Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(48)

I shake off the thought, force myself to take a few breaths to tamp down K’aahanáanii.

He turns around, smiling, and waves me through. “Mom’s behind the bar!” he shouts as I pull through the gates. “She said park around back. Someone will show you where.”

I drive through the dusty parking lot to pull around to the back of the bar. To the right is an impeccably clean double-wide trailer, painted white with flower boxes in the windows and framed by a wide welcoming porch. Two people are sitting on rocking chairs in front of the trailer, rifles held loosely in their laps. They stand up and come down the steps toward us. They are twins, a man and a woman, both looking like variations of the kid at the front gate, with the same light brown freckled skin and red curly hair. The woman motions me over to a bank of garages across from the house, while the man hurries forward to open one of half a dozen garage doors. I pull the truck in, careful not to scratch the paint. Before I even get the engine off, the man opens the passenger’s side door and scoops Kai up, lifting him out of the truck like he weighs nothing. He hustles out of the garage and takes Kai back to the trailer. Just like that.

Surprised, I jump out to follow, but the woman blocks me with a muscled arm.

“Where is he taking him?” I ask, alarmed.

“We’ll take care of him. Mom wants to see you.”

I think about breaking past her and following Kai. The man has already reached the porch and is shouldering the front door of the trailer open. I watch as they disappear inside.

“I should be with him,” I protest.

She shakes her head, implacable. “Mom first.”

She’s right. I’m a guest, and if the host is asking for me, I have to go. I gesture for her to lead the way, and after she pulls the garage door closed to conceal my truck, we head to the back door of the All-American bar.



The door swings open to the perpetual twilight of all good dive bars. Straight ahead lies a wooden dance floor, and to the left, perched on a rectangle of wall-to-wall orange carpet that has seen better days, is a smattering of low round wagon-wheel tables and squat matching chairs. A long wooden bar stretches the length of the front wall, a line of barstools bellied up and waiting for customers.

Grace Goodacre is behind the bar, as she always seems to be. She’s a small woman with a nut-brown face dotted with sunspots and freckles, and a shock of white wavy hair she wears dreadlocked and tied back in a thick braid. Her mouth is smiling, warm with welcome, but her dark eyes are wary. She looks briefly toward my escort, and her daughter falls back to guard the door, rifle held ready.

Grace motions me forward, and I cross the empty dance floor to take a seat on one of the lonely barstools. She pulls me a beer from her tap and sets it in front of me.

“Don’t really drink beer,” I say.

She knocks a knuckle against the bar. “You’ll drink what I say you drink. I remember the last time you were here. Crying in your whiskey about that man of yours. Clarissa had to drag you out and let you sleep it off in your truck. From now on, you drink beer.”

I flush, hot. Look over my shoulder at her daughter, who must be the Clarissa in question. “Don’t really remember that, Grace.”

“Well, I remember it. And that’s all that matters.”

We stare at each other, the tension thick between us. I am at her mercy and I don’t like it. It makes my jaw ache. But I came to her. I need her help. And she knows it.

So I take a sip of beer. My eyes close, almost involuntarily, as the alcohol washes over me. The beer is cool and crisp and I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I take a few long swallows before I set the glass down.

Grace watches me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“It’s good,” I admit.

She sniffs, a kind of I-told-you-so. She’s won the first round, established who’s in charge, and now she busies herself wiping glasses like we’re old friends. “So what brings you to my door, Maggie Hoskie?”

“Might need a place to sit tight for a while. Expecting some heat from CWAG to be coming my way.”

She eyes the blood smeared across my chest, on my hands and face. “You payin’?”

“Don’t have much on me right now. This situation is kind of . . . unexpected.”

Her lips twist in disappointment. She raises a hand and Clarissa slides off her stool and out the back door. Minutes later she’s back, bearing the contents of my truck. She spreads it out on the bar and Grace begins sorting through my stuff, small hands quick and efficient. Her eyes rest on my shotgun, and I frown.

“You can’t have my shotgun,” I say.

She shrugs. “What do I need with your pump-action piece of shit when I’ve got an arsenal of AR-15s?” she asks.

“My point entirely,” I agree.

She cracks a smile. “Take your damn gun, Maggie,” she says, and I slide over to retrieve my shotgun before she can change her mind.

“It’s not a piece of shit, by the way,” I say. “This is a custom grip I had made to fit my hand. It cost me two days of labor bailing alfalfa. Worth every minute. Hey, you can’t have my jacket, either.”

She pushes the leather jacket my way, not even bothering to look up. “This coffee?” she asks, tapping the metal canister that holds the precious grounds.

I wave it away. “Take it.” Everyone wants that damn coffee. If it buys me some goodwill from Grace, it’ll be worth its weight in gold.