Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(50)

The rest of the house is just as neat and orderly as the living room. I spy a nice open-seating kitchen decorated in the same shades of lavender and white as the rest of the house. There’s even a tabby cat sitting on a windowsill. In this place, time seems to have stood still, as if the horrors of the Big Water never happened. Except, of course, for Rick.

I hear a door close and see Clarissa coming back from down a long narrow hallway. “You can come on back now,” she says, and waves me forward.

“So, Clarissa,” I start.

She cuts me off. “It’s Rissa. Only my mom calls me Clarissa. You call me Rissa.”

“Okay, Rissa,” I say as I follow her broad back down the hall. I’m not a small woman, but Rissa has a good three inches and thirty pounds of muscle on me. It’s impressive. “I heard you carried me to my truck one night a few months back.”

She flips a thick auburn braid over one shoulder. “It happens sometimes. You were no trouble.”

“I didn’t rant and rave? Call you names?”

“Not me, anyway. Although that Neizghání sounds like a real dick.” She clears her throat. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

We stop in front of a closed bedroom door. “Your friend’s in here. Last I checked, he was asleep, but if you want to go see him, it should be okay.”

“How is he?”

“You saw his face. Broken nose, black eyes. Likely concussed. Surprised he’s in as good a shape as he is, considering how badly he got his ass kicked. He’ll probably piss blood for a few days.” She flushes red across her freckled cheeks like she wasn’t supposed to say that. Moves to open the door, and suddenly I can’t. I reach out to stop her. She pauses, looks at my hand on her arm, then at me.

“No,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “I don’t need to go in. Let him rest.”

“You sure?”

“If you’re sure he’s okay.”

“A few days of bed rest, but otherwise . . .” Another shrug, and she watches me, her hazel eyes no more than curious.

“Yeah. Sounds great.” I let go of her arm and turn to walk back down the hall. Away from Kai. Hesitate before I say, “Tell him I bought him twenty-four hours with Grace, and after that he’ll have to work out his own deal.”

Rissa frowns, curiosity turned to confusion. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”

“Because I’ll be gone.”





Chapter 22


And I plan to go. I load up the truck, slip on my leather jacket, and shrug into my shotgun holster. Then I decide not to risk the truck breaking down through the heat of the day, so I think to head east on foot, despite the heat, until I have an opportunity to relieve someone of their more reliable vehicle. Or make it to Crystal on foot if I have to. It’s not so far, maybe fifty miles as the crow flies. I could cover it in a few days.

For Tah. I tell myself I’m leaving Kai behind for Tah. Because I promised I’d keep his grandson safe. But part of me knows that’s not true. It’s for me, too. Because seeing Kai beaten and bleeding did something to me. Stirred feelings I don’t want to feel. And it’s like I told Tah at the beginning. All I can show Kai is death.

But as twilight gathers and the lights come on around the All-American, signaling that the place is open for its nightly business, I find myself still on the porch, parked in a rocking chair and sharpening my B?ker.

And that’s where Grace finds me.

She stands over me, all five feet of her. Not exactly towering, but the woman has presence. She plants her hands on her hips, narrows her eyes, and lets out a bark of a laugh. “You are looking grim, girl. Who you planning to kill with that big knife of yours?”

“Whoever needs killing, Grace.”

She stares at me a minute. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Maggie. I was kidding.”

She falls into the chair next to me. Slaps her ever-present bar rag against the opposite hand and mutters something I can’t quite catch under her breath. I’m pretty sure she’s cursing me again. I let the silence stretch.

“Heard about what happened to Tse Bonito,” she says. “Customers coming in. Saying there was a fire. That the old medicine man—”

“What do you want, Grace?” I say, cutting her off.

She stops. Keeps her eyes on the horizon. “Everyone mourns different,” she says quietly, her voice thick with compassion. “When I lost my Rick, people thought I should wail and tear my hair out. But I didn’t even cry, not once. I poured myself into my work, my kids. I let purpose eat up all those tears instead.” She sighs, heavy with memory. “But when I lost my baby, my firstborn, Cletus, I’d like to cry enough to flood the whole of Dinétah, I was wrung out so bad.” She wipes at her brow with her rag. “Don’t think I’ll ever stop crying for that child.”

I know what she’s trying to do. Tell me it’s okay to mourn for Tah.

“We don’t know for sure that he’s dead,” I say.

She doesn’t say anything, just rocks in her chair.

“I’m okay, Grace,” I tell her. “I’ve seen a lot of death. Lost family before, and Tah wasn’t . . . We weren’t related. We hadn’t even talked since last spring. It’s okay. So if you’re waiting for me to break down and cry on your shoulder or something . . .”