Fated

consent. Allowing him to lift me onto Horse, his hands strong and sure, as he says, “There are quicker ways to get where you need to go, but it’s best if you exit this place the same way you came. Horse will know where to take you, so no worries there.”
    I reach for Horse’s mane, my gaze meeting Dace’s when he says, “Daire…”
    I blink back the tears, swallow past the lump in my throat, seeing the full range of sentiment displayed in his gaze, all the things he longs to tell me—but instead he just says, “Good luck.”
    Then he slaps Horse on the rear, and I ride like the wind.

forty-five
    When I reach the reservation, I burst through the door of the small adobe, confronting Chay with a torrent of words so jumbled, he’s forced to put a hand on my shoulder and coax me into the nearest chair until I can calm down enough to start again.
    “I found Paloma’s Wolf,” I tell him, my breath slowing as his eyes grow wide. “He’s in bad shape, but he’s being looked after by Dace, along with a couple other spirit animals, including your Eagle.”
    At the sound of her son’s name, Chepi peeks around the corner, her gaze meeting mine, holding the look, until Chay summons Leftfoot into the room and tells me to repeat the same thing to him. After describing the location as well as I can, Leftfoot takes off, leaving specific instructions for his apprentice, Chay, and Chepi to look after Paloma, as I stand in her doorway, my heart plummeting when I see her looking so much smaller than before. Even in the dim, flickering glow of the candles placed all around her, she looks paler, weaker. Her breath coming too shallow, too slow, reduced to a horrible rattling sound that emanates from deep in her chest.
    I drop beside her, enclose her hand in mine. My throat gone so lumpy and tight I can’t get to the words. My vision so frantic and blurry, the room swims before me.
    “She was doing better. We were sure she’d made the turn, but then…” Chay looks at me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m afraid she’s not long for this world.”
    I shake my head. Refuse to believe it. Glaring at him when I say, “No. No! I won’t let her go. She can’t—not now—not when I’m just getting to know her! Leftfoot will fix her Wolf, and Paloma will be healed—you’ll see!”
    He squeezes my shoulder, his voice saddened but even. “I’m sorry, Daire. But from what you said about Wolf’s condition, I’m afraid it won’t be much longer.”
    His eyes meet mine, revealing the full depth of his loss, the truth behind his words, but I cannot—will not—accept it. “Why can’t they heal her? Why can’t she heal herself? Why can’t someone make some mystical medicine or something?” My eyes search the room, accusing everyone in it. The medicine man’s apprentice running a wildly spinning pendulum up and down Paloma’s body, pausing on each of her chakras, his brow creased as he turns on occasion and makes odd, little spitting sounds. Even Chepi, who sits in a corner, her eyes clamped shut, hands waving before her, as her lips move in silent communion. Each of them employing the same ritual I’ve seen Paloma work to help others—so why is it not helping her? Returning to Chay when I add, “She’s a healer. A Seeker. How could this happen? How’d she get sick in the first place?”
    He takes a deep breath, nodding in a way that encourages me to slow down, calm down, and take a breath too. When my energy settles, he says, “Healers do all that they can to keep themselves strong, grounded, and well. Good health allows them to do what they do. But, once they fall ill, they’re forced to seek help just like anyone else. Leftfoot will tend to Wolf as best he can, but some things are not for us to decide. The toll of losing Django—of having to keep her powers going for much longer than normal—have come at a price. She’s suffered significant soul loss. I’m afraid there’s nothing more to do but let her transition into the next world as comfortably and easily as possible.”
    I turn, my face scrunched in confusion.
    “In the end, that’s what all illness amounts to,” he says. “A loss of power. A loss of the soul.”
    Soul loss.
    A loss of the soul.
    The words ringing in my ears so loudly they’re almost deafening—as visions of long-dead Richters devouring glowing, white orbs blaze in my head.
    “So—get her soul back!” I say, aware that I’m not making the slightest bit of sense.