The Soul Seekers: Horizon (8 page)

“The bones never lie.” His voice is a match for the remorse that I feel. “This is one of the oldest forms of divination. And, in your case, it’s appropriate to say it
came straight from the Horse’s mouth.” He cracks a smile, offering a welcome bit of levity in a room gone heavy with dread.

Though my own expression is bereft when I say, “Now that I know, what do I do?”

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” His gaze grows so hooded, so shadowed, it’s impossible to read. “I’m afraid my guidance ends here. The next move
is yours.”

I balk. Sure he can’t be serious. Despite the absolute finality of his expression, his word. “You’re abandoning me? Now? Just when I need you the most?”

“I’ve taught you as well as I was able. Instilled within you the necessity of rooting yourself firmly in your own truth.”

I stare at him incredulously. “And what kind of truth is that?” I motion toward the bones. “I never wanted this! Everything you taught me brought me closer to the light. And
now . . .” I rake a hand through my hair, press my fists to my eyes. Hardly able to believe the horrible turn destiny has decided to make.

“Know this.” Leftfoot rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s never enough to just accumulate knowledge and skills. It’s what a person does with what he knows
that defines who he is.”

“Every man must decide the kind of path he’ll walk.” I return my focus to the bones, reciting yet another of Leftfoot’s many lessons. “Turns out it’s not true
at all. I never wanted this path. Never asked for any of this.”

“Didn’t you?” Leftfoot moves away, all the while watching me intently. But I can’t meet his look. Can’t bear the truth in his gaze. “You made your choice that
day in the sweat lodge. And now it seems it’s taken on a life of its own.”

I clutch at my stomach, feeling sick, drunk, as though I might vomit. I stoop toward the dirt. Duck my head low until the key that swings forward, slaps at my chin, serves as a sobering reminder
that no matter how dire the prophecy, I can’t afford to give in.

Daire.

Everything I did was for her—for us—and now look.

“Only one way to vanquish the dark . . .”

I shake my head, struggle to pull myself up. My eyes finding his as I say, “Turn on the light?”

“The question is, will you? Can you? Or is it too late?”

I turn to see Chay and Cree, watching intently, their faces etched with deep lines of worry. Then I return my focus to the bone fragments before me. Shifting my focus from image to image until
the message is sealed on my brain, hardwired into my soul. And, when it’s done, it seems I know just what to do.

I raise both hands before me, like a maestro conducting a symphony, and send the bones whirling back into the fire. Only, this time, instead of exploding, they snuff out the flames.

The cave grows dark.

The temperature drops.

And without so much as a single word between us, we gather our belongings and find our way back. The elders maintaining a wide berth around me now that my truth is revealed.

They fear me.

No doubt they should.

Still, it’s nothing compared to the fear I feel toward myself.

After a busy day of performing healings and determining the spirit animals of newborns (always my favorite), I head for Kachina’s stall in search of some fresh air and
the clarity that often comes from a nice long ride. Needing to slip away for a bit before my house fills with friends and I’ll be forced to make good on Lita’s request that I start
accepting their offers to help.

Kachina bobs her head up and down and whinnies in greeting, as Cat crouches and glares from the corner of the stall. Though he doesn’t scram the second he sees me as he usually does, and I
consider that progress.

I toss a bridle onto Kachina and lead her from the yard. Allowing my horse to wander aimlessly as my mind does the same.

Usually I try hard to guide it, stay focused, on track. But today my fatigue overrules me, and it’s not long before I’m immersed in the memory of the day we lowered my
abuela
’s body into the earth. The ripe scent of freshly churned soil—the plaintive call of the lone raven soaring overhead—so immediate, so accessible, it’s as
though I’m transported in time.

It’s been six full months since she passed.

Six full months since Cade Richter’s last heinous act.

Still, the pain of losing her is so raw, so real, it’s like a festering wound that refuses to heal.

I can’t imagine ever not feeling this way.

Can’t imagine how I’ll ever learn to live with the big, gaping void that remains in her place.

As always, Kachina displays an uncanny ability to tune in to my moods, if not my needs, when she leads me straight to the small, humble graveyard that rests off the side of the road.

The first time I came here, I instantly pegged it as shabby, random, and tragically run-down. But once I took the time to settle in and appreciate the abundance of handmade crosses and
markers—the fat handfuls of blooms lovingly gathered in honor of loved ones; the helium-heavy balloons tethered to rocks, commemorating those who’ve passed on—I was quick to
change my tune.

It’s a place of love, honor, and reverence.

It’s a place I’ve come to think of as sacred.

And it’s been far too long since my last visit.

I slide off Kachina’s back and give her a light slap on the rear. Urging her to wander and graze, as my feet instinctively carry me to the simple, rectangular plaques marking the place
where the bodies of my father and grandmother rest.

Paloma once warned me to never mistake the gravesite as the soul’s final resting place. Assuring me that communion is possible anywhere. Still, at this particular moment, this is the place
I most need to be. And I’m grateful for my horse having realized the truth that eluded me.

The patchy, parched grass pricks at my knees as I drop to the ground and take a good look around. Relieved to confirm that the magick wrought by the elders has stuck, and any attempt by the
Richters to desecrate the place has been successfully thwarted. The grounds remain as untouched as the day Paloma brought me here to reveal the tragic truth of my father’s brief life.

The son of a powerful Seeker and revered Jaguar shaman, Django was destined to wield formidable power. But he turned his back on his destiny and ran off to L.A. at sixteen, only to fall madly in
love with my mom, then die just a few months later in a motorcycle crash Paloma claims was no accident.

It was the work of the Richters.

Only they acted just a few days too late.

The seed was already planted.

Jennika was pregnant with me.

Yet, despite my vow to not repeat Django’s mistakes—to live up to my legacy and accept the destiny I was born to claim—sometimes I fear that I’m failing.

Missing the signs.

Falling remarkably short.

Though I’m not here to plead for the guidance and help of the dead. I’m on my own now. Something made all too clear the day the lone raven circled Paloma’s grave. I’m
merely in search of the calming encouragement only they can provide.

I need a father’s protective embrace.

I need a grandmother’s wisdom.

I need the reassurance that I really am equipped to deal with the Richters, now that I’m sure they’re preparing a comeback.

And while Jennika would be here in a heartbeat—all I have to do is call and she’ll come running—I’m reluctant to do so when it was hard enough to convince her to
leave.

Besides, Jennika’s finally settling into a life that’s good for her. She finally has a shot at forming a real and lasting relationship with Harlan. One where she’s not up and
running the second things start to progress. I need to leave her to it. Give her the room she needs to make it work without my interference.

Like me, Jennika’s been running too long.

It’s time for us to lay down some roots.

I settle between the graves and ease onto my back. Reveling in the coolness of the earth, the fading wisps of clouds overhead, I stretch my arms to rest on each mound, and try to divine what to
do next.

As Paloma once taught me, everything is made of energy, which means everything is alive. According to her, it’s as easy to scry from fire and tea leaves as it is to receive messages from
the face of a rock. All that’s required is a willingness to believe, an ear tuned toward one’s inner voice, and a bit of focused concentration.

Only this time, despite my intent, despite my desire to
see,
the clouds remain an unreadable, stringy, white blur. Until a sudden stir of wind brushes past, lifting the strands of my
hair and riffling the frayed hem of my faded denim cutoffs—and I take it as a sign.

As a daughter of the wind, this is no accident.

Rather it’s a timely reminder that I’m not as alone as I feared.

Never have been.

As Paloma once said:
To become powerful is to allow a great power to work through you. No one walks alone.

While I know she was referring to the ultimate power, at the moment, I take great comfort knowing she and Django are included.

The sun continues to drop. Wind swirls and skips. And I rise to my feet and brush myself off.

Soon, it’ll be time to head back and confront the night still to come, but well before then, I have something important to do.

Though I didn’t realize it until now, as it turns out, it’s the reason I’m here.

I heave a deep breath and face the glorious, sun-shadowed peaks of the Sangre de Christo mountains. Finally willing to admit that until I confront my grief, I won’t be able to confront
anything else.

For the last six months I’ve buried my sorrow in a punishing regimen of grueling workouts and daily six-mile runs. Then, after tending to the never-ending stream of Paloma’s former
clients I’ve taken on, I drop by Dace’s apartment in a state of exhaustion, looking to numb myself in his arms.

Yet, in the wee hours of the morning, when the streets grow hushed and Dace is slumbering beside me, there’s nowhere to hide. And that’s when the pageant of
things I
should’ve done differently
parades through my mind. The most glaring among them: allowing Cade to get the best of me—the best of us—when I gave that cursed tourmaline to
Paloma.

Still, no matter how many times I reframe it, it’s not like I can change it. The outcome is final.

What’s done is truly done.

In the end, life amounts to little more than a series of choices. Some big, some small, but every action causes a reaction—and there’s no doubt it’s my own actions that landed
me here.

Just like Paloma and Django’s actions landed them six feet below.

Despite Paloma’s warnings, Django chose to run from his destiny and it ended tragically.

Despite suspecting the tourmaline was cursed from the moment she laid eyes on it, Paloma chose to keep it.

Tormenting myself won’t change what’s been done. The only purpose it serves is to punish myself for things that were never mine to control.

Besides, what if there’s a chance Dace is right?

What if love really can overcome evil?

What if it’s as simple as that?

My thoughts toward myself are pretty much the opposite of loving. I’ve been ruled by self-hate and fear, and maybe it’s time I do better.

After all, Paloma trusted me, believed in me.

Maybe it’s time I trust and believe in myself.

With the sun quickly descending, glazing the mountains in a glorious sheen of purples and reds, I take a deep breath, steeple my hands to my chest, and make a true and solemn pledge to do better
than I have.

To stop denying my grief.

Stop torturing myself by reliving a past I can’t change.

To let my friends in.

Lita was right. We’re all in this together. For a short while I knew that, yet ever since Paloma’s death I’ve been driven by fear, and so I’ve pushed them away in a
misguided attempt to spare them from the kind of things that aren’t mine to control.

But no more.

With Kachina off grazing—with Wind tickling my skin—with the low guttural cry of a lone raven soaring circles over my head—I bow in reverence toward the mountain, and
rededicate myself to my legacy.

To the destiny I was born to claim.

No matter what may become of me—I won’t go down easily.

The Richters will pay for the heinous acts that they’ve wrought on this town—on my loved ones—on the Lower, Upper, and Middleworlds, which are mine to keep balanced.

Then I lift my face to the heavens, drop to my knees, and cave in to my grief. Letting loose the deluge of tears I’ve held back for too long—allowing myself to fully experience the
deep-seated pain of losing my grandmother, my mentor, my friend, a woman I truly loved and deeply admired.

I cry until my vision grows so blurry it’s impossible to see even a few feet before me.

I cry until my body grows exhausted and empty.

I cry until I’m suddenly silenced, suddenly strengthened, by an unexpected infusion of the purest, most buoyant stream of joy, beauty, and love flowing through me.