Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(29)

“Hey now.” He reaches toward me again. “That’s no way to—”

“I said, don’t touch me!” I grab hold of my bag—bolt for the door.

The boy calling after me as I shove through crowds of people my age, people I might’ve befriended had Paloma succeeded in keeping me here.

Knocking into girls and bouncing off boys, until one in particular catches me, steadies me. His fingers circling my arm as he peers down and says, “You okay?”

I struggle against him, fight to break free. Though it’s not long before I’m overcome by a cool wash of calm chased by a comforting warmth that folds like a blanket around me. My movements slowed, my thoughts becoming so hazy and loose, I abandon my flight. Robbed of all recollection of why I wanted to leave when I’d do anything to always feel so secure—so safe—so loved and at peace.

So at home in his arms.

I melt against his chest—lift my gaze to meet his. Gasping when I stare into a pair of icy-blue eyes banded by brilliant flecks of gold that shine like kaleidoscopes, reflecting my image thousands of times.

The boy from my dream.

The one who died in my arms.

Brothers.

As the boy claimed they were:

“Not to worry, brother—it’s the soul that I want, the heart is all yours.”

But I know it can’t be. My mind is deceitful. I can longer trust the things that it shows me.

I break free, jolted by the sudden loss of warmth—the crushing chill that surrounds me the instant I sever his touch.

“I’m sorry—I just … I thought you needed—” He peers at me, gaze fraught with worry, head cocked in a way that causes his long, glossy black hair to spill down his side.

But before he can finish, I’m gone. Racing across the room, I blow past the exit and make my way up a steep flight of stairs—convincing myself the boys aren’t real, or at least not in the way that I think.

The hallucinations and dreams are merging as one. I just need to get out of here—just need to—

I’m about halfway down the alley when I allow myself to stop beneath the only street lamp that’s lit, where I sag against the wall and fight to catch my breath. My body bent forward, fingers clutching hard at my knees, as slick waves of hot, clammy sweat course under my clothes—thoroughly wetting me.

I yank on my ponytail, pry it away from the place where it clings fast to my neck, and when I return my hand to my knee, my gaze is caught by the stamp I’d failed to notice ’til now:

A red ink coyote with glaring red eyes.

This town holds secrets you can’t even begin to imagine. It is full of coyotes, and Coyote is a trickster you must learn to outsmart.

The memory of Paloma’s words causing me to push away from the wall, fumble blindly toward the street, as the glowing ones surge toward me, their numbers increasing until they surround me.

Having overpowered the herbs, they jump out of windows, leap from shadowed doorways—as the crows swoop down to my ankles and peck at my feet—squawking in outrage as I stumble right over them, turning them to clumps of bloodied feathers that cling to my shoes.

Only a few yards of asphalt lying between the bus stop and me—one double lane road and I’m free.

Free of the Rabbit Hole, this alleyway, this horrible town, the glowing people, the crows, and the boys with the unearthly blue eyes.

I can make it.

I can do it.

I have to.

I’ve no choice.

Never mind that my vision is narrowing, turning everything to bright shining spots that shimmer before me.

Never mind that my legs are wobbly, knees no longer willing to carry me.

I bang into the street, arms outstretched, struggling to see through the glare. My lips moving in a silent plea:

Help me—please—just a few more steps and I’m there!

The sound of tires squealing, voices shouting, now crowding my head. Leaving me blinded, swaying, darting around the shadows dancing before me. My vision filling with bright wavering circles of light as a sudden thrust of hot metal sends me flying, flailing, soaring high into the sky with arms spread wide, raven-like—until gravity hits and the asphalt roars up to catch me in a bed of razor-sharp rocks that slice through my clothes and embed in my flesh—jamming my nose with the stench of burnt rubber, charred skin.

An image of the old black-and-white photo bearing my dad’s smiling face the last thing I see.

His dark eyes narrowed in judgment—disappointed with me.

I didn’t listen to his warning.

I was too focused on the gruesome state of his head back in that Moroccan square to listen to the words he tried to tell me.

And now, because of my failing, I am like him.

Only worse.

I failed to escape.

Failed to find a way out.

And now, because of it, I will die in this town.





the spirit road





twelve

Paloma leans over the grave site; murmuring in her native Spanish, she clears the film of dirt with her fingers before placing the flowers just so. A handful of blooms plucked straight from her garden—bright blossoms of violet and gold that continue to flourish despite the onset of fall.

Her gaze solemn, mouth set, knees pushing into a patch of dried grass, as her long dark braid slips over her shoulder and sweeps the length of the simple, rectangular marker, before she grabs the braid, tames it, turning to me when I ask, “So, is this where he rests?” Regretting the way my words came out much louder than planned.