Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(100)
“I—I don’t understand,” I say, wondering why her gaze is so consoling when her news is so good.
“A Seeker’s life requires great sacrifice,” Paloma says. “And I am sorry for that. But you must stop Coyote no matter the cost. You have no idea how much havoc just a few of them can wreak.”
“I will.” I nod, desperate for her to believe me. “I’ll do what it takes, just point the way.”
“I’ve lost most of my magick.” Her lids droop, voice fades with fatigue. “I’ve relinquished it to you. So while I can guide you, sweet nieta, in the end, the task belongs to the two of you. You must work together—you must do all that you can…”
Her voice lulls, as her breathing sputters and slows, but I’m not yet finished. I’ve still got one more question to ask, and she’s the only one who might know the answer.
I lean closer, lips at her ear as I whisper, “Paloma, what is the Echo? What does it mean?” I hold tight to her hand, hoping for a response that will ease these deep-seated fears gnawing inside me.
But my words are met with silence—she’s already claimed by sleep.
fifty-three
Leftfoot ushers us out of the room, insists Paloma needs her rest. And while I don’t disagree, I’m not entirely ready to leave. Not until she wakes and I’m sure she’s on the mend.
“She’s experienced quite a bit of trauma,” he says. “It is rare for one to survive a complete soul loss—it is usually only a partial. But as you know, Paloma is not like most people. She is stronger, more resilient, and because of your efforts, she will make it just fine. But for now, you must allow her to sleep. And you must allow me to return Wolf to the Lowerworld. It’s no good for him here. You two have done enough for one day.”
“Yes, you certainly have,” Chepi says, her eyes grazing over my snarled hair, torn jeans, and bare feet, telling me I look even worse than I think.
Her anger dissolving the instant Dace slips an arm around her, murmuring in their native tongue. Then he leads us outside, where the three of us pause on the road, silent and awkward, until Chepi says, “I remember your father.”
Her eyes meet mine as I stand rooted before her, unsure how to react.
“You are just like him,” she adds, confusing me further.
Does she mean I’m impulsive and reckless?
Does she mean I’m destined to break her son’s heart just like Django broke Jennika’s—even though it wasn’t his fault?
Does she mean I’m part of a world she’s vowed to turn her back on, in an effort to protect herself—protect her son—and she resents my dragging him into it?
Does she mean all of those things, along with plenty more I’ve yet to think of?
I lower my lids, shutting her out in an effort to see with my heart, but all I get in return is a woman who’s deeply concerned for her son.
Dace moves to intervene, desperate to smooth things over, but he’s soon stopped by his mother who says, “Paloma was there for me when I needed her, and so I spent the last couple days doing what I could to return the favor. Though I never imagined my son, along with you, would come through when it really mattered.”
I duck my head and stare hard at my feet, unable to come up with a suitable reply. The sentiment was simple, hinting at kind, but the tone it was spoken in seemed accusatory at best. Then again, maybe I’m just tired, and maybe my fatigue is making me paranoid.
“It’s been many years since I observed Día de los Muertos—but perhaps today I should.” Her gaze lingers on mine in a way that reminds me of all the horrific, unthinkable things that happened to her on that day, when she was just a young girl my age.
She turns to her son, invites him to join her back at her house, but when he shakes his head in reply, she’s quick to turn and be on her way. “You be careful out there,” she says, the words drifting over her shoulder, more loaded than they appear.
She heads down the road, seeming to diminish the farther she goes, and when I’m sure she’s out of earshot, I turn to Dace and say, “Your mom hates me.”
He laughs, wraps an arm around me, and hugs me close to his side—the warmth of his body instantly emanating to mine. “She doesn’t hate you,” he says. “She just has to get used to the idea, that’s all.”
I peer at him, taking in a face so beautiful it’s almost hard to fathom. “Get used to what?” I ask, having no idea where he’s going with that.
Noting the way he flushes, looks away, stopping beside a beat-up white pickup truck when he says, “Of me having a girlfriend.”
I lean against the passenger door, trying to adjust to the thought. I’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend. The word alone implies permanence, stability, longevity—all things I’ve long been denied.
Misreading my silence, along with the contemplative look on my face, he says, “Great, now I’ve scared you.” He rakes a hand through his hair, stares down at the dirt, but I reach for his sleeve and pull him back to me.
“After all we just went through, you think you can scare me so easily?”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine, face flooding with relief when he says, “Maybe we can just start with breakfast? There’s this great little tucked-away place that serves the best blue-corn pancakes in the state—though it might seem a little too normal compared to a soul retrieval.”