Paloma moves about her warm cozy kitchen, pulling her tattered, sky-blue cardigan snugly around one of the crisply ironed housedresses she favors, not the least bit surprised by my sudden return.
With her large brown eyes shining and bright, and her long dark braid with its smattering of silver curving down her back, she seems as normal as ever. Though a closer look reveals movements that are slower—less nimble, more labored. Especially compared to the unmistakable aura of determination and strength she projected the night I first appeared on her doorstep just a few months earlier. Not long after my breakdown in that Moroccan square.
Back when I was haunted by terrifying hallucinations of glowing people and crows—staring down a future in a padded white room.
Paloma saved me. Rescued me from that horrible fate. Only to startle me with a truth so strange I did my best to escape it.
Though, as it turns out, she knew what the doctors didn’t.
I wasn’t crazy.
Wasn’t haunted by delusions.
The crows—the glowing ones—they’re all real. I was hardly the first to undergo the experience. Every Seeker gets the calling—it was simply my turn.
It’s the Santos family legacy. The birthright passed from parent to firstborn child for too many generations to count. For the first sixteen years it lies dormant—but once it emerges, the whole world is flipped upside down. And while it’s tempting to run, it’s better to accept that destiny is not
always a choice. For those who try to deny it—it never ends well.
My father, Django, is the perfect example.
His tragic, premature death made Paloma even more determined to save me.
As the last in line, I’m the only one who stands a chance at stopping the Richters. But with my training cut short due to Paloma’s recent illness, I’m hardly up for the task.
I watch as she rises onto her toes, her arm straining to retrieve two mugs from the cupboard overhead. Her limbs appearing stilted, stiff. As though the joints need to be oiled and greased in order to move easily again. The sight serving as a bitter reminder of her recent soul loss that claimed all of her magick and nearly her life—one of the many reasons I need to find Cade and his undead ancestors before things continue to deteriorate.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Filling my head with competing scents of spiced herbal tea, the sugar-free ginger cookies left to cool on the stovetop, and the smoky allure of the vertically stacked mesquite logs burning in the corner kiva fireplace. Their melodic crackle and pop providing an ironically soothing soundtrack for the bad news to come.
“Nieta.” She places a steaming mug of tea before me and claims the opposite seat.
I warm my hands on either side of the mug and blow a few times before venturing a first sip. Then I look at my grandmother and say, “Still no sign of them.”
She nods, doing her best to keep her expression stoic, unchanged.
“Actually, that’s not entirely true…” My voice drifts along with my gaze. Assuring myself I can do this. I have to do this. At the very least, I owe her the truth. I clear my throat and start again. “What I mean is, while we haven’t been able to find them, there are definitely signs of their presence…” I describe the deluge of dead fish we found in the Enchanted Spring (strategically omitting the bit about why we were there in the first place), but other than fussing with the sleeves of her sweater, she continues to sit quietly, giving nothing away. “And there’s absolutely no sign of Cade. He’s been absent from school—the Rabbit Hole too. No one’s seen him, and I’m no longer sure what to do, where to look.”
My eyes search Paloma’s, seeking guidance, answers, something. But she merely nods in reply, urging me to finish my tea and enjoy one of her delicious ginger cookies before she pushes away from the table and leads me to my room, where she perches at the edge of my bed and instructs me to open the beautiful, hand-painted trunk she left for me the night she fell ill.
I unlatch the lock and peer at the contents. My heart racing in anticipation of whatever bit of magick she’s willing to share. It’s been weeks since she taught me to crawl with the lizards and soar with the birds—merging my energy with theirs until I’d claimed their experience for my own. And the truth is, I’ve missed our lessons. Missed our talks and the time we spent together.
Other than cooking my meals and looking after me (despite my protests that there’s really no need, that thanks to my mom and my nomadic existence, I’ve been looking after myself since I was a kid), the last few weeks she’s spent mostly resting. And despite Leftfoot’s assurances that she’d soon recover, up until now, I had no good reason to believe him.
Paloma’s willingness to resume my training as a Seeker is the first solid sign that she might really be on the mend. And while there’s no doubt things will never return to the way they once were, there’s no reason we can’t move forward from where we are now.
“The blanket.” She gestures toward the intricate handwoven blanket folded tightly at the bottom. “Spread it out before you, and place each object upon it.”
I do as she says. Pairing the black-and-white hand-painted rawhide rattle with the drum bearing a picture of a purple-eyed raven. Then I start a new row reserved for the feathers. Each of them bearing a tag identifying their individual uses—the swan feather for transformative powers, a raven feather for magickal powers, and an eagle feather for sending prayers. And just below that, I place the pendulum with the small chunk of amethyst attached to its end. The trunk now emptied of everything but the crisp, white note from Paloma, her careful script promising to one day show me the magick that lives inside all of these tools—a day I was beginning to fear wouldn’t come.
I lift the long black feather and wave it before me. Thinking it looks a lot like the one I wear in my pouch—only bigger—much bigger.
“As your spirit animal, Raven is always prepared to guide you. Have you called on him, nieta?”
“All the time.” I shrug, my voice as glum as my face. “But lately it seems like he does way more following than guiding. He just sits on Horse’s neck, like he’s merely in it for the ride, while Dace and I wander around, pretty much aimlessly.”
“And Horse?” Her spine straightens as her eyes narrow on mine.
“Same thing. If Dace didn’t push him, he’d spend all his time grazing. It’s like, the more we need them, the lazier they get, until they just barely cooperate. It seems to get worse every day.”