Tricked

again. This project here can’t fail. It ain’t just your job at stake, it’s everyone’s. Besides, that man out there woulda wanted us to finish. An’ you know we can finish it right. « The workers all nodded solemnly, Sophie choked back a sob, and Frank led them in a new song.
    Granuaile shot a querying glance in my direction. » That man? « she whispered.
    I replied in the same low tones. » He’s talking about the construction foreman. The one the skinwalkers killed. «
    » You mean Dar— «
    » Shh! « I held up a hand to stop her. » Some cultures, including Navajos, don’t speak the names of the dead. «
    Granuaile checked to see if our murmured conversation was being overheard. » Why not? «
    » The reason varies from culture to culture. But with the Navajos, they don’t want to attract the ghost of the man by calling his name. They call the ghosts ch’áádii , and they’re not benevolent. You take all the bile and discord and unrest a person has inside of them, every evil thought and all the impulses they repress during their life, and that’s what escapes upon death to become a ch’áádii . «
    » Ew. Those things are just floating around? «
    » Well, they disperse if nothing keeps them here. But they have to be in the open to do that. When someone dies inside a hogan, no one will live there anymore, unless it gets blessed and renewed. «
    » Oh, because it’s haunted? Things that go bump in the night? Like poltergeists and such? «
    » No, nothing like that. Ch’áádii can make you sick with their malevolence. They call it ghost sickness or corpse sickness. Skinwalkers use it, actually, to kill people. «
    » How do they do that? «
    » You heard Frank tell me he reversed a curse on a skinwalker long ago by shooting a bone bead into it? «
    » Yes. «
    » Well, what they’re really doing by shooting pieces of bone into you is inviting a ch’áádii into your body. Ch’áádii linger around the bodies, see; they’re anchored to them until they have a chance to disperse. So if you’re shot with a piece of a corpse, you’ll get corpse sickness and die. And there are stories about witches sneaking up to hogans and dumping corpse powder down chimneys—that’s ground-up bones mixed with ash. Everyone inside breathes it in, and the family is wiped out. That’s all part of the Witchery Way. «
    » That is some seriously evil shit, « Granuaile said. » Are these witches like you’re used to in Europe? «
    » No, the Navajo witches are mostly men. And what they’re doing is inverting the wholesome rituals of the Blessing Way—they’ll make their paintings using ash instead of sand, for example. It’s similar to conducting the Black Mass. «
    Granuaile frowned. » I’m starting to see why you don’t like witches. «
    » Yeah. I keep hearing that there are good ones out there, but I haven’t met any, with the possible exception of Malina’s coven. «
    » Have you ever seen a ch’áádii ? I mean in the magical spectrum? «
    » No, I’ve never had occasion to. «
    She looked down at the ground and said quietly, » Guess you’ll have a chance in the morning. «

Chapter 9
    Most of us managed to get three or four hours’ sleep once the skinwalkers were gone. Frank called a temporary halt to the ceremony and told us to get some rest. My sleep was plagued by troubling dreams of shapeless, smoky demons that never felt the bite of my sword but whose claws and teeth found ample purchase on my skin. They were like congealed darkness, and I could neither bind them in place nor unbind their substance—for how does one control an absence of light?
    Once dawn arrived, the Navajos greeted the sun—a tradition that stems from their belief that the gods rise with the sun, and the reason that hogan doors always face east—and we went to see what happened to Darren.
    We found him lying on the road, torn from his truck and his body savaged by the skinwalkers. His blood had sunk into the earth, red dust made doubly red. Down the hill, north of the road, Darren’s truck was a mess of crumpled metal and shattered glass.
    Sophie Betsuie lost her composure and returned to the hogan, crying. She was beating herself up with a club made out of the words if only , and I knew what it felt like. If only I hadn’t done this. If only someone else hadn’t done that. I hoped she would learn sooner, rather than later, that you can’t unchoose anyone’s choices, least of all your own. All you can do