Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (34 page)

“Was it Psalms 62: 9?” I ask.

He looks down. “Yep.”

“Are you sure you translated it right?”

Rye glares at me and holds the Bible out. “Good night,” he says, rolling over.

“Okay. Thanks.” I rub my arm. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it. It hardly made any sense. Lighter than vanity? What does that even mean?

I glumly walk back to my room and sit down on the bed I’ll be sharing with Hana. “That was a waste,” I say to the others.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Kit,” Kai says, “except what I decided a long time ago: our dad was a nutter.” He kisses Hana and leaves the room.

As I climb under my covers and close my eyes, I wonder if my brother is right. Even though I don’t remember Dad ever acting strangely, the things I’ve been learning about him don’t add up. I just can’t figure him out.

In the morning, we pack up our things, ditch our weapons—we won’t be able to get them on the plane—and, after a breakfast of fresh fruit, go down to the car. Rye tells Hana to drive to the airport so Maisy and Kai don’t have to walk.

“I’ll go to the bank to get the money,” he says.

“I’ll go with you,” I say. “We’ll meet you guys at the airport. Everyone has their passport, right? Okay, see you soon.”

As Hana pulls into traffic, I hear her swearing at the other drivers. Rye and I exchange a look, and I almost laugh.

The morning shines bright and warm on our heads as we walk toward the bank, and for the first time, the sharp uncertainty between us seems to soften.

The air is saturated with the smell of street vendors, car exhaust, and underground sewers, the markers of civilization and safety, and I breathe them in gratefully. We cross the street and enter a marketplace swarming with farmers and tradesmen, shoppers and tourists. I admire the displays of wares, the brightly colored produce and hand woven baskets, and listen to the customers barter with the merchants.

As I sweep my gaze over the plaza, my eyes suddenly lock onto a face in the crowd. Something about the girl’s features seems familiar. My brain whirls through its database of images, searching for a match.

Pointed nose. Thin lips. Perfectly straight blonde hair.

Diva.

It can’t be. Here? I look for her again, but she’s disappeared into the throng.

It must have been a lookalike. What would Diva be doing in Mexico?

The same thing Rye and Lila are doing here.

And just like that, the golden orb that was glowing happily inside my chest begins to dim. How could I have forgotten that Rye is my enemy? That his allies killed the members of my
raiti
. That his own people must still be looking for him.

“Rye,” I say cautiously, “how many warriors came with you to Mexico?”

“About a dozen.”

“Did any of them have blonde hair?”

He frowns. “What? No. Why?”

“No reason.”

He looks around. “Did you see someone we know?”

“No, it was a mistake.”
But it doesn’t change anything
, I think. Even if it wasn’t Diva, or even if she is here on her own, Rye and I cannot be friends.

We arrive at the bank, a few blocks from the marketplace, and I follow Rye inside to the counter where he withdraws one hundred thousand pesos—about the equivalent of eight thousand U.S. dollars.
Despite the high amount, the transaction is quick, and we leave the bank only a few minutes after arriving.

Rye looks at his watch. “There are still a couple of hours until our flight. We should have just enough time.”

“Good. Let’s get going.” I walk quickly down the street.

“Is something wrong?” Rye asks, hurrying to catch up.

“No. I just don’t want to be late.” But even as I deny it, I feel the tension bubbling back up between us. Something
is
wrong. I had started to think I could be friends with a Yakone.

“Okay then, tell me something,” Rye says. “I’ve been wondering for a long time—what happened the night your people attacked the base?”

“You mean the night your people tried to kill me?” I retort.

Rye blinks. For a split second he looks confused—and hurt?—but then his expression hardens. “Actually, I mean the night
your
people killed my people. In cold blood.”

“And vice versa.”

“You attacked us.”

“You attacked us first.”

“That’s not true,” he counters.

“Yes, it is. You destroyed one of our villages.”

“Rangi propaganda.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Well, you are.”

I scowl. “Fine. I lied to you, okay. Get over it.”

“I am over it,” he says. “But I still want to know. First, what happened down in the tunnels? Some said you were leading an attack on the families, and some said you were trying to stop the attack. Which is it?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I want to know if I’m about to help a child-killer escape justice,” he says evenly.

I stop walking and turn to look at him, indignation and anger boiling inside me. He’s calling
me
a murderer? I open my mouth, but I can’t find the words I need.

“What do you think, Rye?” I finally sputter. “You seem to know me so well.”

“I don’t know you at all, it seems,” he says. Then, when I say nothing: “If you won’t answer that, tell me this. When the power came back on, we caught video footage of you taking something out of the base. What was it?”

I turn around and keep walking, too frustrated to speak. All this time, he’s had no idea what I did for his tribe. What I sacrificed.

And it has to stay that way.

If the Rangi ever found out I prevented the explosives from detonating, there’s no telling what they would do. Especially since the Yakone retaliated by blasting our fortress in return. The memory of holding that little girl’s frail, cold body in my arms suddenly turns my blood to ice.
I saved the Yakone, and they killed that girl. They killed Miri.
I can never forget that. And I have to take the secret of what happened at the
Wakenunat
to my grave.

“What were you doing?” Rye presses, when I don’t answer.

“Something I wish I hadn’t,” I say, still walking.

I’ve only gone two steps before Rye grabs my arm and spins me to face him. I try to pull away, but his grip is fierce. “Tell me,” he demands.

“It’s none of your business!” I spit.

“What happened to your legs?”

“Let go of me!”

“I heard what you said to your brother, about the bombs.”

“Let go!”

“And your back? You didn’t have a tattoo before.”

“I’m not telling you anything!”

“Curse you, Kit! I want to know what happened. Why did you pretend to be the
Riki
’s daughter? Were you a spy or not?”

We glare into each other’s eyes. I feel his breath on my face, the smell of his hair.

“I—”

I don’t get a chance to answer. A bullet shatters the window of a car parked near me on the street, and suddenly Rye is pushing me into an alleyway. He shields me with his body as more bullets pepper the street behind us.

“Run!” Rye shouts, and we take off down the alley.

“Probably a gang,” he pants. “I noticed we picked a tail up at the bank.”

“And here I was thinking it was your rescue party,” I gasp.

“Let’s hope not,” he says.

I lead the way down another alley. The bullets are getting closer to their marks, and the gang has a serious advantage: they know where these backstreets lead. We don’t.

But luck is on our side. The path I chose opens onto the plaza. If we can just reach it …

We dive behind a collection of trashcans as more bullets scorch the pavement then roll to our feet and keep running. The plaza is so close. I pump my arms harder. Almost there.

I burst out of the alley just as there’s another shot, followed by screams from the shoppers in the square. I turn around in time to see Rye stagger forward, blood leaking from his chest.

I stare at him, my feet frozen to the ground. I watch him clutch at the wall and his chest, blood everywhere, and still I can’t move. All I can think is,
He’s dying. He’s dying.
The words thunder in my head.

“Rye!” someone shouts over the screams in the plaza. I turn my head and see a squad of gray-clad warriors pushing through the crowd, Lila leading them. She’s the one who called his name.

“Kit,” Rye gasps, breaking the spell that’s bound me to the pavement. I run toward him, and he holds out the money. “Take it. Go.”

“I … No, Rye … I—”

“Go!” He presses the envelope into my hand then collapses onto the cobblestones.

“Kit!” Lila screams at me, charging through the market.

Another round of bullets bursts from the alleyway. The shoppers scream again, stampeding over each other and obstructing the Yakone as they try to run. Sirens sound in the distance, and I take advantage of the chaos to flee.

When I reach the edge of the plaza, I glance back at where Rye is lying in a pool of blood.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.

I turn and run.

I run all the way to the airport, looking over my shoulder constantly but not really seeing anything. Everything is hazy and slow and unreal, and when I enter the building I can’t decipher any of the signs I read or the sounds I hear, and it’s only because the airport is so small that I’m able to find Hana and my siblings.

“Rye’s dead,” I blurt as soon as I see them. I hand Hana the money. It’s then that I discover the envelope and my fingers are stained red. I stagger to the nearest trashcan.

While Hana hurries to purchase the tickets, Mokai helps me sit down on a bench, handing me something to wipe my hands with. I can feel Maisy and Jack’s eyes on me, though I don’t look at them.

“What happened?” Kai asks.

“We were ambushed on our way here,” I stammer.

“By the Yakone?”

I shake my head. “No. They were there, but it wasn’t them.”

“The Kaana?”

“I think it was a street gang.”

“In broad daylight?” Mokai asks, incredulously.

“Did they follow you?” Jack inserts.

“I don’t think so.”

“If it was a gang, they won’t bother us now,” Kai says. “We’ve just blown all the money.” He nods at Hana who is walking toward us waving the tickets.

“Got ’em,” she says. “Let’s go.”

As we rush toward the security checkpoint, I ask Mokai what he meant. “You said ‘if’ it was a gang.”

“It probably was,” he says, “but this mission’s been enough of a mess to make me question everything.”

His words chill my heart. A mess? Yes, this mission’s been a mess. A mess of bodies. Of people who were living and breathing only a few days ago. Now they’re dead. Now he’s dead. And I couldn’t even tell him that I wasn’t a spy, that I never meant to hurt him. I couldn’t tell him the truth, because I’m too proud. And now he’s dead.

A mess.

For once, I don’t try to stem back the flood of memories and images that come streaming into my head. I let them come and come and come.

We wait in our seats at the terminal, and I stare at the planes that take off and land. Big, bulky things. Flying, they call it.

He taught me how to really fly. Showed me how to let go of my burdens so I could join the wind.

Dead in the gutter. His heart pumping blood onto the street. Onto my hands.

He destroyed everyone in the arena. They called him a champion. He didn’t want to be a warrior, but it was being an ambassador that killed him.

No, I killed him. I made him bring us here.

He loved to dance. He loved the sound of words. He wanted to grow things in the earth.

There’s a plant to cure everything in this jungle.
But not death. There’s no cure for death. Everyone dies.

He was a truth seeker. And a poet. Eyes as deep as the Aurora Borealis.

Lovers as we two.

Not lovers. Haters. And why did we hate?

Because they told us to.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring out the window when the airport employee announces it’s time to board. I follow the others onto the plane, find my seat, and then stare out the window some more. The memories keep coming. Fast and black and heavy.

I’m surprised when the flight attendant walks by to hand out immigration cards so we can declare what items we’re bringing into the U.S.—
Nothing, I have nothing
—and when the plane begins its descent toward Los Angeles. Then we land, and I move woodenly along the aisle, down the ramp, through the lines at customs.

We make our way to the gate for our connecting flight, and I sit mechanically in a seat to wait, seeing only Rye’s final moments.