Trail of Lightning

Chapter 27

“Are you sure this is necessary?”

An hour later and I’m stuffed in the bathroom of Grace’s trailer with Clive as he fusses over my hair. For a muscle-bound gun nut, he’s got some remarkable styling skills. “A bundle of contradictions,” he warned me with a wink before we started, and I laughed, not expecting much. But now he’s making me eat my words.

He’s coaxed the front of my hair down into a long sweeping bang on one side of my face. It looks cool, but it’s impractical and annoying, much like everything else he’s conceived for me tonight. He’s rimmed my eyes in black liner, and my lips he’s painted a deep scarlet red. I haven’t worn cosmetics since high school, didn’t know they were still around until Clive produced a stash that would satisfy a drag queen. Which, it turns out, is pretty much the truth.

“Where did you get all this?” I gape as he rummages through the box of lipsticks, eye shadows, and who knows what else.

He shrugs. “An old boyfriend who used to have a drag show. He dumped me, I kept his stuff. And now I collect when there’s trade. Dabble a bit. Because you never know when you’re going to be called on to make over a monsterslayer.”

“I thought you liked guns!” I blurt.

He laughs. “Is that your way of asking if I’m gay?” He works his thumb against my cheek, rubbing in a contouring cream. “Because, what, I can’t like guns and glamour at the same time? They’re not mutually exclusive, you know.”

“Uh yeah, they kind of are.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says dismissively as he brushes some kind of finishing powder across my face. Gives me a critical once-over and then jerks his chin, indicating that I should turn and look in the mirror. I do. A stranger stares back.

I squirm. Tug at the halter top Clive produced earlier from a box of discarded clothes. It consists of two inverted V-shaped black straps that start at my shoulders and meet a fraction of an inch above my belly button, giving “low-cut” a whole new meaning. A thin horizontal strip of leather holds the shirt together at my breasts. I’ve still got on my leggings and moccasins, but a good three inches of skin shows between the top of my pants and the bottom of the halter top. I’m wearing my hunting knife sheathed on a low-slung leather belt at my hips, and my shotgun is strapped across my back. Clive’s dug up a bandolier from somewhere that crosses my chest like a lethal beauty pageant sash. It’s filled with my shotgun shells—supernatural and plain old human-killer. He’s even found a holster for the Glock, so it rests against my other hip.

“This is really going to chafe,” I mutter, shrugging my shoulders to adjust my back rig. The straps dig into my bare skin, but every time I complain, Clive insists there’s no way to avoid it.

“How about you let me wear my leather jacket?” I tell him. “That’s what it’s for. To protect my skin.”

“No, it would ruin the look.”

“And what exactly is that look? Mad Max?”

“Monsterslayer,” he says. “And you need to own it.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. I got nothing.

He sighs at my discomfort. “Think of it like a costume if you have to.”

“You don’t?”

“You need to understand that the Shalimar is not a normal place. It’s a . . . well, you’ll have to see for yourself. But, trust me, you need to make an impression. You saw what Kai was wearing when you brought him to us.”

The teal pants, the dress shirt and tie. The silver shoes.

“People dress to impress,” he continues. “Besides, with all the hardware you’re carrying, you need something to make it look like it’s part of your overall look, not like you’re actually there to kill anyone.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

He sighs again, tortured by such a poor pupil. “I know you don’t.” He pushes my hand away when I try to get the long bangs out of my eyes. I grimace, but concede control over my hair to the man. He obviously knows more about it than I do. He fusses for a few more minutes and, finally satisfied, he gestures to the door. I maneuver around him to push through and get the hell out of the claustrophobic space. Only to pull up short.

Kai is leaning against the opposite wall, dressed like some sort of futuristic Navajo headman. Soft black lambskin pants tucked into knee-high black moccasins, a dark blue crushed velvet shirt, loose and long, held tight by suede bands on his upper arms and a silver concho belt around his waist. A white shell necklace hangs from his neck, black drops of pearl from his ears, and every finger glitters with rings. He has his hair back up in a messy wash of spikes, the tips edged in silver, and a midnight-blue length of fabric tied around his forehead and knotted to the side. A smudge of silver paint shows around his eyes. It’s all I can do not to gawk like a starstruck schoolgirl. Boy-band movie star doesn’t even cover it.

But to my surprise, Kai is staring at me, himself struggling to find words. “You look . . .”

“Hired-gun hot?” Clive offers from behind me. “Bodyguard sex bomb?”

“Please stop helping,” I mutter, and tug again at what’s pretending to be my shirt.

Kai’s eyes never leave me, and I shift uncomfortably, heat rising on my cheeks. “Dangerous,” he says. “I was going to say you look dangerous.”

I exhale, clap my hands together. “Good. You look pretty spiffy yourself. Lots of bling. Very regal.”

He chuckles softly.

I know I’m babbling, but his eyes on me feel like fire. “Now that compliments are out of the way, can we go?” I head to the front door. “You have Ma’ii’s hoops?” I ask as I walk. Ma’ii insisted we take them with us, just in case we feel the need to go to Canyon de Chelly. Kai agreed to carry them, so I didn’t argue.

Kai pats a small sack tied to his belt. “Had to lose Coyote’s bag, but Grace helped me out with the sack and the outfit. And the bling. And all I had to do was promise her my soul as payment.”

“You got off cheap,” I mutter. “She took my coffee.”

Coyote is standing at the bottom of the stairs, and he turns to take us in. His mouth falls open and for once the trickster is speechless.

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.

“What do you see?”

My eyes flutter open and I look around, uncertain, until he touches my shoulder and gently turns me to face the old hotel. Except now it reads in great sparkling letters:

THE SHALIMAR INDIAN TRADING POST AND DANCE HALL

“How have I never known this was here?” I whisper, awed at the metamorphosis.

“Spend much time in Tse Bonito?”

“I hate this place. I only come here when I’m forced to.”

Kai chuckles. “I found the Shalimar the first night I was here.”

“Yeah, how is that?”

He shrugs. “I like people, unlike you, and it’s a meeting place of sorts. When I first got here, I was bored. Lonely. Figured I’d get to know the locals. No harm in that.”

“Don’t tell me,” I say, giving him my serious face. “They serve champagne.”

He laughs. With a small thrill I realize I’m starting to rely on that laugh.

His breath hitches for a second before he says, “I know you never gave me an answer on that ‘being friends’ thing, but after everything that’s happened . . . ?” He leaves it hanging.

I grin. “Don’t push your luck, Rabbit.”

He groans. “Please don’t.”

“What? I heard boys love nicknames. Makes them feel special.”

“ ‘Rabbit’ does not make me feel special. It makes me feel the opposite of special.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it.”

Shaking his head in mock despair, he offers me his arm. I don’t take it, preferring to keep one hand near my gun and the other free. But I do hold the door open for him, and we walk into the Shalimar together.