Echo (The Soul Seekers #2)(8)

She reaches for my hand, grasping it tightly in hers and pulling me back down beside her. “No, nieta,” she says, her voice so troubled it only makes me feel worse. “If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that here in Enchantment, the truth is often far worse than anything the mind is able to conjure.”





four

I try it again.

And again.

And even a few more times after that—and the result never differs.

Every time I ask the pendulum a question that should result in an undeniable no, it responds as it should by spinning in a counterclockwise direction. And yet every time I repeat the one about me loving Cade, it spins the opposite way.

The ritual leaving me so red-faced and frustrated, I can’t help but blurt, “Paloma—what the heck?” I scowl, having no idea what this could possibly mean, why the pendulum insists on torturing me.

And then I remember something the Bone Keeper said.

Something about Dace being the Echo.

Which mirrored Cade’s taunt the last time I saw him:

You’ve been working for me since the day you started having those dreams about my brother … you know, the Echo?

An echo is a repetition.

A reflection.

A figure from Greek mythology who pined for Narcissus until all that was left was her voice.

How could that possibly relate to Dace?

I search Paloma’s face, in need of some answers.

“They are connected, nieta. It is all that I know. As for how deep that connection goes is for you to discover. But clearly it is deep enough for the pendulum to confuse the two.”

“It’s not possible!” I say. “They’re nothing alike!”

But Paloma just nods and places her hand over mine. “My client will be here soon,” she says. “Let’s move on to the feathers while there’s still time.”

*

When Paloma’s client arrives, I start to head out. But when I pass a window on my way and get a glimpse of a dark and ominous sky, I make a quick U-turn and head for my room where I stand before my closet, weighing my options.

As much as I love the old army jacket I always wear—given to me by the wardrobe stylist on a hit movie Jennika worked on a few years ago—it’s no match for a New Mexico winter. I need something heavier, thicker, something that might actually defend against the harsh wintry chill.

I stare at my meager belongings, consisting of jeans, tank tops, slouchy boots, and not much else. The warmest thing I own being the black V-neck sweater I picked up in a duty-free store in the Charles de Gaulle Airport on my way to Morocco, so I’d have something cozy to wear on the plane.

If nothing else, living life out of a suitcase has taught me to keep my belongings pared to a minimum. Books, clothes, shoes, jewelry—anything that no longer serves me is either given away or left behind. And since my last stop was LA, I’m a little deficient when it comes to winter wear.

I drum my fingers against my hip, screw my mouth to the side, and stare as though I’m expecting something new to appear. Wondering if I could maybe borrow something from Paloma until I can get to a decent clothing store, though doubting she has anything that would work. No matter how low the temperature dips, I’ve yet to see her wear anything heavier than a cotton housedress and cardigan.

I shift my gaze higher and scrutinize the still unexplored brown cardboard box on the closet’s top shelf. While I’ve lived in this room for the past several months, I still have a hard time thinking of it as mine. I guess I’m not used to claiming a space, any space.

Ever since I was a kid, all of my homes have been temporary at best. And despite Paloma giving me free rein to do whatever it takes to make it my own, the only signs of my existence are the few items of clothing occupying the closet, the small stash of socks and underwear in the tall chest of drawers, and the laptop I’ve set up on the old wooden desk—all of which can easily fit into a duffle bag when it’s time to move on.

This room is still very much Django’s, and that’s how I like it. Makes me feel close to my father in a way I’ve never experienced until now.

There’s a picture of him in a pretty silver frame that sits on the dresser—taken when he was sixteen, same age as me. And his initials are carved into the desk in the space next to my computer—the jagged D.S. half the size of my hand. Even the dream catcher that hangs above the windowsill belongs to him, so I guess I always assumed the contents in the box on the top shelf belonged to him too. And up until now, I didn’t feel I had the right to go snooping.

Although my five-foot-six-inch frame isn’t exactly what I’d call short, the shelf is still just a little too high for me to grab hold of the box without risking it crashing onto my head. I consider dragging the elaborately painted trunk that holds my Seeker tools over to the closet so I can climb on top and retrieve the box, but then I think better.

Deciding to use some of the magick I’ve been practicing, the telekinesis I’ve been working to hone, I focus hard on the box. Employing Paloma’s advice to think from the end, claiming it’s magick’s second most important ingredient, coming just after intent.

“The universe will work out the details,” she’d said. “The most important thing you can do is to state your intention, then envision the result as though it’s already done.”