Darkmoon(90)

When Lawrence spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “It is time.”

I breathed in deeply — not a gasp, but a full, rich breath that seemed to fill my lungs all the way down to the very bottom of my ribcage. Again I was lifting away, leaving the house and its occupants behind, but this time I had a destination. I floated over the dark landscape, the only points of light the highway and the trading post, coming ever closer. Lawrence had suggested that I go there, as it was more than a hundred years old and had its own attendant spirits.

Moving silently as a ghost myself, I drifted toward the cluster of buildings. The parking lot was empty, save for a few cars belonging to people staying at the motel there; it was now a little after ten o’clock, and everything else was closed up for the night. Not that it mattered. I hadn’t come here in pursuit of the living.

There was a garden behind one of the buildings, a little oasis shadowed under the half-light of a waning crescent moon. I knew in a few days there would be no moon at all, and although I had no real body, still I shivered.

Dark shapes moved in the garden, then paused on one of the paths, staring up at me. Again a chill went through me, but I forced myself to keep going, to meet them. This felt very different from chatting up Maisie, with her blonde curls and big blue eyes.

But as I drew closer, I could see the shapes were those of a man and woman. Probably a mother and son, as she was much older than he. They watched me with hostile dark eyes as I drifted along the pathway to meet them.

“You are not supposed to be here,” the woman said, her English halting but clear enough. “Your world is that of the living.”

“True,” I said, glad I could agree with her on that point. “But it’s necessary that I come here to the world of the spirits. I’m looking for a woman named Nizhoni.”

At that remark, the man and woman looked at one another, and I thought I heard the man chuckle. However, his face was sober enough as he replied, “That is a common name among the Diné. But I know of no one with that name who lingers here with us.”

Damn. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. Anyway, Lawrence had said Nizhoni was not an ordinary spirit, tied to one place. Her energy was more powerful, and yet more diffuse, than that. Anyway, if I recalled my history correctly, this place had been built about forty years after she laid down her curse and died. I’d never found out where she was buried, but I assumed it was somewhere in Flagstaff.

“She would not be here,” I said slowly. “Her people might have come from around here, but I know she passed from this world down in Flagstaff. I’d just hoped that maybe you would have heard of her. She was taken away from here, married to a man named Jeremiah Wilcox.”

The man and woman exchanged an unreadable look, although something in their stance seemed to indicate fear, mixed with disgust. “Ah,” the woman said at last. “Her people did come from farther up the river, beyond the trading post. But she is not here, and we would not want her.”

Can’t say as I blame you, I thought. “But if she is not here, do you know where she might be?”

The woman didn’t reply, but the man lifted his head, looking southward. “Sometimes an ill will blows with the south wind,” he said, somewhat cryptically.

“So she’s down toward Flagstaff?”

Again they shared an inscrutable glance. “You should not be here. This is not your place,” the woman said, and although she made no movement, it was as if I felt an invisible hand shoving against my chest, pushing me backward.

I gasped, not stumbling exactly, but somehow I was now yards away from them, moving faster and faster, the trading post dropping away beneath me. I felt the pull of my body like the weight of a dead star, sucking me downward, and the next thing I knew, I was blinking my eyes open, clutching at Connor’s hand.

“What’s the matter?” he said at once. “Are you okay?”

After pulling in a ragged breath, I made myself nod. “Yes, I’m fine. I guess I just didn’t expect to meet resistance like that.”

“Resistance?” he asked, his tone sharp. “What kind of resistance?”

I glanced across the room to where Lawrence sat, watching me carefully. Next to him, my father looked on, his expression tense even in the dim flickering light of the candles, but he didn’t say anything.

“You met the two at the trading post,” Lawrence commented finally. It wasn’t a question.

“I did. They weren’t exactly what you’d call friendly.”

“Why should they be? You cannot go into the world of the spirits and expect them all to welcome you, or help you. Did they do anything to hurt you?” His voice was mild, almost uninterested.