Alyson Noel - Horizon

As always, Kachina displays an uncanny ability to tune in to my moods, if not my needs, when she leads me straight to the small, humble graveyard that rests off the side of the road.

The first time I came here, I instantly pegged it as shabby, random, and tragically run-down. But once I took the time to settle in and appreciate the abundance of handmade crosses and markers—the fat handfuls of blooms lovingly gathered in honor of loved ones; the helium-heavy balloons tethered to rocks, commemorating those who’ve passed on—I was quick to change my tune.

It’s a place of love, honor, and reverence.

It’s a place I’ve come to think of as sacred.

And it’s been far too long since my last visit.

I slide off Kachina’s back and give her a light slap on the rear. Urging her to wander and graze, as my feet instinctively carry me to the simple, rectangular plaques marking the place where the bodies of my father and grandmother rest.

Paloma once warned me to never mistake the gravesite as the soul’s final resting place. Assuring me that communion is possible anywhere. Still, at this particular moment, this is the place I most need to be. And I’m grateful for my horse having realized the truth that eluded me.

The patchy, parched grass pricks at my knees as I drop to the ground and take a good look around. Relieved to confirm that the magick wrought by the elders has stuck, and any attempt by the Richters to desecrate the place has been successfully thwarted. The grounds remain as untouched as the day Paloma brought me here to reveal the tragic truth of my father’s brief life.

The son of a powerful Seeker and revered Jaguar shaman, Django was destined to wield formidable power. But he turned his back on his destiny and ran off to L.A. at sixteen, only to fall madly in love with my mom, then die just a few months later in a motorcycle crash Paloma claims was no accident.

It was the work of the Richters.

Only they acted just a few days too late.

The seed was already planted.

Jennika was pregnant with me.

Yet, despite my vow to not repeat Django’s mistakes—to live up to my legacy and accept the destiny I was born to claim—sometimes I fear that I’m failing.

Missing the signs.

Falling remarkably short.

Though I’m not here to plead for the guidance and help of the dead. I’m on my own now. Something made all too clear the day the lone raven circled Paloma’s grave. I’m merely in search of the calming encouragement only they can provide.

I need a father’s protective embrace.

I need a grandmother’s wisdom.

I need the reassurance that I really am equipped to deal with the Richters, now that I’m sure they’re preparing a comeback.

And while Jennika would be here in a heartbeat—all I have to do is call and she’ll come running—I’m reluctant to do so when it was hard enough to convince her to leave.

Besides, Jennika’s finally settling into a life that’s good for her. She finally has a shot at forming a real and lasting relationship with Harlan. One where she’s not up and running the second things start to progress. I need to leave her to it. Give her the room she needs to make it work without my interference.

Like me, Jennika’s been running too long.

It’s time for us to lay down some roots.

I settle between the graves and ease onto my back. Reveling in the coolness of the earth, the fading wisps of clouds overhead, I stretch my arms to rest on each mound, and try to divine what to do next.

As Paloma once taught me, everything is made of energy, which means everything is alive. According to her, it’s as easy to scry from fire and tea leaves as it is to receive messages from the face of a rock. All that’s required is a willingness to believe, an ear tuned toward one’s inner voice, and a bit of focused concentration.

Only this time, despite my intent, despite my desire to see, the clouds remain an unreadable, stringy, white blur. Until a sudden stir of wind brushes past, lifting the strands of my hair and riffling the frayed hem of my faded denim cutoffs—and I take it as a sign.

As a daughter of the wind, this is no accident.

Rather it’s a timely reminder that I’m not as alone as I feared.

Never have been.

As Paloma once said: To become powerful is to allow a great power to work through you. No one walks alone.

While I know she was referring to the ultimate power, at the moment, I take great comfort knowing she and Django are included.

The sun continues to drop. Wind swirls and skips. And I rise to my feet and brush myself off.

Soon, it’ll be time to head back and confront the night still to come, but well before then, I have something important to do.

Though I didn’t realize it until now, as it turns out, it’s the reason I’m here.

I heave a deep breath and face the glorious, sun-shadowed peaks of the Sangre de Christo mountains. Finally willing to admit that until I confront my grief, I won’t be able to confront anything else.

For the last six months I’ve buried my sorrow in a punishing regimen of grueling workouts and daily six-mile runs. Then, after tending to the never-ending stream of Paloma’s former clients I’ve taken on, I drop by Dace’s apartment in a state of exhaustion, looking to numb myself in his arms.

Yet, in the wee hours of the morning, when the streets grow hushed and Dace is slumbering beside me, there’s nowhere to hide. And that’s when the pageant of things I should’ve done differently parades through my mind. The most glaring among them: allowing Cade to get the best of me—the best of us—when I gave that cursed tourmaline to Paloma.

Still, no matter how many times I reframe it, it’s not like I can change it. The outcome is final.

What’s done is truly done.

In the end, life amounts to little more than a series of choices. Some big, some small, but every action causes a reaction—and there’s no doubt it’s my own actions that landed me here.

Just like Paloma and Django’s actions landed them six feet below.

Despite Paloma’s warnings, Django chose to run from his destiny and it ended tragically.

Despite suspecting the tourmaline was cursed from the moment she laid eyes on it, Paloma chose to keep it.

Tormenting myself won’t change what’s been done. The only purpose it serves is to punish myself for things that were never mine to control.

Besides, what if there’s a chance Dace is right?

What if love really can overcome evil?

What if it’s as simple as that?

My thoughts toward myself are pretty much the opposite of loving. I’ve been ruled by self-hate and fear, and maybe it’s time I do better.

After all, Paloma trusted me, believed in me.

Maybe it’s time I trust and believe in myself.

With the sun quickly descending, glazing the mountains in a glorious sheen of purples and reds, I take a deep breath, steeple my hands to my chest, and make a true and solemn pledge to do better than I have.

To stop denying my grief.

Stop torturing myself by reliving a past I can’t change.

To let my friends in.

Lita was right. We’re all in this together. For a short while I knew that, yet ever since Paloma’s death I’ve been driven by fear, and so I’ve pushed them away in a misguided attempt to spare them from the kind of things that aren’t mine to control.

But no more.

With Kachina off grazing—with Wind tickling my skin—with the low guttural cry of a lone raven soaring circles over my head—I bow in reverence toward the mountain, and rededicate myself to my legacy.

To the destiny I was born to claim.

No matter what may become of me—I won’t go down easily.

The Richters will pay for the heinous acts that they’ve wrought on this town—on my loved ones—on the Lower, Upper, and Middleworlds, which are mine to keep balanced.