Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(25)

“You got anything?” I ask as I enter the library.

Kai’s camped out at one of those long wooden tables up front. He has a dozen discs spread out around him, little white labels stuck to each, and he’s scribbling notes on the edges of a page torn from a magazine. A reedy woman’s voice wafts up from the speaker of a CD player, talking Navajo mostly, with a few random English phrases thrown in. I drop into a nearby chair and lean in to listen.

“I know this story,” I say.

Kai looks up from his notes. I’m surprised too. But the story is familiar, one I’ve heard before. A story about Coyote and the Black God Haashch’ééshzhiní. Once the two tricksters were best of friends and were tasked with setting the stars in their place in the sky. Haashch’ééshzhiní, the Keeper of the Fire, had a plan for how the stars should be set. It was methodical. Ordered. But Coyote grew bored with his plan and tossed the stars into the sky haphazardly with an impetuous flip of a blanket.

The woman’s voice slows to a slur just as Coyote is reaching for the blanket, and a little red light on the player blinks furiously at us. Kai hits the stop button.

“Batteries,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m surprised we got that much juice out of the thing. It’s been sitting here how many years?”

“No charger?”

“It wasn’t in the box. And even if it was, no electricity.”

I worry the inside of my cheek, thinking. “That story mean anything to you?”

“Did you catch that part about fire?”

“Haashch’ééshzhiní. He gave fire to the five-fingereds. Set the stars ablaze.”

“Just a thought, but . . .” He trails off, taps the nub of the pencil he’s holding against the table.

“A thought?” I prompt him.

“I don’t know. Something about that fire. Maybe it’s related. Maybe it’s not. But I’d like to listen to the rest of these.” He runs a hand across the discs on the table. “See if something else comes up.”

I hesitate, drawing in a breath, and he looks over, expectant. “My trailer’s not far from here,” I tell him. “Just through the pass. Closer than Tah’s by a couple of hours. Why don’t we head there? I probably have batteries somewhere, and if I don’t, we can go back to Tse Bonito in the morning. Surely someone in the market is selling a plug that’ll fit that thing.”

He nods. “Sounds like a plan, Mags.”

“Sorry Crownpoint was a loss.”

“Not a total loss. We know something about an object that can give the stars life. And if they can give stars life, maybe they’re related to what we’re looking for. It could be a clue. You find anything?”

“Nope,” I say, not ready to explain my theory about Neizghání yet.

“Nothing more on your hunch about those burn marks?”

For a minute I think he must know I’m holding something back, but his face is set in blank friendliness, nothing suspicious. “No.”

“Well, we still may find some good info on the CDs,” he says, dumping the CDs and their player into a tote bag emblazoned with the technical college’s logo.

“Nice bag,” I observe.

He lifts up the canvas tote, inspecting it. “Found a whole bunch of them over there behind the reference desk. You want one?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“I wonder if I should get one for my cheii.”

“Sure. We went to Crownpoint, saw a bunch of dead people, learned about a firestarter, and all I got was this lousy tote bag.”

He laughs. Nobody ever laughs at my dumb jokes, and it’s enough to make me flush, pleased. He starts toward the exit, looping the tote bag handles over his shoulder. I follow. Watch as he gives one last mournful look at the abandoned library and pushes open the double doors.

He freezes, halfway through. Sucks in a startled breath, his knuckles turning white as he grips the door.

“What is it?” I ask, instantly alert. I slip the shotgun from my shoulder holster and come up beside him, using the wall for cover. He still hasn’t moved and I drop to peek around the corner, but all I see is the wheelchair ramp, an empty parking lot, my truck.

“Kai?”

He turns toward me, face ashen. Whispers a word I can’t quite hear. I lean closer, so he says it again.

“Ghosts.”

“How many?” I ask, my voice terse.

“Dozens,” he says. “More. Blocking the path to the truck.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking. Trying to remember what Neizghání said about how to fight ch’?dii. Trying harder to forget the helplessness of the ghost sickness. Because if I think about it too much, I might lose my shit. Fighting flesh and blood is one thing, but fighting sickness, something that kills from the inside, that’s something I’m not so good at.

“Do you still have those shotgun shells I gave you?”

Kai slowly lets go of the door. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out two shells. His hand shakes. He takes a deep breath and it steadies. I have two shells in my gun and another four in my ammo belt. But eight shells should be enough to get us to the truck.

I pull the obsidian throwing knife from my moccasin wrap. Take the shells from Kai. I wedge the tip of my knife into the edge of a shell until it cracks. “Hands.” Kai holds out his hands and I pour the obsidian shot into his palm. The corn pollen puffs briefly and then settles on his skin. I repeat the process with my other shells until there’s an oversize mound of obsidian and pollen cupped carefully in his hands. I take half for myself.