Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(37)

I glance around the room, taking in shelves filled with tonics, potions, all manner of herbal remedies—while others are crammed with books, rattles, an assortment of crystals and rocks, and a red-painted drum. And though I try to keep an open mind, try to do my best to play along, I have no idea what she means. I’m the kid of a traveling makeup artist—everything I know I learned from a movie set, the Internet, or direct, hands-on experience. Though I never learned anything like this. I’d never even heard of shamans or Seekers until I came here.

I shake my head, start to protest, but she’s quick to silence me. “Trust me, nieta—all the knowledge you need is already within you. It’s your ancestral legacy—it’s in the blood that flows through your veins, it’s the pulse in your heartbeat, and it’s my job to help you discover it. It won’t be long before you move between the Upper and Lowerworlds as easily as you move through this Middleworld. You will learn to navigate all the various dimensions until you know them quite well. When the time is right, you will make the trip physically, but for now there are several steps that must first be completed. So this journey, your first journey, will be a soul journey. It will feel like a dream, though I assure you it’s real. It will prove to be both profound and revelatory, and one you will not easily forget. Its purpose is for you to connect with your spirit animal—the one you will grow quite close to and come to rely on. He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention. This is the first and last time you will drink this brew, and the things you see and experience are never to be revealed to anyone but me. This is imperative in ensuring your safety. So tell me, nieta—how are you feeling? Are you ready to make the journey?”

I struggle to answer. Struggle to slog through the words. My head’s filled with fog, my mouth stuffed with cotton, allowing nothing more than a muffled groan to creep forth.

And the next thing I know, my fingers fold around the small black stone, my face meets the table, and my soul leaps from my body, traveling faster than sound.





fifteen

I stand before a tree—a very tall tree with a large, gaping hole gouged in its trunk. A tree that I recognize from the time Jennika and I went zip-lining in the Costa Rican cloud forest.

But this time, instead of climbing the inside ladder to reach the platform above, I duck into the hole and tunnel deep into the earth. Careening along a root system so far-reaching and complex, it reminds me of long, spindly, tangled-up fingers with no conceivable end.

I’m enveloped in darkness—a dank wind slapping hard at my cheeks, stuffing my nostrils with the scent of rich soil that churns out before me, providing passage for my journey. And while at first it’s kind of fun, reminding me of the times I went sledding as a kid, it’s not long before I grow anxious, claustrophobic, my breath becoming panicked and labored in such a cramped space.

I dig in my heels, flop onto my front, and claw at the dirt in a fight to scrape my way up. I’m not fit to be a Seeker. If this is what it entails—being buried alive with insects, and worms, and roots swirling about me—I want no part of it.

My fingers continue to shovel, digging deep into the loam, but it’s no use. I can’t fight it, can’t get any traction.

There is no going back.

Not when the tunnel behind me closes the second I’m through.

Not when the tunnel before me continues to open and yawn—churning faster and faster to hasten my fall.

I flip onto my back, refusing the scream now lodged in my throat. Telling myself to keep calm, to preserve what little oxygen I have left—when I swoosh into a field of light so bright, I’m forced to clamp my eyes shut and reopen them slowly, allowing enough time to adjust.

My body jamming so hard into the sand I’m like a runaway truck. And after a few dazed moments, I rise to my feet and take a good look around. Finding myself in pretty much the last place I expected—a beautiful white sandy beach with clear turquoise waters, a postcard of paradise.

I head for the shore, thrilled to find myself free of my wounds, free of my cast. Allowing my toes to inch into the water, and smiling when the foamy spray rushes over my feet, soaking the hem of my sweatpants before slipping away and leaving a faint trace of bubbles that pop on my skin.

There are dolphins at play in the distance, along with a small pod of breaching whales, their sleek, broad bodies diving and lifting—and closer still, several schools of tiny shimmering fish racing circles around my ankles and feet. Though not one of these beings is my teacher—of that I am sure.

I abandon the shore in favor of the place where the coast transitions into a beautiful forest sheltered by trees with wide, sturdy trunks bearing branches so thick with leaves they block all but the faintest glimmer of light. The colors so vibrant it appears more like an oil painting than an actual place. The blooms bigger, the moss springier, the cocoon of silence broken by the rush of wind dancing among the leaves, causing them to rustle and sway and chime softly together—a whisper of song urging me to keep going, keep moving on.

I follow the wind. Taking Paloma at her word when she said everything has a life force, a way to communicate—I follow it all the way to a clearing I know from my dreams, and I’m not at all happy to find myself here.

My gaze darts, searching for a rock, a stick, something I can defend myself with should this go wrong again—when I hear a low, deep croaking sound and turn to find the raven hovering in the space right before me.