Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(24)

I glance at my father’s portrait—taking Django’s restless, troubled gaze as a warning to bust free before it’s too late.

No wonder he fled—Paloma’s a freak.

She knocks, whispers through the wood, calling me nieta as she twists the handle and tries to come in. Her efforts rebuffed by the old wooden chair I’ve wedged under the knob, barring her from entering ’til well after I’m gone.

I press my ear to the door frame, listening for the reassuring sound of her retreating step—a temporary surrender I’m determined to exploit by making a run for the window, propping it open, heaving myself up to the ledge, and dropping my bag onto the stone courtyard below where it lands with a thump. My gaze fixed on the big blue gate and the adobe wall that surrounds the place, noticing for the first time the strange wooden fence constructed from juniper branches that sits just inside it, and just inside that is a thick border of something grainy and white—as though someone went a little crazy with the saltshaker.

A layer of salt, within a wooden fence, within a thick adobe wall—is this what Paloma meant when she claimed the house was protected?

I shake my head and swing a leg over, scrunching and contorting until I’ve freed my other leg and eased my way out. The tickle of the dream catcher’s feathers brushing softly against my scalp serving as yet another reminder of why I need to flee—this is the house where crazy lives. If I stay any longer, I’ll never see normal again.

I crouch next to my bag, grab hold of the strap, and dash across the courtyard as fast as I can. The gravel crunching under my soles so loud it reverberates through my head—the gate shrieking in protest, causing me to curse under my breath, until I’m free of it—free of her. Sprinting down the dirt road, following the same route I came from. My feet pounding so hard, small clouds of dust stir in my wake.

I run for a while. Run for much longer than I’m used to. The strap on my bag cutting a deep wedge into my shoulder, as my cheeks flame, my eyes sear, but still I continue. Refusing to stop until the small cramp in my side explodes into a pain so white-hot and stabbing, I lose my balance and land in a big crumpled heap. My duffle bag strewn to my side, my arms wrapped tightly around me, I tuck my chin to my chest and fight to grab hold, to steady my breath. Coaxing the pain to go away, convincing it to subside so I can get moving again.

I inch my way off the road, crawl deep into the shoulder where a narrow, dirt gully runs alongside it. Taking great care to pace myself, go slower than I’d like—making sure to stay crouched, out of sight, hoping to make it harder for Paloma to spot me, should she decide to go searching.

A small army of dried-out shrubs on their way to becoming tumbleweeds prick at my jeans as I pass one anonymous adobe house after another. Each of them in a similar state of disrepair, with crumbling chimneys and patched-up windows—featuring an assortment of rusted-out cars, freely roaming chickens, grazing cattle, and sagging, overloaded clotheslines meant to stand in for landscaping.

This has got to be the most poorly named town I’ve ever visited. There is absolutely no sign of anything even remotely enchanting about it. It’s one of the worst cases of false advertising I’ve seen.

I’ve traveled a lot. Done considerable time in my share of dead-end dumps. Or at least that’s what I thought until I came here.

I mean, where do people shop for clothing and food?

Where do the teens all hang out—the ones who haven’t already hopped the first bus out of this godforsaken place?

And, more important, where do I catch that very same bus—how soon ’til it leaves?

I reach for my phone, trying for Jennika again, but just like before it goes straight to voice mail. And after leaving yet another angry message, followed by an even worse text, I consider calling Harlan but nix it just as fast. I have no idea how he and Jennika left things, have no idea if he’s even back from Thailand. Besides, one look at my watch tells me there’s only a short time standing between sundown and me, and I really need to locate the town by then; if not, I’m in for a long, spooky night.

I follow the gully to its end and find myself back on a succession of dirt roads once again. One ends, another begins, and after a while it’s just one big blur of depressing, desolate streets that seem to lead nowhere in particular.

I’ve just decided to approach the next house I see, march right up to the door and ask for assistance, when I turn a corner and miraculously stumble upon some semblance of a town—or at least the closest thing I expect to find in these parts.

The street is wide, sprawling the length of three stop signs until it fades into nothing again. And not wanting to waste any more time than I already have, I head into the very first storefront I see, the sign overhead reading: GIFFORD’S GIFT SHOP * NOTARY * & MAIL STOP, with a smaller sign beside it advertising freshly brewed coffee.

I push inside, causing the bell on the door to clink so hard the patrons halt their conversations long enough to turn and stare—eyes widening at the sight of my snarled hair, reddened cheeks, and filthy jeans.

Great. Just in time for rush hour.

I sigh. Heave my bag high on my shoulder, straighten my clothes, and take my place at the end of the line. The rise of voices resuming around me as I snag a postcard from a nearby rack, which features the word Enchantment! scrawled in pink across the top, with a picture of this miserable street just below—and I can’t think of a better depiction to show just how dismal this place really is.