Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(21)

I lunge. Kick. Fight. Scream. Though my efforts are in vain—I’m no match for the snake.

It swerves around me. Plunges straight into the now-gaping cavity of my friend’s battered chest.

Returning with a sacred, shimmering sphere it suckles gingerly, gently, before consuming it whole—snuffing the life it beheld like a flame.

The demon grins—a hideous sight forever sealed in my brain. Then he winks out of existence—leaving me alone with my friend—my one true love—my destined one—now an empty sack of lifeless flesh lying limp in my arms.





nine

I wake with a scream. Lying facedown, my mouth mashed into a pillow in a way that muffles the sound. Still, I can’t help but worry that Paloma might’ve heard, might decide to come check on me and make sure I’m okay.

I kick the tangle of blankets and sheets from my legs and push them to the foot of my bed. Hauling myself up against the short wooden headboard, I cock my ear toward the hall, alert to any sign of my grandmother, convinced it’s just a matter of time before she bursts into the room bearing some strange herbal brew she’ll force me to drink. But all I make out is the comforting noise of kitchen sounds seeping under the door.

Water running, butter sizzling, along with the soft sucking sigh of a refrigerator door opening and the firm no-nonsense thump when it closes again. The everyday domestic soundtrack most people take for granted—that I only know from watching TV and movies.

For the past sixteen years, Jennika and I have been on the road, which means that most of my meals have come from airplanes, restaurants, foreign cafés with questionable health codes, and, when I’m lucky, the huge catered spreads they serve on the set.

The only time I’ve come even remotely close to experiencing anything resembling “normal” domesticity was when we found ourselves staying at Harlan’s on my twelfth birthday and Jennika tried to surprise us by making French toast. Only she got distracted while waiting for the edges to brown, and the next thing we knew the toast was smoking, the fire alarm screaming, and after the drama was handled, Harlan squeezed us all into his car and treated us to brunch at some vegan place near Malibu Beach.

But Paloma’s nothing like Jennika. From what I can see, she’s a living picture of Old World, Latina hospitality. Though as much as my rumbling stomach urges me to get out of bed and go join her, the rest of me is determined to hold off—to delay the moment just a little bit longer.

I push a clump of damp, sweaty hair from my face and waste no time exchanging the clothes that I slept in for the soft cotton robe Paloma draped over a chair. The horror of the nightmare so fresh in my mind that for the first time ever I fervently hope I never dream about that boy again.

I curl my toes into the soft sheepskin that hugs the floor by my bed, and put myself through a quick series of stretches. Working to release the crick in my neck that always comes from sleeping in the face-plant position, before moving about my new room, exploring it in a way I didn’t get to do last night, since whatever Paloma gave me knocked me out good and fast.

There’s an old wooden desk and matching chair by the window with my father’s initials carved into the grain in the upper-right corner. The D S so hard-edged and angular it looks almost Greek. And though I try to picture him sitting there—talking on the phone, doing homework, even plotting his eventual escape to L.A.—it’s no use. It’s impossible to make the transition from a smiling black-and-white photo to a real flesh-and-blood person—Paloma’s only child who felt so suffocated right here in this town, right here in this house, he couldn’t wait to get away.

Even when I spot his framed photo on the dresser, it’s still hard to place. Though despite his neat appearance, the photo definitely hints at his unhappiness.

His shirt is clean and pressed, his dark hair freshly trimmed, and while his smile is pleasant enough, if you look closely, you can see more than a hint of restlessness in his gaze. And I can’t help but wonder if Paloma was aware of it too—or if she’s just like every other parent, allowing her eyes to skip past all the things that are too unpleasant to see.

“He was sixteen in that photo.” Paloma pokes her head around the now-opened door, her voice so unexpected I can’t help but jump in response. “Same age as you,” she adds, but all I can do is stare, one hand clutched to my chest, aware of my heart pumping madly against it, the other returning the photo, feeling oddly guilty for studying it.

“I heard you get up.” She moves toward me, lifts the photo from my fingers and holds it in hers.

I don’t say a word. I’m not sure what to say. I’m pretty sure my muffled scream hadn’t carried all the way to the kitchen—so does that mean she was camped outside my door, waiting for just the right moment to barge in?

“Oh, I suppose I didn’t so much hear you, as sense you.” She smiles, glancing between the photo and me. “He left not long after this picture was taken. He called on occasion, sent a few postcards, but once he was gone, I never saw him again.”

She replaces the photo, taking great care to set it precisely where I’d found it, before moving toward the window where she pushes the soft cotton curtains aside, allowing a single slant of pale light to stream in.

Her gaze following mine when she says, “It’s a dream catcher.”

I reach toward the delicate weaving hanging just over the sill. Its round, webbed center woven with yarn and beads, with a deliberate hole left smack in its center—while soft buckskin fringe and an array of light feathers dangle from the ends.