Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(38)
I narrow my eyes and stare hard at the enemy—the raven with the piercing purple eyes, the one that led me to the horrible scene with the demon boy.
I stoop toward the ground, curl my fingers around a small solid stone, but before I can so much as take aim, he’s gone.
I turn, casting about, until I hear his calhing cry once again and find him perched on the ground just a few steps behind me.
Rock still in hand, I raise my fist high—my aim careful, more deliberate this time but just like the last time, before I can release the rock, he’s vanished from sight.
My heart races, my breath goes ragged and quick as I spin on my heels, stopping when he appears just before me again—his curved bill yawning wide as he emits a deep croaking sound and his eyes flash on mine.
I tighten my fist. Raise my hand high. Eyes narrowed on my target when I say, “Third time’s a charm!” Seeing him blink as I let go of the stone, my aim wild, way off—as Paloma’s words replay in my head:
“He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention.”
“You!” I stare. A whispered accusation directed at him.
And the next thing I know, he lifts into flight. Pointed wings spanned wide as he flies a perfect circle over my head, before soaring ever higher and trailing the wind.
Paloma’s hand on my shoulder, coaxing me back to the comfort of her warm adobe home, her voice no more than a whisper when she says, “Come back, nieta. It is time to return.”
sixteen
I lift my head from the table, tousled and blinking as I push my hair from my eyes and secure the loose strands behind my ear. Marveling at how clear my head is—not at all soupy and thick like my meds made me feel.
“How long was I out?” I stretch my neck from side to side, muscles pulling, loosening, as though waking from a nice, long nap.
Paloma smiles. Places a glass of water before me and urges me to drink. “About thirty minutes—though I suppose it felt quicker for you. Your journey was successful, I hope?”
I take a sip of water, then push it away. Tugging my sleeves until they cover my knuckles as I try to come up with some kind of reply, not realizing at first that I still hold that small black stone in my fist.
Successful?
Not really the word I’d use. Still, I look at her and say, “I met my teacher, if that’s what you mean. Though I’m not sure it’s a good thing…”
That last bit spoken so quietly it trails off completely, but even though I’m pretty sure she heard it, she moves right past it and says, “Which direction did you travel? Up, down, or sideways?”
I pause for a moment, remembering the tree, the roots, the tunnel, the worms … “Down,” I say. “I journeyed deep into the earth.”
“The Lowerworld.” She nods. “It is almost always the Lowerworld on one’s first visit. The Upperworld is much harder to reach—even for the well-practiced Seeker. It took me many years to get there.” She looks at me. “So, tell me, how did you find him?”
I glance down at my hands, two cloth-covered mounds, saying, “I followed the wind.” I kick a leg up under me, squirm in my seat, feeling more than a little ridiculous for admitting such a thing.
“And your teacher, he showed himself three times?”
I nod. My fingers curling tighter, pressing the rock so hard it makes my hand ache. “He did indeed. But just so you know, it’s not the first time we met. He came to me in a dream that didn’t end well. No thanks to him.”
Her eyes grow dark and serious in a way that prompts me to continue.
“Long story short, someone close to me, someone I really care about—or at least in the dream anyway—well, he died. And my teacher’s the one who purposely led me to witness that death. It’s the dream I told you about when we were in the graveyard—only I guess I failed to mention that part.”
Her gaze grows wide as her hand flutters over her heart like a hummingbird searching for nectar. “Nieta, this is wonderful!” she says, her eyes beginning to glisten. “This is more than I ever could’ve imagined—more than I ever dared hope! And you say the wind led you there?”
I frown. Pull my shoulders in. More than a little put off by her excitement, my failure to make myself clear. “Someone died, Paloma.” I level my gaze on hers. “Murdered by a demon. And my so-called teacher is the one who’s responsible for leading me there. It may sound dumb to you, but the dream felt so real, I haven’t been able to shake it no matter how hard I try.” I stare at her, pleading to be heard, but despite all the emphasized words, she still doesn’t get it. I can tell by the way her face softens, as her eyes grow increasingly misty.
She lowers her lids, keeping them closed when she says, “Dreams cannot always be taken literally, nieta. Sometimes death is really just a metaphor for rebirth. Allowing the old version of one to slip away so that a newer, better, stronger version can stand in its place.” Her eyes meet mine. “If your teacher led you there, then I’m sure there was a reason. Though there is only one way to be sure that he is your teacher—do you still have the stone that I gave you?”
I uncurl my fingers and present it to her. Watching in dismay as she carries it over to the burner and motions for me to join her as she drops it back into the pot, sets the water to boil, and stares into the cloudy mixture of herbs with an infinite patience I can’t even fathom.