“So this must be Nizhoni and Marcus,” Mr. Charles says enthusiastically, giving us an oversize grin. “But holy heck, what happened to y’all? You both look like you’ve been wrestling longhorns!” Despite his fancy suit, he’s got a twangy accent that shouts Aw shucks and Gee whiz like a fake cowboy in an old movie. I don’t trust it.
“Sports injury.” I narrow my eyes at Mr. Charles and wait to see if he says anything. After all, he was there. But he doesn’t let on that he knows, and it’s hard to figure out what he’s thinking behind those sunglasses. His face is just politely curious, and maybe a little grossed out. What kind of monster gets faint at the sight of blood?
“Well, shoot. Sorry about that, but it looks like you survived,” says Mr. Charles. “Nice to meet you both!” He thrusts his right hand in front of me. It looks perfectly normal, but I remind myself that it’s not, that this a disguise. Underneath that perfectly normal-looking skin is something truly awful—something scaly or tentacle-y or…or…
“Better not,” I say, trying to sound regretful. I hold up my hand and wiggle my fingers. Thankfully, there’s still some blood underneath my nails and dried bits flaking off my palm, so I have the ideal excuse.
“Go get cleaned up, Nizhoni,” Dad says, gesturing to the front door. He nudges Mac to shake hands.
“My hands are full,” Mac says. He clutches his iPad closer to his chest, eyes wide. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dad says, and takes his iPad away. And just like that, Mac runs out of excuses.
I gulp, worried…and watch as Mac reluctantly reaches out and shakes Mr. Charles’s hand.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shoulders tense, and wait for Mac to scream in pain. Or freeze and fall over. Or for his eyes to flash green and for him to start talking in a robot voice, hypnotized by Mr. Charles’s touch.
But when I open my eyes…
Nothing happens.
Charles lets go, and then Mac moves over and shakes hands with the two bodyguards—first the man, who introduces himself as Mr. Rock, and then the woman, who says her name is Ms. Bird. And nothing weird or scary happens. Nothing at all.
Well, besides Mac looking back at me over his shoulder and giving me a huge thumbs-up.
“What happened to playing it cool?” I mutter under my breath.
“Hurry up and get ready, Nizhoni,” Dad says. “And put on something nice. Mr. Charles is taking us to the Pasta Palace for dinner.”
Did I hear that right? The monster is taking us to my favorite restaurant for dinner? Is that even allowed?
Behind me I hear Mac ask the woman bodyguard, “Is that a real gun? Can I see it?”
And now I am thoroughly confused. I still have that feeling that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but Mr. Charles hasn’t done anything that would make me think he was evil. Was I wrong about him being a monster? Was I wrong about Dad and Mac being in danger? Was I wrong about everything?
I wash up quickly, getting rid of both the lingering blood and the gym-socks smell from basketball, and like Dad said, I pick out something nice to wear. Not too nice, in case the monster calling himself Mr. Charles attacks us or something and I have to make a run for it. But clean jeans, my favorite Frank Waln shirt, and a pair of Nike N7 sneakers. I’m leaving my bedroom, pulling the door closed, when I notice something odd.
Mr. Charles is standing in our living room by himself—no Dad or Mac, and no bodyguards. He’s in front of the mantel, where we keep some family photos. He picks up the largest, peering at it closely before setting the frame down and examining the next. I know which picture it is from here—it’s the one of my whole family, including my mom. Mr. Charles flips the frame over and turns the clasp that holds the photo inside. He starts to slide out the paper. Wait…he’s stealing it?! He shouldn’t even be touching it! It’s special, and he needs to keep his monster paws off.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
He looks up, sunglasses still on, and calmly slides the photo back into the frame and sets it down. “Hello, Nizhoni.” His blond hair looks almost silver in the late-afternoon light coming in from the windows, and he smiles self-assuredly, showing a mouth full of perfect white teeth. He pulls something from his pocket and palms it so I can’t tell what it is.
“Did you know that your name means ‘beauty’ in Navajo?” he continues. “Well, of course you did.” He chuckles. “It’s your name.”
“Where’s my dad?”
“You have a very interesting family,” he says, gesturing back to the photos and ignoring my questions. “Is that your mother?”
I glare at him. No way I’m telling him anything.
“I never met her, of course, but she is known to my…” He pauses, as if searching for a word. “…associates.”
“Monsters?” I blurt out.
His face freezes for a moment, but then he grins. “I see you and I don’t have to play games. That’s good. I like that we can be honest with each other.” All traces of his hokey cowboy accent are gone.
I knew it! All my feelings were right! Mr. Charles is a monster. But on the heels of my triumph comes dread. Why is a monster interested in my family, and how would he and his so-called associates know about my mom?
“As long as we’re being honest,” Mr. Charles says, “let me tell you why I’m here. To explain that, I’ll have to start with your mother. Did you know her side of the family goes way back in Navajo history? All the way back to the goddess Changing Woman? She’s—”
“I know about Changing Woman. But we call her a Holy Person, not a goddess,” I say, lifting my chin and trying to sound brave. “I mean, as long as we’re being honest.”
My shimásání—that’s what I call my grandmother on my mother’s side—taught me that Changing Woman created the clan system of the Navajo people. The system tells us who we’re related to, and it’s one of the first things Mac and I had to learn. Since I carry three of the original clans in my lineage, being descended from Changing Woman isn’t as strange as it might sound.
Mr. Charles’s greasy grin gets bigger, if that’s even possible. His bright teeth look sharp behind his lips. “Such a smart girl,” he says, in a creepy fake-compliment voice. “Then I assume you also know that your mother’s ancestry can be traced directly to one of Changing Woman’s sons.”
I don’t remember my shimásání ever saying anything about Changing Woman’s son. And how does this white dude from some oil and gas company know anything about Navajo stories, anyway? A chill crawls down my spine.
“Perhaps I don’t have to explain why I’m here,” Mr. Charles goes on. “Perhaps you already know.” He raises an expectant eyebrow.
“To take us to the Pasta Palace?” I blurt out, fear making me say something ridiculous. Real smooth, Nizhoni.
He laughs. Twirls whatever it is he has in his hands. It’s a long black object that glints in the afternoon light, but I still can’t get a good look at it. “You can probably guess that I’m a very powerful man. I run a corporation worth billions of dollars. On my private estate, I have dozens of people at my beck and call. I’m not used to being thwarted. And yet, it was recently brought to my attention that there is a girl, the daughter of our former enemy, who could impede my plans for the future.” He steps closer.