Authors: Alyson Noël
“I’ll help her! I’ll…” I clamp my lips shut and stare out the window.
How am I supposed to help her when I can’t even get near her?
Can’t even think about her without strengthening Cade.
The only way to help her is by replacing all loving thoughts of her with vengeful thoughts of Cade. Nurture my hate for him until my soul becomes dark enough to crush his.
“You’re not ready either.” Leftfoot’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “You’ve been sheltered too long. Aside from a handful of parlor tricks we taught you as a kid, you have a long way to go.”
I grit my teeth. That’s hardly my fault.
He tugs on my sleeve, unrolling the fabric until it covers my wound. “Though, despite your lack of training, you must never forget you have one very distinct advantage over Cade.”
Our eyes meet. I have no idea what that could possibly be.
“While the dark delivers suffering and chaos, the light is the only thing that can illuminate it well enough to stop it in its tracks. You don’t have to become like your brother to fight your brother. Understood?”
I nod. Though the truth is, I’m willing to sacrifice anything—play dirty if necessary—if it means saving Daire. Now that she’s a part of my life, there’s nothing I won’t do to protect her.
I study the hand-carved wooden santos filling the niches, the assortment of feathers, and crystals, and herbs lining the shelves. The tools of the Light Worker trade. The talismans Leftfoot swears by. Maybe it’s good enough for healing the locals, but it’s hardly a match for my beast of a brother.
I turn to Leftfoot. Catching him studying me with eyes that are hooded and deep. His gaze probing, as though reading my thoughts, he heaves a resigned breath and says, “Guess it’s time you learn some new tricks.”
* * *
“People are missing.”
I sharpen my focus, unsure if he’s being serious or purposely trying to distract me just so he can remind me, yet again, of the importance of intent. How it’s magick’s main ingredient. The force that makes it all happen.
I open my palm, fighting the urge to shout in triumph when the red-tailed hawk I’d been tracking lands on its center. Its sharp talons piercing my flesh as he settles for a few moments, taking a quick survey of the land, before spreading his wings and taking flight once again.
“Who’s missing?” I ask, taking the bait now that I’ve nailed the part about connecting and blending with nature. Convincing that hawk to think, for a few short moments anyway, that I was a safe place to land. Hopefully the next lesson will provide a little more challenge. The last few were too easy.
“Mike Miller, Randy Shultz, Tessa Harpy, Anthony Lopez, Carla Sanchez—all of ’em gone. Seeming to vanish without a trace. And those are just the ones that I know of.”
I frown. His words instantly reminding me of the conversation I interrupted between him and Chepi when I barged into her kitchen just a few hours earlier.
“Gone where?”
Leftfoot shrugs. “No saying. People don’t often leave these parts, as you know.”
“Some do.” I stare into the distance, remembering how Marliz managed to flee a bleak future of waiting tables at the Rabbit Hole, and an even bleaker future of marrying my insane cousin Gabe by moving to LA—with a little help from Daire’s mom, Jennika. And there was another girl I once knew … one who made it out and never returned.
“There haven’t been many. And there’s never been five in one day.”
“Did their families report them missing?”
Leftfoot squints, his weathered face folding in a series of valleys and crags. “You think anyone in the police department is going to care, much less make a report? The whole town’s run by Richters—they’re probably behind it.”
I work my jaw. Drag the bottom of my shoe across the dirt.
“You’re nothing like them,” he says.
I turn to face him, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Unwilling to say anything that might result in his halting my training. There’s so much left to learn, and he’s the only one willing to teach me.
“What’s next?” I study Leftfoot as he takes a moment to reassess. “Feel free to make it more challenging.”
“You think you’re ready for more, huh?” He considers me for a moment, his gaze so probing and deep I fight not to squirm. The old medicine man may not be as legendary as his brother, Jolon, but he definitely holds his own, and I’ve never been able to fool him. “Fine. Though I warn you, this’ll take most of the night; by tomorrow you’ll be ready to return to your job at the Rabbit Hole.”
eighteen
Daire
A hard blast of spray pummels my face well before I’ve actually reached it.
That’s the sort of power the waterfall wields.
From where I float, it looks scary, foreboding, and huge—an ominous deluge thick as a highway. Leaving no doubt of its ability to crush me or transform me.
It could go either way.
I glimpse the place where Paloma and Chay track me from the shore. Despite the fairly short distance between us, they seem worlds away. Like two miniature figures looking on from the sidelines, waiting to see if I’ll live or die. Though it’s not long before the current accelerates. The swiftly churning waters warning I’m soon to be delivered.
The constant drumming of water crashing onto itself vibrates my insides, while outside, the river’s icy embrace leaves my flesh deadened and numb. Making for a predicament so miserable, so unbearable, it requires every ounce of my resolve to ignore the instinctive urge to scramble for shore. To trust in the magick Paloma’s taught me, the ancient Seeker traditions, and the elements to see me safely through.
There’s really no choice. No point in fighting my destiny.
Refusing to do this, refusing to complete my training, would end my life as surely as it did Django’s. And somehow I feel like I’m doing this for both of us. Desperate to succeed where he failed. And while I may not survive this particular test, while it may plunk me into a horrible premature death, there’s still a small chance I’ll get through. And it’s that thought I cling to.
I close my eyes tightly, focus hard on my goal, and tuck my chin to my chest.
Driven closer—
The spray blasts my cheeks like pounding fists.
Almost there—
Django—Paloma—please forgive me! I’m not cut out for this—I can’t do this!
I’m under.
The water hammering so hard, it drives at my shoulders, pushing me down—and then down farther still. Plunging me into depths that surpass all reasonable limits, causing my lungs to swell so large, I’m sure they’ll soon burst. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The water’s rendered me powerless, helpless—dissolving my strength until all that remains is my will.
My will to live.
My will to see this thing through.
My will to kill Cade—claim my birthright as a Seeker—and not die like my father.
Though, as it turns out, will alone isn’t enough.
It’s evanescent.
Fleeting.
No match against nature.
It just doesn’t cut it.
Doesn’t keep me from sinking. Arms flailing, legs kicking, unable to save myself from crashing hard against the bed of rocks far below, as slick, slippery, unknown things slither and skate all around me.
My limbs turned useless and weak, my lungs inflated far beyond capacity—I struggle to gather whatever strength I have left, and strive once again to swim for the surface.
But, in the end, it’s no more than a death dance: Frantic, pathetic, not nearly enough to save me.
Django was lucky—by the time he saw it coming, it was already too late.
But this—this is horrible, made even more excruciating by the crystal clear awareness of the finality that awaits me.
The rocks turning first soft, and then spongy, until they completely give way and I descend even farther. Delivered to a place that’s no longer dark—where I’m no longer alone. Free of all the pain and suffering that plagued me mere seconds ago. Left to gaze upon a beautiful, luminescent figure that floats just before me. Emanating an energy so warm, so brilliant, so loving and healing, I no longer mourn what I lost.
I’m just grateful to orbit its presence.
Grateful this descent wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared.
I linger. Floating slow circles around this wonderful, radiant being. An entity so glorious it’s hard to comprehend.
My body strengthened, healed by the sheer purity of its innate power and goodness, I struggle to hold onto the feeling, never wanting it to end. But with no more than a slight shake of its head, and an upward tilt of its finger, I’m off and soaring again.
Rising. Churning. Thrusting through the waters so quickly, there’s no time to protest before I burst free.
Free of the water.
Free of the current.
Left gasping and squinting through water-clogged eyes. Surprised to find myself in a calm, cool place on the waterfall’s other side.
No longer menacing. No longer threatening. This inside view allows for a whole new perspective.
It’s still shiny, slick, and gleaming, for sure—but from where I now float, it appears far more glorious than ominous. A brilliant cascade of crystalline waters glinting silver under the belly of a late-morning moon. The sound somehow muted—no longer the crashing crescendo I once found so deafening.
I reach for my pouch, relieved to find it survived the journey as well. Pressing the wet buckskin to my lips, I say, “Now what?”
Though I wasn’t really expecting an answer, the silence that greets me encourages me to go silent too.
I silence my body. My mind. Forcing myself to grow quiet and still and see what the water reveals.
I have no idea how long I remain like that—with my body no longer cold, my skin no longer numb, time seems inconsequential at best. All I know is that at some point my pulse begins to quicken, my heart begins to thrum, until I can actually
feel
the raw power of the waterfall’s energy becoming one with my own.
It surges inside me.
Merges with the very life force that drives me.
Its message coming faintly at first, though it’s not long before it begins to ring clear. Rising into a beautiful harmony that wells up from the depths, until the sound of the watersong swells in my head.
I am comfort
I am death
I both take life and sustain it
I’m the lull and sway on a hot summer’s day
I’m the hardened crust of a hard winter’s spell
I’m adapting
Ever-changing
My attachments nonexisting
Follow my lead when you find yourself resisting.
The song repeats. Playing over and over until I’m singing right along with it. And once the lyrics are lodged in my head and etched on my heart, I find my way back. The once-raging waterfall slowing to a trickle—allowing me safe passage before it returns to full force.
Paloma and Chay meet me at the shore, warming me with a large heavy blanket she wraps snugly around me. Her hands moving over my shoulders and back, her voice thick with pride, she says, “
Nieta
, you made it!”
I gather my hair into my fist, squeezing large droplets of water onto the ground, along with a beautiful stone that glints up from below. Its color reminding me of Dace’s eyes.
“A gift from the water.” Paloma stoops to retrieve it, displaying it on the center of her palm as I gaze upon it in wonder. “An aquamarine—a water stone. This goes in your pouch,
nieta
.”
She drops it beside the other talismans as I look between her and Chay, asking, “What’s next?” Feeling more than ready to handle it, whatever it is. Sure it couldn’t be any worse than the feat I just survived—okay,
barely
survived, but still.
Chay looks to Paloma. “I’ll leave that to you,” he says, giving her a brief kiss good-bye as he heads for his truck, and Paloma directs me to her Jeep, where I change back into the clothes I arrived in.
“Fire is next.” She shields me with the blanket as she goes on to explain, “It’s the last remaining element, and some would say, the most dangerous. We don’t normally endure two trials in one day, but then again, these aren’t normal circumstances, are they?”
“I’m ready.” My voice is determined, as I allow her to weave my hair into a long braid that falls down my back much like hers. “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. Just tell me where to begin.”
nineteen
Dace
After a tedious amount of nature hugging, blending, and merging, Leftfoot finally gets to the juice, saying, “Your twin is a skinwalker.”
My first reaction is to freeze. It’s instinctive, something I couldn’t stop if I tried. My eyes darting frantically, on the lookout for anyone close enough to overhear, but of course it’s just us. Though I still don’t breathe any easier.
One of the first things I learned as a kid was that giving your attention to something by talking about it, or obsessively thinking about it, helps make it real by delivering it right to your door whether you wanted it or not. And it works for the bad things just as well as the good.
Because of it, I was steered away from unsavory topics—and the topic of skinwalkers counts among the most unsavory of all.
It’s serious stuff, skinwalkers. Seriously scary stuff. If you’re going to bring it up, you better have a good reason lest you draw the attention of one, which you’ll live to regret.
If you’re lucky enough to live, that is.
But, according to Leftfoot, I’ve already drawn the attention of one, who, as it just so happens, is also my twin.
I focus my attention on the old medicine man before me. In the fading afternoon sun, his hair glints like tinfoil. His hooded gaze deepening, he says, “Or rather I should say he’s more like a hybrid of one. I doubt he completed the ritual. Not only because he lacks the patience for such a thing but also because it involves killing a relative—the usual price of admission for one’s introduction to the black arts. And since Leandro is unwilling to spare even the dimmest Richter, it’s my guess Cade isn’t a full skinwalker yet. With a soul as dark as Cade’s, the mere act of getting riled up, either by becoming very angry or very excited about something, is enough to result in a complete transformation of self.”