Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(45)

Safe return.





Paloma





I glance between the note and the border beyond. According to what I just read, along with the warnings Chay gave me, they’re not exactly joking about my staying put until it’s time to move on.

And though I try to meditate again, it’s no use. I can’t silence my mind. Can’t silence my stomach from groaning in hunger. So I lean against the wall of my ancestors’ names, hoping it’ll make me feel less alone, remind me that I’m hardly the first to endure this ordeal. Making my way down the list, I call upon them for guidance—shaking the rattle as I do, which feels a bit weird, but then weird is all relative here—and when I reach the end, I call upon Raven as well.

Then I wait.

Stomach clenching so tightly, I reach for my soft buckskin pouch, squeeze it gently, and say, “Raven, please get me through this. Show me whatever I need to know. Put me to the test. And help me do whatever it takes to survive.” Barely reaching the end before my lids start to droop, becoming so heavy I can no longer lift them, and just a few seconds later, I’m swallowed by sleep.





twenty

I’m tired.

Hungry and thirsty.

Cold and lonely too.

Terrorized by a long stream of shadow dancers that swarm all around me—their lurid forms mocking—taunting—teasing—cajoling—tempting me to leave—to find my way out of the darkness—out of this cave—and it’s not long before I agree.

I never asked to be a Seeker.

Never asked for greatness or victory.

I’m more Lyons than Santos—not cut out to be a hero.

All I ever wanted was to be a normal girl with a normal life—living in a place of blissful ignorance where gruesome monstrosities—things born of darkness—no longer exist.

I scrunch against the wall, one arm wrapped tightly around me in a vain attempt to slow the train of ache storming my belly—while the other hand clutches high at my throat—so itchy and dry my tongue feels too big—as though it no longer fits. Determined to ignore the gang of monsters—demonic, foul beasts—dancing circles around me—until I flounder to my feet, eager to flee.

My movements so clumsy and quick, I reach for the wall to steady myself, as a constellation of bright, twinkling stars swirl before me. My fingers pressing into Mayra’s wildcat, slipping past Diego’s monkey—the vibration of their long-lingering energy proving I’m not fit to join them—unworthy of their legacy—of claiming their name.

It’s better to cut my losses, apologize to Paloma, and be on my way.

I slip my bag over my shoulder and bid good-bye to the demons. Just about to step over the line when my exit is blocked by a beautiful dark-haired boy standing before me, his icy-blue eyes meeting mine in a way that reflects my sad, sorry image thousands of times.

“You know you can’t do that, right? You know you can’t leave before it’s time?” His tone is sharp, but his eyes flash in kindness, belying the words. “You have to see this thing through. You have to endure. They’re depending on you.”

I roll my eyes. Huff under my breath, telling myself he’s not real—he’s a boy made solely of ether—the product of delusional reveries and outlandish imaginings.

He has no sway over me.

“You and I aren’t like the others,” he says, working hard to persuade. “We don’t get to choose. Our path has been chosen. It’s our job to follow it—to live up to the task.”

I roll my gaze up the length of him—starting at his black shoes and skimming past the slink of long legs, the elegant V of his torso, up to his broad rectangle of chest. Greedily tracking every square inch—until I return to his eyes and realize I’m content to remain there for as long as I can. His words repeating in my head until I finally say, “Us? Are you a Seeker too?”

He wipes a hand over his chin and quickly looks away. Dodging my question when he replies, “You and I are the last of our lines.”

My mouth grows grim as I force myself to look elsewhere, settling on the fiends jeering behind me. The boy doesn’t know me, doesn’t know the challenge I face. Doesn’t know it’ll be much better for me—much better for everyone—if I admit my defeat and go home.

Home.

Wherever that is.

Besides, if this is just a dream like I think, what difference could it make? So what if I go in search of a little relief?

I take a deep breath. Push to move past him. The toe of my shoe edged up to the grainy white line marking the entrance, when his eyes fix on mine and he blocks me again.

“It’s a dream!” I cry, voice filled with frustration. “You’re a phantom—a fantasy—no different from them!” I motion toward the demons. “So do us both a favor and let me out of this place.”

He shakes his head slowly as his eyes tug down at the sides, the sudden transformation making me want to take it all back, renege on my words if only to see him smile again. “I can’t let you do that,” he says. “Everything that happens here—whether in the dream state or the waking state—it’s all part of the test. The actions you choose bear significant consequence. You must determine the mirage from the truth. It’s the only path to success.”