay in and wait to hear from you. I was already on my way over, parking my truck in the yard, when Jennika called.”
I glance around the room, avoiding the place where my grandmother rests. Trying to wrap my head around the impossible. None of it makes any sense.
“We’ve been trying to reach you,” Jennika says. “And then, when we got the news about the Rabbit Hole—I was determined to go down there—but Chay insisted I wait.”
I survey the room once again, seeing Paloma’s espadrilles left discarded before the closet, as her winter boots lie at the ready. The red wool cardigan Jennika gave her for Christmas abandoned on the back of her chair, as her heavy winter coat waits at the foot of the bed.
She was ill. Waiting for Chay. Yet determined to leave.
Something happened.
Something she was eager to tell me about.
Without a word, I bolt from the bed, pass through the den, and race up the ramp that leads to Paloma’s office.
At first glance, it’s as neat and orderly as always. Everything in its place and a place for everything. Except for the book she left lying open on the table, the blue tourmaline stone I gave to her to inspect, placed right on top as though marking the page.
I slide the stone to the side.
Skim the passage beneath.
My knees are the first to go.
Buckling right out from under me, forcing me to grasp the table’s edge to keep from falling.
My sanity is next on the list, but I fight like hell to hang on to its tenuous hold.
It’s only a few seconds later when Dace is beside me. Hauling my body against his, he reads the text from over my shoulder, and curses under his breath long before reaching the end.
Seems Xotichl was right.
As it turns out, the tourmaline does emit a troublesome energy.
According to the book, some gems are cursed.
Embedded with a sort of psychic hook that enables the giver to exert complete control over the receiver. Enabling them to manipulate the body, mind, and soul.
And, in many cases, to extinguish life itself.
My body goes rigid.
A single name swirls in my head.
Cade.
All along, it was him.
Showing the kind of patience I never would’ve expected, by slowly and systematically weakening Paloma’s defenses.
First by stealing her soul.
Then by making her think I was dead.
And finally by ensuring she ended up with the tourmaline—the recipient he intended it for all along.
Lita and Xotichl were merely pawns in his game.
He knew Lita wouldn’t want it.
Knew Xotichl would read its strange energy.
He also knew she’d easily convince me to give it to Paloma to study.
The whole time I sought to save him—if only to save Dace—Cade was plotting against me.
Seizing control of Paloma’s mind, body, and soul through a shiny, blue stone.
I shut my eyes against the scald of unshed tears forming under my lids. And though I long to give in to them, long to sink to my knees, throw my head back, and wail until I’m hollow and empty—there’s no time for that.
Now, more than ever, I need to keep a cool head. Can’t afford to be weakened by loss.
Refusing to indulge in despair—refusing to experience it from the inside—I direct my grief outside of me—eager to be rid of it.
Causing Wind to lash at the windows and howl at the doors.
Causing Fire to spark and hiss so loudly in the kiva fireplace, I can hear it from two rooms away.
While Earth trembles, shaking jars from shelves and pictures from walls.
As mad sheets of rain pelt hard against the flat adobe roof.
The magnitude of my grief alone enough to manipulate the elements—and yet, I couldn’t stop Cade from manipulating me.
“Daire, please stop.” Dace’s touch is gentle, his voice soft and coaxing.
But I can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
Not until I stop Cade.
“Daire.”
It’s another voice this time. One I haven’t heard in a while.
Dace mumbles under his breath.
Lita gasps.
As the rest look on in confusion.
His deep purple gaze meeting mine, he motions toward the chaos I’ve caused. And with a single sad shake of his head, and a pleading look in his eyes, he convinces me to stop.
“Are you here to take her up?” I ask, seeing no other reason for his return.
“No,” he says, the word alone containing countless layers of untold sadness tinged with regret. “Paloma’s in good hands. She’s already moved on. As for me, I’m afraid I’ve made my choice. It’s no longer home.”
I should feel bad, but I don’t. It’s like he said, Axel made his choice. Now I’m making mine.
With a weary gaze and a heavy heart, I stand before my family and friends, feeling as though I’ve grown several decades in the space of one night.
“She’ll want to be buried beside Django.” I speak with the kind of hard-earned authority that no longer surprises me.
Jennika whispers my name, starts to move toward me, but I hold up a hand to keep her at bay.
“I see no reason to delay. Paloma wouldn’t want a big, formal affair. Everyone she loved and cared about is already here. Besides, I want it done before the news spreads and the Richters catch on. I don’t want to give them the opportunity to interfere, or find a way to desecrate her memory before we’ve had a chance to properly honor it.”
“Daire, you’re tired. It’s late. There are professionals you can call upon to handle these things,” Chepi says, softening toward me for perhaps the very first time since I’ve known her.
But it’s Chay who steps in. He and I now partners in grief, he looks at me and says, “Daire’s right. Paloma would’ve wanted it this way. I see no reason to delay.”
forty-five
Daire
By the time it’s all said and done—by the time Paloma’s grave is properly dug and we’re gathered around it—the first light of dawn is beginning to break. The shell of sky cracking into a riot of color that drips toward our heads, as we lower my grandmother’s body into the earth, putting it to its final rest beside her only son.
I watch the progression with dry eyes and a scratchy, parched throat. Remembering what Paloma told me the first time I came here—that I shouldn’t confuse it with my father. That he no longer remains in this place. It’s merely a place for the body to rest. The soul has moved on.
“Your father is everywhere,” she said. “His soul’s been released, freed from the earth. Left to become one with the wind that blows through your hair, the dirt that shifts under your feet. He’s the rain in the storm cloud that hovers over those mountains beyond … he’s the bloom in every flower. He is one with the energy of the earth. He is everywhere you look. Which means you can speak to him here, just as easily as you can speak to him anywhere. And, if you go very quiet, and listen with care, you just might hear his reply.”
I focus on the Sangre de Cristo mountain range with its snowcapped, meringue-like peaks. Remembering the reverent set of Paloma’s gaze as she turned to face them that day. Then I search
among my friends, seeing Xotichl huddled under the reliable shelter of Auden’s love, as Dace keeps a close eye on me while supporting Chepi, his mom. Leftfoot and Cree, faces slick with the effort of digging, wipe beads of grime from their chins as they take a few moments to honor Paloma. As Lita stands beside Axel, keeping a respectable distance, though there’s no denying the spark that sizzles between them. While Harlan provides comfort to a sobbing Jennika, and Chay, stoic as ever, stands beside me.
My family and friends all relying on me to keep them from the same fate as my abuela.
But how can I possibly do that when the one person whose guidance I most depend on is no longer here?
“And, if you go very quiet, and listen with care, you just might hear his reply” … Paloma’s voice sounds in my head.
If the words hold true for my father, then I can only assume they hold true for my grandmother as well. And now, more than ever, I need to hear her reply.
Need some proof she’s still with me.
I tilt my face skyward, desperate for answers.
Seeking guidance, an omen, or, at the very least, some hint of acknowledgment.
The clouds gather and spread.
Somewhere nearby a bird chirps, greeting the day.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a murder of crows bursts into sight. Soaring in slow perfect circles right over our heads.
“Your birth was heralded by crows,” Chay says, as a sniffling Jennika blows into her wadded-up tissue and nods to confirm it.
I keep my gaze trained on the birds, watching as a lone black figure breaks free of the flock.
This one bigger.
Its wingspan wider.
Its beak distinctly hooked.
And when it lets out a long, plaintive caw, the sound is guttural and deep.
A raven.
The thought confirmed by the single black feather that drifts from the sky and lands at my feet.
“It’s a sign,” Chay says, watching as I stoop to examine it. “An omen if there ever was one.”
I swallow hard, start to ask what it means, but the answer is clear.