Story begins here….please enjoy :)

1-1 Tala’s World

 

The sun clawed its way over the horizon, painting Phoenix in a brutal shade of gold that promised another day of unrelenting heat. This was nothing new for Tala, she woke to the groan of her ancient window-unit air conditioner, a machine that fought a losing battle against the August swelter. She lay still for a moment, her body heavy on the sagging mattress, her dark eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling of her one-bedroom apartment. The cracks spiderwebbed like the lines on her grandmother’s face, etched deep by time and stories.

Tala Redhawk was thirty-eight, but some mornings she felt older than the desert itself, older than the saguaros that stood sentinel beyond the city’s sprawl. Her hands, calloused from years of shaping silver and turquoise, ached as she flexed them, a reminder of the work waiting for her.

She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, her bare feet touching the cool tile floor—a small mercy in a city that baked everything it touched. The apartment was small, cramped with the weight of her life: a worn couch where her daughter, Kiona, sprawled most evenings; a kitchen counter cluttered with bills and half-empty coffee mugs; a shelf of Navajo weavings and pottery, each piece a tether to her past.

The air smelled of sage and motor oil, the former from a smudging ritual she’d done last night, the latter seeping through the walls from the auto shop downstairs. Phoenix was a city of contradictions, where the ancient whispers of the desert collided with the roar of progress, and Tala felt caught in the crossfire.

She padded to the kitchen, her braid swinging against her back, and filled the coffee pot with water. The tap sputtered, as if reluctant to give up its treasure. As the coffee brewed, she glanced at the photo on the fridge: her and Kiona, three years ago, standing at the edge of the Navajo Nation, the red earth stretching endless behind them. Kiona was thirteen then, all gangly limbs and shy smiles.

Now, at sixteen, she was a storm of attitude and dreams, her phone a permanent extension of her hand. Tala’s chest tightened. She’d raised Kiona alone since her ex, a white drifter named Cole, had vanished a decade ago, leaving nothing but a stack of unpaid bills and a broken promise. Tala didn’t miss him, but she missed the idea of a partner, someone to share the weight of a world that seemed to grow heavier every day.

The coffee pot gurgled, and Tala poured a mug, the steam curling like spirits in the morning light. She sipped, the bitterness grounding her, and stepped to the window. Her apartment was on the third floor of a faded brick building in South Phoenix, a neighborhood where the rent was still—just barely—affordable. Below, the street was already alive: cars honked in the eternal gridlock of McDowell Road, a food truck hawked breakfast tacos, and a group of kids kicked a soccer ball in an empty lot. But it was the newcomers who dominated the scene, their shiny SUVs and California plates glinting like invaders’ shields. They’d been pouring into Phoenix for years, fleeing their own state’s chaos for cheaper houses and fewer rules. They brought money, yes, but also rising rents, crowded schools, and a smugness that grated on Tala’s nerves. They called it “the California exodus,” as if it were some grand pilgrimage, but to Tala, it felt like a siege.

She turned from the window, her gaze falling on the eviction notice taped to the fridge, half-hidden under Kiona’s latest school report card. The landlord, a recent transplant from San Diego, had raised the rent again, citing “market trends.” Tala’s income from her silversmithing barely covered the basics, and the extra shifts she’d picked up at a local diner hadn’t closed the gap. She’d been dodging the landlord’s calls, but the notice was a guillotine, its blade gleaming. She’d have to move soon, maybe to a cheaper place on the city’s fringes, where the desert reclaimed the land and the bus lines barely ran. The thought made her stomach churn. She’d fought to keep Kiona in a decent school, to give her a shot at something better than scraping by. But Phoenix was changing, its heart hardening under the weight of new money and new faces.

“Kiona!” Tala called, her voice sharp but warm. “Time to get up!”

A groan came from the corner of the living room, where Kiona slept on a fold-out bed. The apartment was too small for two bedrooms, so Tala had given Kiona the bed, taking the couch when her daughter insisted on privacy. Kiona stirred, her black hair a tangled halo, and reached for her phone. The screen’s glow lit her face, casting shadows that made her look older than her years. “Five more minutes,” she mumbled, thumbs already flying across the screen.

“Now, Kiona,” Tala said, crossing her arms. “You’ve got school, and I’ve got work. Let’s move.”

Kiona rolled her eyes but sat up, stretching. She wore a faded hoodie with the Navajo Nation seal, a gift from Tala’s uncle Raymond, and a pair of ripped jeans that Tala swore cost more than her weekly grocery bill. “Fine,” Kiona said, “but the bus is gonna be late again. All these new kids from California, clogging everything up.” She tapped her phone, pulling up X. “Look at this. Another condo going up on Van Buren. They’re calling it ‘Desert Luxe.’ Barf.”

Tala snorted, leaning over to glance at the screen. The post showed a sleek glass tower, its tagline promising “urban oasis living.” The comments were a mix of excitement from newcomers and outrage from locals, with one user lamenting, “Phoenix ain’t Phoenix anymore.” Tala felt a pang of agreement. The city she’d grown up in, where her grandmother had taught her to weave and pray, was vanishing under concrete and ambition. The desert still called to her—its vastness, its silence—but it was harder to hear over the din of construction and traffic.

“Put that away and eat,” Tala said, sliding a plate of frybread and eggs across the counter. She’d made the frybread last night, a ritual that connected her to her grandmother’s kitchen, to the stories of the Diné and the Holy People who shaped the world. Kiona grabbed the plate, still scrolling, and Tala resisted the urge to snatch the phone. She knew Kiona’s obsession with X was partly rebellion, partly escape. The girl was smart, her grades solid despite the chaos of their life, but she carried a restlessness Tala recognized. It was the same fire that had burned in Tala at sixteen, when she’d dreamed of leaving the reservation for something bigger, only to find herself trapped in a cycle of survival.

As Kiona ate, Tala dressed for the day: a loose cotton shirt, jeans, and her work boots, scuffed but sturdy. She tied a red bandana around her neck, a nod to her grandmother’s style, and slipped a silver bracelet onto her wrist, one she’d crafted herself, its turquoise inlay catching the light. The bracelet was her armor, a piece of her soul made tangible. She checked her bag: tools for the workshop, a half-finished pendant, her wallet with its dwindling cash. The workshop, a shared space in a strip mall near Roosevelt Row, was her sanctuary, where she could lose herself in the rhythm of hammer and stone. But even that was under threat—the strip mall’s owner was rumored to be selling to a developer, another Californian with dollar signs in his eyes.

Tala glanced at the clock: 7:15 a.m. She had to drop Kiona at school before heading to the workshop, and the bus was unreliable. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing her keys. Kiona shoved the last bite of frybread in her mouth, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and followed, still glued to her phone. They stepped into the hallway, the air thick with the smell of paint and desperation, and locked the door behind them. The stairwell was graffitied with tags and curses, a canvas of the neighborhood’s anger. Outside, the heat hit like a fist, the sun already scorching the cracked sidewalk.

They walked to the bus stop, passing a new Starbucks where a line of newcomers clutched iced lattes, their voices loud with complaints about the heat. Tala’s jaw tightened. She’d grown up drinking instant coffee with her grandmother, the desert their backyard, and these people acted like they’d discovered the place. Kiona nudged her, pointing to a billboard across the street: “Live the Dream in Phoenix! Luxury Lofts Starting at $750K!” The irony wasn’t lost on Tala. Her dreams were of a different world, one she saw every night when she closed her eyes—a desert alive with color, where she ran with wolves and her people sang under a sky that never faded. Those dreams felt more real than this city, its edges blurring under the weight of change.

At the bus stop, Tala sat on a bench, Kiona leaning against a pole, still scrolling. The bench was plastered with flyers: one for a Navajo language class, another for a real estate seminar promising “big returns in the hottest market.” Tala tore the real estate flyer down, crumpling it in her fist. She looked at Kiona, who was laughing at something on her phone, and felt a surge of love so fierce it hurt. This girl was her anchor, her reason for fighting through the grind. But the eviction notice loomed in her mind, a shadow she couldn’t outrun. She’d have to tell Kiona soon, have to explain why they might need to leave the only home Kiona had ever known.

The bus pulled up, its brakes squealing, and Tala stood, brushing dust from her jeans. “Be good at school,” she said, her voice softer now. Kiona nodded, climbing aboard, her backpack bouncing. As the bus pulled away, Tala caught a glimpse of her daughter’s face through the window, framed by the city’s haze. She looked tired, older than sixteen, and Tala’s heart twisted. She turned toward the workshop, the pendant in her bag weighing heavy, its unfinished shape a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. The desert whispered beneath the city’s noise, calling her name, and for a moment, Tala felt the world tilt, as if the ground itself might crack open and swallow her whole.

 

 

 

1-2 The first Crack

 

The workshop smelled of metal and dust, a cramped oasis in a strip mall wedged between a vape shop and a taqueria. Tala Redhawk sat at her workbench, her tools spread like sacred relics: hammers, chisels, a propane torch that hissed when she lit it. The turquoise pendant she’d been crafting for weeks lay before her, its silver edges catching the fluorescent light. It was a commission for a gallery downtown, a piece meant to evoke the Navajo creation story—sky and earth, woven together in stone and metal. Tala’s hands moved with practiced grace, but her mind was elsewhere, drifting to the dream she’d had last night. A desert vast and alive, wolves at her side, her people dancing under a sky that pulsed with stars. It wasn’t just vivid—it felt more solid than the chair she sat on, more real than the eviction notice burning a hole in her bag.

 

She shook her head, refocusing on the pendant. The workshop was quiet, save for the hum of the AC and the occasional clatter from the taqueria next door. Her fellow artisans—a potter named Miguel and a beadworker named Aisha—were at their own stations, heads down. Tala liked the silence, the way it let her sink into her work. But today, the silence felt heavy, like the air before a monsoon. She glanced at the clock: 10:47 a.m. Kiona would be in algebra now, probably texting under her desk. Tala smiled, then winced. She hadn’t told Kiona about the rent hike yet. How do you tell your kid you might lose your home because some Californian decided your neighborhood was “up-and-coming”?

 

The door chimed, and Tala looked up, expecting Miguel’s coffee delivery. Instead, a man strode in, his polished loafers clicking on the concrete floor. He was mid-forties, with a tan that screamed spray booth and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His linen shirt was crisp despite the heat, and a Rolex gleamed on his wrist. Californian, Tala thought, her gut tightening. She’d seen his type too often lately—realtors and investors sniffing around Phoenix like coyotes after a kill.

 

“Morning!” he said, his voice too loud for the small space. “This the place with the Native art? Saw your sign outside.”

 

Tala set her hammer down, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Silversmithing,” she corrected, her tone flat. “I make jewelry. Navajo designs. What do you need?”

 

The man—Bryce, his business card would later reveal—grinned, undeterred. “Name’s Bryce Tanner. I’m in real estate, just moved here from L.A. Looking for something authentic, you know? For my office. Clients love that desert vibe.” He leaned on her workbench, his cologne sharp and expensive. “This piece here, what’s the story?”

 

Tala’s jaw tightened. She hated when people treated her work like decor, something to “vibe” with. “It’s a pendant,” she said, holding it up. The turquoise gleamed, its matrix like veins in the earth. “Based on Diné stories. Sky and earth, balance. It’s not finished.”

 

Bryce whistled, reaching for it. Tala pulled it back, her eyes narrowing. “Whoa, protective!” he laughed, raising his hands. “I like that. How much?”

 

“It’s a commission,” she said. “Not for sale. I can make you something else. Takes a few weeks.”

 

“Weeks?” Bryce’s smile faltered. “Come on, I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow. Can’t you whip something up? I’ll pay extra. Cash.”

 

Tala stared at him, her fingers curling around the pendant. She needed the money—God, did she need it—but his tone grated, like he thought she was a street vendor haggling over trinkets. “I don’t ‘whip things up,’” she said, her voice low. “This isn’t a souvenir shop. You want something real, you wait.”

 

Bryce’s eyes flickered, a hint of irritation breaking through his charm. Then he laughed again, louder. “Fair enough, fair enough. You’re a tough one. I like that. Here’s my card.” He slid a glossy card across the workbench. “Call me when you’ve got something. I’m buying up properties around here, so I’ll be back.”

 

Tala didn’t touch the card. She watched him leave, the door chiming as it swung shut. Aisha looked up from her beads, her brow raised. “Another one, huh?”

 

“Another one,” Tala muttered, shoving the card into her bag. She turned back to the pendant, but her rhythm was gone. Bryce’s words echoed: *buying up properties*. That’s what was killing her neighborhood—people like him, turning homes into investments, pricing out families like hers. She thought of Kiona, of the eviction notice, and her chest tightened. She needed to finish this pendant, get the gallery payment, buy some time.

 

The day dragged on, the workshop filling with the clink of tools and the low hum of conversation. Miguel brought coffee, joking about the heat—“Feels like the sun’s trying to murder us today!”—and Aisha shared gossip about the strip mall’s owner, who’d been seen with a developer in a fancy suit. “They’re gonna turn this place into condos,” Aisha said, her voice bitter. “Mark my words.”

 

“Condos,” Tala echoed, her stomach sinking. “Just what Phoenix needs. More glass boxes for rich people.”

 

Miguel chuckled, sipping his coffee. “You sound like my dad. He says the desert’s gonna swallow this city one day. Says it’s angry.”

 

Tala nodded, her thoughts drifting to her grandmother’s stories. The desert wasn’t just sand and stone—it was alive, a spirit that watched and judged. She’d felt it as a child, running through the Navajo Nation’s canyons, her bare feet kissing the earth. Now, in Phoenix, that spirit felt distant, smothered by asphalt and greed. But in her dreams… in her dreams, it was everywhere.

 

By late afternoon, Tala’s hands were sore, the pendant nearly complete. She held it up, the turquoise glowing like a piece of the sky. It was good work, maybe her best. She imagined her grandmother’s nod, her weathered voice saying, *You carry the stories, Tala. Don’t let them fade.* The thought warmed her, but it didn’t chase away the dread. She packed her tools, locked the pendant in her drawer, and headed home, the city’s heat pressing against her like a living thing.

 

That night, Tala cooked dinner—beans and frybread, Kiona’s favorite. The apartment was dim, the single bulb flickering as they sat at the counter. Kiona was quiet, her phone face-down for once. Tala sensed something was off, the way a mother always does.

 

“You okay, kid?” Tala asked, sliding a plate toward her.

 

Kiona shrugged, picking at her food. “Just… school stuff. This new girl, Hailey, she’s from San Diego. Keeps bragging about her dad’s Tesla, like we’re supposed to care. Says Phoenix is ‘cute’ compared to California.” She rolled her eyes. “I wanted to punch her.”

 

Tala laughed, a sharp bark. “Don’t punch her. Not worth the suspension. But yeah, I get it. Had a guy like that at the workshop today. Wanted a ‘desert vibe’ for his office.”

 

“Ugh,” Kiona groaned. “Why do they all talk like that? Like they own the place.”

 

“Because they think they do,” Tala said, her voice quieter now. She hesitated, the eviction notice flashing in her mind. She wanted to tell Kiona, to prepare her, but the words stuck. Instead, she said, “We’ll be okay, you know. Whatever happens.”

 

Kiona looked at her, her dark eyes searching. “You always say that. But… Mom, you look tired. Like, more than usual.”

 

Tala forced a smile. “Just the heat. And this pendant I’m working on. It’s a big deal. Gallery’s paying good money.”

 

Kiona nodded, but her frown lingered. They ate in silence, the TV muttering in the background—some news story about another California tech firm opening a Phoenix office. Tala cleared the plates, her hands moving on autopilot, and sent Kiona to do homework. She sat on the couch, the eviction notice now in her lap, its red ink like a wound. She’d call the landlord tomorrow, beg for an extension. Maybe sell some old jewelry. Something.

 

She went to bed early, exhaustion pulling her under. The dream came fast, as it always did. She was in the desert, the true desert, not the one boxed in by Phoenix’s sprawl. The sand was warm under her feet, the sky a tapestry of stars. Wolves ran beside her, their eyes glinting with knowing. Her people were there—her grandmother, her ancestors—dancing in a circle, their voices rising in a song that made her bones hum. She felt whole, alive, like she’d been born for this place.

 

But then the air shifted, grew cold. A shadow moved at the circle’s edge, a figure with no face, its eyes like oil slicks, gleaming and wrong. It watched her, its presence a weight on her chest. “Tala,” it whispered, its voice scraping her mind. “You can’t stay.”

 

She woke with a scream, her heart pounding. The apartment was dark, the AC’s rattle the only sound. Her hands shook as she reached for the lamp, knocking over a glass of water. It shattered on the floor, the sound too loud in the silence. She stumbled to the living room, her breath ragged, and checked on Kiona. Her daughter slept soundly, one arm flung over her face. Tala exhaled, relief mingling with fear.

 

She turned to her workbench, where she’d left her tools. The pendant was there, locked in its drawer—or so she thought. But the drawer was open, just a crack, and the pendant lay on the wood, its turquoise glowing faintly, like a star trapped in stone. Tala froze, her pulse loud in her ears. She hadn’t touched it. She was sure of it. Yet there it was, pulsing with a light that shouldn’t exist, calling her back to the dream.

 

 

1-3 The Whisper of Doubt

 

 

The morning after the dream, Tala Redhawk moved through her apartment like a ghost, her hands unsteady as she poured coffee. The pendant lay on her workbench, still faintly warm, though its glow had faded with the dawn. She hadn’t touched it since finding it out of the locked drawer, hadn’t dared. Kiona was already at the bus stop, her backpack slung low, oblivious to her mother’s unraveling. Tala’s eyes burned from lack of sleep, the faceless man’s oil-slick gaze haunting her. She told herself it was stress—the eviction notice, the rent hike, the city’s relentless churn. But the pendant’s impossible light gnawed at her, a splinter in her mind. She needed answers, someone to ground her before she tipped into madness.

 

She called Aisha at the workshop, her voice low to hide its tremor. “Hey, I’m taking the morning off. Can you cover for me?”

 

Aisha’s voice crackled through the phone, warm but curious. “You okay, Tala? You sound like you saw a chindi or something.”

 

Tala forced a laugh, the Navajo word for ghost hitting too close. “Just need a break. Family stuff. I’ll be in later.”

 

“Alright, but don’t leave me with Miguel’s bad jokes all day,” Aisha teased. “Take care, yeah?”

 

Tala hung up, grabbing her keys and the pendant, which she wrapped in a cloth and shoved into her bag. She needed her uncle Raymond, the only person who might understand. Raymond was Diné, like her, a keeper of stories and ceremonies, living on the edge of Phoenix where the city gave way to desert. If anyone could explain the dream, the pendant, it was him.

 

The drive to Raymond’s was a battle through Phoenix’s morning snarl. Traffic on I-10 was a nightmare, Californian plates clogging the lanes, their drivers honking like they owned the road. Tala gripped the wheel of her ’98 Toyota Corolla, its AC long dead, the heat seeping through the cracked windows. Billboards loomed overhead, hawking luxury condos and tech jobs, their slogans—“Live Your Best Life!”—mocking her fraying reality. She passed a new strip mall, its glass facade gleaming, and spotted a group of Navajo protesters outside, their signs reading “Protect Our Land.” Her heart tugged. She’d wanted to join them, to fight the developers swallowing sacred sites, but survival kept her tethered to the workshop, to Kiona’s school fees.

 

Raymond’s place was a low adobe house, its yard dotted with sage and yucca, a stubborn patch of desert in a city that hated wild things. His truck, a rusted Ford older than Tala, sat out front. She parked, her boots crunching on gravel, and knocked. The door swung open, and Raymond stood there, his face weathered like the cliffs of Canyon de Chelly, his silver hair tied back. At sixty-eight, he carried the weight of a man who’d seen too much but still smiled.

 

“Tala,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “Didn’t expect you. Trouble?”

 

She stepped inside, the air cool and smelling of cedar. “Maybe. I don’t know. Can we talk?”

 

Raymond nodded, gesturing to a wooden table cluttered with herbs and books. “Always. Coffee?”

 

“Please,” Tala said, sinking into a chair. The house was a shrine to their people: weavings on the walls, a kachina doll on a shelf, a drum in the corner. It felt like home, more than her apartment ever could. Raymond poured coffee from a battered pot, handing her a mug. She wrapped her hands around it, grounding herself in its heat.

 

“So,” Raymond said, sitting across from her. “What’s got you spooked? You look like you’re carrying a storm.”

 

Tala hesitated, then pulled the pendant from her bag, unwrapping it. It lay in her palm, its turquoise dull now, but still heavy with meaning. “This,” she said. “And… dreams. Weird ones. Real ones. I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

Raymond’s eyes sharpened, locking on the pendant. “Tell me.”

 

She did, the words spilling out: the desert in her dreams, alive and vibrant, her people dancing, the wolves, the stars. Then the faceless man, his voice like gravel, his eyes wrong. The pendant glowing, moving on its own. She told him about the eviction notice, the Californians, the city choking her. Her voice cracked when she mentioned Kiona, how she hadn’t told her yet. “I’m losing it, Uncle. I think I’m going crazy.”

 

Raymond listened, his face unreadable, sipping his coffee. When she finished, he leaned back, his gaze distant. “You’re not crazy, Tala. You’re waking up.”

 

She blinked, her stomach twisting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

He set his mug down, his hands folding like he was about to pray. “There’s an old story, one my father told me, and his father before him. The Waking Dream. It says this world—” he gestured to the window, where Phoenix’s skyline shimmered in the heat—“this world of cars and money, it’s not real. It’s a dream, spun by a trickster. Yeenaldlooshii, some call it. A skinwalker, but worse. It feeds on our pain, keeps us trapped in this… illusion. The real world, the true one, is what you see when you sleep.”

 

Tala stared, her coffee forgotten. “That’s a story, Uncle. A myth. You’re saying my dreams are real? That Phoenix, my life, Kiona—it’s all fake?”

 

“Not fake,” Raymond said, his voice steady. “A cage. The trickster weaves it, makes us think this is all there is. But some of us, the ones who listen, we see through it. Your dreams, that pendant—they’re calling you home.”

 

She laughed, sharp and bitter, shoving the pendant back in her bag. “Home? My home’s about to be taken by some landlord from San Diego. I don’t have time for stories, Raymond. I need to know why I’m seeing things, why this pendant’s glowing like it’s alive.”

 

Raymond’s eyes softened, but his voice held an edge. “You think I’m spinning tales? Look at this city, Tala. Look at what it’s become. These newcomers, they’re part of it. They feed the trickster with their greed, their blindness. You feel it, don’t you? The desert’s angry. It’s in your blood.”

 

She stood, pacing, her boots loud on the tile. “I feel tired, Uncle. Tired of fighting to keep a roof over Kiona’s head, tired of people like that realtor—Bryce—acting like my work’s a prop. I don’t need metaphors. I need answers.”

 

Raymond rose, slower, his presence calming her despite herself. “Then listen. Your grandmother, she had dreams like yours. Saw the true world. She tried to wake up, to cross over. But she waited too long, got sick. The trickster’s strong, Tala. It doesn’t let go easy.”

 

Tala’s throat tightened. Her grandmother’s death—cancer, when Tala was nineteen—had gutted her. “You’re saying she died because of… this?”

 

“I’m saying she fought,” Raymond said. “And you’re fighting too. That pendant, it’s not just jewelry. It’s a piece of the true world, a bridge. Keep it close. And watch for signs. The trickster doesn’t like being seen.”

 

She shook her head, backing toward the door. “I can’t do this, Uncle. I’ve got Kiona, bills, a life. I’m not some warrior in a story.”

 

“You are,” he said, his voice fierce now. “Your dreams are calling you home, Tala. Don’t ignore them.”

 

She left, the door slamming behind her, Raymond’s words echoing. The drive back to Phoenix was a blur, the city’s heat pressing against her like a warning. She stopped at a diner near the workshop, needing noise, people, anything to drown out the doubt. The place was packed, locals and newcomers mixed, the air thick with grease and chatter. She slid into a booth, ordering coffee from Lena, a Hopi barista she’d known for years.

 

Lena set the mug down, her smile tired. “Rough day, Tala? You look like you’re carrying the world.”

 

“Something like that,” Tala said, sipping. “You ever… see things? Like, weird stuff?”

 

Lena raised an eyebrow, leaning on the counter. “Like what? Ghosts? Aliens? Or just Phoenix turning into L.A. 2.0?”

 

Tala laughed, but it was hollow. “Dreams. Ones that feel too real. And… other stuff.” She didn’t mention the pendant, not yet.

 

Lena’s face shifted, a flicker of unease. “Yeah, actually. Had a dream last week, felt like I was back on the mesa, my grandpa singing. Woke up crying, like I’d lost something. And yesterday, I swear the clock in here skipped an hour. Nobody else noticed.”

 

Tala’s pulse quickened. “You told anyone?”

 

“Nah,” Lena said, wiping the counter. “They’d think I’m nuts. But my grandpa, he used to talk about a world behind the world. Said some dreams aren’t dreams at all.”

 

Tala’s coffee went cold in her hands. Raymond’s story, now Lena’s—it was too much. She paid and left, the city’s pulse louder now, unnatural. At a crosswalk, she caught her reflection in a shop window. Her face, but wrong—her eyes too bright, her mouth curling into a wink that wasn’t hers. She gasped, stepping back, and the reflection snapped back to normal. A passerby, another Californian with AirPods, gave her a weird look.

 

Back at the workshop, Tala locked the door, her hands shaking. She pulled the pendant from her bag, its weight heavier now. She held it, its warmth pulsing like a heartbeat, and whispered, “What are you?” The air thickened, the room tilting, and for a moment, she swore she heard the desert’s song, her grandmother’s voice, calling her name.

 

2-1 The Weight of the city

 

 

The city of Phoenix pressed down on Tala Redhawk like a fever dream, its heat and noise a relentless assault. It was Monday, three days since her visit to Raymond, and the pendant now hung around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt, its warmth a constant reminder of the impossible. She stood in her apartment’s kitchen, the eviction notice now crumpled in her fist, its red ink screaming *FINAL WARNING*. The landlord, a Californian named Greg Palmer with a voice like a used-car salesman, had left a voicemail last night: “Ms. Redhawk, we need to discuss your lease. Market’s hot, you know. Call me.” She hadn’t called back. She couldn’t face another conversation about “market trends” when her world was fraying at the edges.

 

Tala glanced at the clock—7:22 a.m.—and shouted, “Kiona, bus leaves in ten! Move it!” Her daughter’s groan echoed from the living room, where she slept on the fold-out. Kiona shuffled in, her hair a mess, phone already in hand. She wore a T-shirt with a Navajo thunderbird, faded from too many washes, and jeans that Tala swore cost half a week’s groceries.

 

“I’m up, Mom,” Kiona muttered, grabbing a piece of frybread from the counter. “But the bus is gonna be late again. All these new kids, it’s a zoo.”

 

Tala poured coffee, her hands steadier than her nerves. “Tell me about it. Workshop’s the same. Californians everywhere, wanting ‘authentic’ stuff for their lofts.” She mimicked the word, her voice dripping sarcasm.

 

Kiona snorted, scrolling X. “Check this. Some influencer from L.A. posted about ‘discovering’ Phoenix. Says it’s the ‘new vibe capital.’ Look at her, posing by a cactus like she invented it.” She turned the phone, showing a blonde in a crop top, sunglasses perched on her head, grinning in front of a saguaro.

 

Tala rolled her eyes. “Vibe capital. Right. They’re pricing us out and calling it a win.” She hesitated, the eviction notice burning in her hand. She wanted to tell Kiona, to share the weight, but her daughter’s frown stopped her. Kiona was already carrying too much—school, the city’s chaos, the whispers about moving to the reservation. Tala stuffed the notice into her bag. Later. She’d tell her later.

 

They left the apartment, the hallway thick with the smell of paint and desperation. Outside, Phoenix was a furnace, the sun bleaching the sidewalks. The bus stop was crowded, locals mixed with newcomers, their California plates gleaming in the lot across the street. Tala caught snippets of conversation: a woman in yoga pants complaining about the heat, a man in a polo bragging about flipping a house in Tempe. Kiona leaned against a pole, still on her phone, and Tala felt the city’s pulse—angry, disjointed, wrong.

 

“Mom,” Kiona said, not looking up. “You think we’ll ever get out of here? Like, somewhere quiet? The rez, maybe?”

 

Tala’s chest tightened. The Navajo Nation was home, in her blood, but it was also a place of struggle—few jobs, fewer opportunities. She’d left at eighteen, chasing a life in Phoenix, only to find herself trapped in a different kind of cage. “Maybe,” she said, her voice soft. “But we’ve got roots here too. Your school, my work. We’ll figure it out.”

 

Kiona nodded, but her eyes were distant. The bus roared up, and Tala watched her climb aboard, her backpack bouncing. As it pulled away, Tala’s pendant warmed against her skin, a pulse that matched her heartbeat. She touched it, her fingers trembling. Raymond’s words haunted her: *The Waking Dream. The true world is what you see when you sleep.* She shook her head, shoving the thought down. She had to focus—work, bills, Kiona. Not dreams or tricksters.

 

The workshop was a fifteen-minute drive, but traffic stretched it to thirty. Tala’s Corolla rattled through South Phoenix, past new condos rising like glass tumors. A billboard screamed, “Desert Luxe Living! Move-In Specials!” She cursed under her breath. The strip mall was quieter than usual, the taqueria’s neon sign dark. Inside the workshop, Miguel was at his potter’s wheel, clay smudging his hands, while Aisha strung beads, her radio playing low.

 

“Morning, Tala,” Miguel called, grinning. “You survive the heat yet? Feels like the devil’s backyard out there.”

 

“Barely,” Tala said, setting her bag down. She pulled the pendant from her neck, placing it on her workbench. It looked normal now, just silver and turquoise, but she couldn’t shake the memory of its glow. “You guys notice anything… weird lately? Like, things not adding up?”

 

Aisha glanced up, her brow furrowing. “Weird how? Like the rent going up again? Or that developer sniffing around last week?”

 

Tala hesitated. “Not that. Like… dreams. Or stuff moving on its own.” She regretted it instantly. It sounded crazy, even to her.

 

Miguel chuckled, shaping a pot. “Dreams? I dream of winning the lottery and getting outta this oven. You seeing ghosts, Tala?”

 

She forced a smile, shaking her head. “Forget it. Just tired.” She sat, picking up her hammer, but her hands felt clumsy. The pendant stared at her, its turquoise like an eye. She worked on a new piece, a bracelet for a client, but her mind kept drifting to the dream: the desert, the wolves, the faceless man. His voice—*Tala, you can’t stay*—clawed at her.

 

Lunch came, and Tala walked to the taqueria, needing air. The owner, Rosa, was behind the counter, her face lined with worry. “Tala, you hear?” she said, handing over a burrito. “Landlord’s selling this place. Some big shot from California. Wants to build apartments.”

 

Tala’s stomach sank. “The whole strip mall?”

 

Rosa nodded. “Says it’s ‘prime real estate.’ Prime for who? Not us.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I saw him yesterday, the buyer. Had this look, like… empty. Made my skin crawl.”

 

Tala’s pendant warmed against her chest, and she gripped her burrito tighter. “Empty how?”

 

“Like he wasn’t all there,” Rosa said. “Eyes too dark. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just mad.”

 

Tala nodded, but her mind raced. Empty eyes. Like the faceless man’s. She paid and left, the burrito uneaten. Back at the workshop, she tried to focus, but the city’s weight was suffocating. Her phone buzzed—a text from Kiona: *School’s dumb. Can we move to the rez? Serious.* Tala’s heart twisted. She typed back, *We’ll talk tonight. Love you.* But the words felt hollow.

 

That night, Tala cooked dinner—chili and cornbread, a recipe from her grandmother. Kiona was quieter than usual, her phone face-down. They ate at the counter, the TV muttering about a new tech campus opening in Mesa. Tala broke the silence. “You meant it, about the rez?”

 

Kiona shrugged, picking at her food. “Kinda. I’m just… sick of this place. Everyone’s fake. Like that Hailey girl at school. She said my hoodie’s ‘cultural chic.’ I wanted to scream.”

 

Tala laughed, but it hurt. “I get it. Had a guy at work, Bryce, wanting a ‘desert vibe.’ Same vibe.” She paused, the eviction notice looming in her mind. “Kiona, there’s something—”

 

Her phone rang, cutting her off. It was Greg, the landlord. Tala’s pulse spiked. She answered, stepping to the window. “Yeah?”

 

“Ms. Redhawk,” Greg’s voice was slick, practiced. “We need to talk. Rent’s going up, effective next month. Market’s booming, you know. I can send you the new lease, but it’s $300 more. Can you swing that?”

 

Tala’s grip tightened on the phone. “$300? Greg, I’m barely making it now. You know that.”

 

“Look, I’m not the bad guy,” he said, and she could hear his smirk. “Phoenix is hot right now. Investors are all over it. You’re lucky I’m not selling yet. Sign the lease, or… well, you know the deal.”

 

She hung up, her vision blurring. Kiona was watching, her eyes sharp. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

 

Tala swallowed, forcing calm. “Just… landlord stuff. We’ll figure it out.” She couldn’t say it, not yet. Instead, she cleared the plates, her hands shaking. Kiona went to her bed, and Tala sat on the couch, the pendant heavy around her neck. She closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling her under.

 

The dream came fast, sharper than before. She was a warrior, her feet pounding the desert, a spear in her hand. Her people fought beside her, their voices a war cry against a creeping darkness. The faceless man loomed, his eyes swallowing light. “Tala,” he hissed, “you belong here.” He showed her Phoenix, a gray sprawl of despair, Kiona trapped in its heart. Tala screamed, lunging at him, but he dissolved into smoke.

 

She woke, gasping, her shirt soaked with sweat. The apartment was dark, but the walls—God, the walls—were etched with faint Navajo symbols, spirals and stars, glowing like embers. She stumbled to the light switch, her breath ragged. The symbols vanished, but her pendant burned against her skin. She clutched it, her voice a whisper. “What’s happening to me?”

 

2-2 The Ally and the Betrayal

 

 

The morning sun clawed through Tala Redhawk’s apartment window, its light harsh and unforgiving, like a spotlight on her unraveling life. She stood at the kitchen counter, coffee forgotten, her eyes fixed on the faint scratches on the wall where the Navajo symbols had glowed last night. They were gone now, or maybe they’d never been there—just tricks of a mind stretched thin by dreams and dread. The pendant hung heavy around her neck, its turquoise warm against her skin, a silent pulse that kept her tethered to the impossible. Kiona was already at school, her parting words—“Mom, you look like you didn’t sleep again”—echoing in Tala’s head. She hadn’t told her daughter about the rent hike, the eviction notice, or the dreams that felt more real than the city outside. She couldn’t. Not yet.

 

Tala’s phone buzzed, a text from Lena, the Hopi barista at the diner: *You free? Need to talk. Something’s off.* Tala’s pulse quickened. Lena’s mention of her own strange dreams a few days ago had stuck with her, a thread of connection in a world that felt increasingly alien. She typed back, *Meet me at the diner. Noon.* She grabbed her bag, the pendant tucked under her shirt, and headed out, the city’s heat hitting her like a slap.

 

Phoenix was a beast today, its streets choked with traffic and construction cranes. Tala drove to the diner, her Corolla rattling past a new billboard: “Phoenix Rising! Luxury Lofts, Move-In Now!” The irony burned. Her neighborhood was sinking, priced out by the same “rising” the signs celebrated. She parked near the diner, a squat building with peeling paint, one of the last holdouts against the city’s gentrification. Inside, the air smelled of grease and coffee, the jukebox playing a scratchy Willie Nelson tune. Lena was behind the counter, her dark hair pulled back, her smile tight as she waved Tala to a booth.

 

“Hey,” Lena said, sliding in across from her, a pot of coffee in hand. “You look rough, Tala. No offense.”

 

Tala snorted, taking a mug. “None taken. You said something’s off. What’s up?”

 

Lena poured, her eyes darting to the other customers—a mix of locals in work boots and newcomers in designer sunglasses. She leaned in, her voice low. “It’s… hard to explain. You remember what I said about my dreams? The mesa, my grandpa? They’re getting weirder. Last night, I was running through this desert, but it wasn’t… here. It was alive, like it was singing. And there was this shadow, watching me. No face, just eyes. Freaked me out.”

 

Tala’s grip tightened on her mug, the pendant warming against her chest. “Eyes like oil? Slick, wrong?”

 

Lena’s face paled. “Yeah. Exactly. How’d you know?”

 

Tala hesitated, then pulled the pendant from her shirt, its turquoise catching the diner’s fluorescent light. “I’m seeing it too. In my dreams. A desert, my people, wolves. And that… thing. This pendant, it’s part of it. It glowed, Lena. Moved on its own. My uncle says it’s the Waking Dream, that this world—” she gestured to the diner, the city beyond—“is a lie. A trap.”

 

Lena stared, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “My grandpa said something like that once. Called it the ‘world behind the world.’ Said some spirits trick us, keep us asleep. He disappeared after talking like that. Just… gone.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away, wiping her eyes. “I thought he was crazy. Now I’m not sure.”

 

Tala’s heart pounded. “We need to figure this out. There’s got to be something—stories, records. My uncle mentioned a trickster, Yeenaldlooshii. If it’s real, maybe we can fight it.”

 

Lena nodded, her jaw tightening. “Library’s got a Native studies section. Old books, tribal lore. We could start there. But, Tala, if this is real… what does it mean for us? For everyone?”

 

“I don’t know,” Tala admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “But I can’t ignore it. Not with Kiona here, not with everything falling apart.”

 

They agreed to meet at the library after Lena’s shift. Tala paid for the coffee, her hands shaking as she left. The city felt sharper now, its edges too bright, like a painting stretched too tight. She drove to the workshop, needing the rhythm of her tools to steady her. Miguel and Aisha were there, bantering over the radio, but Tala barely heard them. She worked on a new piece, a ring, but her eyes kept drifting to the pendant, now locked in her drawer. It felt alive, watching her.

 

The library was a low brick building downtown, its AC a relief from the heat. Tala arrived first, her bag heavy with the pendant and her notebook. Lena showed up at 3 p.m., her diner apron swapped for a T-shirt and jeans. They headed to the Native studies section, a quiet corner with shelves of dusty books and microfiche. The librarian, an older Pima woman named Clara, eyed them curiously but said nothing as they pulled books on Navajo and Hopi lore.

 

“Anything about tricksters,” Tala said, flipping through a tome on Diné cosmology. “Or dreams that aren’t dreams.”

 

Lena scanned a book on Hopi prophecies, her brow furrowed. “Here’s something. Says the ‘False World’ is a prison spun by a spirit that feeds on despair. Sounds like your Yeenaldlooshii. Says it traps people in a cycle of suffering, makes them forget the true world.”

 

Tala’s pendant warmed, and she touched it through her shirt. “Anything about waking up? Breaking the cycle?”

 

Lena shook her head. “Not here. But there’s a reference to a ceremony, something about a ‘bridge object.’ Like a sacred item.”

 

Tala’s breath caught. “Like a pendant?”

 

Before Lena could answer, a shadow fell over their table. Tala looked up, her stomach dropping. Bryce Tanner, the realtor from the workshop, stood there, his Rolex glinting, his smile too wide. “Ladies,” he said, his voice smooth as oil. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Doing some research?”

 

Tala’s hand closed over her notebook, hiding her notes. “Just reading. What do you want, Bryce?”

 

He pulled up a chair, uninvited, and sat. “Heard you talking. Dreams, spirits, all that. Sounds intense. You know, I’ve seen some weird stuff myself since moving here. Lights flickering, shadows moving. Thought it was the heat, but maybe not.” He leaned closer, his eyes sharp. “You two onto something?”

 

Lena shifted, uneasy. “Just stories. Cultural stuff. Nothing you’d get.”

 

Bryce chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Try me. I’m all about the local vibe. Plus, I owe you, Tala, for being a jerk about that pendant. Let me help. I’ve got connections, resources.”

 

Tala’s gut screamed no, but Lena’s glance was hopeful. “He might know people,” Lena whispered. “Developers, old records. Could speed things up.”

 

Against her better judgment, Tala nodded. “Fine. We’re looking into old Navajo and Hopi stories. Tricksters, dreams. If you hear anything, let us know. But don’t waste my time.”

 

Bryce grinned, sliding his card across the table. “Deal. I’ll dig around. Call me.” He stood, his loafers clicking as he left. Tala watched him go, her pendant burning against her skin.

 

That night, Tala couldn’t sleep. The apartment felt wrong, the air too thick. She checked on Kiona, who slept soundly, then sat at her workbench, the pendant in her hands. She closed her eyes, willing the dream to come, but only fragments surfaced—wolves, stars, the faceless man’s laugh. She drifted off, her head on the table, and woke to a crash.

 

Her apartment door was ajar, the lock splintered. Papers were scattered, her tools overturned. The pendant was gone. On her workbench, scrawled in black marker, was a note: *Stop digging, or Kiona pays.* Tala’s blood ran cold. She grabbed her phone, dialing Lena, but it went to voicemail. She sank to the floor, the note in her hand, her mind racing. Bryce. It had to be Bryce. But how did he know about Kiona? And why take the pendant?

 

She called the police, her voice shaking as she reported the break-in. The officer, a tired man with a clipboard, took her statement but offered little hope. “Probably kids,” he said. “We’ll file a report. Get a new lock.” Tala didn’t mention the pendant or the note. She couldn’t. This wasn’t a police matter—it was something older, darker.

 

When Kiona woke, Tala hugged her tight, her daughter squirming. “Mom, what’s wrong? Why’s the door busted?”

 

“Just a break-in,” Tala lied, her throat tight. “We’re okay. Stay close today, alright?”

 

Kiona nodded, her eyes wide. Tala sent her to school with a neighbor, then sat alone, the note crumpled in her fist. Lena finally called back, her voice frantic. “Tala, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—Bryce asked me about our research after you left. I didn’t say much, but… God, did he do this?”

 

Tala’s anger flared, but she swallowed it. “I don’t know. Meet me at the workshop. We need to figure this out.”

 

As she hung up, the apartment walls seemed to pulse, the city’s hum turning to a growl. Tala’s hands shook as she grabbed her bag, her resolve hardening. Bryce had betrayed her, but the pendant was her bridge, her anchor. She’d get it back, no matter the cost. The true world was calling, and she was done ignoring it.

 

2-3 The Descent

 

Tala Redhawk’s apartment felt like a tomb, the air heavy with the violation of the break-in. The splintered door, the scrawled note—*Stop digging, or Kiona pays*—burned in her mind, each word a blade. She sat on the couch, her hands clenched, the absence of the pendant around her neck a physical ache. It was gone, stolen by Bryce, she was sure, and with it, her tether to the true world. The city outside hummed, its noise seeping through the walls, a mocking reminder of the false reality she was trapped in. Kiona was at school, safe for now, but Tala’s fear for her daughter was a living thing, clawing at her chest. She needed answers, a way to fight back, before the faceless man’s threat became real.

 

Her phone buzzed, Lena’s name on the screen. Tala answered, her voice sharp. “Where are you? We need to talk.”

 

“I’m at the diner,” Lena said, her tone shaky. “Tala, I’m so sorry about Bryce. I didn’t think he’d—God, what happened?”

 

“Someone broke in,” Tala said, her words clipped. “Took the pendant. Left a note threatening Kiona. You told him too much, Lena.”

 

Lena’s breath hitched. “I didn’t mean to. He seemed… I don’t know, curious. I thought he could help. I’m coming to you. Stay put.”

 

“No,” Tala said, standing. “I’m going to Raymond’s. Meet me there. Bring whatever you found at the library. We’re done playing games.” She hung up, grabbing her keys and bag. The note went into her pocket, its weight like a stone. She locked the broken door as best she could, her eyes scanning the hallway for shadows that didn’t belong. The city felt like a predator now, its streets watching her as she drove to Raymond’s adobe house on the edge of Phoenix.

 

The desert stretched beyond Raymond’s yard, its vastness a stark contrast to the city’s claustrophobia. Tala knocked, her knuckles raw from clenching her fists. Raymond opened the door, his silver hair loose, his eyes narrowing at her expression. “Tala,” he said, stepping aside. “You look like you’re running from something.”

 

“Or toward it,” she said, her voice hoarse. She stepped inside, the cedar-scented air grounding her, but not enough. “Someone broke into my place last night. Stole the pendant. Threatened Kiona. I think it’s tied to the dreams, Uncle. To Yeenaldlooshii.”

 

Raymond’s face hardened, and he gestured to the table. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

 

She did, the story spilling out: the glowing pendant, the faceless man, Bryce’s betrayal, the note. She pulled it from her pocket, sliding it across the table. Raymond’s fingers traced the words, his jaw tight. “This isn’t just a man’s work,” he said. “The trickster’s in this. It’s protecting its dream.”

 

Tala’s laugh was bitter. “Protecting it? It’s destroying me. My home, my kid—it’s all slipping away. And now the pendant’s gone. You said it was a bridge. What am I supposed to do without it?”

 

Raymond stood, moving to a shelf lined with herbs and stones. “The pendant’s a tool, not the truth. The bridge is in you, Tala. Your dreams, your blood. The trickster knows you’re close to waking up. That’s why it’s fighting back.”

 

She shook her head, her hands trembling. “I’m not a warrior, Uncle. I’m a single mom with a busted door and a landlord breathing down my neck. I can’t fight a spirit.”

 

“You’re already fighting,” he said, his voice fierce. “You’re here, aren’t you? Let’s do a cleansing. Clear your mind, strengthen your spirit. It’ll help you see.”

 

Tala wanted to argue, to run back to Kiona and barricade them both against the world, but Raymond’s certainty held her. She nodded, and he began preparing the ceremony, gathering sage, cedar, and a small clay bowl. He lit the herbs, the smoke curling like spirits, and chanted in Navajo, his voice low and steady. Tala closed her eyes, the smoke stinging her lungs, and tried to focus. She pictured the true world—desert, wolves, her people—but the faceless man’s laugh cut through, sharp and cold.

 

The chant fal - Tala’s body jerked, her eyes snapping open. Pain seared her chest, like a hand squeezing her heart. She gasped, clutching the table, the room spinning. Raymond’s voice faltered, his eyes wide. “Tala, what’s wrong?”

 

She couldn’t speak, her vision flooding with images: her grandmother’s face, gaunt from cancer, whispering, *You’re stronger than you know*; her mother, drunk and screaming, leaving Tala at fifteen; Kiona’s birth, her tiny hand gripping Tala’s finger. Then the true world, vivid and alive, her ancestors dancing, their song a call to fight. The faceless man loomed, his eyes swallowing light. “You can’t have her,” he hissed, showing Kiona in a gray city, her eyes empty, her spirit gone.

 

Tala screamed, collapsing to the floor, the images burning her mind. Raymond knelt beside her, his hands steadying her. “Breathe, Tala. It’s the trickster. It’s trying to break you.”

 

She sobbed, her body shaking. “It showed me Kiona. Said I’d lose her if I wake up. Uncle, I can’t—I can’t leave her.”

 

Raymond’s face was grim. “The trickster lies, but there’s truth in its threats. Waking up means leaving this world, Tala. The false one. Everyone in it—Kiona, Lena, me—we’d stay behind. The true world is home, but the cost is high.”

 

Tala’s heart shattered. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

 

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he said, his voice heavy. “You needed to see it yourself. You’re close now, closer than your grandmother ever got. But you have to choose.”

 

She stood, staggering, rage and grief choking her. “Choose? Between my daughter and some… story? I’m done with this, Uncle. I’m not losing her.” She grabbed her bag, the note falling to the floor, and stormed out, Raymond’s voice calling after her.

 

The drive back to Phoenix was a blur, the city’s lights flickering like a failing pulse. Tala’s mind churned—Kiona, the pendant, Bryce, the faceless man. She stopped at a gas station, her hands shaking as she filled the tank. A man in a suit, another Californian, stood nearby, talking loudly on his phone. “Yeah, we’re flipping that strip mall. Big money. Locals are pissed, but who cares? Progress, baby.”

 

Tala’s vision blurred with tears, her fingers curling into fists. She wanted to scream, to tear the city down, but she drove on, pulling into her apartment lot. Kiona was home, sprawled on the couch, her phone glowing. “Mom, you okay?” she asked, sitting up. “You look… bad.”

 

Tala sank beside her, pulling her close. “I’m trying, kid. I’m trying so hard.” She wanted to tell her everything—the dreams, the trickster, the choice—but the words wouldn’t come. Kiona hugged her back, her warmth anchoring Tala.

 

That night, Tala didn’t sleep. She sat at her workbench, a knife in her hand, its blade catching the light. The true world called, its song in her blood, but Kiona’s face filled her mind—her laugh, her fire, her future. Tala’s sobs broke the silence, the knife clattering to the floor. She couldn’t choose, not yet. But the faceless man’s laugh echoed, and she knew time was running out.

 

3-1 The Chase

 

 

The desert night was a shroud, its stars hidden by Phoenix’s neon glow, but Tala Redhawk felt the true world’s pulse in her veins, a primal drumbeat urging her forward. Her Corolla tore through the city’s fringes, tires screeching on asphalt as she chased the only lead she had: Bryce Tanner, the realtor who’d stolen her pendant and threatened her daughter. The note—*Stop digging, or Kiona pays*—was a splinter in her mind, its threat fueling a rage that drowned out her fear. The pendant was her bridge to the true world, her weapon against Yeenaldlooshii, the trickster spirit weaving this false reality. She’d get it back, or she’d tear Bryce apart with her bare hands.

 

Her phone, wedged in the cupholder, buzzed with a text from Lena: *Found Bryce’s office. Gated community, Paradise Valley. Address attached. Be careful.* Tala’s jaw tightened. Paradise Valley—Phoenix’s enclave of wealth, where Californian transplants built mansions that mocked the desert’s austerity. She glanced at the address, her knuckles white on the wheel. The city’s hum was louder now, a discordant growl that vibrated in her bones, as if Yeenaldlooshii knew she was coming. Her dreams—the desert, the wolves, the faceless man’s oil-slick eyes—clawed at her, their vividness bleeding into the waking world. She saw Kiona’s face, trapped in a gray city, and her foot pressed harder on the gas.

 

The gated community loomed ahead, its entrance flanked by palm trees and a wrought-iron gate, a fortress of privilege. Tala slowed, her headlights catching a security booth where a guard scrolled on his phone. She parked in the shadows, her breath shallow, and grabbed her bag—inside, a flashlight, a crowbar from the workshop, and the knife she’d nearly used on herself last night. The psychological dread that had gripped her since the break-in was a live wire now, sparking with every heartbeat. What if Bryce wasn’t alone? What if the faceless man was with him, waiting? She pushed the thoughts down, her love for Kiona a steel rod in her spine.

 

Tala slipped from the car, her boots silent on the pavement. The gate’s keypad glowed, but the guard was distracted, laughing at his screen. She crept to the fence, its metal cool under her hands, and found a gap where the desert had eroded the base. She squeezed through, thorns snagging her jeans, the crowbar clinking softly. The community was a maze of stucco mansions, their lawns unnaturally green, a Californian fantasy carved from the desert’s heart. Tala’s pendant was gone, but its absence was a wound, guiding her like a beacon. She felt it, faint but alive, somewhere ahead.

 

Bryce’s office was a sleek one-story building, its glass facade reflecting the moon. Tala crouched behind a manicured hedge, her pulse loud in her ears. The parking lot was empty, but a single light burned inside, a predator’s eye in the dark. She scanned for cameras, spotting one above the door, its red light blinking. The dread surged, a voice in her head whispering, *He knows you’re here. The trickster sees.* She gripped the crowbar, her hands slick with sweat, and moved to the side of the building, where a window was cracked open, its latch loose.

 

The window slid up with a groan, and Tala froze, expecting an alarm. Silence. She climbed through, landing in a hallway lined with framed photos of Bryce shaking hands with men in suits, their smiles too sharp. The air was cold, sterile, and the hum of the city was louder here, a low growl that made her skin crawl. She moved toward the light, her boots muffled on the carpet, the knife now in her hand. The office door was ajar, and she peered inside.

 

Bryce sat at a desk, the pendant on a chain around his neck, its turquoise glowing faintly, a star trapped in a cage. He was typing, his face lit by a laptop, but his eyes were wrong—too dark, like the faceless man’s. Tala’s breath caught, the dread coiling tighter. Was Bryce himself, or something else wearing his skin? The room pulsed, the walls shimmering like a heat mirage, and for a moment, she saw the true world—desert sand spilling across the floor, wolves howling in the distance. She blinked, and it was gone, but the pendant’s glow intensified, calling her.

 

She stepped inside, the crowbar raised. “Bryce,” she said, her voice low, a growl of her own. “Give it back. Now.”

 

He looked up, his smile slow, unnatural. “Tala. Knew you’d come. You’re stubborn, aren’t you?” His voice was his, but it carried an echo, a gravelly undertone that wasn’t human. He touched the pendant, its light flaring. “This is mine now. You should’ve listened to the note.”

 

Tala’s rage erupted, drowning the dread. “You threatened my daughter. Where’s Kiona? What do you want with this?” She pointed the knife at the pendant, her hand steady despite the room’s pulse.

 

Bryce leaned back, his eyes glinting. “Kiona’s fine. For now. As for this?” He lifted the pendant, its glow casting shadows that writhed like snakes. “It’s power. You don’t understand what’s at stake. I work for them, Tala. The ones who keep this world spinning. You’re a problem, digging where you shouldn’t.”

 

“Them?” Tala stepped closer, the crowbar heavy in her grip. “Yeenaldlooshii? The trickster? You’re part of this… lie?”

 

He laughed, a sound that scraped her nerves. “Lie? This city, this life—it’s what people want. Comfort, money, progress. We give it to them. The desert, your ‘true world’? It’s chaos. You can’t handle it.” He stood, the pendant swinging, and Tala saw it—a flicker in his face, like static, revealing something beneath, something not human.

 

She lunged, the crowbar swinging, but Bryce moved faster, unnatural, dodging with a grace that wasn’t his. He grabbed her wrist, twisting, and the knife clattered to the floor. Pain shot through her arm, but she drove her knee into his gut, fueled by a mother’s fury. He staggered, and she tackled him, pinning him to the desk. Papers flew, a lamp crashed, and the pendant’s glow burned brighter, searing her eyes.

 

“Give it to me!” she screamed, her hands clawing for the chain. Bryce’s eyes were fully black now, oil-slick and endless, and his laugh was the faceless man’s, echoing in her skull. The room warped, the walls bleeding sand, the city’s hum a deafening roar. Tala’s mind reeled, the dread threatening to swallow her. She saw Kiona’s face, lifeless, and her own failures—her grandmother’s death, her mother’s abandonment—flashing like a cruel montage.

 

But her love for Kiona was stronger. She yanked the chain, snapping it, and the pendant flew free, its light exploding like a supernova. Bryce howled, his form flickering, human one moment, shadow the next. Tala grabbed the pendant, its heat scorching her palm, and bolted for the door. Bryce’s voice chased her, no longer his own: “You can’t wake up without breaking her, Tala!”

 

She sprinted down the hall, the building shaking, glass cracking in the windows. An alarm blared, red lights flashing, and she heard footsteps—security, or something worse. She dove through the window she’d entered, landing hard in the dirt, thorns tearing her skin. The pendant pulsed in her hand, its light guiding her as she ran for the fence, the desert’s song rising in her ears. She scrambled through the gap, her breath ragged, and reached her car as sirens wailed in the distance.

 

Tala floored the gas, the Corolla fishtailing onto the road. The city’s skyline shimmered, a mirage of glass and lies, and the pendant’s glow filled the car, casting shadows that danced like wolves. Her mind was a storm—Bryce’s words, *You can’t wake up without breaking her*, colliding with the faceless man’s threats. Was Kiona safe? Was the pendant enough? The dread was a weight, pulling her under, but she clung to the true world’s call, its desert vast and alive.

 

She pulled into a gas station, her hands shaking as she checked her phone. A voicemail from Kiona: “Mom, I’m home. Where are you? I’m freaked out.” Relief flooded her, but it was fleeting. Bryce’s confession—*I work for them*—meant this wasn’t over. The trickster was watching, and the city was its web. Tala touched the pendant, its warmth a promise and a curse. She had to protect Kiona, to end this, but the cost loomed, a shadow darker than the night.

 

3-2 The Sacrifice

 

 

Tala Redhawk’s hands trembled as she clutched the pendant, its turquoise glowing like a caged star, its heat searing her palm. The Corolla’s engine hummed, a frail barrier against the night’s menace as she sped through Phoenix’s sprawling veins, the city’s lights flickering like a dying dream. Bryce’s words—*You can’t wake up without breaking her*—looped in her mind, each syllable a shard of glass. Kiona, her daughter, was the anchor keeping her in this false world, but the true world’s call was a siren’s song, pulling her toward a desert alive with wolves and ancestors. The psychological dread that had haunted her since the faceless man’s first whisper was now a suffocating fog, clouding every thought. She’d reclaimed the pendant, but at what cost? The trickster, Yeenaldlooshii, was closing in, and Tala felt its gaze like a blade at her throat.

 

She pulled into her apartment lot, the pendant’s glow dimming as she killed the engine. The building loomed, its cracked facade a mirror of her fracturing reality. Kiona’s voicemail—*Mom, I’m home. Where are you?*—played on repeat in her head, a lifeline she clung to. Tala checked her phone: 2:17 a.m. No new messages. She grabbed her bag, the crowbar and knife inside clinking softly, and sprinted up the stairs, her boots loud in the silent hallway. The broken door was propped shut with a chair, a pathetic defense against the world’s intrusion. She pushed it open, her heart pounding.

 

“Kiona?” Tala called, her voice raw. The apartment was dark, the air thick with the scent of sage and fear. A lamp flickered, casting shadows that writhed like spirits. Kiona sat on the couch, her knees drawn up, her phone clutched like a talisman. Her eyes, wide and red-rimmed, locked on Tala.

 

“Mom!” Kiona leapt up, throwing her arms around her. “Where were you? I heard noises, like someone was outside. The door’s busted, and—” She stopped, her gaze dropping to the pendant in Tala’s hand. “Is that… the thing they stole?”

 

Tala nodded, pulling Kiona close, her daughter’s warmth grounding her. “Yeah. I got it back. But we need to talk, kid. Now.” She led Kiona to the kitchen counter, the pendant between them, its light pulsing faintly. The city’s hum was louder, a growl that vibrated the walls, and Tala’s dread spiked. Time was slipping away, the trickster’s web tightening.

 

She told Kiona everything, the words spilling like blood: the dreams of the true world, the faceless man, Yeenaldlooshii, the pendant’s power, Bryce’s betrayal. She spoke of Raymond’s warning—that waking up meant leaving the false world, leaving Kiona behind. Her voice broke as she described the break-in, the note threatening Kiona’s life. “I didn’t want to scare you,” Tala said, tears burning her eyes. “But I can’t lie anymore. This world—it’s not real. It’s a cage. And I have to break it, for both of us.”

 

Kiona’s face was a storm of fear and defiance. “Not real? Mom, this is our home. You, me, the workshop—it’s all I know. You’re saying it’s fake? That I’m… what, a dream?” Her voice cracked, and she shoved her phone away, its screen dark.

 

Tala reached for her hand, but Kiona pulled back. “Not fake,” Tala said, her throat tight. “Trapped. The true world, it’s where we belong. I’ve seen it, Kiona. It’s alive, free. Our people are there, our ancestors. But getting there… it might mean I leave you here. I can’t—” She choked, the dread crushing her. “I can’t lose you.”

 

Kiona’s eyes softened, but her jaw was set. “Then don’t. Stay here. Fight whatever this thing is. You’re always saying we’re stronger together, right?” She hesitated, then added, quieter, “I’ve been dreaming too, Mom. A desert, like you said. I’m running, laughing. It feels… right. But I don’t want to go without you.”

 

Tala’s breath caught, the pendant flaring in her hand. Kiona’s dreams were her anchor, proof she was tied to the true world too. But Raymond’s words echoed: *The cost is high.* Could she drag Kiona into this fight, risk her soul to Yeenaldlooshii’s hunger? The room pulsed, the walls shimmering, and for a moment, Tala saw sand spilling across the floor, the desert breaking through. She blinked, and it was gone, but the pendant’s heat was a warning.

 

“We need Raymond,” Tala said, standing. “He knows how to cross over. We’re going to him, now. Pack a bag.”

 

Kiona nodded, her movements quick, but her eyes were haunted. They left the apartment, the city’s growl deafening as they drove to Raymond’s. The desert night was vast, but Phoenix’s lights clung like a disease, their flicker unnatural. Tala’s mind raced, the dread a living thing. What if the ritual failed? What if Kiona was trapped forever? The pendant burned, its light guiding her, but also taunting her with the choice she couldn’t escape.

 

Raymond was waiting, his adobe house a beacon in the dark. He stood in the doorway, his silver hair glinting, his face grim. “You’ve got it,” he said, eyeing the pendant. “Good. But you’re not safe here. The trickster’s close.”

 

“Help us,” Tala said, her voice desperate. “Kiona’s dreaming too. We need to cross over, both of us.”

 

Raymond’s eyes widened, but he nodded, leading them inside. The air was thick with cedar and sage, the walls alive with Navajo weavings. He prepared the ritual, spreading a blanket on the floor, placing the pendant at its center. “This will open the bridge,” he said, lighting herbs, their smoke curling like spirits. “But it’s dangerous. The trickster will fight. And crossing over… it’s one-way, Tala. You leave this world for good.”

 

Kiona gripped Tala’s hand, her voice small. “What happens to me if you go?”

 

Tala’s heart shattered. “I won’t leave you,” she whispered, but the words felt like a lie. The pendant glowed, its light filling the room, and Raymond began to chant, his voice a lifeline. The air thickened, the desert’s song rising, and Tala felt the true world—sand under her feet, wolves at her side. But then the faceless man appeared, his form coalescing from the smoke, his eyes black voids.

 

“Tala,” he hissed, his voice a blade. “Stay. I’ll give her everything—wealth, safety, a life without pain. Cross over, and she breaks.” He gestured, and Tala saw Kiona in the false world, her eyes hollow, her spirit drained.

 

“No!” Tala screamed, her voice shaking the room. She lunged at the figure, but he dissolved, his laugh echoing. The pendant flared, burning her hand, and she dropped it, the light blinding. Raymond’s chant faltered, his face pale. “Tala, you have to choose. Now!”

 

Kiona’s voice cut through, fierce. “Mom, go! I see it too—the desert, our people. You have to wake up. I’ll find - Tala’s rage was a wildfire, her love for Kiona a blaze that burned through the dread. She grabbed the pendant, its heat searing, and stepped into the light, the true world swallowing her. The desert was real, alive, her ancestors’ song a roar. But Kiona’s face lingered, her plea—*Don’t leave me*—a wound that wouldn’t heal.

 

3-3 The Twist

 

The true world enveloped Tala Redhawk like a mother’s embrace, its desert vast and vibrant, the sand warm beneath her bare feet. The sky was a tapestry of stars, each a story of her Diné ancestors, their song a pulse in her blood. Wolves flanked her, their eyes glinting with wisdom, and her people danced in a circle, their laughter a balm to her scarred soul. The pendant hung around her neck, its turquoise glowing softly, no longer a burning weight but a key to this reality. Her body felt whole, her calloused hands smooth, her heart unburdened by the false world’s grind. She was home, free from Phoenix’s glass towers and Yeenaldlooshii’s lies. But Kiona’s absence was a knife in her chest, her daughter’s plea—*Don’t leave me*—echoing in the desert’s silence.

 

Tala knelt, the sand cradling her, and touched the pendant. “I did it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m here.” The wolves nuzzled her, their warmth a promise, and her grandmother’s figure appeared among the dancers, her weathered face radiant. Tala stood, ready to join them, but a cold laugh sliced through the air, a sound that froze her blood. The faceless man’s voice, gravelly and cruel, slithered from the shadows. “You think you’ve won, Tala?”

 

The desert flickered, its colors bleeding like wet paint. The stars dimmed, the wolves’ eyes turned oil-slick, and her grandmother’s smile twisted into something wrong. Tala’s dread, that ever-present shadow, roared back, a tidal wave of doubt. She spun, searching for the voice, the pendant flaring hot against her skin. “Show yourself!” she shouted, her voice cracking the air. The dancers froze, their faces blurring, and the sand beneath her shifted, revealing asphalt, the false world seeping through.

 

The faceless man materialized, his form towering, a silhouette of smoke and bone. His eyes were voids, swallowing light, and his laugh was a chorus of despair. “You’re so predictable,” he said, his voice wrapping around her like chains. “You thought crossing over would save you? Save her? The ritual was mine, Tala. You gave me exactly what I needed.”

 

Tala’s heart plummeted, the pendant burning her flesh. “What are you talking about?” she demanded, stepping back, the desert crumbling around her. The wolves snarled, but their forms wavered, as if caught between worlds. The true world’s vibrancy faded, its edges curling like burning paper, and Tala saw flashes of Phoenix—Kiona on the couch, her eyes hollow, her spirit drained.

 

The faceless man glided closer, his presence a weight that crushed her lungs. “The pendant wasn’t your bridge,” he hissed. “It was my anchor. Your sacrifice—abandoning Kiona—sealed the false world’s power. Every soul you left behind is mine now, feeding me. Your daughter’s despair is the sweetest.” He gestured, and a vision bloomed: Kiona in their apartment, staring at the broken door, her phone slipping from her hand, her face a mask of loss. The city’s hum was a roar, its skyline a cage of glass and steel, and Kiona’s dreams—the desert, the laughter—were gone, stripped by Yeenaldlooshii’s hunger.

 

“No!” Tala screamed, her voice a raw wound. She lunged at the faceless man, her fists swinging, but he dissolved into smoke, his laugh echoing. The true world collapsed, sand turning to ash, the dancers vanishing, the wolves howling as they faded. Tala fell to her knees, the pendant searing her skin, its glow now sickly, corrupted. Her mind reeled, the twist a gut-punch: the ritual, Raymond’s certainty, her desperate leap into the true world—it was a trap, orchestrated by the trickster to break her and claim Kiona. She’d been played, her love for her daughter weaponized against her.

 

But Tala’s rage was a supernova, burning through the dread. She clutched the pendant, its heat a challenge, and stood, her eyes blazing. “You don’t get her,” she growled, her voice shaking the void. “You don’t get any of them.” She closed her eyes, reaching for the true world, not the trickster’s illusion but the real one, buried in her blood, her ancestors’ songs. She saw her grandmother’s face, not the warped version, but the woman who’d taught her to weave, to fight. She heard Kiona’s laugh, her daughter’s fire, and felt the desert’s pulse, faint but alive.

 

The faceless man reappeared, his form flickering, as if her defiance weakened him. “You can’t go back,” he snarled. “You’re here, and she’s mine.” But his voice cracked, a hint of fear, and Tala seized it, her love for Kiona a blade sharper than any knife.

 

“I’m not staying,” she said, her voice steady now. She tore the pendant from her neck, its chain snapping, and smashed it against the ground. The turquoise shattered, its light exploding, a scream of power that ripped through the trickster’s illusion. The false world surged—Phoenix’s skyline, the apartment, Kiona’s face—but Tala held fast, her will a tether to the true world. She clawed her way back, her body burning, her mind fracturing under the weight of realities colliding. The faceless man’s roar was deafening, but it was fading, her defiance a crack in his dream.

 

Tala woke on her apartment floor, the broken door ajar, the city’s hum a dull throb. Her hands were empty, the pendant gone, its shards nowhere in sight. Her chest heaved, her body bruised, as if she’d fought a war. The walls were bare, no Navajo symbols, but the air felt different, lighter, as if the trickster’s grip had loosened. She stumbled to her feet, her heart lurching. “Kiona!” she shouted, her voice raw.

 

The apartment was silent, the couch empty. Kiona’s phone lay on the counter, its screen cracked, and Tala’s dread returned, a cold fist in her gut. She grabbed the phone, her fingers shaking, and saw a text from Kiona, sent an hour ago: *Mom, I’m scared. Something’s wrong. I’m at the diner.* Tala’s relief was fleeting—the diner was miles away, and the trickster’s laugh still echoed in her mind, a promise of more games.

 

She grabbed her keys, the knife from her bag, and ran to the Corolla, the city’s lights flickering like a warning. The true world was still out there, but so was Kiona, and Tala would burn Phoenix to the ground to save her. The twist had broken her trust in the ritual, in Raymond, in herself, but it had also shown her the trickster’s weakness: her love was stronger than its lies. She floored the gas, the desert’s song faint but growing.

 

 

4-1 The Hollow City

 

Phoenix was a corpse, its streets hollowed out, its pulse a sickly stutter. Tala Redhawk drove through the pre-dawn murk, the Corolla’s headlights slicing through a fog that clung to the asphalt like a shroud. The city she’d known—vibrant, chaotic, bloated with Californian transplants—was gone, replaced by something worse: a nightmare woven from Yeenaldlooshii’s malice. The air was thick, heavy with the reek of asphalt and something sweeter, like rotting fruit, and the hum that had haunted her was now a guttural drone, vibrating in her teeth. Her hands gripped the wheel, the knife tucked into her belt, Kiona’s cracked phone in the passenger seat. The text—*Mom, I’m scared. Something’s wrong. I’m at the diner*—was a beacon, pulling her toward the Encanto Village diner on McDowell Road, where Lena worked and Kiona was waiting. But the dread, that Stephen King dread that crawled up her spine like a spider, told her she was driving into a trap.

 

Central Avenue was a ghost town, its strip malls and gas stations dark, their signs flickering with half-dead neon. The Circle K at 7th Street, usually buzzing with night owls and cabbies, was abandoned, its windows black, reflecting nothing. Tala slowed, her eyes catching movement—a figure in the lot, shambling, its head tilted at an impossible angle. She squinted, her heart lurching. It was human, or had been, but its face was wrong, a blur of static, like a TV tuned to a dead channel. Its eyes, when they met hers, were voids, black as the faceless man’s. She floored the gas, the Corolla’s tires squealing, and the figure didn’t chase, just watched, its head cocking further, a puppet with cut strings.

 

“Jesus,” Tala whispered, her voice swallowed by the car’s rattle. The pendant was gone, shattered in the true world, but its absence was a scream in her chest, a reminder of the trickster’s twist: the ritual had been a lie, designed to trap Kiona in this hollow city while Tala chased a false victory. Her love for her daughter was the only thing keeping her sane, a fire burning through the horror that coated Phoenix like oil. She passed the Heard Museum, its adobe walls looming, but the Native art banners were torn, flapping like wounded birds, and the saguaros in its courtyard were bent, their arms drooping as if weeping. The city was unraveling, Yeenaldlooshii’s dream consuming itself, and Tala was running out of time.

 

The diner was a mile away, near Encanto Park, where Tala had taken Kiona as a kid to feed ducks and forget their troubles. Now, the park was a void, its trees skeletal, their branches clawing at a sky that bled red at the edges. Tala’s breath hitched as she turned onto 15th Avenue, the diner’s neon sign flickering: *OPEN 24/7*. But the light was wrong, a sickly green that pulsed like an infected wound. She parked across the street, her hands shaking as she grabbed the knife and Kiona’s phone. The fog thickened, curling around the Corolla, and the drone grew louder, a chorus of whispers that scratched at her mind: *She’s gone, Tala. You failed her.*

 

“Shut up,” she growled, stepping into the fog. The air was cold, unnatural for August, and it clung to her skin, leaving a greasy film. The diner’s windows were smeared, as if someone had tried to wipe away a stain that wouldn’t budge. Tala crept closer, her boots crunching on gravel that glittered like broken glass. She saw shapes inside—people, or things pretending to be people—moving in slow, jerky motions. Her dread was a living thing now, a weight that pressed her ribs, but Kiona was in there, and Tala would face a thousand tricksters to save her.

 

The door creaked as she pushed it open, the bell above jingling with a sound like breaking bones. The diner was a mockery of itself: the red vinyl booths were slashed, leaking foam; the jukebox in the corner played a warped, wordless tune; and the air smelled of burnt coffee and something metallic, like blood. The customers—five of them, scattered at the counter and booths—turned as one, their faces flickering with static, their eyes black voids. Tala froze, the knife heavy in her hand, her pulse a drumbeat. They didn’t move, just stared, their heads tilting in unison, a grotesque ballet.

 

“Lena?” Tala called, her voice echoing, too loud in the stillness. “Kiona?” No answer, but a clatter came from the kitchen, a metallic bang that made her flinch. She stepped forward, the floor sticky under her boots, and noticed the walls: they were etched with Navajo symbols—spirals, stars, the same ones that had glowed in her apartment— but these were wrong, inverted, their lines jagged like wounds. The trickster’s work, a perversion of her heritage.

 

One of the customers, a woman in a sundress, stood, her movements jerky, like a marionette. “Tala,” she said, her voice a distorted echo, layered with the faceless man’s growl. “You shouldn’t be here.” Her face flickered, revealing a skull beneath, then snapped back to static. Tala’s stomach churned, the horror sinking deeper, a King-esque nightmare where the ordinary turned rancid. She backed toward the kitchen, the knife raised, her eyes darting to the other customers, who remained still, their void-eyes tracking her.

 

The kitchen door swung open, and Lena stumbled out, her apron stained with something dark, her face pale as bone. “Tala!” she gasped, her voice human but frayed. “Thank God. Kiona’s here, but—” She stopped, her eyes widening as she saw the customers. “They’re not… they’re not right.”

 

Tala grabbed Lena’s arm, pulling her close. “Where’s Kiona? What’s happening?”

 

Lena’s hands shook, her words tumbling. “She came in an hour ago, scared, said you were gone. Then these… things showed up. They just sit there, watching. I tried to call you, but the phones are dead. Tala, they’re with *it*. The shadow from my dreams.”

 

Tala’s dread spiked, the drone now a scream in her skull. “Take me to her. Now.” She pushed past Lena, the kitchen door banging shut behind them. The kitchen was a slaughterhouse, its counters slick with red, the air thick with the stench of decay. Kiona sat in the corner, curled against a fridge, her hoodie pulled tight, her eyes wide with terror. “Mom!” she cried, scrambling to her feet.

 

Tala dropped the knife, wrapping Kiona in her arms, her daughter’s sobs breaking her heart. “I’m here, kid. I’m here.” But the relief was fleeting. The kitchen walls pulsed, the symbols glowing red, and the drone became words, Yeenaldlooshii’s voice: *You can’t save her, Tala. This world is mine.*

 

Lena whimpered, backing against a counter. “Tala, what do we do?”

 

Tala released Kiona, her resolve hardening despite the horror. “We fight. Lena, you said you dreamed of the desert too. You’re part of this. Help me find Kiona’s way out.” But Lena’s eyes flickered, a shadow passing through them, and Tala’s gut twisted. She stepped back, pulling Kiona behind her. “Lena?”

 

Lena’s face changed, her smile too wide, her eyes blackening. “I tried, Tala,” she said, her voice layered with the trickster’s. “But they promised me peace. No more dreams, no more pain.” She lunged, a butcher knife in her hand, its blade glinting. Tala shoved Kiona aside, dodging as the knife slashed the air, grazing her arm. Blood welled, hot and sharp, and Tala tackled Lena, pinning her to the floor. Lena thrashed, her strength unnatural, her face flickering between human and static.

 

“Kiona, run!” Tala shouted, struggling to hold Lena down. Kiona hesitated, then bolted for the door, her sobs echoing. Lena’s laugh was the faceless man’s, and she hissed, “She’s mine now.” Tala’s rage erupted, a mother’s fury stronger than any spirit. She slammed Lena’s head against the floor, the impact dull, and Lena went limp, her eyes rolling back. Tala stumbled to her feet, blood dripping from her arm, and ran after Kiona.

 

The diner was empty now, the customers gone, their booths smeared with something black and viscous. The fog outside had thickened, swallowing the street, and Tala’s dread was a scream, the horror of losing Kiona a vise around her heart. She burst into the fog, calling her daughter’s name, the city’s drone a mocking chant. The Encanto Village was a labyrinth, its landmarks—Central Avenue, the park, the museum—twisted into nightmares, their shapes looming like monsters in the mist. Tala’s only guide was her love, her Navajo roots, the faint echo of her grandmother’s song, urging her toward the skyscraper at Central and Van Buren, where the trickster’s heart beat.

 

4-2 The Confrontation

 

The fog over Phoenix was a living thing, a cloying shroud that wrapped Tala Redhawk’s lungs in its greasy tendrils, choking her with the stench of decay and diesel. Central Avenue was a vein in the city’s rotting corpse, its pulse a guttural drone that thrummed in her bones, Yeenaldlooshii’s laughter woven into every note. The skyscraper at Central and Van Buren loomed ahead, a glass monolith that stabbed the blood-red sky, its windows glinting like the eyes of a predator. Tala ran toward it, her boots pounding the cracked asphalt, Kiona’s name a raw scream in her throat. The wound on her arm, from Lena’s knife in the Encanto Village diner, throbbed, blood soaking her sleeve, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the horror gnawing her soul. Her daughter was in there, trapped by the trickster, and the city itself was a jaws, snapping shut.

 

The streets were a nightmare, Stephen King’s Derry warped into Phoenix’s sprawl. The Arizona Center, usually alive with shoppers and food trucks, was a husk, its palm trees blackened, their fronds dripping something viscous that hissed on the pavement. The neon sign of the Hard Rock Cafe flickered, spelling out *RUN TALA RUN* in jagged letters before winking out. Figures shambled in the fog—static-faced drones, their heads cocked, their void-eyes tracking her. One, wearing a tattered Diamondbacks cap, lurched from an alley near 3rd Street, its mouth opening to reveal a maw of writhing shadows. Tala swung her knife, the blade sinking into its chest, but it only laughed, the faceless man’s voice bubbling up: “You can’t kill a dream, Tala.” She yanked the knife free, black ichor spraying, and ran, the drone collapsing into a puddle that whispered her name.

 

Her mind was a storm, the psychological dread a weight that crushed her ribs. Lena’s betrayal—her eyes blackening, her voice the trickster’s—had shattered Tala’s trust, leaving her alone in this hollow city. The ritual’s twist, revealing Yeenaldlooshii’s manipulation, had broken her faith in the true world’s promise. But Kiona’s face, her daughter’s fire, was a beacon, brighter than the pendant’s lost glow. Tala’s Navajo roots, her grandmother’s songs, pulsed in her blood, a faint rhythm against the city’s drone. She clung to them, her love a blade sharper than the knife in her hand, as she reached the skyscraper’s plaza, its fountain dry, its tiles etched with inverted Navajo symbols that glowed like open wounds.

 

The building was the Bank of America Tower, its green-tinted glass a scar on Phoenix’s skyline, but now it was something else—a temple to Yeenaldlooshii, its walls pulsing with dark energy, the drone a deafening chant. The revolving doors spun slowly, unpowered, their glass smeared with handprints that weren’t human. Tala hesitated, the horror sinking deeper, a King-esque dread where the ordinary turned rancid, like the Overlook Hotel’s boiler ready to blow. She saw her reflection in the glass—her face, but wrong, her eyes too bright, her mouth curling into a smirk that wasn’t hers. The reflection whispered, “She’s gone, Tala. You’re too late.” She smashed the knife’s hilt against the glass, shattering the image, and pushed through the doors, the air inside cold and thick, like wading through oil.

 

The lobby was a cathedral of decay, its marble floor cracked, its chandeliers dangling like nooses. Elevators gaped open, their shafts black voids that hummed with the trickster’s voice. A security desk was overturned, papers scattered, and Tala saw a photo of a guard, his face scratched out, his name tag reading *BRYCE*. Her stomach churned. Bryce, the realtor who’d stolen the pendant, was a pawn, his humanity stripped by Yeenaldlooshii. She wondered if Lena was still herself, or if the trickster had claimed her too. The thought was a needle in her heart, but Kiona was all that mattered now.

 

“Kiona!” Tala shouted, her voice echoing, swallowed by the drone. The air pulsed, the walls shimmering, and she saw flashes of the true world—sand spilling across the floor, wolves howling—but they faded, the false city’s grip too strong. She found a stairwell, its door ajar, and climbed, her boots loud on the metal steps. The higher she went, the louder the drone, the colder the air, until her breath fogged, each exhale a prayer to her ancestors. The stairwell walls were scrawled with Navajo words—*Yee naaldlooshii, hózhdí*—but they were warped, their meanings twisted into curses. Tala’s dread was a scream, her mind teetering on the edge of madness, but she pushed on, Kiona’s text—*I’m scared*—a lifeline.

 

On the 24th floor, the penthouse level, the stairwell ended at a steel door, its surface etched with a spiral that pulsed red. Tala touched it, her fingers burning, and the door swung open, revealing a vast chamber that shouldn’t fit the building’s frame. The room was a void, its walls smoke and bone, its floor a mirror reflecting a sky of black stars. At its center stood Yeenaldlooshii, no longer the faceless man but a towering horror, ten feet tall, its body a writhing mass of shadows and teeth, its eyes twin voids that sucked at her soul. Kiona lay before it, curled on the floor, her hoodie stained, her face pale but alive, her chest rising faintly.

 

“Kiona!” Tala ran forward, the knife raised, but the trickster’s laugh was a physical force, slamming her to her knees. The mirror-floor cracked beneath her, reflecting her own face, twisted with fear, and the true world’s desert, fading like a dying ember. Yeenaldlooshii’s voice was a thousand voices, scraping her mind: “You’re too late, Tala. She’s mine. Her despair feeds me, as yours will.”

 

Tala’s rage erupted, a mother’s fury hotter than the desert sun. She stood, the knife trembling in her hand, and sang, her voice raw but strong, a Navajo prayer her grandmother had taught her: "Hózhó náhásdlíí, beauty before me, beauty behind me." The words were a shield, their rhythm clashing with the drone, and the trickster flinched, its form flickering. Kiona stirred, her eyes fluttering, and Tala’s heart surged. “You don’t get her,” she snarled, stepping closer, the prayer growing louder. “You don’t get any of us.”

 

Yeenaldlooshii roared, its body splitting, shadows spilling like blood. It lunged, claws of smoke slashing at Tala, but she dodged, the prayer a fire in her chest. She reached Kiona, pulling her up, her daughter’s weight heavy but warm. “Mom,” Kiona mumbled, her voice weak. “I saw it… the desert… it’s real.”

 

“I know,” Tala said, tears burning her eyes. She faced the trickster, its eyes blazing, and raised the knife, the blade catching the void’s light. “You tricked me once,” she said, her voice steady. “Not again.” She sang louder, the prayer a war cry, and the room shook, the mirror-floor shattering, the walls cracking like glass. The true world bled through—sand, stars, wolves—its song drowning the drone.

 

Yeenaldlooshii screamed, its form collapsing, shadows boiling away. “You can’t break my dream!” it roared, but its voice was thinner, fraying. Tala slashed the knife, not at the trickster but at the air, cutting the false world’s seams. The skyscraper groaned, its glass exploding outward, the city beyond unraveling—Central Avenue, the Arizona Center, Encanto Park—dissolving into sand. Kiona clung to her, her eyes brightening, and Tala felt the true world’s pull, stronger now, a tide she couldn’t resist.

 

The trickster lunged one last time, its claws grazing Tala’s side, pain flaring hot and bright. But she held Kiona, her prayer a scream, and the true world swallowed them, the skyscraper collapsing into dust. Yeenaldlooshii’s wail was the last sound, a fading echo as the false city died.

 

4-3 The New Dawn

 

The desert stretched endless under a sky so vast it seemed to breathe, its stars a chorus of light that sang in Tala Redhawk’s blood. The false city of Phoenix was gone, its glass towers and asphalt veins dissolved into the sand that now cradled her bare feet. The true world was real, vibrant, alive with the scent of sage and the distant howl of wolves. Tala held Kiona close, her daughter’s warmth a miracle against her chest, their heartbeats syncing with the desert’s pulse. The skyscraper’s collapse, Yeenaldlooshii’s final scream, felt like a fever dream fading in the dawn’s glow. The trickster was defeated, its hollow city shattered, but the cost clung to Tala like damp rot, a shadow that lingered in the corners of her mind.

 

The air shimmered, and figures emerged from the haze—her Diné ancestors, their faces etched with stories, their eyes bright with welcome. Tala’s grandmother stood among them, her silver hair loose, her smile a beacon that warmed Tala’s scarred soul. The wolves circled, their fur brushing her legs, and the sand beneath her glowed faintly, etched with Navajo symbols that pulsed with harmony, not the trickster’s warped curses. Kiona stirred, her hoodie torn but her spirit intact, her eyes wide as she took in the desert’s expanse. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice raw but alive, “is this… home?”

 

Tala nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yeah, kid. It’s home.” She looked to her grandmother, who stepped forward, her hands cupping Tala’s face. “You did it, granddaughter,” she said, her voice a song. “You broke the dream. You brought her back.” The ancestors sang, their voices rising, a prayer that wove the true world tighter, sealing the cracks where the false one had bled through. Tala’s wounds—the slash on her arm, the gash in her side—were gone, her body whole, as if the desert had remade her. The dread that had haunted her, that crawling, bone-deep horror, was silent now, buried with Phoenix’s ruins.

 

But the silence wasn’t clean. Tala’s mind, still raw from Yeenaldlooshii’s tricks, twitched with unease. The trickster’s last words—*You can’t break my dream*—echoed, faint but sharp, like a splinter under a nail. She pushed it down, focusing on Kiona, who stood taller now, her fear replaced by wonder. The ancestors led them to a circle of stones, a sacred place where the sand shimmered like liquid starlight.

They sat, the wolves lying nearby, and Tala felt the true world’s rhythm, a heartbeat that matched her own. Her grandmother spoke of the Diné’s past, of battles fought against spirits like Yeenaldlooshii, and Tala listened, her silversmith’s hands itching to create again, not jewelry but tools—weapons, maybe—for a world that felt too perfect, too fragile.

 

Kiona, her fire returning, nudged Tala. “So, what now? We just… live here? No school, no rent, no Californians?” Her grin was half-joking, but her eyes searched Tala’s, seeking certainty.

 

Tala laughed, the sound startling in its lightness. “No rent, that’s for sure. But we’ll learn, kid. This place—it’s ours, but it’s not done with us.” She glanced at her grandmother, who nodded, her gaze drifting to the horizon. The ancestors’ song faltered, just for a moment, and Tala’s unease stirred, a ripple in the desert’s calm. She stood, her hands flexing, and walked to the circle’s edge, the sand cool under her feet. The true world was vast, but its edges were soft, like a painting not yet dry, and she swore she saw a flicker—glass, asphalt, a city’s ghost—before it vanished.

 

Her grandmother joined her, her voice low. “The trickster’s gone, Tala, but its kind are old. They linger, in cracks we can’t see. You’re a warrior now. You and Kiona—you’ll keep the true world whole.” She handed Tala a stone, small and smooth, its surface etched with a spiral that pulsed faintly, like the pendant had. “This is yours. A new bridge, if you need it.”

 

Kiona approached, her shawl fluttering in the desert breeze, her brow furrowed. “Mom, you okay? You’re staring at that stone like it’s gonna bite you.” Her voice was light, but her eyes were sharp, catching the tension in Tala’s stance.

 

Tala forced a smile, her fingers tightening around the stone, its pulse erratic, a beat that didn’t match the ancestors’ song. “Just… thinking, kid. This place, it’s everything we fought for, but—” She stopped, her gaze flicking to the horizon, where the sand seemed to shimmer, not with starlight but with something colder, like neon reflected on glass. “You feel anything? Like… a hum, maybe?”

 

Kiona frowned, tilting her head. “A hum? Nah, just the wind. And those wolves—they’re loud.” She grinned, but it faltered, her hand brushing Tala’s arm. “Mom, you’re freaking me out. We won, right? That thing’s gone. You said so.”

 

“I did,” Tala said, her voice tight, the stone’s warmth turning sharp, almost painful. She looked to her grandmother, whose eyes were fixed on the same horizon, her smile gone. “Grandmother, what’s out there? I saw something—city lights, maybe. It’s not over, is it?”

 

Her grandmother’s face was a mask, her voice barely a whisper. “The true world is yours, Tala. But worlds are layered, like skins. You tore one away, but others… they wait.” She touched Tala’s hand, her fingers cold. “The stone will guide you. Or it won’t. Trust your blood.”

 

Tala’s unease was a live wire, sparking in her chest. She turned to Kiona, who was watching the ancestors’ dance, their song now jagged, a note off-key. “Kiona, stay close,” she said, her voice low. “Something’s not right.” She scanned the desert, the stars above burning too bright, one flickering red, like a wound in the sky. The wolves growled, their hackles rising, and the sand beneath her feet pulsed, not with harmony but with a rhythm she knew—the false city’s drone, faint but growing, a whisper that wasn’t Yeenaldlooshii but something new, something watching.

Tala’s smile was fierce, her grip on the stone a vow, but her eyes were wide, searching a desert that might not be home, leaving her and Kiona standing on the edge of a truth no one could name