Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

So frustrated, so completely over this insane situation I find myself in, I’m gearing up to do something drastic, scream—cry—demand she untie me or else—when the memory ignites, and fragmented pieces spark in my mind.

Images of Vane—the square—the transvestite belly dancer—the incessant throb of the gnaoua drums … all of it coming in pulsating flashes—a dizzying flicker of snapshots that pop in and out of my head.

“Untie me,” I say, voice full of venom. “Untie me right now, or so help me, Jennika, I’ll—”

She bends toward me, the pink stripe in her hair falling onto my cheek as she presses a finger over my lips. Her gaze a warning, her voice betraying the full extent of her fear when she says, “You can’t afford to say things like that.” Her eyes dart toward Fatima as her tone drops to a whisper. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that landed you here. They’re convinced you’re a danger to yourself and others. They tried to admit you to the hospital, but I wouldn’t let ’em. Though if you insist on talking like that, I won’t have a choice. Please, Daire, if you want to get out of this place, you’re gonna have to learn how to contain yourself.”

Me? A danger? A menace to society? I scoff, roll my eyes, sure I’m caught in some kind of nightmare—one that feels freakishly real.

“O—kay…” I drag the word out as my eyes meet hers. “And exactly what did I do to deserve such a verdict?”

But before she can reply, the rest of the memory flares. More flickering images of glowing people, thousands of crows, and a square crowded with severed, talking heads hanging on spikes …

One in particular …

And then Vane.

Something happened with Vane.

He grabbed me. Tried to convince me that all was okay. But he couldn’t see what I saw. Couldn’t begin to comprehend what I knew to be true. Insisted on calming me, subduing me—leaving me with no choice but to do whatever it took to break free, get as far from the scene as I possibly could …

“You really made a mess of things.” Jennika’s voice catches as she stifles a sob. “You scratched up Vane’s face and arms pretty good. They had to delay the rest of the shoot until he’s fully healed since there’s no way to hide the wounds with makeup—and believe me, I tried. Not to mention the harm you did to yourself.” She trails a gentle finger down the length of my arm until she reaches a spot where I can no longer feel it. And that’s when I realize I’m bandaged. From my elbows down, both of my arms are covered in gauze—the tips of my exposed fingers bearing only the faintest trace of my mehndi tattoo.

Just as I thought—he loves me not.

I sink my head back onto the pillow, not wanting to see any more than I already have.

“Daire, you completely freaked,” she continues in typical Jennika fashion—her expression is sad, but she doesn’t mince words. “You had a meltdown, a total breakdown—a rift with reality, according to the doctor who treated you. It took a whole group of locals to intervene and pull you off Vane, and once they did, you went after them too. Luckily, no one’s pressing charges, and Vane’s publicist is working overtime trying to bury the incident and keep it out of the press. But you know how these things go in the age of the Internet.” Her shoulders lift, as her eyes tug down at the sides. “I’m afraid at this point damage control is the best we can hope for.” She lowers her voice until I can just barely hear, speaking to me like a fellow conspirator. “Vane claims there were no drugs or drinking involved, but, Daire, you know you can tell me the truth. You know our deal. You come clean with whatever you did, and I promise you won’t be in trouble.” She leans close. So close I can see the whites of her eyes are now shot with spidery lines of red—evidence of a recent crying jag. “Were you two partying? I mean, it was your birthday and all. Maybe you just wanted to celebrate in a really big way?”

Her voice lifts at the end, propelled by a sudden surge of hope. She’s looking for a fast and easy explanation—something solid to pin the blame on. An episode of teenage debauchery gone too far would be preferable to the horrible, hard to swallow truth: That after I attacked Vane, a host of innocent bystanders, and myself, I babbled like a crazy person, going on and on about crows, severed talking

heads hanging on spikes, and a tribe of scary glowing people intent on capturing me for purposes unknown. Continuing to fight, kick, and scream until I was finally subdued, carried away, tied to this bed, and injected with something that burned and stung its way through my veins before it sunk me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The memory now fully resurfaced. I remember it all.

My eyes slew toward Jennika’s, seeing the fear displayed on her face, begging me to give her what she wants, confess to something I didn’t—wouldn’t—do.

But I won’t. Can’t. She and I have a deal. She’ll trust me until I give her a reason not to, and so far I haven’t broken that trust. Vane’s the one who drank; I refused to touch it. And as far as drugs go, I’ve been offered plenty over the years, but I’ve always said no.

What I saw was no fantasy. I was totally sober. I wasn’t hallucinating. I need at least one other person to believe that—and if I can’t convince my own mom, then who?

I shake my head, voice small and tired when I say, “I wasn’t partying.” I shoot her a meaningful look, desperate to convince her of the truth. “I didn’t renege on our deal.”

She nods, presses her lips together until they turn white at the edges. And despite patting my arm in a way that’s meant to be comforting, I can tell she’s disappointed. She’d rather I’d broken our pact than deal with a truth she can’t comprehend.

The silence looming between us so heavy and fraught I’m just about to break it, desperate to find a way to convince her that the crazy things I saw really did exist—that they weren’t the imaginings of a freaked-out mind—when there’s a knock at the door, a muffled exchange of voices, and a thick-figured man looms in the archway that leads to my room, with the ever-present Fatima lurking behind.

My gaze glides the length of him, starting with his highly shined shoes, freshly pressed suit, starched white shirt, and boring blue tie. Noting the way his eyes fail to shine, the way his lips practically disappear into his skin, and how his tightly controlled curls seem to repel the bright light shining just overhead.

“Daire, nice to see you’re awake.” He turns to Fatima, motioning for her to grab the chair by the desk and drag it over to my bedside where he drops a heavy black leather bag to the floor and takes up residence. Nudging Jennika out of the way, he lifts a stethoscope from his neck, secures it in place, and tries to lower my sheet so he can get down to business and eavesdrop on the inside of my chest.

But before he can get very far, I squirm and buck and do what I can to push him away, glaring as I say, “Aren’t you at least going to introduce yourself first? I mean, it’s only polite, don’t you think?”

He leans back, his dark eyes meeting mine as an insincere flash of stretching lips and widening cheeks stand in for a smile. “My apologies,” he says. “You are most right. I have forgotten my manners. I am Dr. Ziati. I have been attending to you since the night of the … incident.”

“The incident? Is that what you call it?” My voice bears a sneer that matches the one on my face.

“Is there another name you’d prefer?” He crosses his legs, runs a manicured hand along the sharp crease in his pants, settling in as though he’d like nothing better than to sit around and debate this.