Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(62)

I come down the stairs first. “So how does this work?”

“You are truly a creature made for violence,” Ma’ii murmurs, eyes taking in my slayer chic. “What is it that Neizghání called you? Chíníbaá?”

I point a finger at him. “Do not,” I warn him.

He raises his hands, the picture of innocence.

We gather in a clearing between the trailer, bar, and garage. Kai and me, with Ma’ii between us. Rissa joins Clive on the porch to watch, and even Grace comes out to stand at the back door of the bar and see the show. The bar opened a quarter hour ago, and there’s already a few patrons gathered there at the door with her.

“An audience. Great,” I mutter.

“People enjoy spectacle,” Coyote chides me. “And truly the two of you are a spectacle tonight. I did not know you were capable of such splendor, Magdalena. All this weaponry becomes you.”

I sigh and tug on the damn straps digging into my back. “Thanks, Ma’ii. Just what a girl likes to hear.”

He holds out his hands, one to me and the other to Kai.

I frown. “We have to hold hands?”

“Perhaps not,” he confesses, “but allow an old Coyote to indulge in the brief pleasure of young flesh tonight, even if only to hold your hand.”

Kai grasps Coyote’s hand tightly and leans forward to whisper to me, “Be happy he didn’t say we have to cuddle.”

He’s got a point.

“Ready, children?”

I take the trickster’s hand and look over at Kai, and despite the sorrows of the past few days, a grin breaks across my face. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” I admit. And then the smell of ozone fills my nostrils and the world ignites in flames.



Less than a second later, lightning strikes in Tse Bonito and there we stand—a monsterslayer, a Diné prince, and a trickster. I half expected to land in a sea of Law Dogs or in front of a blockade, but the street we’re on is empty, not a soul in sight. Like we’re in our own little pocket of the world.

I flip my hair out of my face and look up at the building looming before us. It’s some sort of abandoned motor inn, a wide parking lot fallen to cracked asphalt and tumbleweeds, a breezeway drive-up in front of glass double doors, leading to a check-in desk and a gift shop. Or used to, at least. Now the doors are boarded up and the inside is dark and slightly ominous. A sign outside proclaims the place THE SHALIMAR in a dated script right out of the 1950s. Which is probably the last time someone actually stayed here.

“What now?” I ask.

Kai stares up at the building, his face inscrutable. “We go inside.”

“There’s nothing here. It’s abandoned.”

“Not after sundown,” Ma’ii corrects me. “And not if you know how to look.”

“You coming in?” I ask him.

“I have a previous engagement,” he says, fluffing his robin’s-egg blue cravat with his claws. “The one you seek is called Mósí. She will have what you desire.” He checks his pocket watch.

“Thank you, Ma’ii,” I say. For all that we bicker, I can’t deny that he is holding up his end of the bargain.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” he warns me with a smile. “You may well curse me before this is over. Now . . .” He waves a hand at the entrance.

I turn toward the front door, but Kai lays a hand on my arm. “Wait,” he whispers, eyes tracking Coyote. We stand a moment and watch as he strolls down the deserted Tse Bonito street, walking stick swinging.

Kai waits until Ma’ii’s completely gone before he reaches into his shirt and lifts up a small yellow bag he has tied to a leather string around his neck. He opens it to remove a pouch of what looks like fine yellowish sand and a small container of silver-colored salve.

“Why didn’t you want Ma’ii to see your medicine bag?”

“It’s not something he needs to know about.”

I’m curious what he’s worried about Ma’ii knowing, but I can’t say I disagree. Ma’ii’s helping, but it’s for his own purposes. He’s still not entirely trustworthy. Kai opens the yellow sand pouch first. “Take this,” he says as he offers it to me. “Lick your pinkie and dip it in, and then into your mouth.” He sighs at my look of suspicion. “I promise it won’t hurt you.”

I do as I’m told. It tastes sharp and unpleasant. “What is it?”

“Bitterroot. It wards off bad medicine and those who wish you harm. Won’t do anything about a fist or a gun.” He looks at me pointedly. “Any danger in here will be more subtle. Mósí is a Bik’e’áyée’ii, not an irate cop or even a mindless monster, and this”—he holds up the silver jar of paint—“will help you fight the things you can’t always see.”

I eye the small container. “What is that, more makeup? I think I’ve got on enough makeup.”

He gives me a half smile. “I’m wearing it.”

“That’s your prerogative, pretty boy.”

“It’s medicine,” he explains. “Put it on your eyes and it helps you see through illusions.”

His fingers are gentle on my skin as he dabs the mixture across my eyelids. His face is inches from mine, and his warm breath makes my lashes tremble. This close, he smells of cedar and a hint of clean tobacco. It’s the smell of good medicine, the smell of Tah’s hogan. I close my eyes and breathe it in. After a moment I feel him step away.