“Will that disappoint you?” I tremble at the expectation of an answer.
Life is change, my son. You’ve changed before, when you asked me to make you brothers. When you asked for a respite. Your changes are beautiful to watch, but they pain me, too. You were perfect as you were, and for many millennia you served humanity. You’ve served well and faithfully.
“So what should I do?” I reach for the bright, sparkling, foreign strand. As I stroke it, I smell burgers and fries. I smell the rose scent of Whitney’s hair. I see her sleeping face in my mind’s eye. I watch her twirl in her blood-red dress. I hear her complain about the lack of socks. I feel her clinging to my back, relishing the feel of the wind in her hair, wind I created. “Should I pluck the strand?” Even the thought has me shying away. That strand may be the very last thing I have of Whitney.
And I want it desperately.
I’m afraid you’ve already made your choice. You must now make peace with it. In thousands of years, you’ve never broken a rule, not a single one. But now, since the sprouting of this bright strand, you’re breaking rules repeatedly.
I bow my head. “I’m sorry.”
I feel a hand on my head. When I open my eyes, no one’s there. I love you, whatever you decide, child. I will watch you grow and change with grace.
“Is she alive?”
I will tell you this one thing, that she yet lives. But I will also warn. Human will, their agency, is paramount. You may love her, but she may not love you. If you pluck the strand and return to my service, you will feel no pain, no fear, and no anger. You will return to what you were. There is no risk.
“But?”
If you nourish it and you embrace your change, you may return to earth, and you may pursue your beloved human, but you are promised nothing. She may despise you forever. You would have given up your immortal life and your power and position for nothing.
“Will I retain my magic?”
I’ve told you what I will. You must decide. The weight of the hand withdraws, and my soul twists in front of me.
I run a careful hand down the length of the golden strand, and I smile. I close my eyes and think of her. Her face, stubborn and set, her mind, fierce and strong, and her body, as it curls against mine, her hands pressing on my chest. Since we met, she’s hated everything about me, but what if I wasn’t a horseman anymore? What if I could give her what she wanted? She might hate me.
Or she might not.
I want it.
I’ve never wanted in my long life, but now I want with every part of my being. “I will keep the strand and return to her.”
Something thrusts me from the light and dark chamber, and my body hurtles rapidly toward the surface. When I burst from the earth in a shower of dirt and rocks, it’s midday. There’s a young boy with a rifle resting on his shoulder. “Who are you?” He swings the gun around and points it at me, muttering. “People busting out of the ground and wandering around like they own the place.”
I try to sense what he’s thinking, but he’s unreadable. Just like Whitney. “I’m Xolotl,” I finally say. “I’m looking for Whitney Brooks.”
“Oh, hell no.” He fires his rifle at me, and the bullet strikes my shoulder.
And I bleed.
19
Whitney
I’m a good shot, but I’ll never go to the Olympics. I’m not that good.
My cousin Maren’s a stubborn narcissist, and she’s gotten better about it, but she won’t ever apologize voluntarily. It’s just not who she is.
Fruity Pebbles are pretty good, but they’ll never, not in a million years, be as good as Raisin Nut Bran.
Some things just are, and they can’t be changed.
Five minutes before, I’d have put Xolotl being hog-tied and left on the corner of our porch in that never-gonna-happen bucket, but there he is, staring up at me from the ground.
Gabe’s beaming. “Look what I caught. Said he was Xolotl.” He laughs, and he kicks the death god on his side. “Clearly a lie. Look—he’s bleeding all over the porch steps. What kind of horseman bleeds like a stuck pig?”
“Gabe!” My little brother’s a moron. “What are you doing?” I crouch down and start undoing the ties. “You shot him?”
