Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(46)

“You’re the mirage!” I shout, eager to move past him, be free of this place. “It’s all a mirage! I just want to be free—why won’t you let me?”

My tirade cut short by the press of his finger just under my chin as he tilts my face toward his and urges me near. Our lips swelling—meeting—the first taste tentative and unsure—though it soon melds into something much deeper—something surging with untold promise—cresting with hope.

Something I’ve no doubt is real.

His hand slips to my shoulder—dips into the valley of my chest—circling the soft buckskin pouch lying close to my heart as he says, “They want this—they want to see you defeated more than anything else.” His gaze intense, voice a soft, whispered warning. “Don’t let them win.”

I press hard against him, his touch so enticing, magnetic, I can’t bear even the slightest divide to stand between us. My progress halted by his hands gripping my shoulders—the forced backward shuffle of my feet—moving me well behind the white line—only satisfied when an expanse of blank space yawns wide between us.

“You must stay until it’s over. You must see this thing through. It’s all a mirage, everything but this anyway—” He leans past the barrier and kisses me again, his touch light, fleeting, but leaving me breathless all the same.

Leaving me staring into the dark, his words lingering in the space he once filled: “We’re all counting on you…”





twenty-one

I wake again.

For the second time. Or is it the third? I can no longer tell.

Time’s so intangible, so fleeting—the day turns to night, and the night becomes day. Indecipherable flashes of dark and light meshing together, blurring into a series of smoldering images that spark and flare—lure and seduce—until I can no longer determine what’s real and what’s fake.

Can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality—between evil and good.

All I know for sure is that the cave is now as dark as it is cold, but I’m too weak from hunger and thirst to light that candle or do much of anything to comfort myself.

I push hard against the wall, the tips of my fingers seeking my ancestors, reading their names like braille. Reminded of the words Paloma wrote in her note, about learning to see through the mirage—to see in the dark, see with my heart—and knowing I can’t go it alone. I need them to help.

I hold tight to my pouch, seeking comfort in the hard, curved edge of Raven’s beak, but my resolve is wearing so thin, stepping over the line before it’s time seems like a small price to pay for a reward that’s so great.

I stumble to my feet, my gait so stiff and uncertain, I kick the rattle, causing the small beads to spin and loop crazily, as I move toward the exit, eager to be free. Free of the darkness and cold—free of the vision quest—my training as a Seeker—eager to say good-bye to it all—when someone tugs hard on my arm, pulling me backward, and I turn to find Valentina standing behind me.

I recognize her from the spirit animal she’s brought along with her—a dark-eyed raccoon with its head lowered, back raised. Its sharp teeth bared as it paces back and forth, careful to never veer too close to the line marking the cave.

Valentina is young. Pretty. Reminding me of what Paloma must’ve looked like at that age, with her long dark hair, flashing brown eyes, and bare feet. She grips my arm hard, pulling me to her. Murmuring a long string of words I can’t comprehend, though the message is clear—I’m not to go any farther. I’m to stay right where I am, next to her.

If she’d brought some food and drink, heck, even a small blanket, something to warm me—I might reconsider. But as she came empty-handed, she’s soon overpowered by more immediate needs.

I yank free of her grip and make for the exit, focusing on the thick, white border, the freedom that looms just beyond. Telling myself there’s no shame in failing—nothing wrong with rejecting this world. Their practices are barbaric, too primitive to work in this new, modern time.

Just one step away from all that I crave, when another voice drifts from behind me and says, “Daire—my sweet baby girl, won’t you do this for me?”

It’s Django.

The Django from the black-and-white picture I keep in my wallet.

And just like Valentina, he’s brought his spirit animal with him—a huge, menacing black bear that growls loudly, angrily, as it paces behind me.

One step … just one more step and I can move past all of this. I don’t have to end up like him—don’t have to face a premature death. Now that I know what I’m up against, I’ll find a way to outsmart them—but for now, I just need some relief …

Sorry, Django.

Sorry, Valentina.

I really did try. But I’m refusing this life.

One more step, a rather large one at that, and freedom is mine.

My toe aiming for the line’s other side, when the boy appears before me—head shaking sadly, arm raised in warning—as Valentina lets out a bloodcurdling cry—and Django remains right behind me, his voice low and serious, urging me to reconsider, to look, to think, to stop seeing with my eyes, my stomach, my immediate needs, and start seeing with my heart—to distinguish the mirage from the truth.

I stare into the boy’s eyes—his brilliant blue eyes—seeing my bedraggled reflection transform to something brilliant—incandescent.