Chapter 8 Whitney
Whitney
I feel a little guilty about directing Xolotl at California, given that the populations in California are even more dense, but I told him the truth—it is full of people.
And most importantly, it’s farther from my family.
That was my main goal in keeping him out of Utah and that entire area.
Most of my family and friends live there.
If we’d gone to the east, we’d have been heading toward Houston, which is where everyone else I care about lives.
Sorry, California, but you’re riddled with earthquakes and full of morally bankrupt movie producers anyway, so I’m not that sorry.
“What does make you tired?” I ask. “And where does our power come from?” I feel like calling it our power might make him more likely to share.
Not that he can answer me when he’s in his horse form.
I shouldn’t have asked, because he glanced over his big black shoulder, narrowing his eyes.
I shouldn’t have asked about making him tired.
He’s smart—he’ll realize I’m asking about his weaknesses, and that’s hardly the attitude of a good champion.
Then again, he knows I’m not keen on the job, hence the training.
I still don’t have a good plan for how to use my time.
Convincing someone who kills people for both fun and power that life is valuable and he should cease and desist in fulfilling his one purpose is going to be hard.
My greatest idea so far is ice cream. The growling of my stomach has probably short-circuited my higher-level thinking.
I’m opening a package of powdered sugar donuts—a popular fuel choice for every road warrior for decades—when it hits me.
Does he even eat?
I haven’t seen him eat grass in his horse form. He hasn’t shown a speck of interest in all the food I took at that convenience store. It almost seems like. . .he doesn’t eat at all.
Shoot.
Now I’m back to no plan to convince him that life is good.
Was that really all I had? Food? What else is there?
Puppy videos? Scrolling TikTok? Going for a run is fun to some people—lunatics like this guy, probably—but we’re already doing that, and he’s as homicidal as ever.
I see him shifting toward the cars on the road, and I know he’s contemplating the deal we made and whether he really has to honor it.
“Don’t even think about killing people. I’ll notice if cars start swerving and crashing.” I watch the people driving the passing cars, creeping along the boring stretch of freeway, no idea that their lives are in imminent danger from a lunatic. “Hey, do you eat?”
He stops abruptly, almost throwing me over his head. His shift still takes me by surprise, and I fall hard on the sand underneath us, landing on my already-bruised bottom.
“Ow. That was rude.”
He clears his throat.
I stand up, glaring. “What?” I wave at the tiny green road sign.
“We’re still twenty miles from Reno.” The freeway exits are becoming more and more populated.
Instead of just a gas station, there are a few fast food places and some other things.
Factories. Warehouses. I saw a sign for a shipping center earlier.
“You keep asking me questions.” He glares. “In case it hasn’t occurred to your tiny human brain, I can’t speak to you when I’m in my horse form.” His eyes are flashing.
“Right,” I say. “I thought you could think about all that stuff and maybe answer me when you shift back.” I force a smile. “See? Like right now.”
“It’s not any of your concern where my power comes from or what exhausts me.” He glares. “As my champion, you should want to defend me, not find a good time to attack.”
“I’m thinking of how best to defend you. How can I do that if I don’t know when you’re vulnerable?”
“I’m never vulnerable.”
“Surely that’s not true.” I can’t help my smile. “It wouldn’t be very balanced if it was, and we all know how you feel about that.”
“I wake only occasionally, so I don’t need weaknesses.”
But that means his sleep is his weakness. “Shouldn’t a good commander know what might send you back to sleep?” I arch one eyebrow. “Or is that not part of my training?”
“Your training does matter.” He looks around. “This is a good place to start. Excellent suggestion.”
“Wait,” I say. “Start what?”
“As my commander—I like that term. Never used it before—you will have the ability to call on my power. It allows you to defend yourself from your many vulnerabilities.”
Oh, boy. This part I can guess. “With your magic, I can manipulate the elements? Command the wind, the water, and the earth, yeah?”
He frowns.
Shoot. I better not tell him how I know. “Just a guess. I mean, you did come out of a mountain, and I’ve seen you do things to people other than just kill them.”
He’s still scowling, but he nods slowly. “Yes, you can use the powers of earth, wind, lightning, fire, and water as required in order to accomplish our purposes—bringing things back into balance.”
“To kill,” I say.
“And to convince others to do what you want without killing.” Xolotl smiles. “You should like that concept. Sometimes I choose to set them on other paths instead of just killing them outright.”
“Why?” I tilt my head. “When you could just kill them?”
“You asked about what makes me tired.” He sighs, as if he’s telling me this against his better judgment.
“To teach you, I suppose you’ll have to learn a few things.
” He walks toward the road. “And if you want me to avoid killing for a short time, the fewer people who notice what we’re doing, the better. ”
“Then why are you walking toward the road?” I frown.
“We’re about to cross the dumb road,” he says. “So stick close to me, and let’s get to the other side.”
“Truckee River’s over there. What are we going to do about that? Go for a swim?” I can’t help scrunching my nose. “Pass.”
He ignores me and dashes across the road when there’s a gap in the cars.
Thanks to the stupid bond, I’m tugged along behind him, the new boots I’m wearing already rubbing raw spots on my heels because Mr. Bossy was too rude to make me any socks.
Of course he’s dragging me across the highway toward a stupid river without any plan.
Once he reaches the other side, he plunges down the side of the road embankment, right toward the water.
Only, when he gets there, he doesn’t go for a swim. He turns to look back at me, and then he literally walks right over the river, his feet not touching the water beneath. He steps on the other side of the riverbank and turns to wait expectantly.
“You think I can air-walk?” I snort. “Think again.”
“Then part the water,” he says.
“Yeah, right.”
“Or build a walkway of earth.” He tosses his head. “But get over here.”
I have no idea how to do any of the things he’s asking me to do.
As if he doesn’t care at all, he turns on his heel and starts walking. I can’t help thinking that he must have made himself socks, or he’d be walking with a limp, too. Jerk. He hasn’t gone too far before I start to feel the pull. It starts out annoying, but it gets stronger and stronger.
“Hey,” I shout. “I don’t know how to do that stuff. You call this training?”
He keeps walking.
I hate him.
But the pulling gets stronger and stronger, and pretty soon, I’m forced to scramble down the rather steep embankment and plunge into the icy waters of the stupid, crappy Truckee River.
I can swim, so, like, it’s fine. But I don’t usually go swimming in a river, and I never do it in heavy boots and a long, flowing dress.
In November.
Four days before Thanksgiving.
I’m spluttering, and coughing, and the infernal tugging’s distracting me badly as I dive, lurch, and flail my way toward the other side.
I’m moving so slowly, and Xolotl clearly isn’t slowing, and the pain from the tugging separation escalates.
As I push harder to cross the river, a burning pain in my chest starts to claw at me.
I’m gulping for breath when I come up above the water, and I’m kicking somewhat uselessly to keep from sinking, and then I get caught in some kind of tangled pile of debris in the river.
And for the first time, I have an idea.
If I just died here, I wonder what would happen to Xolotl.
He’s killed so many others, and he plans to kill more.
Can I really stop him, no matter what I do?
I’m pretty sure I can’t. But he seems to keep taking me along in spite of the nuisance I am.
. .why? Something bad must happen to him if something bad happens to me, or why would he be suffering to keep me around like this?
Clearly it’s not as hard on him as, like, dying, but could my dying do him some harm? And if so, isn’t it my moral obligation to do it?
I think about just letting the cold, awful water drag me under.
Forget training.
Forget convincing him not to be who he is.
Maybe I could best do my part to slow him down just by giving up in this moment. The water would take care of the rest, right? And if it doesn’t, if he stops me from dying, that will tell me something even more important.
It’ll confirm that my death is very bad for him.
And I’ll finally have a real weapon to use against him when the time is right. I slide down into the depths of the river easily, my senses sharpening on just two things—the cold darkness surrounding me, and the pull on my chest coming from Xolotl.
For the first time, I’m taking the easy way. Sometimes it feels like my whole life has been some kind of fight. The idea of surrendering is entirely foreign, but also freeing. There would be no more anger, no more pushing or flailing around against the impossible.
I can just let go.