Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(21)

“These seem to be . . . hovering.”

“Waiting?”

I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I don’t know.”

“I’ve got special shot in the shells under your seat. Corn pollen and obsidian. It won’t kill them, but it will slow them down. Tie them to the place where they stand.”

He reaches under his seat to pull the box of homemade ammo out.

“You see one coming, crack the shell open and douse it,” I explain.

“Then what?”

“Then we run like hell.”

He pockets a few shells, his face tight.

It’s not a great plan, but if there’s as many as Kai says there are, it’s all I got.

Thankfully, we don’t need my plan. Despite the signs of carnage around us, Crownpoint remains eerily empty of living things, and the dead things keep their distance. I remember the way to the college, and I drive us through the haunted town, turning right on Lower Point and left on Hogan Trail, then curve around past the empty security shack at the campus entrance.

The old library is a glorified double-wide, with tan metal siding and a green matching roof. Someone has tacked a handicapped ramp and a grand two-story entryway in the middle of the building, four concrete pillars framing double doors. And the roof on the back of the building rises up in a half butterfly to add extra windows and space that suggest a second-story atrium inside. It’s not a bad-looking building, except for the charred foundation that runs the length of the outside. Someone has tried to burn it down recently, but they didn’t try very hard. It looks like they set a match to the brush and dry yellow grass around the building, but didn’t stay to make sure it actually burned. Point for us.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Kai asks, his voice still quiet.

I throw the truck into park and turn off the engine. “No. But there’s information in there we need, right?”

He nods.

“Then we go in.”

I reach under the driver’s seat and pull out a metal box. Take a small key from my key chain and insert it into the lock. It turns and opens. Inside is a .40 caliber Glock 22 with standard capacity fifteen rounds. I take out the gun and offer it to Kai.

“What is that?”

“It’s a gun.”

“I know that. I mean, why are you giving it to me?”

“You’ll need it if there’s something big and bad in there.”

“I think the big and bad has come and gone.”

I stretch my arm out, insistent. “Take it anyway.”

“I don’t need it. I can’t . . . and killing something might . . .” He shakes his head.

I pause, my hands clenching around the cold metal. “Have you never used a gun?”

“I told you. I’m a healer, not a killer.”

“You said you could handle yourself!” I shout, louder than I mean to be. But it never even occurred to me that Kai would refuse to use a gun.

He winces at my volume and makes a reassuring gesture with his hands. “I can take care of myself,” he says, voice calm. “But I don’t need a gun to do it.”

I swallow the scream I want to let loose. “Tah entrusted your life to me. If you make me go back and tell that nice old man that I got you killed on my watch, I will throttle you.”

His lips tick up. “I’ll be fine.”

I put the gun back and shove the box under the seat. “You better be.” I get out of the truck. Slam the door for emphasis. He slides out of the passenger’s side door and follows me up the handful of concrete steps, his dress shoes clicking against the hard surface. I stare at his offending feet. “First chance, you get real shoes. Those things are so loud the monsters will hear us coming a mile away.”

After all the noise I made, complaining about Kai’s shoes is pretty rich, but he has the sense not to argue. I pause near the door. The burned-out foundation is closer here, and I lean down and press a hand against the blackened earth. I hold my hand to my nose and sniff. It smells faintly sweet, almost metallic, like wiring insulation gone bad.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just a hunch.” I stand and brush the ash from my hands. “Let’s check the library first.”

Kai follows me up to the entrance. I stop, brace my shotgun against my shoulder, and aim it at the double doors.

“Open the front doors,” I say.

“Me?”

“Yes. I’m the one with the gun, so you’re the one opening the doors.”

He grumbles unhappily, but he steps up, smart enough to stay out of my line of fire, and tugs on one of the doors. It swings open. I wait, ready to shoot anything coming toward us. Nothing does, so I go inside.

The library is deserted. It has the feel of a place that’s been empty a long time. Wide-open front entrance, decorated in institutional browns and grays. The generator is out, and the only light filters in through the windows and skylight, wan and watery. A layer of desert dust covers the tops of shoulder-high shelves. More dust coating the bindings of books. Up here near the entrance there are rows of periodicals—Native Peoples magazine, Smithsonian, an old Indian Country special report—all bearing pre–Big Water publishing dates.

Uneasiness slides down my spine. I never spent much time in libraries, not even when I was a kid, but this place feels more like a tomb than anything.