Jewels clears her throat, eyes fixed forward now. “We tried to get passports for the kids, but we couldn’t figure out who to trust in the short timeline.”
“We won’t need them,” I say. And I’m utterly certain of it.
“But … I thought you’d have a plan, like some other route to get us through to California?” She clears her throat. “Because Lou also has a record, and —”
“For what?” Cal asks sharply.
“For trumped-up garbage,” Lou retorts. “To keep me in my place.”
“So you say,” Cal grumbles, eyeing her.
“Yeah, I do.” She doesn’t offer up any more information. Not that I need it, but Cal could use some transparency. Otherwise, she’s going to lose him.
“This crossing will still do,” I say, trying to keep us on point.
The concrete wall spans the wide mountain pass, looming easily fifty or sixty feet over us as we approach. Guards appear along the top ramparts, looking tiny to my eyes. They’re clearly armed but not pointing guns at us. They’ve obviously seen our approach from a long way off, and we’re the only vehicles on the road.
Following the directions on the no-longer-bullet-riddled road signs, I slow, noting a green light over the middle of three glass-fronted checkpoint booths ahead. The other two booths are clearly not in use, given the concrete barriers arrayed in front of them, making the green light a little pointless.
A border patrol guard steps out of the booth with his hand raised, as if I hadn’t already been heading his way and prepared to stop. He’s attired in a well-pressed brown uniform, visored hat, and black boots. Not the full traditional Navajo regalia, but with hints of it seen in the dual crests on his shoulders, as well as the subtle etching on his leather belt and cross-body holster. His silver belt buckle is inlaid with turquoise.
Another guard steps into the booth from a back entrance, clearly called to duty by our arrival. It’s an easy guess that it’s not actual glass fronting the booths. More likely, it’s an essence-infused polymer constructed to look like glass by a skilled fabricator mage.
I roll down my window and slow to a stop. Hand casually resting on his holstered sidearm, the guard steps around the truck. He’s mindful to not block line of sight for the second guard as he leans down to get an initial look at me. He makes no reaction to my eyes or essence, though he’s clearly a mage himself. Then he sweeps his gaze over everyone else in the car.
He frowns. Unlike him with his darkly tanned skin, brown eyes, and sharp cheekbones, none of us immediately appear to be Navajo citizens, notwithstanding that not everyone in the nation is descended from the First Nations.
“Passports,” he says gruffly. “And the reason for your visit.”
“Just crossing through to California,” I say. “Though we’ll need a gas station and a pee break, apparently.”
Cal audibly groans in the back seat, as if my frankness is too cringy for words.
“Passports,” he repeats, his frown deepening.
To my right, Jewels has literally not moved a muscle.
I very deliberately meet his gaze.
He flinches. I’m not certain how he missed my eyes with his first look. More little tricks from the universe, perhaps. Or maybe some actual benevolence. Because my headache isn’t quite as bad as it was before I climbed into the truck.
“I don’t travel with a passport,” I say evenly. “And my friends are with me.”
“That …” The guard hesitates, swallowing once, then rallying. “That’s not how it works.”
“Zaya Gage,” I say.
“What?”
“Call your superior. Go as high up as you can in the command chain, then get them to go as high up as they can. Someone owes me a favor. We’re just crossing through. You can have a patrol follow us if you wish.”
He huffs, puffing out his chest as he regains the bit of confidence that faltered at whatever he caught in my gaze. “Listen —”
“Zaya Gage. Make the call,” I say, giving him the tiniest of pushes. The power simmering in my blood and bones still feels a little … unhinged. And very … eager. I don’t want to unintentionally override a person’s fate just to get them to make a call.
The guard blinks, then steps back to the booth. The other guard, hovering in the open doorway, looks at him as if he’s gone mad, then transfers that frown to me, gripping his still-holstered weapon with more intent.
It takes ten fucking minutes.
