Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(88)

Something catches my eye down below. I watch my front door open. An old man steps out, a mug in his hand. I can see the white steam rising from the cup, almost smell the rich earthy aroma from here. My stomach rumbles unreasonably.

Tah looks directly at me.

I mutter a curse. Not a very strong one. Of course the old man can see me.

I make my way down the hill, my mutt trailing behind me. Night is settling in and I can hear the forest coming alive. The slow droning of insects, the shuffle of badgers in the thickets, the call of night birds. For the first time in days, I feel some of the heartache of Black Mesa lift from my shoulders.

Tah hands me the cup and I take it. Sip the dark bitter coffee, let it scald my mouth. Smile.

“Come on home, shí daughter,” he says to me, holding my front door open. “We’ll wait for him together.”

I don’t ask how he knows or if he hates me for what I did. I just take the kindness he offers. And wait for that storm, the likes that Dinétah has never seen, to break my way.





Acknowledgments


Thanks to the women of Write Club who let me join their writing girl gang. I was a true newbie, and you welcomed me anyway. To Hillary Fields, who asked me to consider a third way; Pam Watts, who said it was okay to be subtle; and Randi Ya’el Chaikind, who always showed up.

Thanks to everyone who GoFunded me to VONA/Voices in 2015, especially Tami Riddle, who bought the damn plane ticket.

To my fierce beta readers: Kaia Alderson, Tiera Greene, Mari Kurisato, and Leslye Penelope. Because of you, readers won’t have to visit the Sad Island, and they get that kiss, after all.

Thanks to my husband, Michael Roanhorse, who sacrificed time, art, and sometimes his man-card to support me. To my daughter, who complained every time Mommy had to go write, but also drew pictures of Maggie slaying the monsters for my office wall.

Thanks to Pernell Begay for correcting my Navajo spelling and making sure I stayed in my lane. Any and all mistakes/offenses are purely mine.

Thanks to Daniel José Older, who sent me my first rejection, but then made up for it x100. You didn’t have to answer all my annoying new writer emails, but you graciously did. After you told me, very nicely, to “chill.”

Thank you to my editor, Joe Monti, my coconspirator and friend. You believed in me and in Maggie and I will always be more grateful than words can express. And know that you will never get lost on the rez again because you and your family will always be welcome in our home.

Thank you to my superagent, Sara Megibow, for having my back and helping me plan world domination. We’ve got a way to go, but we’re well-stocked with the fancy wine and I believe in us!

Thank you, Tommy Arnold, for that seriously badass cover art.

Thank you to the great people at Saga Press who worked to get this book out in the world. It takes a village, or an incredible publishing team.

And thank you, everyone that is part of the weird and wonderful world of Book Twitter, for your enthusiasm, support, and community. I am honored.

Ku’daa, ahxéhee’, thank you.





Maggie Hoskie returns in

STORM OF LOCUSTS

The Sixth World: Book Two

Read on for an excerpt.…





Four men with guns stand in my yard.

It’s just past seven in the morning, and in other places in Dinétah, in other people’s yards, men and women are breaking their fast with their families. Husbands grumble half-heartedly about the heat already starting to drag down the December morning. Mothers remind children of the newest tribal council winter water rations before sending them out to feed the sheep. Relatives make plans to get together over the coming Keshmish holiday.

But these four men aren’t here to complain about the weather or to make holiday plans. They certainly aren’t here for the pleasure of my company. They’ve come because they want me to kill something.

Only it’s my day off, so this better be good.

“Hastiin,” I greet the man on my front steps. He’s all weathered skin and hard, lean muscle in blue fatigues, skull bandanna hanging loose around his corded neck, black hair shorn skull short. He’s also wearing a small arsenal. An M16 over one shoulder, a monster of a Desert Eagle at his hip, another pistol in a clip holster in his waistband. And I know he’s got a knife tucked in his heavy-soled boot, the left one, and another strapped to his thigh. He didn’t used to do that, dress for a worst-case scenario. But things have changed. For both of us.

“Hoskie.” Hastiin drawls my last name out. Never my first name, Maggie, always just the last, like we’re army buddies or something. Likely his way of trying to forget he’s talking to a girl, but that’s his problem, not mine. He shifts in his big black boots, his gear jingling like tiny war bells. His fingers flex into fists.

I lean against my front door and cross my arms, patient as the desert. Stare at him until he stops fidgeting like a goddamn prom date. I’ve learned a lot about Hastiin in the last few weeks, and I know the man shakes like an aspen in the wind when he’s got something on his mind. Some remnant of breathing in too much nerve gas on the front lines of the Energy Wars way back when. Which doesn’t bode well for me. I can see my day off slipping away with the edges of the dawn. But I won’t let him have my time that easy. He’s going to have to work for it.