Storm of Reckoning Read online

  Lucia Reyes, Latin American princess, heading for implosion.

  They whispered it behind closed doors. They murmured it on the phone, the rapid Spanish of family secrets. And they thought Lucia wouldn’t notice, so lost in her own worlds of fashion and cheerleading and — oh, right.

  Her increasing tendency to become completely overcome with emotions she insisted weren’t her own.

  Garrie had changed all that. Rhonda Rose, Garrie’s long-dead mentor, had changed all that. If Lucia hadn’t actually seen Rhonda Rose before her departure, she’d still known her through Garrie... learned from her.

  And if the five years since hadn’t exactly been normal, they’d nonetheless been a life Lucia had, all unknowing, been desperate to live.

  And desperate now not to lose.

  No matter what had happened at the Winchester House in San Jose.

  Lucia tucked in behind the wheel of the rental car, a low-budget PT Cruiser that did at least have a moon roof. And satellite radio, though she hadn’t turned it on.

  Garrie had taken the wheel north out of Phoenix, but after the I-17 rest stop — after what happened at the rest stop — Lucia took over, with Sklayne sprawled beside her and looking exactly like the Abyssinian cat he wasn’t.

  What he was, Lucia hadn’t quite worked out. That he’d saved her from a terrible fate in San Jose — gooey, predatory eatsll going after her new Taryn Rose shoes — she knew. That he could communicate clearly with Trevarr — that they were familiars of a sort — she also knew. The rest was pretty murky.

  Aie, chicalet, what have we gotten into?

  At the moment, nothing more than a trip to Sedona — driving from low, flat browned desert and up challenging steep curves, over the Mogollon rim to red rock country where they’d meet up with Quinn and his ex, a woman who apparently ran her own New Age store without any notable dedication to the New Age life. Garrie and Trevarr sat in the back with trail maps and hotel directions, quietly spewing conflict, crazy want, and worry. No poker face on that chicalet, with her eyes wide and a little worried in the rearview mirror and her nut-brown hair gone spiky, especially behind her ear where she’d been tugging.

  Bad habit, that.

  Plus she was pretending she hadn’t just now sliced through the Cruiser’s back seat with that absurdly sharp knife and its strong, sweeping edge, shimmering watermark patterns on metal not quite earthly, black horn handle.

  Even a new sheath hadn’t been able to keep it out of trouble.

  “Feeling anything?” Lucia asked. But at the flicker of vulnerability on Garrie’s face, she so wished she’d said that differently.

  Garrie the reckoner, fierce in the face of ghosts and hauntings and invading entities, was so totally clueless in the face of personal matters. No matter Lucia’s best guidance, her style remained stubbornly entrenched in funky sprite and her social life...

  Well, it was more of a social after life.

  And there she sat with Trevarr, and no real idea what to do about it. Lucia cleared her throat to try again. “You know.... Sedona? The big S-O-S call from Quinn’s friend Robin?”

  Ah. Understanding glimmered through. Garrie’s expression went distant a moment, and she shook her head; the sun through the window shimmered off her cheek. “Can’t feel a thing. Waste of time, maybe.”

  “Then why go?” Trevarr’s voice had a rumble behind it sometimes; it did now. He wore those damned sunglasses and Lucia couldn’t read his expression for anything. He hid himself better than most — but even more so, she’d come to realize, when he was unsettled.

  Not a good sign.

  And was that his stomach growling?

  “You should have gotten something at the airport,” she told him, distracted enough by a new series of curves, complete with a drop-off and canyon on the edge of the road. “Or I can pull together a fast tortilla Española once we get there.” Because the leftovers would be awesome, and the cooking would give her some space.

  Garrie gave her an appreciative eye. “Omelet later, yes please — or your churros! But we can stop at Cordes Junction for now.” She waved the map. “And we’re going because Quinn asked us to help, and how often does that happen? He even got time off from the bookstore, which is Not Heard Of.”

  True, but not all the truth. Lucia didn’t need her unwanted mojo to know that, even if it worked on people.

  Garrie fiddled with the knife, sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh, o kay. I always did want to know what it would be like to stand in a vortex.” She gave Lucia a quick, defensive look in the rearview. “Hey, Winchester House was real. Maybe this is, too.”

  Lucia would have raised both hands in capitulation had they not been so busy at the wheel. “Don’t have to convince me, chicalet. If it’s vortices you want—”

  “Vortexes,” Garrie said, looking, if anything, slightly more defensive. “Here, they say vortexes.”

  Lucia bit her lip on a smile. “Not that you’ve looked into it.”

  “How could I not know? That would be like you being unprepared for the shopping in any given location. You’ve got a list ready for Sedona, right?”

  “Chic, there are no trendy shopping sites in Sedona. There are gallery tourist traps, new age tourist traps, Indian crafts tourist traps—”

  “There’s Tlaquepaque,” Garrie said, a little too hearty with the cheer. A little too determined. Hiding something, as if she thought it would even work. Some worry she’d taken into herself.

  Lucia would have to corner her privately and rip it from her.

  In the passenger front seat, Sklayne stretched one long front leg as far as it would go and tucked it back beneath, looking over his shoulder at Garrie in some pointed cat way.

  “Tlaquepaque,” Garrie repeated.

  “I heard you,” Lucia said. The cat’s tail twitched. Too innocent by far. Just as innocent as when they’d returned to the car at Sunset Point and found the battery dead. “I know you had something to do with that,” she muttered at the cat. And, to Garrie, “Tlaquepaque — art galleries, restaurants. Excuses to spend money. You know that’s not what it’s about, for me.”

  Not in the least. It had be a bargain. It had to be something she was looking for. Something she needed. And then it had to be the best.

  Garrie seemed unperturbed. “Lu, you know you’re going to love it. Your abuela has her birthday soon, right? So, perfect. You shop, I’ll soak up some vortexes, and Quinn can see his lady friend, knowing we’re right here to back him up.” She sat, a small figure snugged in by the seatbelt. Beside her, Trevarr filled the space, knees bumping the front seat and one arm stretched along behind Garrie — and Lucia wondered if Garrie truly didn’t recognize the possessive curl of his half-gloved hand just beyond her neck.

  Aie Dios. They had to talk.

  ~~~~~

  Sedona. Vortexes, crystals, auras, guided spiritual journeys and all.

  Garrie hesitated beside the Journey Inn office cabin, squinting out from the shade to the gleam of the surf-blue rental car in the sun. Trevarr stood at the hood, ensconced in his duster even if the marginally cooler air at this forty-five hundred foot altitude gave him no excuse to wear it.

  But Garrie knew it wasn’t so much about wearing the duster as it was about having his hands in the pockets.

  She knew about those pockets. They held not only the oskhila device he used for his dimensional journeys and the ekhevia he’d used to suck up the semi-ethereal Krevata, but an heirloom sword named Lukkas and on occasion Sklayne himself, all without so much as breaking the sweeping line of the leather as it fell away from broad shoulders.

  The Tardis of coats. The endless pockets to solve any traveler’s needs.

  The purse of Lucia’s wildest dreams.

  And now Trevarr stood with his hands in the pockets, no longer looking casual. Just the way he stood... the way he lifted his head and scanned the small parking lot of this family-run inn...

  He was hunting something. In the way of a man who knew ther
e might be something to hunt.

  Ah, crap. They had to talk.

  ~~~~~

  ::Spptt!::

  Sklayne crouched inside the cat carrier and savored all the ways he could be not there. The ways he could spark the door open, blow the little carrying crate apart, or simply become something to which the crate wasn’t relevant at all.

  ::Not happy.::

  “Be of silence,” Trevarr said. “There is something...”

  ::Nothing. There is nothing. Tell me yes and I will eat squirrels.::

  “No,” Trevarr said, and his expression had the hard look. He pulled the ekhevia from his pocket, holding it just so... reading the sensations of it against his hand. He glanced at the Garrie, the barest tilt of his head. “We would not be here if this was a place of nothing.”

  ::Not truth,:: Sklayne settled down over curled paws and fanned his whiskers wide. ::Wherever the Garrie, then us. Regardless. Think I don’t know?::

  Trevarr stilled. Not a good thing, that. “Was there somewhere else you wanted to be, little friend?”

  Careful, careful. Distraction, the best thing.

  ::Mighty.:: Sklayne said it with deliberate disdain. ::And of all sizes.:: And then, more subdued, ::Could be home?::

  Startling, the complexity of expression, flashing so fast over Trevarr’s features — so fast through his being, there where Sklayne always had at least that faint connection. But his face settled hard. His hunter’s face, his hunter’s stance... hunter’s awareness. “We do what we must.”

  But if they’d stayed...

  Maybe his clan would have a chance. Maybe personal efforts — made by a fugitive in the night — would speed justice, if justice was to be had. Maybe Sklayne and Trevarr would be safer, hiding on familiar turf and nurtured by a familiar land.

  But then the Garrie would be alone. Unprotected.

  He felt her awareness now — one of so few to whom he could connect directly. She’d seen Trevarr’s wariness, his shift from traveler to bounty hunter — here in the parking lot, surrounded by mountain squirrels and red rock and pines. She was aware and concerned and questioning — wanting to know.

  But no. Klysar’s Blood! Spptt!

  There was obviously no farking way they were going to talk.

  Chapter 3

  The Journey Inn, with Cleansing Circle

  “Some of your choices, you will surmise, are already made.”

  — Rhonda Rose

  “This is what we do.”

  — Lisa McGarrity

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  — Lucia Reyes

  Check-in, luggage dump, the ritual swiping of the credit card...

  Plus a bonus, although Garrie was more interested in the chance to take a spiritual look around — a tour of the facilities. The cabin groupings, the ice machine, a carefully groomed meditative path, swimming pool, Scenic View (TM)...

  “And this is our cleansing circle.” Feather Middleton proudly indicated an area tucked up against an abrupt weathered red rock formation, the sedimentary layering readily apparent. Not a particularly tall or majestic formation, it quickly faded back into a rugged slope of junipers scattered thickly with smaller formations and loose rock.

  Garrie could all but hear Drew’s irreverent and hopelessly untrendy words in her head. “Way phat. This is where we sit and wait for rocks to fall on our heads?”

  Several rocks trickled obligingly down the slope and into the circle. Feather added them to the artistic arrangement of similar rocks in the center of the circle — one of which was, alarmingly, of significant size. The collection also held a cluttered variety of tokens, smooth painted river stones, and faded commercial dreamcatchers.

  “We consider the stone falls to be a gift of the red rocks,” Feather said, sounding pleased as she placed the last rock with what seemed like genuine care. “Each piece adds to the cleansing circle.”

  “Dammit, she never gets the point.” That youthful voice was new and cranky, imbued with the sound of wind in the trees.

  Not cranky at Lucia, who listened politely to their hostess, or at Trevarr, who stood back with an unapproachable air, or even at Garrie’s intrusion. But at their hostess herself.

  Oblivious, Feather gestured at the chaotic little cluster of items. “I hope you’ll feel free to leave your own token here.”

  There came the faint crackling of broken brush. “That is not groovy. This is my pad, not some establishment happy-place.”

  And there she was, a Bobbie Ghost, perched — impossibly — against the side of the hill, flanked by a juniper on one side and a hunched little scrub oak on the other. Torn clothes shouted classic hippie chick — tight hip-huggers, huge pant bells festooned with mod embroidery, a tie-dyed shirt knotted at her midriff, a headband askew on her brow. Darned if that wasn’t a peace sign dangling around her neck on a leather thong, and sloppy leather sandals on her feet. “My blood. My broken bones.” As if to make the point, the rocks in the cleansing circle shifted slightly.

  “Oh!” Feather cried with delight. “The circle welcomes you!”

  Blood crept out along the edges of the stones. Not blood anyone but Garrie could see — but Lucia gave Garrie a glance that said she felt the cranky.

  “It’s nice to feel welcome,” Garrie said, and glared at the spirit. A strong and well-established spirit, this one was.

  “You do see me!” The young woman jumped to her feet, sticking to the side of the hill as though she wore Letterman’s Suit of Velcro. Her energies appeared indistinctly foggy at her lower spine and pelvic area; her eyes whirled with black stars. “Groovy! You tell her. This is my spot! My death pad!”

  “We love enthusiastic guests,” Feather said, beaming at Garrie and even risking a little smile at Trevarr. Twenty years earlier — and in the right generation — she might have been this same hippie chick. Now she had short layered hair, dry and fine and gone a natural gray, and lines weathering the soft skin around her eyes. Her jeans were smart but practical, and her cute front-button shirt owed more to her position as innkeeper than to a freewheeling spirit. A tattoo peeked out from beneath a short sleeve — a hint of color and ink.

  “Ohh yes,” Garrie said. “It’s clear that this is a special spot.” Shaded by ash trees, wind chimes scattered throughout, the bluff rising at the rear of the property... it was indeed beautiful. The space also held a covered gazebo with the inn itself beyond, but the view to the southwest was unimpeded, spreading out below Sedona into vast, open red rock country.

  Quinn’s friend, she thought, was paying a pretty penny to house them here.

  The ghost woman scowled. Her frown stuck there, grew and distorted, and finally dripped off her chin. Charming. The loss of those lips didn’t slow her words. “Dig it, girl — I’ve been waiting a long time for some respect. Kicking stones down on these people just isn’t doing it for me anymore, you get that?” Her face re-coalesced with a jarring snap. “It’s not like there’s anything happening around here. You’ve got time to rap with me.”

  They’d talk, all right. Garrie would do a sweep of the place tonight — once they were settled, and had privacy. For now, she tapped the spirit with the faintest of breezes. Be polite.

  Feather clasped her hands together beneath her chin. “You’ll love it here, I’m sure. So many people find the energies of Sedona to be refreshing... the perfect place for a vacation.”

  “That’s exactly what I said, yes?” Lucia cast Garrie a sunny smile. “Refreshing.”

  “I’m pretty sure you said something about shopping.”

  “Same thing.” Lucia waved her off. “Now, we need to find Quinnie and Robin, and see what kind of help she needs. Garrie, were you meeting someone else here, too?” She gave the rock pile a significant glance.

  “Later,” Garrie said, and passed the significant glance along to the ghost — sulking now, in the wake of that ethereal tap, but not truly deterred at all. “Once we’ve settled things with Quinn.”

  If at
first she’d resented Quinn’s call for help — diverting them to Sedona on the way home to Albuquerque from their San Jose adventure — she now felt quite abruptly grateful for the unexpected opportunity to get back in the Garrie Groove. She took a deep breath, tipped her head back... let the rising breeze of the afternoon wash its dry heat over her skin.

  “You don’t frighten me.” The ghost’s voice came directly in Garrie’s ear, a startling clarity with an edge of meanness that made Garrie jump. “You’re one of her bleeding heart squares. You don’t have the nerve for more than that little tap.”

  “Are you all right, dear?” Feather asked, even as Trevarr came alert, his attention tightening the tension that always seemed to stretch faintly between them.

  Sometimes not so faintly.

  “I’m fine,” Garrie said, meeting Trevarr’s gaze. “A little distracted.” She stirred the breezes, hunting resources — finding them. More importantly, letting the ghost woman know she’d found them. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m here to help you. But you don’t get to hurt anyone else, either.

  “Aunt Adrianne!” The cheery call came from the flagstone walkway that wound beside the cabin clusters, a looping path through trees and wind chimes and beautifully xeriscaped grounds. The young woman behind the voice moved briskly toward them, clearly on a mission and only belatedly spotting Garrie, Lucia, and Trevarr. She missed a step, looking abashed. “Er... I mean, Feather!”

  Feather didn’t seem the least disconcerted. “Family,” she said by way of explanation, with no notice of the new rock trickle down the side of the bluff. The bigger trickle. “They call you what they want to call you, don’t they?” She turned to her niece, a woman in bangles and braids and plenty of each. “Caryn, you left the desk unattended —?”

  “I’m checking in Quinn Rossiter. He said he was meeting someone here, but I couldn’t find a reservation—”