Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(89)
I drop beside her, enclose her hand in mine. My throat gone so lumpy and tight I can’t get to the words. My vision so frantic and blurry, the room swims before me.
“She was doing better. We were sure she’d made the turn, but then…” Chay looks at me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m afraid she’s not long for this world.”
I shake my head. Refuse to believe it. Glaring at him when I say, “No. No! I won’t let her go. She can’t—not now—not when I’m just getting to know her! Leftfoot will fix her Wolf, and Paloma will be healed—you’ll see!”
He squeezes my shoulder, his voice saddened but even. “I’m sorry, Daire. But from what you said about Wolf’s condition, I’m afraid it won’t be much longer.”
His eyes meet mine, revealing the full depth of his loss, the truth behind his words, but I cannot—will not—accept it. “Why can’t they heal her? Why can’t she heal herself? Why can’t someone make some mystical medicine or something?” My eyes search the room, accusing everyone in it. The medicine man’s apprentice running a wildly spinning pendulum up and down Paloma’s body, pausing on each of her chakras, his brow creased as he turns on occasion and makes odd, little spitting sounds. Even Chepi, who sits in a corner, her eyes clamped shut, hands waving before her, as her lips move in silent communion. Each of them employing the same ritual I’ve seen Paloma work to help others—so why is it not helping her? Returning to Chay when I add, “She’s a healer. A Seeker. How could this happen? How’d she get sick in the first place?”
He takes a deep breath, nodding in a way that encourages me to slow down, calm down, and take a breath too. When my energy settles, he says, “Healers do all that they can to keep themselves strong, grounded, and well. Good health allows them to do what they do. But, once they fall ill, they’re forced to seek help just like anyone else. Leftfoot will tend to Wolf as best he can, but some things are not for us to decide. The toll of losing Django—of having to keep her powers going for much longer than normal—have come at a price. She’s suffered significant soul loss. I’m afraid there’s nothing more to do but let her transition into the next world as comfortably and easily as possible.”
I turn, my face scrunched in confusion.
“In the end, that’s what all illness amounts to,” he says. “A loss of power. A loss of the soul.”
Soul loss.
A loss of the soul.
The words ringing in my ears so loudly they’re almost deafening—as visions of long-dead Richters devouring glowing, white orbs blaze in my head.
“So—get her soul back!” I say, aware that I’m not making the slightest bit of sense. Could one even do such a thing?
“I’m afraid it’s too late for a soul retrieval.” Chay looks at me, having already accepted what I’m dead set on refusing. “It is time. The signs are all present. So please say your good-byes so she’ll be free to move on.”
“No.” I glance between Chay and Paloma. Repeating, “No. Not yet. No way. This is no accident—the Richters have done this—Cade in particular.”
Chay looks at me, his narrowed gaze implying his surprise comes not from the sentiment so much as from hearing me voice it.
“How does one lose a soul?” I set my jaw and focus on him, needing to learn all that I can if I’ve any hope of saving my abuela. “And once it’s lost, how does one get it back?”
Chay fingers his ring, the eagle’s golden eyes glimmering as it twists back and forth. “A soul loss can occur in a number of ways. Some trade their power to malevolent beings in exchange for fame, fortune, even love. Sometimes it’s the result of trauma—death of a loved one, a violent event—something that leaves a person in a state so weakened they’ve lost their will to live, which inadvertently allows the soul to become vulnerable to those same malevolent beings who are eager to claim it. And in other cases…”
He looks at me, unsure if he should say it, but I nod for him to continue—sparing me from the truth won’t make it any less real.
“In other cases, the entire soul, or even bits of the soul, are taken outright—the result of being targeted by a very powerful sorcerer with ill intent. And I’m afraid once one is targeted, it’s nearly impossible to undo without the aid of an equally powerful Seeker or shaman—a Worker of Light.”
“Well, I’m a Seeker—so where do I start?”
My tone is frantic, my gaze all over the place. Nothing about me inspiring the least bit of confidence, so Chay can hardly be blamed when he says, “Soul Retrieval is very dangerous work. It requires one to journey to the place where the soul is being kept, then confronting the malevolent being that stole it, which often involves lengthy, extremely costly negotiations to get it back. Only the most gifted shamans and Seekers are able to do this—those with many years of experience.” He looks hard at me. “You’re nowhere near ready. I can’t let you risk it. Paloma would never allow it.”
At the sound of her name, my grandmother stirs. “Daire…” she whispers, prompting Leftfoot’s apprentice to move aside, as my grandmother, my abuela, strains to open her eyes.
“Sweet nieta…” She struggles to focus. Her voice so labored, so forced, the sound makes me shiver. “Do not worry for me. I’ve lived a good life. Focus on them. You must stop El Coyote, no matter the cost. I haven’t taught you everything, but I’ve taught you well. And now you must let me go, nieta—”