Horizon

ONE

DAIRE

It’s been months since I last had the dream.

Months since I was trapped in its unyielding grip.

And though I try to resist, try to force my way back to the safety of consciousness, I continue to slip.

I’m aware, but not lucid.

The dream is not mine to control.

Like always, it begins in the forest. A forest that exists in the Lowerworld—that unseen dimension yawning beneath this world, the Middleworld, with the Upperworld sprawling above.

It’s a place I’ve visited many times, in both waking and dream states. A place that consists primarily of compassion, love, and light.

Primarily.

But not entirely.

Or at least not tonight.

It’s Raven who leads me. Soaring above an unchanging landscape of crisp cool air and wide verdant lawns with lush bouncy blades that spring underfoot. His purple eyes glimmer, rushing me past a tall grove of trees cloaked with leaves so thick, only the faintest trace of light filters in.

Raven’s driven by purpose.

I’m driven by need.

Along with an irrepressible longing to reunite with the boy who awaits me.

A boy who is no longer a stranger. No longer faceless and nameless.

Now that we’ve watched each other die, now that we’ve been intimate, there are no secrets between us.

In the dream, Dace bears the same glossy dark hair and gleaming brown skin he does in real life. The same astonishing icy-blue eyes banded by gold that reflect my image thousands of times.

Kaleidoscope eyes.

He’s my fated one, as surely as I am his.

And yet, with so many answers secured, the question remains: In this particular dream—which one of us will die?

Raven lures me through a valley of boulders—past a swiftly moving stream teeming with vivid, blue fish—only to vanish the moment we’ve reached the clearing. Leaving me to stand on my own, running an anxious hand over the front of my dress. A dress that once seemed inexplicable, but that I now recognize as the one I wore on my return from the Upperworld.

Finally, the pieces of this strange, surreal puzzle begin to fall into place.

Though how this will end is anyone’s guess.

“Daire.”

He speaks my name from a place just behind me, and for one sweet moment, I shutter my eyes and inhale his deep, earthy scent. Stretching time for as long as I can, knowing all too well how brief this moment will be.

He places a hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him. And despite having played this role countless times, there’s no suppressing the sharp intake of breath when my gaze meets the immaculate angles and curves of his face. The strong, smooth brow that can signal anger, amusement, or desire with only the slightest shift—the high, elegant cheekbones—the square chin and strong jaw—the sure, straight nose—the enticing, full lips. He stands before me in offering, his torso lean and bare. Displaying wide, strong shoulders, and finely drawn abs that narrow into slinky, trim hips where a pair of faded, old jeans dip precariously low.

He reaches toward me, lifts a hand to my face. Brushing his fingers around the curve of my jaw, he bestows me with a look that’s meant to assure that he’s in on it too. Wise to the potential for danger ahead, but determined to enjoy this scene until another one shifts into its place, we head for the other side of the forest and wade into the misty, swirling waters of the Enchanted Spring. Both of us all too aware this is where the dream takes a turn, yet, pawns that we are, we merge toward each other, unable to veer from the script.

Dace’s fingers glide over my flesh, leaving ripples of warmth in their path, as his lips press urgently against mine. His kiss so bewitching, it renders me breathless, drunk with his touch, yearning for more.

He works the slim straps of my dress, pushing the fabric down past my shoulders, my waist, until I stand bared before him. Then he dips his head low and brings his mouth to my breasts. The feel of his tongue teasing my flesh, causing my legs to grow weak, my spine to yield. The two of us caught in the grips of the sweet, glorious pleasure of being together, until he lifts his chin and says, “It is time.” His eyes are burning, deep, and fixed right on mine.

Quick to agree, I nod in reply. Sensing the truth behind the words, though I’ve no idea what they mean.

“There is no going back. You are meant to be mine.”

Going back?

Why would I want to do that?

I was born to find him—of that I am sure.

I move past my thoughts and pull him back to me. My lips swelling, pressing, only to find Dace is no longer before me—someone else has taken his place.

Someone who bears the same strong, lean body—the same sculpted face. And while the eyes share the same color, flecked by brilliant bands of gold, the similarity ends there.

These eyes are cold.

Cruel.

And instead of reflecting, they absorb like the void I sense them to be.

Cade.

My sworn enemy.

Dace’s identical twin.

The one I was born to kill.

If he doesn’t get to me first.

I yank hard at my dress in a desperate bid to cover myself, as I shove a hand to his chest and struggle to push him away. But he’s unfeasibly strong and remains right in place.

“Where’d he go? What’d you do?” My gaze darts all around.

My question met with a tilt of his head, a quirk of his brow, and an absurdly muttered, “Who?”

“Dace! Where is he? What have you done?” The words ring high-pitched and shrieky, though they’re no match for the frantic pounding of blood rushing my ears, my heart pummeling my rib cage.

“I am Dace.” He smiles. “And Dace is me. We are one and the same. I thought you knew that by now?” He grins, and I watch in horror as his face morphs to resemble Dace’s before returning to his own sinister visage. Transmuting back and forth, over and over as I slam a fist against his shoulder, fight to break free.

This is not how the dream goes.

I don’t like this new ending.

“The light and the dark. The yin and the yang. The negative and the positive. We are connected, bound in mystical ways. One cannot exist without the other. As you already know.”

“You may be connected, but you’re not the same. Dace is nothing like you! You’re a demon—a trickster—a—” His face morphs back to Cade, and I finally break free. Desperate to find my way to dry land, only to discover the landscape has changed.

The Enchanted Spring has morphed into a steep, narrow mesa jutting out of the earth.

Before me lies an endless abyss.

Behind me stands Cade.

Preferring to die on my own terms, my own way, I inch forward until my toes clear the edge.

“Daire, please. No more games. No more running away,” he pleads.

I gather my dress in my hands, only to find it changed too. No longer the white gown I wore in the Upperworld, this gown is a deep, sunset red, with swirling skirts, an open back, and a deeply plunging neckline.

Without hesitation, I lift my arms to either side and teeter precariously. Allowing the wind to catch me, render me floaty and weightless as I drift through the ether as light as a raven feather.

A glorious sensation I desperately try to prolong—though the effect is short-lived when Cade grasps the back of my gown and hauls me back to him.

Circling an arm at my waist, he clutches me tightly, and says, “Stop fighting me. Like it or not, this is your destiny. It’s time we finally do this.”

I try to respond, but my voice is on mute.

Try to shirk from his touch, but I’m frozen in place.

Caught in the endless abyss of his gaze, I am helpless, his to command.

Watching as he lifts my hand before me and slides a brilliant blue tourmaline ring onto my finger.

TWO

DACE

I wake to the sound of screaming.

The sound of screaming and someone pounding hard on my chest.

I bolt upright, flip on the bedside lamp, and catch Daire by the wrist before she can wail on me again.

“Daire—” I whisper her name, fight to still her body, her breath. Ease her away from the darkness of nightmares and back to the light of consciousness again.

Her lids snap open, and when she sees me, she starts swinging with renewed ferocity.

“Daire—it’s me! Stop it—you’re safe—you’re okay.”

She rears back, yanks her hands from mine, and flicks on her lamp. Her breath hectic, pulse racing, she pulls her knees to her chin and watches me with a deep wary gaze.

I remain on my side. Try to give her some space. Time to wrestle her way out of whatever twisted dream has left her in such a scared state.

“How can I know for sure it’s you with your hair like that?” She glares, pulls a grim face, causing me to run a self-conscious hand through my newly shorn locks. “How can I be sure you’re not Cade?”

“You serious?” I flinch at her words. Scold myself not to feel hurt. It’s a mistake a lot of people have made since I got my new look. Still, I never expected that from her. Right from the start, she was able to determine what only few could see—it’s the eyes that define the real difference between Cade and me.

I inch toward her slowly, taking great pains not to alarm her, I angle my face toward the light so she can better see my face, my eyes. Allowing a few beats to pass before she heaves a deep sigh and relaxes her stance.

“Care to talk about it?” I risk a quick glance at the clock and stifle a yawn. Noting the small hand on the two, the big on the five. No wonder it’s still dark out.

“No.” She slips down the mattress, props her head on a pillow, and sprawls her bare legs before her. “I mean, maybe. Yeah.” She sneaks a look at me. “You sure you’re not too tired?”

I shake my head, rub a hand over my chin in place of the white lie I choose not to verbalize.

“Well, in a nutshell, I had the dream.” Her shoulders sink when she says it, as though releasing a very great burden.

I nod, having figured as much. No stranger to the dream, I know firsthand how disturbing it is to watch my brother kill Daire while I helplessly look on. That dreadful image has a way of lingering well into the waking state—haunting me for days.

Only in Daire’s dream, she watches me die at Cade’s hand.

Though from everything she’s told me, the effect is the same.

Either way, there’s no denying the overall message screams loud and clear:

Daire and I maybe fated—but we’re fated to end.

Still, no matter how insistent, I refuse to believe it.

Refuse to give it any real weight.

Whether it’s some kind of prophecy—or Cade’s twisted machinations invading our sleep—I can’t say for sure.

What I do know is that the things we most fiercely believe in have a way of coming true.

And so I choose to believe in us.

Believe in a future that is ours for the making.

After losing my soul, and nearly losing Daire as well, just six months earlier, I know how empty my world is without her. Never again will I allow myself to doubt the rightness of the two of us together.

I will do anything to be with this girl.

I rest a hand on her shoulder, gather a lock of her soft, silky hair between two of my fingers. Quick to remind her that we already lived the dream last Christmas Eve when we watched it play out in real time. Cade killed her, and having discovered that Cade and I are connected—that if he goes, I go—if he lives, I live—I slammed the athame into my gut in an attempt to set things right once again.

Only, it didn’t quite go as planned . . .

“But this dream had a new ending.” She averts her gaze, pulls her shoulders in, causing my hand to drop to my side as I brace for what’s next. “He . . .” She makes a face, licks her lips, and starts again. “His face switched between yours and his, and then, when it settled on his, he forced a ring onto my finger.”

I flinch, unsure what to say. So I stare at the peeling, bubbled paint on the far wall and opt for silence instead.

But when she huffs under her breath, when her gaze bores into my cheek, I know she’s waiting for me to respond. To say something reassuring. Convince her it’s not as bad as she thinks.

Being a guy who works better with details and facts, I blurt the first thing that springs into my head. “Are you saying he proposed? Like—down on his knees asking for your hand?” Instantly aware that I said the wrong thing when I see the look that she shoots me.

Her jaw set, arms crossed in defiance over her chest, she tilts her chin and says, “No knees. Just a ring. A big, shiny, blue tourmaline practically the size of a boulder.” She lifts her hand, glares hard at her ring finger, as though half-expecting to find it still there.

“So he wanted to marry you, or claim your soul?”

“Where Cade’s concerned, I’m sure it’s one and the same.”

I nod. Allowing a few beats to pass before I say, “Okay, so where do I fit in?”

She slews her gaze toward me.

“Well, from the way you’ve pretty much staked your claim on your side of the bed, I’m guessing the dream version of me did something bad. And, well, whatever it was, I apologize. Had I actually been there, I would’ve reacted differently, I assure you.”

She shakes her head, pushes her hair from her eyes. “It’s just—well, first you and I were kissing, you know, like the dream goes . . . but then, the next thing I knew, Cade had taken your place, and—”

“Sounds like the usual script to me,” I cut in, but again, I’ve said the wrong thing.

“Hardly.” She mumbles a few unintelligible words under her breath. And while she doesn’t quite roll her eyes, by the way her cheeks tense, I know that she wants to. “Anyway—” She sighs, forces herself to move on. “When I asked what happened to you—he said you were one and the same. That there was no distinction, no difference, no divide. That you are bound—couldn’t exist apart from each other—”

I lean against the pillows, go back to staring at the ugly far wall. Trying to keep the edge from my voice, but coming nowhere close to succeeding. “And since no one’s seen Cade since the Rabbit Hole blew up six months ago on New Year’s Eve—and since not long after that climactic event I decided to chop off my hair, which is still much longer than his, but hey, a minor detail we shouldn’t get caught up in, you actually think I might be Cade pretending to be me.” I shake my head, but like Daire, stop short of rolling my eyes.

My brother is despicable.

Evil.

My brother is solely responsible for killing her grandmother.

And yet, she’s confusing me with him?

“You honestly think I got some crazy, mirrored contact lenses so my eyes would reflect in the way you’ve come to expect? You honestly can’t tell that when I say I love you I am speaking from the very deepest part of me? You honestly can’t tell by the way I touch you, look at you, that you are absolutely everything to me?”

“Dace—” She rolls toward me, places her hand over mine, and looks at me with those astonishing emerald-green eyes. “I’m sorry I said it. Truly, I am. It was stupid, and paranoid, and completely nonsensical, and pretty much the opposite of how a good, responsible Seeker is supposed to react in times of great stress. It’s just that . . .” She swallows, lifts her shoulders, and goes on to add, “Sometimes, I can’t help but think that I’m missing something. Some terribly obvious clue that’s staring right at me. And then, when I had the dream and I woke up next to you . . . well, for that split second I thought—”

“You thought I might be the clue. You thought you were sleeping with the enemy.” The moment I take in her face, the fight seeps right out of me. She’s scared. Uncertain. Her burdens are great. And ever since Paloma passed she’s felt alone in the world. It’s my job to love and support her. It’s my job to provide strength when she needs it. I wrap my arms around her, encouraging her to inch closer as she closes her eyes and buries her face in my chest. “You haven’t missed anything,” I whisper the words into her soft silky hair. Drop a long string of kisses along the top of her head.

She pulls away ever so slightly and gazes at me with eyes that betray the depths of her anxiety. “But I have.” She nods fervently. “I’m absolutely sure of it. No way can things truly be as peaceful as they might seem on the surface.”

“Don’t we deserve a little peace?” I pull her back to me, deluding myself into thinking that if I can just hug her enough, love her enough, I can vanquish her fears.

“This is Enchantment.” The sound that follows is the closest thing to a laugh that I’ve heard from her in a while. “Since when does anyone get what they deserve?” She mumbles that last part into my chest, peering up at me to see how I react.

I crack a smile, hoping she’ll crack one too. But the moment is lost, and in the span of a breath she’s off and running again.

“I’ve gone over it countless times.” She pushes into a sitting position. “And I’ve absolutely no doubt Cade killed Paloma via that cursed tourmaline I unwittingly gave her. I’ve researched it a good bit, and it’s not nearly as whacked as it seems. Crystals and gems emit energy. Everything, at its very essence, is comprised of energy. And, while energy never dies, it can be altered, transformed, and in the wrong hands a gem can be cursed with a hook that connects the recipient to the giver. Allowing them to either control the receiver’s soul, claim the receiver’s soul, or end the receiver’s soul—depending on the intention.”

The words leave me as cold as they did the first time I heard them. Though I’m not sure why she sees fit to repeat them, unless she’s in search of reassurance, which I’m more than happy to provide. “I don’t doubt you, Daire. Heck, Leftfoot, Chepi, and Chay have already confirmed it.”

She lowers her gaze to her legs and flexes her calves, causing the long, taut muscles lining the front of her thighs, the result of daily six-mile runs, to lift and swell in a way so enticing I’m forced to steer my gaze elsewhere.

“Thing is—if the elders are right, then how come everyone who attended the Rabbit Hole New Year’s Eve party left with a swag bag containing a tourmaline, and yet, not one of them is showing even the slightest sign of any ill effects?” She lifts her gaze to me, draws the sheet to her waist. “People are living like they’ve always lived. If anything, they’re living a little better. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Enchantment doesn’t seem quite as depressed and gray as it once did. The citizens aren’t as downcast. They step lighter, laugh more often and easily—”

“Maybe they’re just happy to live in a Richter-free town? Maybe they’re thrilled that for the last six months, there hasn’t been a single sighting of Cade, Leandro, or Gabe? Don’t forget, you and I both watched Cade run into that smoldering building—maybe El Coyote is finally dead? Maybe Phyre and her crazy, snake-wrangling, doomsayer dad, Suriel, did us a favor?”

Though I wasn’t entirely convinced of what I just said, Daire is even quicker to dismiss it. “They’re not dead. Not even close.” She gives a firm shake of her head. “Don’t forget, Cade was in human form when he ran into that burning building. He was unable to shift into his demon self. Which means if he went, you’d be gone too.”

“But I’m still here, and I cut my hair, and now you’re suspicious.” I drop my chin to my chest, hardly able to believe I brought it full circle again. Still, now that it’s out there, we may as well clear this thing up so we’ll never have to revisit.

It never once occurred to me that a haircut could cause such a fuss. Had I known, had I even the slightest inkling of the kind of upset it would cause, I would’ve left it alone. Truth is, I’m not even sure what compelled me. I guess, ever since last New Year’s Eve, when I found myself overcome by a strange, all-consuming force that never quite made itself known (but that’s definitely responsible for saving my life), I’ve felt changed.

Altered at the deepest part of my core.

Like I was on my way to becoming someone else.

Something else.

And ever since, the old me no longer rests quite as easily in my skin.

Since most transformations begin with the physical, I decided to start with my hair.

Hoping to surprise Daire, I went to Lita for help. And by the way she reacted, jumping up and down while squealing and clapping her hands, you would’ve thought I’d given her the winning lottery ticket. Turns out, the girl loves a makeover.

I’d barely broached the idea before she was dragging me into her car and racing toward her salon.

“We’re gonna lop off this crazy mop!” she announced, dragging me inside by the shirtsleeve and pushing me in front of her stylist, but not before adding, “Finally!”

Soon after they threw a robe on me, plunked me down in a chair for a wash and condition, and then into another chair for the cut. With Lita hovering nearby the whole time, shouting a list of detailed directions, as though she’d been planning this moment since the first day we met.

“You’ll need to cut at least five inches off the back,” she told the stylist. “Maybe even six.” She scrunched her nose at my offending looks, clucking her tongue against the inside of her cheek, and shaking her head in disgust. “Then add some layers around the face. And make sure you keep them long and soft and kind of messy-looking, so it appears like it’s meant to look tousled and natural since we both know he probably won’t ever brush it.” She chased that last part with a little laugh to soften the blow, leaving me to wonder once again what my former spirit guide, Axel, could possibly see in this girl.

“Oh—but not too short!” Lita squealed the second the stylist lifted her shears. “Whatever you do—do not make him look like his twin!”

I’m guessing the stylist was used to Lita’s demands, because she just smiled and nodded and went about the business of cutting my hair. And by the time she set down her scissors and I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t do anything but stare, as the stylist smiled, and Lita clapped her hands and cried, “Well, congratulations, Dace Whitefeather—you just took your first step toward cool.”

Though, unfortunately, Daire’s reaction wasn’t quite as appreciative. And while she didn’t quite mistake me for Cade (or at least not back then anyway), it took her some time to come around. Though from the way this is going, I guess she’s still not entirely on board.

“Dace—” Daire squirms toward me again and cups her palm to either side of my face. “I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean it like that. Or, maybe I did—I don’t know. I just—I feel so off kilter. I can’t shake this sense of foreboding. This deep certainty that things aren’t quite what they seem. I’m convinced El Coyote is still out there, and Leandro and Cade are just biding their time, licking a few minor wounds, and laying low in an attempt to lure me into a state of complacency . . .”

“Only they’ll never succeed.” I place my hands over hers, and fold them between us. “Because you’re way ahead of them, Santos. Your guard is up, you’re alert to the signs, and if it turns out you’re right, when they come out swinging, you’ll be ready.”

“Will I?” She tilts her head, studying me with eyes gone red and glittery, while her bottom lip displays the tiniest hint of a quiver.

“Of course you will.” I pull her into my arms. Holding her tightly until her body begins to slacken and yield, and my breath rises and falls in tandem with hers.

With her daily runs and punishing workouts, her strict healthy diet that allows no room for even the smallest indulgence—with her incessant focus on learning Paloma’s craft and becoming the very best Seeker she can—I sometimes forget just how vulnerable she really is. But here, in my arms, with her skin so soft, and her heart beating gently next to mine, I’m awash in shame over what a fool I’ve just been.

None of this was ever about me. This entire discussion may have been triggered by the dream, and the certainly hideous memory of my brother forcing a ring onto her finger, but it was never about my hair.

Never about her mistaking me for Cade.

That was all just a smoke screen for what’s really bothering her.

She misses her grandmother.

She’s wracked with a mountain of grief she insists on keeping tightly in check.

And until she’s able to confront it head-on—it’s my job to provide comfort, along with a safe place to land in the middle of chaos.

I pull her closer until the matching gold keys we wear at our necks as a symbol of our love clink lightly together, as I whisper soft words in her ear. Reminding her that she’s not alone—we’re in this together. I will never, ever leave her.

“If Paloma was here she could help me see what I’m missing. She was tuned in to everything, never missed a sign. If my abuela was here, she would . . .” Daire chokes back a sob, shuts her eyes tightly against the deluge of tears she refuses to shed.

I bring my palms to her face and press my lips against hers. Whispering, “Hey there, green eyes, it’s going to be okay. Really, I’m here. I’ll always be here. We’ll get through this together. I promise . . .” Hushing her fears with my kiss, I go about distracting her the best way I can.

THREE

DAIRE

This time when I wake it’s in the nest of Dace’s arms cradled snugly around me. His soft, even breath pushing at the side of my cheek.

I turn my head slowly and fill my eyes with the beautiful slumbering sight of him. My gaze trailing over the taught muscles of his chest, the valley of his abdomen, to the soft trail of hair that leads from the edge of his navel to parts now obscured by the sheet.

He’s so loving, so loyal, so decent and good, Ican hardly conceive how I could ever, even in one dream-dazed, delusional moment, mistake him for Cade.

They may be identical on the surface, Dace may have a piece of Cade’s dark soul lodged inside, but that’s where the resemblance ends.

They are nothing alike.

He stirs. Awakened by the weight of my look, he curls his arm tighter and pulls me so close there’s no denying his need is once again matched by my own.

No matter how many times we’re together, no matter how many mornings we wake up like this, it always seems there’s more to discover.

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never uncover the full extent of his mysteries.

The thought makes me smile.

I allow my mind to project into a faraway future. Imagining how we might look with wizened faces and graying hair. Still loving, still laughing, still adoring, still discovering . . .

Though no sooner have the pictures begun to unfold, when I force myself to shake free of the thought.

Dreaming of the future is a frivolous indulgence I cannot afford. Paloma warned me from the start that Seekers are not known for their longevity—and their romantic relationships always end tragically.

The memory of her words causing an involuntary flinch that prompts Dace to say, “What is it?” He lifts his lids slowly, displaying icy-blue eyes glazed with sleep and desire.

I shake my head and press my lips to his, trailing my fingertips along the column of his throat where I pause on his pulse. Shirking all thoughts of the past along with all wishes for the future, I settle into the present—the only moment I can ever truly claim for my own.

Dace meets my kiss with warm urgent lips, as my hands grip his shoulders and pull him so close our bodies become a tangle of tongues and limbs pushed urgently together in a desperate bid to be joined. Until he maneuvers me beneath him in one seamless move and eases himself inside.

We mold and cling, separating for a few excruciatingly delicious moments, only to rejoin so completely there’s no boundary between us. No way to tell where Dace leaves off and I begin.

Our hearts as bound as our flesh, we soar in tandem—pausing for one deliriously heady moment, before falling into a sated, spent heap.

When I open my eyes, Dace is propped on his elbow, his gaze freely roaming my face. “I never get tired of looking at you.”

I bite my lip and grin. Trying not to think about the mascara smudges under my eyes, the sheet creases marking my cheek, my hair lying limp against my forehead. I just smile like I believe it, and return his adoring look with one of my own. “You know, I think I’m actually beginning to like your new look.” I bring my fingers to his brow, brush the tips against his long sweep of bangs. “Who knew Lita had such vision?”

He catches my hand in his and looks at me as though he’s about to reply, but instead clamps his lips shut as though he thought better.

“I know what you’re thinking.” I rise onto my elbow, fluff my pillow a bit, and lean back against it. “It took me a while to come around, but I truly do mean it. This new look really highlights your face. And you know how I feel about your face . . .”

He shakes his head. Shoots me a look that invites further elaboration.

So I drop a few kisses onto his forehead, his chin, his lips to better illustrate. And just like that, I’m lured right back into the magick of him.

But with a full day of training and appointments ahead, I force myself to push away from the bed and follow the haphazard trail of clothes I left on the floor late last night in my rush to be with him.

“That’s it?” Dace inches his way up the headboard to watch me get dressed. “You just love me and leave me? Is that how this is?”

“Yep.” I retrieve my shorts from the crumpled heap on the floor and sneak a leg in, followed by the other. Performing an exaggerated shimmy as I ease them up over my hips in a move that is admittedly performed purely for his own viewing pleasure.

“Tease.” He retrieves my bra from under his pillow and flings it at me, chasing the word with a grin.

“You’re the tease.” I catch the bra in my fist and struggle to get the clasp and straps properly situated.

“How do you figure?” He rubs his chin, shoots me a playful look.

“You’re the one who won’t move in with me.”

“Oh. That.” In one fluid move, he’s off the bed and searching for a clean pair of jeans from the folded-up pile in the plastic laundry basket that stands in for a closet. An attempt to evade a conversation I’m determined to have.

“I really don’t get your resistance,” I say, and not for the first time. “I mean, we’re together pretty much all the time anyway. And if we lived together, I wouldn’t have to leave here every morning, and you wouldn’t have to work so hard to keep this place going. You know, two birds, one stone.”

His fingers freeze on his zipper as his gaze lifts to meet mine. “How can you say stuff like that?”

“Like what?”

“Two birds, one stone. Sheesh, Daire, you’re guided by Raven. How do you think he’d feel to hear you say that?”

“You changing the subject?”

“Did it work?” He cracks a mischievous grin.

“Not even close.” I frown and pull on my tank top, then sit on the old wooden trunk shoved in one corner and slide my feet into my sneakers.

“Okay, I admit, I’m old fashioned. There are worse crimes, you know.”

“Old fashioned?” I make a sound between a snort and a laugh. “Please.” I roll my eyes, scrape my long, tangled hair back into a ponytail. “Nothing old fashioned about what we just did.” I nod toward the bed, hoping to glimpse a blush at his cheeks. It’s not often I get to see such a thing.

“I’m old fashioned when it counts. Which means we’re not going to live together because it’s convenient, or saves money, or whatever other reason you want to drum up. When we do live together, and I fully intend that we will, it’ll be because we’re properly wed.”

“Properly wed?” I shake my head. Make a face of distaste. Go about adjusting the soft buckskin pouch Paloma gave me, the one that holds the collection of magickal talismans I earned during my Seeker training, along with the beautiful turquoise heart Dace gave me. “Don’t you think we should maybe graduate from high school first? And then, oh, I don’t know, go to college, then on to grad school. Rack up a whole slew of impressive degrees, score the job of our dreams, win a ton of promotions, and then, when there are no more summits to scale, we settle into the fiction that is the happily ever after of holy matrimony?”

Dace shoots me an appraising look, whistles softly under his breath. “Wow, someone has marriage issues.”

“I grew up on movie sets.” I shrug at the memory. “Surrounded by celebrities who were either falling in and out of marriages every ten seconds, or cheating on the spouses they had with anyone who was willing to bed them. All of which may have left me a tiny bit jaded.”

“A tiny bit?” Dace quirks a brow, pulls a worn, gray V-neck T-shirt over his head. The one that molds to his chest, clings to his abs, and accentuates his biceps, leaving me no choice but to force my eyes away if I’ve any hope of getting on with my day. “It’s not like I plan on proposing tomorrow, or even next year. Just . . . someday.”

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll deal with your someday when we get there. If we get there. But I’m warning you—no public displays. No stadium jumbotron half-time proposal. No hiding the ring at the bottom of my champagne glass. Nothing you’d ever see in a movie or some cheesy reality TV show.”

“So, these are the rules for the proposal you don’t actually want?”

“That’s the starter list. There’s more. Believe me, much more. But until then, I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with Love ’Em and Leave ’Em Santos, all because you won’t accept my proposal to come live with me, rent free.” I keep my tone light, jokey. Refusing to betray the deeply rooted fear that our future is so uncertain, we probably shouldn’t tempt it with conversations like this.

Before Paloma died, she gave me a lineage transmission that allowed me to see the kind of things it would’ve taken her many years to teach. Including the tragic story of her past—how her husband, my grandfather, Alejandro (a Brazilian Jaguar shaman of the highest order), was killed at the hands of the Richters—along with her only child, my dad, Django, when he was still just a teen. Bestowing me with the breadth of her knowledge and insights in no more than a flash.

I also saw the story of every Seeker who walked before me.

Watched as they all—every last one of them—fell at the hands of Coyote.

So why should I be any different?

Why do I deserve the kind of happily ever after denied to my ancestors?

“Don’t doubt the future, Daire.”

I return to Dace. Surprised to find him standing before me, displaying his uncanny ability to read every shift in my mood. I ease my face into a tight grin, quickly turn away, and riffle through my bag, mumbling, “How can I not?”

“Because I know something you don’t.”

Just as intended, the words lure me in, coaxing me to face him again. “Oh yeah, and what’s that? Care to share this great wisdom of yours?”

Without the slightest trace of mirth, he places a hand on each of my shoulders, and fixes his gaze intently on mine. “There’s only one force more powerful than evil—”

I blink a few times, drawing a blank on what that might be. Clearly, he’s not referring to me. No Seeker has ever successfully kept evil at bay—or at least not for very long.

“Love.”

I can feel the word as he says it.

Can actually feel the force of it shooting toward me as it rolls off his tongue—emanates from the tips of his fingers. Its ferocity—its urgency—its absolute, undeniable truth leaving me so startled, I can’t think of a single thing to say in reply.

“Love, Daire. Love is stronger than evil. Love is the answer. Love is all there is. Love conquers. Love heals. Love unites. All you need is love. Love makes the world go round . . .”

The energy continues to swirl all around me, causing my head to spin, my heart to flutter—lasting only as long as Dace maintains his grip on my shoulders. The moment he drops his hands and steps back, the illusion is gone. Leaving me sad, deflated, and more disappointed than I care to let on that while the sentiment sounds nice on the surface, it can’t be that easy.

As much as I long to believe him, it’s wishful thinking at best and I can’t afford to fall into that trap. I’ve spent the last few months preparing to avenge my abuela’s death and rid the world of Richters once and for all. I can’t risk going soft.

“Mmm . . . I’m pretty sure it’s money that makes the world go round. I’m pretty positive that’s how the song goes.” I guard my heart by deflecting his words with a sarcastic reply, but as soon as it’s out, I flinch with embarrassment. The words ring unnatural and forced—stinging like a betrayal after all we’ve been through.

I bite my lip hard and return to the search through my backpack, but when Dace grasps my hand, urging me to look at him, I can’t help but give in.

His tone as serious as his face, he says, “Not our song. Not this song. Not the song of you and me.”

He speaks with such conviction, I’m just about to yield, when I remember the lineage transmission Paloma gave me and the undeniable truth she revealed.

There’s no disputing the facts that unfolded before me that day.

Still, it doesn’t stop me from melting just a little when Dace pulls me toward him and presses his lips to the tip of my nose.

“All you have to do is believe. Have a little faith. That’s really all that’s required. Miracles aren’t nearly as uncommon as people like to think. Leftfoot says they’re manifested by love, and we’ve got that in spades. No reason we can’t work a few miracles of our own.”

I soften my stance. Willing to concede that he just might be right. That it really might be as simple as that. Paloma always said that intent is magick’s most important ingredient. Maybe if I just allow myself to believe hard enough . . .

I shake my head and force myself to pull away. Force myself to say, “You work on believing, while I go work out.”

“Skeptic.” He grins.

“Optimist.” I playfully stick out my tongue.

“You got time for coffee?”

I shake my head.

“Want a ride?” He swipes his keys off the dresser, jangles them before me.

“Nah, I think I’ll run.”

He lifts a brow.

“May as well squeeze in a workout before the temperature has a chance to shoot into the triple digits again.”

“You know it’s okay to take a break now and then?”

I choose to ignore that. I can’t afford breaks. Can’t afford to let down my guard.

“Fine. Then at least wear this to keep the sun off your face.” He tosses me a baseball cap advertising a surf brand. “And say hey to Axel.” He follows me out the front door and down the rickety steps that lead to the parking lot.

“At least he agreed to live with me.” I glance over my shoulder, wait for Dace to catch up.

“The way I remember it, he had no where else to go.” He squeezes my hand, gives a good-natured grin.

“And you’re not even the least bit jealous?” I angle my face toward his, catching the amused glint in his eyes.

“You serious?” He shakes his head. “Jealous of Axel?”

“Yeah, of Axel,” I say, feeling inexplicably defensive, but then my emotions are all over the place. “A single guy who’s actually pretty good-looking if you like tall, strong, angelic types with lots of muscles and lavender eyes. He was practically moved into my old room before I could even finish making the offer.”

Dace stops beside his truck. “Daire, I’m not jealous of Axel. For one thing—he was my spirit guide since I was a baby, and he still feels the need to look after me even though he’s officially been stripped of the title. For another—I trust you. I trust in our love. After all, I am the optimist, remember?”

“And third?” I place a hand on my hips. “I can see it in your eyes, there’s a third.”

“And third—do I even need to mention Lita?” He laughs, causing his irises to glimmer in a way that’s mesmerizing. “You may be the Seeker, but are you seriously willing to get between Lita Winslow and the professed love of her life?”

I dip my head and sigh, chasing it with a groan for good measure. Since the moment school ended, Lita has devoted her entire summer to being with Axel. Which means she’s been a permanent fixture in my den—when they’re not holed up in his room.

Yet another star-crossed romance that was doomed before it could properly start.

Or at least according to Paloma who warned me it would never amount to anything good.

Paloma was pragmatic. A realist, like me. And while it’s really quite refreshing to be around a true believer like Dace, I can’t quite convince myself to join him in that eternally happy place.

“Lita’s pretty territorial where Axel’s concerned. I’m not sure even someone as powerful as the Seeker could forge a wedge between them,” Dace says, breaking me out of my reverie, and proving, once again, just how tuned in he is to my moods.

“Speaking of powerful . . .” I leave the question to dangle, there’s no need to finish. We both know I’m referring to last New Year’s Eve when all hell broke loose and Dace found himself in the grips of an incredible shift he couldn’t quite shake, didn’t want to shake, as he tells it.

Though despite his optimism, I know he’s concerned it might’ve been the result of the dark bit of soul he stole from his brother that’s still lodged inside. And I can’t say I’ve ruled it out either.

“No sign of the beast.” He opens the door of his truck and tosses his bag onto the seat. “Must be lying dormant.” He turns back to me and tilts his face toward the sun, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Sure you don’t want a ride? Looks like it’s gonna be another scorcher.”

I shake my head, shake out my limbs. Try to loosen them up for the long run ahead.

“Okay, then.” He climbs into his truck. “See you tonight?”

I nod.

“Your place, my place, or the Enchanted Spring?” He closes the door between us and leans out the driver’s side window.

“My place.” I make a face when I say it. Still feels weird to refer to it as mine, and not Paloma’s, but I’m quick to push the thought from my head. “Xotichl and Auden are stopping by. And of course, Lita and Axel will be there.”

Dace gives me a swift kiss goodbye and revs up his truck, as I take a deep breath, adjust my cap, and break into a run.

FOUR

LITA

I pop the oven door open and frown. Despite following Paloma’s recipe to the letter, my blue-corn muffins don’t smell like Paloma’s, don’t look like Paloma’s, and how come they’re all sunken in the middle instead of fat and fluffy like hers always were?

“How long have you been awake?”

Axel pads into the kitchen, raking a hand through his platinum-blond, sleep-tousled curls as I slam the oven door closed, and hope that between now and the next five minutes when the timer goes off, some of Paloma’s kitchen magick will begin to kick in.

Though deep down inside I know the truth—Paloma is the missing ingredient. There’s just no replacing her. Most likely we’ll be having stale bagels for breakfast again.

I toss an oven mitt onto the counter and sigh. “Couldn’t sleep. And I didn’t want to wake you, so I thought I’d make us some breakfast. But, from the looks of things, that’s going to require a miracle, so don’t get your hopes up.” I allow my gaze to roam the expanse of his smooth, well-muscled chest, down the length of his finely chiseled abs, all the way to the elastic waistband of his new gray sweatpants.

“As a Mystic, I’ve worked plenty of miracles.” He crosses the kitchen until he’s standing before me, lowering his head to drop a kiss onto my lips. “How bad is it?” He glances toward the oven. “Should I perform a healing?” He wraps his arms around me, holds me tight at the waist, and centers his deep purple gaze on mine.

“I’m pretty sure it’s well beyond that. But, you could fix your sweatpants.” I jerk the tag at his waist. “They’re on backward.”

He casts a sheepish glance down the length of him and laughs. “Thought they felt a bit off. Loose in some places, snug in others. Guess I’m still not used to these things.”

“You mean, pants?” I stifle a giggle. Enjoying the spectacle of watching him drop them to the floor and getting ’em turned right around without a hint of embarrassment, as I sneak an anxious glance toward the door. The last thing I need is for Daire to walk in and catch Axel standing naked in her kitchen. “Guess it takes some getting used to.” I cock my head to the side, feigning a look of deep thought. “After all, the separate leg holes do require an entirely different skill set from wearing a dress.”

“Tunic.” Axel smiles, grasps me about the waist once again. “In the Upperworld, I wore a tunic. The females wore dresses.”

“An important distinction.” My gaze makes a greedy feast of his face, wondering if I’ll ever grow tired of looking at him.

“Glad to clear that up.” He grins. “But what I don’t understand is why I’m required to wear anything at all when, according to you anyway, you prefer to see me in my most natural state.”

“Axel!” I press a hand to my lips, swallow a self-conscious giggle. All too aware of my cheeks turning the full spectrum of red. Normally I wouldn’t be embarrassed by a statement like that. Normally I would volley right back with something equally flirtatious. But the way Axel delivers it with such sincerity, such guileless honesty, the best I can ever do is blush in response.

While he’s certainly manly in all the ways that count, sometimes he seems almost childlike in the way he’s so uncorrupted by the world. Unlike most people, he’s not driven by the usual things—vanity, pride, and ego hold no importance for him. He’s straightforward, always impeccable with his word. And his belief in me is so absolute, sometimes I find myself cowering under the weight of it, wondering if I even deserve it.

I guess because it’s so opposite of the way it was with Cade, where everything was a manipulation, a game. And while I don’t miss those days in the least, while I mostly wish I could banish them from my storehouse of memories, the truth is, I’m not always sure how to take Axel’s brand of earnest, wide-open love.

While it’s clear he’s nothing like Cade, I’m not always sure just what he is. No longer a Mystic—having broken one of his most sacred vows when he decided to spare Daire’s life last Christmas Eve—he’s since been denied admittance to the Upperworld—the place he called home.

Though he’s not entirely human either.

Which means our ways are still new to him.

And once, when he accidentally nicked his finger while trying to cut a tomato, I watched him bleed gold.

“How about Radiant Being?” He grins, proving, once again, his uncanny (and highly annoying) ability to read my mind. Catching my frown, he pulls back and says, “Sorry, was I eavesdropping?”

“Clearly.” I return to the oven, if only to confirm I’ve committed yet another case of muffin-murder. Stale bagels it is. I flip off the heat, set the pan on the stovetop to cool, and head for the fridge in search of cream cheese and jam.

“Lita, have I upset you?” He stands beside me, a scolded-puppy expression marring his beautiful face. Having failed at something he doesn’t quite understand—his intent is always to please. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying to learn your ways, truly I am. Being in love is all new to me. I thought the whole point was to share everything?”

He cocks his head, sending a tumble of white-blond curls to fall enticingly into those alluring lavender eyes.

“I’m new at love too.” I frown at the empty jam jar, place the container in the sink, and chuck the tub of cream cheese onto the counter. “And while people may claim that they want to share everything, they don’t really mean it.” I fold my arms across my chest and face him. “Thoughts are meant to be private, okay? It’s not okay to listen in.”

He nods intently, as though committing my words to memory, and I can’t help but grin in response. I don’t remember anyone ever taking me quite so seriously.

“It may please you to know that the ability is fading where all others are concerned. Though for some reason with you, it remains strong as ever.”

“Lucky me.”

He moves toward me, unfolds my hands, and rests them on the top of his shoulders. “I take it as proof of the deep connection we share. Proof that coming here was the right thing to do.”

The words hit me hard, and I take a moment to absorb them while I study his expression. The last six months we’ve been together have been such a whirlwind, such an exhilarating head rush, I guess I never once stopped to consider all he gave up to enter my world.

“Axel—do you ever . . . regret that you’re here?”

When his reply doesn’t come quickly, my shoulders sink in relief. Glad to see him taking time to consider, knowing that when he does answer, he’ll do so truthfully. Being impeccable with his word means he’s not always quick to reassure.

“Sometimes I get homesick.” His face assumes a thoughtful expression. “But then, I look at you, and suddenly I get to experience all of the wonderful emotions that were denied me before. Before you, everything I knew about falling in love was confined to theory. And while I’ll eventually grow used to living without magick and tunics, now that I’ve found you, I could never consider a life without you.”

I choke back a sob, start to look away. But then he catches me by the chin, tilts my face toward his, and says, “I’m willing to skip breakfast, if you are?”

All I can do is nod in return.

And the next thing I know, he lifts me into his arms as though I weigh nothing at all, and carries me down the hall toward his room.

FIVE

DACE

Since I have sometime before I need to show up for work at the gas station, I drive into town and park the old, white heap just outside of Gifford’s, aiming to enjoy a cup of that freshly brewed coffee advertised in the window, and maybe read a bit from the stack of books I’ve been lugging around.

I wave to old man Gifford and head for a table in back. Only to hear my name being called from the far side of the room, as Leftfoot and Chay gesture impatiently toward the steaming cup of coffee they have waiting for me.

How they knew I’d show up when I only decided myself just a few moments ago is beyond me. Then again, the elders are pretty much tuned in to everything. They probably willed me here without my even realizing.

I grab the chair next to Chay and drop my books before me. Lifting my cup to my lips, I watch as Leftfoot swipes a title from the top of the stack, glances at the front and back covers, heaves a disapproving grunt, and drops it right back.

“Where’d you get those?” Chay glances between the spines and me. “Lucio’s back room?”

“Santa Fe.”

He narrows his gaze, takes a sip of his coffee. “When’d you start smuggling contraband? Those sort of books have been banned from Enchantment for years.” He speaks the words lightly, but his face remains as stoic as ever.

“What can you learn about the mystical arts from a book that you can’t learn from us?” Leftfoot chimes in, sounding miffed and offended.

I shrug, lower my cup, and decide to answer honestly. “So far, nothing.”

Leftfoot grunts in reply, but this time it’s of the satisfied variety.

After covering all of the usual small talk—the stifling summer heat; hottest year on record; Chepi’s general health and well-being and her continued suspicion of Daire, which seems to be softening since Paloma’s passing—we move onto the whole point of their luring me here. And of course, it has to do with the Richters. Three in particular: Gabe, Leandro, and Cade. Otherwise known as my cousin, my father, and my twin. Though I prefer not to think of them that way.

Gabe is a creep.

Leandro is a dark sorcerer and rapist, who used my mother to wield his black magick to conjure a son even darker than he.

And as for Cade, well, next time I see him, I plan to kill him.

I guess you could say there’s no real sentiment where the Richter side of my family is concerned.

And while it’s clear that no one has seen any of them, like Daire, they’re not convinced that’s necessarily a good thing.

“Work continues at the Rabbit Hole. Which means someone must be in charge of rebuilding, and if not Leandro, then who?” Chay looks from Leftfoot to me.

“It’s a big family.” I dip my head for another sip of coffee. “There’s no shortage of cousins. Any one of them could’ve taken the helm.”

“You really believe that?” Leftfoot’s narrowed eyes meet mine, practically daring me to disappoint him and insist that I do.

I shake my head. Should’ve known better than to be so glib. As a longtime student of Leftfoot’s I know better than most that he requires absolute seriousness in matters like this. “No,” I say. “I don’t believe it for a second. Guess I’m just trying to enjoy the break while it lasts.”

“Really?” Leftfoot leans toward me, as Chay busies himself with his soft-boiled egg and fruit plate.

Gone are the days of the covert cheese Danish. Now that Paloma’s no longer around to lecture him about the evils of sugar, seems he’s finally decided to heed her word. Just one more way he chooses to honor her memory. The other is the woven leather bracelet he wears at his wrist bearing a carved silver Wolf’s head.

Paloma was guided by Wolf. And I can’t imagine how he gets through each day without her. If I was in his place . . .

I shake free of the thought, and return to Leftfoot who’s still waiting for my response.

“Is this how you enjoy the break? By reading books on shape-shifting?” He flicks the stack with his index finger and thumb.

“Looks like you’ve already decided the answer.” I meet his look square-on. Even though he’s technically my uncle, Leftfoot’s always been like a father to me. Despite struggling to raise his son, Lucio, on his own, he never hesitated to look after me. And I’ve never thought of him as anything less than a dad. Because of it, we argue as much as any father and son.

He shoots me a look that manages to convey his extreme annoyance while still managing to be supportive and fatherly. Tossing a wad of bills on the table, he rises impatiently and motions for me to follow.

“Where we going?” I glance from him to Chay, but Chay just pushes away from the table and shrugs, even though I’m convinced he’s informed. The two of them are thick as thieves. Always in cahoots. There’s no dividing them.

“Your honeymoon is over.” Leftfoot slips an arm around my shoulders and pushes me into the daylight. “We’ve got work to do. Serious work. Make no mistake, the worst is yet to come.”

SIX

DAIRE

Having spent the first sixteen years of my life studiously avoiding pretty much all forms of physical activity that don’t involve lounging and/or reading, I’m amazed by how much I’ve come to love running. How quickly I’ve taken to it. How fast I’ve progressed.

Turns out there’s nothing like a good, brisk run to clear away the cobwebs and relieve a little of the tension crowding my head. Not to mention how it’s a useful way to get home after a night spent at Dace’s. Or at least until I get around to getting my driver’s license. And though there are quicker routes to choose, none allow for as good a view of the Rabbit Hole.

I slow when I reach the far corner, cast a quick glance each way, then dart across the street and edge toward the alleyway. Where I take a quick detour and cruise by the chain-link fence where I secured the padlock as a symbol of Dace’s and my love, if only to ensure it’s still there. With so many forces working against us, there was no guarantee. Then, I move toward the clamor of hammering and workers shouting from the other side of the barrier. The clouds of dust and noise providing ample proof that the rebuild continues. Though the barrier fronting it is so solid, tall, and imposing, it’s impossible to get a sneak peek—one thing is sure: El Coyote is alive and well and planning on making one hell of a comeback.

And, I’ve no doubt Dace knows it too.

No way does he truly believe that they’re dead.

Dace is too smart to ever believe such a thing.

Like me, he’s prepping for what’s next—whatever that should turn out to be.

I’ve caught him doing push-ups, crunches, and lunges when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ve even caught him shadowboxing, but I just slipped back into bed without saying a word. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. Besides, I’m sure his secrecy is less about keeping things from me, and more about quelling my fears. And while I’ve no doubt his aim is well intentioned and sweet, truth is, it’s not really working.

Great clouds of dust waft over the partition, as a chorus of jackhammers and drills drones on without ceasing. About two months after the explosion, the construction began. And now, after four months of working in earnest, I have to think it’ll be ready soon.

And then what?

The doors spring open and it’s back to business as usual?

With large crowds of people lining up for overpriced drinks, loud music, and mediocre food?

I duck my head low and place a hand on each knee, forcing deep exaggerated breaths as though I need a break from the run, but really using the moment to take a good look around. Searching for at least one familiar face—something to clue me in to exactly what’s going on.

My wish is seemingly granted when a big, black truck pulls into the lot that at first glance, I mistake for Cade’s. It’s only when I see the red-and-orange flames licking the sides, and Marliz behind the wheel, that I realize it belongs to her fiancé, Gabe.

While she’s not exactly the person I was hoping to see, I can’t help but wonder why she’s still here, driving his truck, if Gabe’s supposedly dead.

I lower my cap, tuck my chin to my chest, and crouch to one knee. Fumbling with my laces as though retying my shoe, I track Marliz as she slips free of the cab, takes a quick nervous glance all around, and darts for the barrier, leaving me only a handful of seconds to decide what to do.

Our relationship, if you can call it that, has always been troubled. She’s the first person I met in Enchantment (other than Paloma and Chay), and, to her credit, she did try to warn me away. But aside from that, and the brief period I managed to release her from the Richters’ curse when she fled to L.A. with a little help from my mom, she’s pretty much been working against me. Last time we spoke she made good on her threat to thwart me. And with the Richters holding her spellbound again, there’s no reason to believe she’d be up for a chat.

Still, I shout her name as loudly as I can in an effort to be heard over the din. Watching as she pauses and turns, her yellow-blond hair swirling around her slim, suntanned shoulders—her heavily made-up eyes widening when she finds me waving from a few feet away.

She stands frozen before me, her tattooed arm with the snake slithering around her bicep clutching hard at her purse, as her long, skinny legs teeter atop a pair of impossibly high wedged heels.

With both hands raised in surrender, wanting her to know I mean no harm, I slowly approach. All too aware that the slightest misstep will only serve to scare her off.

“Marliz—it’s me. Please don’t run. We need to talk . . .”

Her gaze darts wildly. She lifts a hand to her hair. Then the next thing I know, she’s spinning on her heels and racing for the barrier. Her left hand raised before her, she aims her bright blue tourmaline ring toward the wall, causing a blinding flash of bright light and a glimmering veil of dust that seems to swallow her whole. One moment she’s there, and the next I’m left staring at the empty space where she stood. Wondering if I somehow imagined it, until I see the trampled mound of glittering powder she left in her wake.

After a quick look around to ensure no one’s looking, I drop to my knees and skim a tentative hand over the top. Coating my fingers with a strange, dark, sparkling substance with razor-sharp edges that looks nothing like the usual construction dust.

I quickly fill my palms with the stuff, pull my hat from my head, and drop it into my cap. While I may not know what it is, one thing’s for sure: This is not your average rebuild.

The Rabbit Hole is getting a mystical makeover.

The building’s enchanted—protected by some kind of spell—and the Richters are at the helm of it all.

Just as I suspected, they’re not dead—they haven’t gone anywhere.They may be lying low for now, but they’re in there—somewhere—I feel it in my bones.

They’re plotting.

Planning.

Biding their time.

Just as I’m biding mine.

SEVEN

DACE

“How long is this gonna take? I have to be at work in an hour.” I cast an agitated glance at Leftfoot, but he purposely ignores me and hurries me along toward my truck.

Settling beside me, he thrusts an impatient finger toward the window, and says, “Make a left at the corner.”

“Care to tell me where we’re headed?” I crank the key in the ignition, once, twice, until the engine roars to life.

“Do you always need to know your destination?” His eyes dart toward mine, the question as wry as his look.

“As the driver, I find it comes in handy, yeah.” I clench my jaw and ignore the stop sign at the corner, hardly bothering to slow as I barrel into the turn.

“Who taught you how to drive?” Leftfoot squints. His eyes so hooded it’s impossible to tell if he’s joking or serious.

“You did.” I shrug. Aware of the tension draining from my shoulders, my spine, when his delighted laugh bellows between us.

“But I’m serious about needing to get to work,” I say, thinking maybe this time he’ll listen. “I can’t be late. That sort of thing doesn’t go over well.”

“This is more important than work.” Leftfoot bobs his head as he takes in a string of broken-down adobes lining the street.

“Easy for you to say.” I shake my head, rub a hand over my chin.

“You want to work at that gas station forever?” His gaze veers toward me.

“Forever?” I turn to face him. “No thanks. For the duration of the summer? Well, yes, that’s what I was hoping. I need money to live on, Leftfoot. I live in the real world, you know.”

“You live in the Middleworld.” Leftfoot grins, slapping his knee as he laughs hard at his joke.

“And you don’t?”

He shakes his head, eyes glinting at the turn this conversation is taking. “As medicine man, I have one foot in this world, and one foot in the spirit worlds. And today, if you’ll stop resisting my efforts, I’m going to teach you how to bridge those worlds too.”

“Seriously?” I quirk a brow. “And we can accomplish all of that in the span of an hour? Because that’s all I’ve got, as I’ve already mentioned.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” His grin fades. His voice takes a sharp turn. “This day should come as no surprise. I’ve been leading you to this moment since you were a kid. You’re finally deemed ready.”

“I’m finally deemed ready? Or the El Coyote situation has become so dire my shelf date got bumped?”

“Does it matter what prompted it?”

“You’re in charge, you tell me.”

He laughs again, even though I was entirely serious and not trying to be funny. He grabs his belly and howls like the madman I’m suspecting he is. Finally calming himself enough to lead me through a series of turns that takes us straight to the reservation where I was born and raised.

“Why didn’t you just tell me we were headed here?” I make no attempt to hide my annoyance.

“Because you would’ve taken a route of your choosing which would most likely involve a shortcut or two.”

“In the interest of saving time and fuel, yeah, you’re right, I would have.”

“And what purpose could that possibly serve when I need you to get used to following directions?” He looks at me like he wants me to reply, but before I can, he’s off and running again. “Make no mistake, since the moment you inhaled your first breath, your life has been a test that you are always on the verge of failing. If you want to pass, and you’re ambitious to the degree that I’m sure that you do, then you need to listen. You need to pay attention. You need to let go of your attachment to things that hold no real importance. And you need to learn to embrace the importance of taking the necessary steps to do a job properly.”

“What does it matter, if the end result is the same—or, in my case, even better?”

“You think that just because you shave ten minutes off the clock and save an extra gallon or two of fuel you would’ve been better off ?”

I look at him dumbfounded—sure that the question must be rhetorical.

“Then I’m afraid this is going to take even longer than I thought.” He shakes his head sadly, and motions for me to drive on.

Instead of directing me to his house like I thought, Leftfoot leads me to Chay’s where he and Leftfoot’s apprentice, Cree, are busy getting four of Chay’s vast stable of horses saddled up and ready to ride.

“All set?” Leftfoot glances between the two men.

Chay nods, Cree grunts, as I resist the urge to look at my watch.

Thing is, as nervous as I am about being late for work—or, more likely, losing my job—I know better than to doubt Leftfoot for long. Around these parts, he’s honored, revered. And though he’s taken me under his wing since the day I was born, I try not to take his teachings for granted. It’s taken me years of hard work, over a decade spent earning his trust and respect, to even get to this point.

From what I’ve seen over the last sixteen years, many have knocked on his door, but only a few are allowed entry.

Whatever he insists on revealing today must be important—possibly sacred. He knows what a struggle money’s always been for Chepi and me. He would never risk a job I sorely need if he wasn’t convinced it was of the utmost importance.

He turns to me with a knowing gaze, leaving me to suspect that he spent the last few minutes eavesdropping on my innermost thoughts. Then he nods toward the smallest horse in the group—the one that’s barely bigger than a small Shetland pony, and motions for me to hop on.

I stand before the horse, refusing to budge. Sure this is yet another one of his tests I’m destined to fail, but no way am I riding that thing. I’ll look ridiculous. He’s smaller than the pony I learned to ride on.

Leftfoot shakes his head, working his jaw as he says, “Do yourself a favor and rid yourself of your vanities, and the foolish assumptions they cause you to make. You’ve never ridden Big Thunder. I guarantee he’ll surprise you.”

“Big Thunder?” I shake my head. Shuffle my feet uncertainly. But after a few prolonged moments under the elders’ impatient glare, I climb on. And, just as I suspected, they waste no time indulging a long, hearty laugh at my expense.

Chay and Cree take the lead, talking mostly among themselves, as Leftfoot occasionally calls out to various animals and birds. Many of which are considered to be dangerous and predatory—but who, in the thrall of Leftfoot’s calm, peaceful energy, merely follow along for a bit, before moving on. While I mostly fight to keep pace and stay on my steed, whose power and strength defy his small stature. Studiously making a point to observe all I can, remembering what Leftfoot said about my life being a test, and knowing this particular lesson began the moment I ran into him at Gifford’s. Leaving no doubt he’ll call upon me to access these observations later.

The ride drags on much longer than expected, consuming the better part of the day. Finally ending when Leftfoot dismounts by a small grove of trees where we tether our mounts in the shade and continue on foot up a long, steep trail ending at the mouth of a cave.

Same cave I visited when my vision quest collided with Daire’s.

She was scared. Hungry, thirsty, tired, and desperate to end it. Caught in a sort of netherworld between delusions and reality, she was just about to slip past the border and wave a white flag in surrender, when I appeared before her and urged her to stay. To see her initiation through to its end.

I told her we were different. Not like the others. That our paths were chosen for us and it was our job to follow them and live up to the task. Something of which I become more convinced each day.

Then I gave her a glimpse of her future.

Showed her the radiant, magnificent being she could someday be if she could just stay the course.

Luckily, it worked.

Still, being here now somehow feels wrong. This cave belongs to the Santoses. Without Daire, I have no right to enter.

The elders move a round me, as though I’msome annoying obstacle they’re forced to tolerate. Chay sprinkles a fresh layer of salt along the front entrance that’s meant to keep it free from predators and intruders—including, possibly, us? As Leftfoot looks at me and says, “You recognize it?” Accurately reading my expression.

I nod. “It’s sacred ground for Seekers.” I meet his gaze. “I’m not sure we have any right to intrude. We have our own sacred places—why force ourselves on theirs?”

“Since when have I ever forced myself anywhere?” Leftfoot makes an exasperated face, and pushes ahead of me until he joins Cree and Chay inside the cave, while I remain stubbornly fixed outside. Trying not to cringe under the weight of Leftfoot’s scrutinizing glare when he says, “You questioning me?”

I shift my weight from foot to foot, knowing I shouldn’t, that I have no place to doubt his wisdom, yet there’s no denying the truth.

I rub a hand over my chin, shoot him an apologetic look.

Only to see him grin as he says, “Good. You passed. Never trudge onto sacred land without a proper invitation. But now that you’ve been summoned, you have a handful of seconds to join us, before the offer will close and you’ll be shut out for the duration.”

EIGHT

DAIRE

I enter the house to the sound of shrieks and giggles drifting from under the door of my old room that can only mean one thing: Lita and Axel are at it again.

I head for the sink, drop my cap on the counter, flip on the faucet, and stick my head under the spray. Looking to cool off after a long run in the scorching heat, and hopefully drown out the blare of the love-fest down the hall.

With my ponytail clinging to my neck, and water streaming down the back of my tank top, I pour a tall glass of iced ginger tea and position myself before the fan I’ve propped on the counter. Surveying the pile of dirty bowls in the sink, the mixer stand speckled with crud, the baking pan left to cool on the stove—all the usual remnants of yet another failed breakfast experiment.

I’m annoyed by the mess.

Annoyed to always return home to this.

But mostly, I’m annoyed by the sheer force of their happiness—and my inability to warn them of their ill-fated future.

We’re doomed.

Every last one of us.

Making me feel like a virus—infecting everyone around me.

The only ones who stand half a chance are Auden and Xotichl. And yet, there’s no denying that things between them aren’t quite as intense as they were. Ever since he left Epitaph to work on a solo act, he’s off playing gigs in other faraway cities. And while I know it’s been hard on Xotichl, she’s mostly really proud of him. She knows how hard he’s worked for this, and how much it means to him.

I turn back to the sink and flip on the faucet again. This time filling the basin with warm sudsy water, preparing to clean up Lita’s mess, when she enters the kitchen with gleaming brown eyes, cheeks flushed light pink, and a tumble of dark waves cascading messily over her shoulders, the newly bleached ends nearly meeting her waist.

“Didn’t hear you come home.” She grins happily as Axel comes to stand beside her in a pair of dark denim jeans and a white V-neck tee that Lita picked out for him. And though he looks undeniably good, it’s still weird seeing him in anything other than the white tunic he wore in the Upperworld.

“You were busy.” The words come out gruffer than I intended, or maybe not. My mood is unstable, my nerves are jangled, and while I’m tempted to blame the heat, I know better. This is about the dream. No matter how hard I pushed myself during my run, I just couldn’t ditch it.

“Sorry.” Lita’s tone is as sheepish as the look on her face. “Sorry for the noise, the mess, and the overall intrusion on your life.” She sneaks a peek at Axel, motioning for him to grab the dish towel as she edges me back toward the fan and takes over the washing. “To be honest, Daire, I’m not quite sure how to be around you anymore.”

I lean against the counter, unsure how to take that. Catching the cautionary look Axel shoots her as he whispers, “Lita—”

But Lita’s not one to be shushed, and so she hands him a bowl to dry as she looks at me and says, “Truth is, when you’re not outwardly irritated, you’re so cut off and withdrawn it makes me miss the annoyed sighs and frowny faces you make.”

My gaze drops to my feet. Her words cut to the bone, yet there’s no denying their truth.

“And even though everyone tells me to back off and give you the space that you need—thing is, it’s been six months, and—”

“Six months, and what? What’s that supposed to mean? Is that the timeline you’ve placed on my grief ?” I’m seething, glaring, ready to explode, but to her credit she continues washing and rinsing, keeping her cool.

“That’s not fair and you know it. I miss Paloma too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. What I meant was, it’s been six months of watching you shut us all out, acting like we’re in the way. And while I’m aware that, technically speaking, we probably are, we’re not the enemy here, okay? We’re your friends. And we’re here to help. We’re dying to help. We’re begging to help. And we feel like we’re left to idle on the sidelines, just passing the time. Looking for ways to relieve some of your burden, only you won’t let us.”

My shoulders sag in surrender. While there’s no denying I needed to hear it, that doesn’t mean it didn’t sting. “But that’s the thing—you can’t help.” My eyes find hers.

“How do you know we can’t help if you don’t let us try?” She hands the last bowl to Axel, wipes her hands on her shorts, and heads for the stove where she retrieves the baking pan and unceremoniously dumps the muffin remains into the trash.

“You can’t help because I refuse to endanger you any more than I already have.”

She dunks the pan in the sink, leaving it to soak, as she squares off on me. “Well, I hate to break it to you Daire, but just living in this godforsaken town puts us in danger. At least with you, we’re fighting on the side of good. At least with you, we’re protected by knowledge and awareness. C’mon Daire, let us in. Let us help. You don’t have to go this alone.”

I look to Axel for support. He more than anyone should know what it’s like for people like me. But he remains focused on returning bowls to their cupboards, spoons to their drawers, as I stand before the whirring fan blades and say, “But that’s the thing—I do have to go this alone. That’s pretty much the nature of being a Seeker. We train with a mentor, maybe enjoy a brief, ill-fated love affair that usually results in a child, only to end up alone and dooming those poor children to the same lonely fate. It’s what happened to Paloma, and all those who came before her. It’s a well-documented fact. I can prove it, if you want.”

“No need, I believe you.” She shakes her head, scrunches her forehead. “Though I can’t help but think you’ve successfully beaten the odds too many times to surrender so easily.”

I push away from the counter and turn to gaze out the window toward Paloma’s garden, and the collection of strange, hybrid plants I’ve struggled to take over. While they continue to thrive and bloom, it’s not with the same intensity as when they were under my grandmother’s care. She’s a hard act to follow. And while I’m doing my best, I can’t help but feel like I’m falling remarkably short.

While I’ve no doubt Lita’s feelings are echoed by the rest of my friends, while she’s merely acting as a spokesperson, it’s not nearly as easy as they think. And the irony is that her all-consuming love for Axel is as doomed as my own love for Dace.

That’s just the way it’s always been. And history has an uncanny way of repeating itself.

“Intent is magick’s most important ingredient,” Axel says from behind me. “And belief is the spine of intent.”

I whirl around to face him, having almost forgotten about his talent for eavesdropping on thoughts. “I thought that was fading?”

“It comes and goes.” He shrugs. “The point is, I’m not giving in without a fight. So why have you given up long before the fight’s even had a chance to begin?” His voice is even, his expression determined. His deep lavender eyes shifting from the deepest violet to the softest lilac.

“So you know.” My tone is resigned, my gaze appraising.

He returns the look with one of his own.

“You’re not buying into their silence. You know they’ll resurface.”

Lita shifts between us, waiting for someone to clue her in to the truth behind our veiled conversation.

“I’m sure this is the calm before the storm. And I’m committed to enjoying a quiet respite for as long as it lasts.” Axel arcs an arm toward Lita and she’s quick to scurry to his side. “I’m prepping, Daire, just like you are. But I’m also indulging in a chance to rest, refuel, and yes, even enjoy myself.” He hugs Lita tightly, kisses the top of her head. “Maybe you should try it sometime. Might do you some good.”

I glance between them. So flushed and satisfied—so caught in the grips of their heady swirl of happiness—who am I to deny them? Besides, I’m pretty sure Axel already knows the grim possibility of things actually working between them. After all he forfeited—first to save me, then to be here with Lita—they deserve every smidgen of joy they can manage. Won’t be long before such things are much harder to come by.

I hook a thumb in the general direction of their bedroom and say, “You call that a quiet respite?” Enjoying the sight of Axel’s pale face flushing red as Lita shoots me a worried look that fades the moment I grin. “Go.” I wave them away, and head for my room. “Frolic. Be free. We’ll catch up tonight. For now, I need to go change. My first client is due any minute.”

NINE

DACE

Cree builds a small fire as Leftfoot gestures for me to sit beside it.

I swipe a hand across my brow and shoot him a skeptical look. “Is this really necessary?” I point toward the flames. “It’s triple digits outside. I was enjoying the relief.”

“Sit.” Leftfoot scowls. Chay frowns. And I’m quick to obey. “This is not about your enjoyment,” he says.

“Clearly.” I flash a quick grin, but Leftfoot’s not having it.

“Tell me what you see.” He kneels beside me, ducks his head toward the flames.

“I see a fire, burning logs, wisps of smoke.” I shrug, knowing better than to pretend to see more when I don’t.

“Look deeper. Meditate on the flames for as long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes to what, exactly?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

He settles beside me, humming a familiar childhood tune, as Chay lingers behind, and Cree leans against the far wall.

I stare into the flames. Forcing my breath to slow, my gaze to relax, as I work on ridding myself of all expectation. Despite Leftfoot’s constant reminders that there are no right and wrong images when it comes to scrying, it’s tough to overcome my innate need to please him.

I’ve spent the last six months preparing myself both mentally and physically. Pushing my body to the edge of exhaustion with punishing workouts—pushing my magick to surpass the usual skills—pushing my mind to see more, intuit more, to embrace the absolute oneness of everything in the universe. And though I’ve been on the lookout for signs of transformation, a stirring of the beast that made itself known last New Year’s Eve, there’s been no sign of him.

Until now.

The wood cracks and sizzles.

The flames swirl and dance.

As great whiffs of smoke rise and bend, shrink and expand. Morphing into a replica of the beast that dwells deep within.

I recognize it the instant I see it.

He’s glorious.

Breathtaking.

Fierce and strong.

A creature of stature and grace, with long sharp talons and a crown of white feathers encircling his head—capable of so much more than I’d ever be on my own.

“Talk to me,” Leftfoot says, sensing the shift in my mood.

After giving a detailed description of the beast, Leftfoot nods his approval and motions for Chay to bring me the large, cotton sack he hauled all the way here. The contents rattling as he deposits the bag beside me, I take a moment to give silent thanks for the magick to come, then yank on the drawstring and snake a hand toward the bottom. My fingers butting against a smooth, long object with identical holes on either side, I ease it free of the opening and raise it before me.

Despite knowing I shouldn’t be surprised by what I see, after all, Chay’s a vet, which gives him plenty of access to such things, that doesn’t stop me from gazing upon it in wonder. Up until now, I’d never seen an actual horse skull before.

I flip it over in my hand, as Leftfoot says, “You are guided by Horse—a symbol of freedom, power, and enlightenment. His is a commanding presence. A powerful spirit animal. Teaching us the benefits of patience, kindness, and cooperation. The spirit of the Horse encourages us to awaken our power to endure and reach our full potential. Now it’s time for you to reach yours.”

I lift my gaze to the flames, watching as the image of the beast continues to undulate before me. The sound of Leftfoot’s voice filling the cave. “Set the skull before you, then place your palm over the top of the bag and use your magick to summon the other bones to you.”

I’m quick to obey, first palming a rib bone, then what looks to be the cervical vertebrae.

“After arranging the bones from smallest to largest, place your hands on your knees, palms facing the ceiling, then project the bones into the fire using only your will. And whatever you do, whatever occurs, do not flinch. Do not resist. Stay steady, strong, and unwavering in your focus. Don’t try to control the ceremony. Allow it to unfold as it will.”

I concentrate on the bones, sending them soaring into the flames where, one by one, they explode on contact. The resulting resonance so jarring, so deafening, it takes all of my will not to take cover and bolt for the exit.

The bones splinter and crack. Dissolving into hundreds of jagged pieces that swirl above our heads in three distinct clouds of disparate particles that eventually find their way to the ground where they fall in perfect formation as a heavy silence settles around us.

I look to Leftfoot for guidance. Unsure how to interpret the event. Watching as the old medicine man continues to stare into the flames. “That day at the sweat lodge, you claim to have made your choice based on what you saw during your soul jump. In case you’ve been wondering, I showed you that message for a reason.”

I nod in assent, knowing exactly which message he refers to. Although Leftfoot showed me a lot of things that day, invited me in for an all-access pass into his soul code, there was one message that stood out amongst all the rest.

One that I had to delve deep to see.

One that changed everything.

And though I know the reveal was no accident (nothing Leftfoot does ever is), later, when the plan turned against me—when the darkness inside lodged itself deep and resisted all attempts to expel it—when my eyes turned like Cade’s—when Daire grew first concerned, then afraid—I couldn’t help but wonder why.

Why did he show it to me when he knew all along what I’d choose?

“Sometimes you must venture into the dark to bring forth the light.” I repeat the message he shared with me. Having adopted it as my mantra from the moment it was revealed, the words come easily.

“While the statement is true, you used the line as proof that you should make the choice you were determined to make all along.” His tone is sharp though it’s not meant to sting. Leftfoot is merely stating the truth.

“And every action yields a reaction.” I frown, the words coming from a place that allows for perfect recall of that day.

“The moment those dueling curls of smoke rose up before you, your choice was made. Maybe even before.” Leftfoot’s face grows dark, hooded, as he returns his focus to me. The absolute veracity of his words leaving me no choice but to duck my head in shame.

I’d decided long before I entered that sweat lodge which path I’d choose, and I used the events as an excuse to proceed. I was sure that choosing darkness over light would strengthen me—allow me the necessary edge to defeat the Richters and protect Daire.

Now I know better.

After a long bout of silence, I lift my chin and regard him with smoke-stung eyes and a profound sense of unease. “Did I make the wrong choice—or was I merely following my destiny?”

“Destiny is inevitable.” Leftfoot’s gaze centers on mine, though his thoughts grow distant, drifting to a faraway place. “In the end, all roads lead to the end.”

“You once said that the bit of darkness I ingested is the very thing that makes me human, maybe even normal.”

“The darkness inside you allows for a more human experience. Giving you the very thing you lacked before: an insider’s knowledge of the two faces of man—the constant struggle between darkness and light. But make no mistake, you’re not entirely human, Dace. Your inherent nature is something much greater.”

I close my eyes and sigh.

My birth. Of course. What else could it be?

I’m the product of violence.

Black magick.

Dark interference.

Sorcery at its worst.

Wrought from the bleakest, purest form of evil, my creation was aided by demons, beasts, the restless undead, and other dark, fetid things dredged up from the depths.

“There’s a reason you survived. A reason Leandro couldn’t extinguish your light, no matter how hard he tried. And it’s not for the reason you think. Seems you have a big role to play.”

I lift my gaze to meet his, hoping he’ll choose to elaborate on what that role might be. But he just motions for me to get up and stand beside him.

“Time to read the bones.” He arcs a finger toward the scattering of skeleton bits now spread across the dirt in patterns that at first look don’t make any sense. “Describe what you see.”

My gaze moves over them until three very distinct shapes begin to form.

I inhale a sharp breath. Swing my head between the startling array of bones and the old medicine man beside me.

It can’t be.

There’s no way.

After everything that’s happened, how could it amount to this?

Leftfoot motions toward that rising curl of smoke that once represented the glorious beast within, now transformed into the dreaded monster I’m in the midst of becoming.

“The bones never lie.” His voice is a match for the remorse that I feel. “This is one of the oldest forms of divination. And, in your case, it’s appropriate to say it came straight from the Horse’s mouth.” He cracks a smile, offering a welcome bit of levity in a room gone heavy with dread.

Though my own expression is bereft when I say, “Now that I know, what do I do?”

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” His gaze grows so hooded, so shadowed, it’s impossible to read. “I’m afraid my guidance ends here. The next move is yours.”

I balk. Sure he can’t be serious. Despite the absolute finality of his expression, his word. “You’re abandoning me? Now? Just when I need you the most?”

“I’ve taught you as well as I was able. Instilled within you the necessity of rooting yourself firmly in your own truth.”

I stare at him incredulously. “And what kind of truth is that?” I motion toward the bones. “I never wanted this! Everything you taught me brought me closer to the light. And now . . .” I rake a hand through my hair, press my fists to my eyes. Hardly able to believe the horrible turn destiny has decided to make.

“Know this.” Leftfoot rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s never enough to just accumulate knowledge and skills. It’s what a person does with what he knows that defines who he is.”

“Every man must decide the kind of path he’ll walk.” I return my focus to the bones, reciting yet another of Leftfoot’s many lessons. “Turns out it’s not true at all. I never wanted this path. Never asked for any of this.”

“Didn’t you?” Leftfoot moves away, all the while watching me intently. But I can’t meet his look. Can’t bear the truth in his gaze. “You made your choice that day in the sweat lodge. And now it seems it’s taken on a life of its own.”

I clutch at my stomach, feeling sick, drunk, as though I might vomit. I stoop toward the dirt. Duck my head low until the key that swings forward, slaps at my chin, serves as a sobering reminder that no matter how dire the prophecy, I can’t afford to give in.

Daire.

Everything I did was for her—for us—and now look.

“Only one way to vanquish the dark . . .”

I shake my head, struggle to pull myself up. My eyes finding his as I say, “Turn on the light?”

“The question is, will you? Can you? Or is it too late?”

I turn to see Chay and Cree, watching intently, their faces etched with deep lines of worry. Then I return my focus to the bone fragments before me. Shifting my focus from image to image until the message is sealed on my brain, hardwired into my soul. And, when it’s done, it seems I know just what to do.

I raise both hands before me, like a maestro conducting a symphony, and send the bones whirling back into the fire. Only, this time, instead of exploding, they snuff out the flames.

The cave grows dark.

The temperature drops.

And without so much as a single word between us, we gather our belongings and find our way back. The elders maintaining a wide berth around me now that my truth is revealed.

They fear me.

No doubt they should.

Still, it’s nothing compared to the fear I feel toward myself.

TEN

DAIRE

After a busy day of performing healings and determining the spirit animals of newborns (always my favorite), I head for Kachina’s stall in search of some fresh air and the clarity that often comes from a nice long ride. Needing to slip away for a bit before my house fills with friends and I’ll be forced to make good on Lita’s request that I start accepting their offers to help.

Kachina bobs her head up and down and whinnies in greeting, as Cat crouches and glares from the corner of the stall. Though he doesn’t scram the second he sees me as he usually does, and I consider that progress.

I toss a bridle onto Kachina and lead her from the yard. Allowing my horse to wander aimlessly as my mind does the same.

Usually I try hard to guide it, stay focused, on track. But today my fatigue overrules me, and it’s not long before I’m immersed in the memory of the day we lowered my abuela’s body into the earth. The ripe scent of freshly churned soil—the plaintive call of the lone raven soaring overhead—so immediate, so accessible, it’s as though I’m transported in time.

It’s been six full months since she passed.

Six full months since Cade Richter’s last heinous act.

Still, the pain of losing her is so raw, so real, it’s like a festering wound that refuses to heal.

I can’t imagine ever not feeling this way.

Can’t imagine how I’ll ever learn to live with the big, gaping void that remains in her place.

As always, Kachina displays an uncanny ability to tune in to my moods, if not my needs, when she leads me straight to the small, humble graveyard that rests off the side of the road.

The first time I came here, I instantly pegged it as shabby, random, and tragically run-down. But once I took the time to settle in and appreciate the abundance of handmade crosses and markers—the fat handfuls of blooms lovingly gathered in honor of loved ones; the helium-heavy balloons tethered to rocks, commemorating those who’ve passed on—I was quick to change my tune.

It’s a place of love, honor, and reverence.

It’s a place I’ve come to think of as sacred.

And it’s been far too long since my last visit.

I slide off Kachina’s back and give her a light slap on the rear. Urging her to wander and graze, as my feet instinctively carry me to the simple, rectangular plaques marking the place where the bodies of my father and grandmother rest.

Paloma once warned me to never mistake the gravesite as the soul’s final resting place. Assuring me that communion is possible anywhere. Still, at this particular moment, this is the place I most need to be. And I’m grateful for my horse having realized the truth that eluded me.

The patchy, parched grass pricks at my knees as I drop to the ground and take a good look around. Relieved to confirm that the magick wrought by the elders has stuck, and any attempt by the Richters to desecrate the place has been successfully thwarted. The grounds remain as untouched as the day Paloma brought me here to reveal the tragic truth of my father’s brief life.

The son of a powerful Seeker and revered Jaguar shaman, Django was destined to wield formidable power. But he turned his back on his destiny and ran off to L.A. at sixteen, only to fall madly in love with my mom, then die just a few months later in a motorcycle crash Paloma claims was no accident.

It was the work of the Richters.

Only they acted just a few days too late.

The seed was already planted.

Jennika was pregnant with me.

Yet, despite my vow to not repeat Django’s mistakes—to live up to my legacy and accept the destiny I was born to claim—sometimes I fear that I’m failing.

Missing the signs.

Falling remarkably short.

Though I’m not here to plead for the guidance and help of the dead. I’m on my own now. Something made all too clear the day the lone raven circled Paloma’s grave. I’m merely in search of the calming encouragement only they can provide.

I need a father’s protective embrace.

I need a grandmother’s wisdom.

I need the reassurance that I really am equipped to deal with the Richters, now that I’m sure they’re preparing a comeback.

And while Jennika would be here in a heartbeat—all I have to do is call and she’ll come running—I’m reluctant to do so when it was hard enough to convince her to leave.

Besides, Jennika’s finally settling into a life that’s good for her. She finally has a shot at forming a real and lasting relationship with Harlan. One where she’s not up and running the second things start to progress. I need to leave her to it. Give her the room she needs to make it work without my interference.

Like me, Jennika’s been running too long.

It’s time for us to lay down some roots.

I settle between the graves and ease onto my back. Reveling in the coolness of the earth, the fading wisps of clouds overhead, I stretch my arms to rest on each mound, and try to divine what to do next.

As Paloma once taught me, everything is made of energy, which means everything is alive. According to her, it’s as easy to scry from fire and tea leaves as it is to receive messages from the face of a rock. All that’s required is a willingness to believe, an ear tuned toward one’s inner voice, and a bit of focused concentration.

Only this time, despite my intent, despite my desire to see, the clouds remain an unreadable, stringy, white blur. Until a sudden stir of wind brushes past, lifting the strands of my hair and riffling the frayed hem of my faded denim cutoffs—and I take it as a sign.

As a daughter of the wind, this is no accident.

Rather it’s a timely reminder that I’m not as alone as I feared.

Never have been.

As Paloma once said: To become powerful is to allow a great power to work through you. No one walks alone.

While I know she was referring to the ultimate power, at the moment, I take great comfort knowing she and Django are included.

The sun continues to drop. Wind swirls and skips. And I rise to my feet and brush myself off.

Soon, it’ll be time to head back and confront the night still to come, but well before then, I have something important to do.

Though I didn’t realize it until now, as it turns out, it’s the reason I’m here.

I heave a deep breath and face the glorious, sun-shadowed peaks of the Sangre de Christo mountains. Finally willing to admit that until I confront my grief, I won’t be able to confront anything else.

For the last six months I’ve buried my sorrow in a punishing regimen of grueling workouts and daily six-mile runs. Then, after tending to the never-ending stream of Paloma’s former clients I’ve taken on, I drop by Dace’s apartment in a state of exhaustion, looking to numb myself in his arms.

Yet, in the wee hours of the morning, when the streets grow hushed and Dace is slumbering beside me, there’s nowhere to hide. And that’s when the pageant of things I should’ve done differently parades through my mind. The most glaring among them: allowing Cade to get the best of me—the best of us—when I gave that cursed tourmaline to Paloma.

Still, no matter how many times I reframe it, it’s not like I can change it. The outcome is final.

What’s done is truly done.

In the end, life amounts to little more than a series of choices. Some big, some small, but every action causes a reaction—and there’s no doubt it’s my own actions that landed me here.

Just like Paloma and Django’s actions landed them six feet below.

Despite Paloma’s warnings, Django chose to run from his destiny and it ended tragically.

Despite suspecting the tourmaline was cursed from the moment she laid eyes on it, Paloma chose to keep it.

Tormenting myself won’t change what’s been done. The only purpose it serves is to punish myself for things that were never mine to control.

Besides, what if there’s a chance Dace is right?

What if love really can overcome evil?

What if it’s as simple as that?

My thoughts toward myself are pretty much the opposite of loving. I’ve been ruled by self-hate and fear, and maybe it’s time I do better.

After all, Paloma trusted me, believed in me.

Maybe it’s time I trust and believe in myself.

With the sun quickly descending, glazing the mountains in a glorious sheen of purples and reds, I take a deep breath, steeple my hands to my chest, and make a true and solemn pledge to do better than I have.

To stop denying my grief.

Stop torturing myself by reliving a past I can’t change.

To let my friends in.

Lita was right. We’re all in this together. For a short while I knew that, yet ever since Paloma’s death I’ve been driven by fear, and so I’ve pushed them away in a misguided attempt to spare them from the kind of things that aren’t mine to control.

But no more.

With Kachina off grazing—with Wind tickling my skin—with the low guttural cry of a lone raven soaring circles over my head—I bow in reverence toward the mountain, and rededicate myself to my legacy.

To the destiny I was born to claim.

No matter what may become of me—I won’t go down easily.

The Richters will pay for the heinous acts that they’ve wrought on this town—on my loved ones—on the Lower, Upper, and Middleworlds, which are mine to keep balanced.

Then I lift my face to the heavens, drop to my knees, and cave in to my grief. Letting loose the deluge of tears I’ve held back for too long—allowing myself to fully experience the deep-seated pain of losing my grandmother, my mentor, my friend, a woman I truly loved and deeply admired.

I cry until my vision grows so blurry it’s impossible to see even a few feet before me.

I cry until my body grows exhausted and empty.

I cry until I’m suddenly silenced, suddenly strengthened, by an unexpected infusion of the purest, most buoyant stream of joy, beauty, and love flowing through me.

My ancestors are here.

I’m not alone.

Never was.

Although they don’t materialize before me, their presence is made known in the glorious chorus that fills up the sky.

Instinctively, I sway from side to side, gripped by a celestial melody I’m sure only I can hear. But when Kachina snorts and whinnies, when she tips her nose and perks her ears, I know she hears it just as clearly as I do.

It’s a symphony of leaves chimed by Wind, accompanied by Raven’s sweet song. And, if I’m not mistaken, I can even detect the low vibrato of Paloma’s treasured drum.

A sacred instrument, she referred to as a Spirit Horse. Its music akin to a heartbeat, its tempo said to open the portals that lead to the otherworlds.

There is nothing to fear, she told me then, just as she’s telling me now.

This symphony of nature is a message from my abuela. Of that, I am sure. A sort of opus from the natural world, telling me it’s time to rid myself of doubt. Time to trust in the wisdom of my ancestral bloodline. And I’m not one bit surprised Paloma chose to communicate in this way.

With that glorious chorus swirling within me, I leap onto Kachina’s back and race toward home. Only to find a large white box tied with a ribbon as bright and crimson as freshly drawn blood, waiting for me on the stoop.

Dace! He must’ve left a present to distract me from the dream.

I rush toward it, drop to my knees, and go about removing the ribbon and tipping the lid. Only to release a deluge of bright red squares of packing confetti that spill at my feet.

I plunge my hands in, fingers digging deep. Until they butt up against something silky and cold, unyielding and stiff, that I ease free of the box and hold up before me.

A raven.

A dead raven, to be exact.

Its unseeing eyes marred with precisely placed globs of purple paint intended to mimic those of the raven who guides me.

His neck snapped cleanly in half.

His head crudely twisted so that it points the wrong way.

With a square of creamy white paper crammed in his beak.

I take a cursory look all around, checking for signs of Cade’s presence, but other than the coyote tracks left in the finely milled gravel lining the walkway, it seems he’s long gone.

Grasping the paper with the tips of my fingers, I look past the masked coyote with blazing red eyes embossed on the front, and unfold the card to find an invite to the Rabbit Hole’s Masquerade Ball.