Supernatural 8 - Coyote's Kiss by Christa Faust

Author:Christa Faust [Faust, Christa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780857685438
Publisher: Random House Inc Clients
Published: 2011-07-12T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

“I don’t know about this,” Dean said over his shoulder.

He was back in the driver’s seat, where he clearly belonged. Sam rode shotgun, as usual. Xochi was in the Impala’s back seat with Claudia. She felt more than a little apprehensive about linking minds with the young girl, but she also knew that the world was full of hurt and heartbreak. No one could be protected from that ugly truth forever.

Xochi herself was hunting full time by the time she was Claudia’s age, staring death in the face every single day. More than that, Xochi was beginning to understand that Claudia was going to be a critical piece of the puzzle. As important to the success of the hunt as Sam. Maybe even more important.

“I’m okay,” Claudia said.

Xochi hoped she was right.

“Just remember,” Dean said. “Your dad—he was a good person. He saved your life. What you see that night, it wasn’t really him, okay?”

“Whatever,” Claudia said. “I’m fine.” She turned to Xochi. “I’m ready.”

Xochi gently cupped the back of Claudia’s head, pressing her palm to the girl’s forehead.

“This may feel... strange,” Xochi told her. “Don’t fight it, just try to relax.”

Then she began to recite the spell, easing her way slowly in.

The first thing Xochi encountered was a flood of memories, not of the Borderwalker, but of Irma, Claudia’s adopted mother. A woman with kind hazel eyes and gentle hands. Thick brown hair swept up into a simple twist at the nape of her long neck. A heart-shaped locket on a gold chain. She had an almost ethereal beauty, delicate, girlish and a little too thin, but always smiling. She stood in the kitchen with Claudia’s grandmother, cooking a huge pot of menudo on Sunday after church. In the backyard wearing a yellow dress, laughing and raising a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. In the living room, reading on the couch with her slim legs curled up underneath her, holding the book far away from her eyes because she refused to “throw money away” on new reading glasses when the ones she had were “perfectly fine.” In Claudia’s room, helping her make tea for dolls. Her father was there too, winking and pointing to his scratchy cheek, asking for a kiss. Lifting her up so high, seeming impossibly big and strong. Teaching her funny songs with bad words in them and her mother chasing him out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon. Him taking her mother’s hand and kissing it.

There were also memories of her mother in the hospital. A skeleton in pink terrycloth, barely breathing and lost in morphine haze. Claudia standing there nauseous and wracked with guilt for wanting to run away. For not wanting to touch that cold, wasted hand. For wishing she’d just hurry up and die already.

Xochi worked her way backwards, moving like liquid flowing through the years. As the memories got older, they became more disjointed, non-linear. Flashes and blurred images that Xochi had to pick apart and decipher.

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