Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(54)
I force my gaze from his. Bang my knee hard against the table as I swivel in my seat. Feeling so odd and unsettled, I wish I’d picked another place to sit, though it’s pretty clear no other table would have me.
He buries his smile and returns to the book. Allowing a few minutes to pass, not nearly enough time for me to get a grip on myself, when he looks up and says, “Are you staring at me because you’ve seen my doppelganger roaming the halls, playing king of the cafeteria? Or because you need to borrow a pencil and you’re too shy to ask?”
I clear the lump from my throat, push the words past my lips when I say, “No one’s ever accused me of being shy.” A statement that, while steeped in truth, stands at direct odds with the way I feel now, sitting so close to him. “So I guess it’s your twin—or doppelganger, as you say.” I keep my voice light, as though I’m not at all affected by his presence, but the trill note at the end gives me away. Every part of me now vibrating with the most intense surge of energy—like I’ve been plugged into the wall and switched on—and it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing hold of his shirt, demanding to know if he dreamed the dreams too.
He nods, allowing an easy, cool smile to widen his lips. “We’re identical,” he says. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed. Though it’s easy enough to tell us apart. For one thing, he keeps his hair short. For another—”
“The eyes—” I blurt, regretting the words the instant they’re out. From the look on his face, he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Yours are … kinder.” My cheeks burn so hot I force myself to look away, as words of reproach stampede my brain.
Why am I acting like such an inept loser? Why do I insist on embarrassing myself—in front of him—of all people?
I have to pull it together. I have to remember who I am—what I am—and what I was born to do. Which is basically to crush him and his kind—or, at the very least, to temper the damage they do.
He shoots me an odd look, moving right past my words when he says, “What I was going to say is we’re only identical on the outside, inside is a whole other story. He’s far more social, always surrounded by large crowds of fawning admirers who follow him around like some kind of starstruck entourage.”
“And you don’t have one of those—an entourage?” I ask, wondering how that could possibly be. With his good looks and easy demeanor, he’s way more attractive than his brother.
I shake my head. Clear the thought from my mind. No matter how cute he may be, no matter how kind his energy seems, he’s still a Richter—a bona fide member of the El Coyote clan. He’s someone to keep a close eye on, but no more.
He leans toward me, his eyes so piercing, so blue, I have to force myself to meet them. “Me? An entourage?” He laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. “It really is your first day, isn’t it?” He lowers his arm, allowing the strands to fall to his shoulders when he adds, “At any rate, welcome to Milagro. This school’s not really known for being hospitable, so I doubt anyone got around to saying that.”
“Your twin did.” I meet his gaze, striving to get a deeper, more reliable impression than the first time around, but all I get is that same cloud of kindness and love, so I turn away, force it from my mind.
“Guess good manners run in the family. Who would’ve thought?” He laughs, quick to chase it with “Oh, and sorry if I didn’t mention it before, but I’m Dace.”
He shoots me an expectant look, but I offer no response. If he really is a Richter, and there’s no doubt he is, he’s been made all too aware of my arrival. According to Paloma, they’ve been waiting for some sign of me ever since Django’s demise.
“Just in case you’re wondering how this class works.” He moves past the snub. “You can work on whatever you want, and if you choose not to work, at least try to make it look like you’re busy. Coach Sanchez will be out of here soon, but see that camera at the front?”
My eyes follow the length of his thumb as it jabs toward a point just beyond. The two of us peering into the eye of a camera perched dead center over the chalkboard—an all-seeing, unblinking eye recording all of our actions.
“Get out of line and they got you on video.” He lifts a brow and rolls his eyes. “This was supposed to be an art class. That’s what I signed up for, anyway. But when the budget got slashed, art and the teacher who taught it were the very first casualties. No one cares about the arts in this town—it’s all about sports and the people who play them. So now, instead of drawing and painting, we have independent study hall, a surly coach who takes roll, and a camera to record all our actions. Though I’m sure it was probably the same thing at your last school?”
I shrug, refusing to either confirm or deny, refusing to engage any more than I have. I’m too freaked by his presence—too angry with Paloma for her failure to prepare me for him. My fingers seeking the pouch I wear at my neck, reassured by the faint outline of the feather and Raven, before reaching for the waterlogged paperback I’ve been trying to finish since that mess in Morocco. Immersing myself in the magickal world the author created, scribbling notes in the corner, underlining favored passages, and doodling in the margins, until the bell rings again and I’m free.
It’s over.