Black Moon Sing (The Turquoise Path Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

red-earth roof of the hogan came into view, almost blending into the land at the foot of the mesa.
    The truck slowed and rolled to a stop in the silent, abandoned yard. Ellery bit her lip as she stared at the hogan. She half-expected to see Roanhorse emerge from the wooden door, but of course that was impossible now.
    “Are you all right?” Hosteen asked quietly.
    “Yeah. I’ll be fine. It’s just strange to be back here after so many years, that’s all.”
    “I’m sorry it’s under such unfortunate circumstances.”
    She turned to look at him. He gave her a half-smile of sympathy that was almost timid. She liked the softness of his eyes, the way they contrasted so startlingly with his hard-carved features and the strength of his face.
    But he was a Typ, after all. And a Diné Typ at that. He was dangerous to Ellery. She knew that for a fact—knew it all too well.
    “Let’s get to it,” she said. She swung the truck’s heavy door open and stepped out into the heat of the flat, barren yard.
    A sluggish breeze blew across the desert, kicking up puffs of dust, whirling them into tiny dust-devils which died down again almost immediately. A few twigs of dead sagebrush tumbled between Ellery and the silent hogan. From somewhere above, in the Black Mesa foothills or in the sky itself, a distant crow called.
    Hosteen stepped up beside her. Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of wind-blown grit striking the crisp fabric of his pressed white shirt, an incongruous choice when paired with his faded jeans. He crossed the yard to the hogan with a business-like stride and pushed its door open, but would go no further.
    Ellery approached. She, too, hesitated on the threshold. Most Diné were reluctant to enter a home where a person had died. It was bad luck, and disrespectful—and even though Ellery had lived ten years away from Diné culture, she realized the old ways were still ingrained in her.
    Roanhorse wouldn’t mind if I entered his home , she told herself. He always welcomed me when I was a kid—when he was alive. He’ll welcome me still .
    With a deep breath to steady her nerves, Ellery went inside. Light from the open door illuminated the interior, exactly as in her memory. And much of Roanhorse’s belongings were still where they had been ten years past, so familiar and homey that fresh tears stung Ellery’s eyes. She blinked hard to clear them away, unwilling to wipe her eyes and betray her sadness to Hosteen.
    She ran her hand over the small, round table with its two wooden chairs, brushed dust off the chests and cabinets that lined the hogan’s circular wall, and contemplated the bed, carefully aligned so that its head faced south, not north, in accordance with tradition. She smiled in spite of her sadness. William Roanhorse had always been deep in the old traditions.
    As her sharp eyes adjusted fully to the dimness inside, she noted the dark stains on the woven rugs that covered the floor. Blood—a lot of blood. What Hosteen had said was true, then. Roanhorse had been killed, and brutally. She had hoped she would find some evidence that it wasn’t so, that Hosteen had been mistaken and the old man had died peacefully at home—or at least naturally, his last moments free from violence and terror.
    “He didn’t deserve this,” Ellery said, staring at the blood-soaked rugs.
    Hosteen shifted on his feet, lingering just outside the door. “I know.”
    “Come in here.”
    He said nothing, but he made no move to enter the hogan.
    “You’ve already been inside once, haven’t you?” Ellery said, more snappishly than she’d intended. “What can it hurt to come in again?”
    Hosteen shrugged. “You’ve got me there.” He ducked his head as he came through the rather low doorway, then turned slowly in a circle, taking in the silent hogan with caution, as if for the first time.
    “The door was barred from the inside when you found him?” Ellery asked.
    “That’s right. Somebody from Black Mesa