Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

Needless to say, the third pic was my favorite.

They both looked so young and in love—so untroubled and free.

And while I definitely appreciated that part of it, it was the message that really stirred me.

It was a message of warning.

A cautionary tale at its best.

All the visual proof I would ever need that life could change in an instant.

A reminder of how just like that—your whole world can get flipped upside down and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Three months after that photo was taken, Django was dead, Jennika was pregnant, and nothing ever felt free or untroubled again.

At first I asked for the whole strip, but Jennika just laughed and said no. So then I asked for the one of the kiss—it was the one I really wanted anyway—but she shook her head, grabbed a pair of cuticle scissors, and snipped off the one at the top and gave it to me.

So while Django moved into my wallet, Jennika hid the other two. Having no idea that every time she booked a new job, I’d spend the first day scoping out her hiding place so I could stare at the kissing photo while she was in meetings.

Paloma fiddles with a pot on the stove, alternately stirring its contents with a large wooden spoon, and lifting that spoon to her nose and inhaling deeply. Finally deeming it ready, she pours the contents into a large, handmade mug and makes her way back to me.

“Drink this while it’s warm,” she says, the mug held in offering. “It’ll help you sleep. Help you keep calm.”

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m reluctant to take it, unwilling to risk it. Even though Paloma seems completely nice and nonthreatening, and not at all like the scary witch doctor I feared—being here, in the house where my dad lived for sixteen years before he ran off to California where he met first my mom, then his death—well, it’s all beginning to feel a little weird.

Still, Paloma is patient—holding the cup in a way that leaves no doubt she’ll stand there for hours if that’s what it takes. And since the night can’t get any more strange and awkward than it already is, I heave a deep sigh and consent. Wrapping my fingers around the smooth ceramic handle, instantly drawn to the wonderful, enticing scent the strange brew emits.

The next thing I know, I’ve already drained it. Watching Paloma place the mug on a nearby table as she says, “It should start to take effect very soon, so we best get you to your room.”

Her touch light and warm as she steers me by the elbow, leading me down a short hallway past one closed door and then another, before ushering me through an arched doorway where I collapse on the bed.

Her nimble fingers tucking the blankets around me as she says, “In the morning, we will talk about everything, but for now, sweet nieta, sleep.”

eight

I’m in the forest.

A cool, windless, lushly green forest consisting of moss-dappled earth and towering trees bearing a canopy of branches so long and entwined only the faintest trace of sun filters in. The light glinting on the leaves in a way that makes them seem animated, alive—as though swaying in harmony to the raven’s sweet song.

My feet move quickly, nimbly, gliding along an unmarked trail with the raven riding high on my shoulder. His alert purple eyes sweeping the area as a vague awareness tugs at my memory, reminding me that I’ve no reason to fear, the raven will lead me, he is my guide. I am meant to be here.

We scale boulders, wade through swiftly moving streams. The water rising higher and higher until it swells past my ankles and soaks through my dress. Wetting and snarling my hair all the way to the tips of my ears, until my fingers grasp for the rock at the far bank, curl around its hard jutting edge, and I heave myself up and sprawl across the top with the raven perched just beside me. The two of us warmed by a bold beam of light that wicks the moisture from my dress, my hair, and my skin—returning it to the sky where it promises to find me again in the form of dew, snow, or rain. Though it’s not long before the raven’s curved bill pecks at my shoulder—signaling that it’s time to get up, start moving again.

Our journey continuing across densely forested terrain, and ending the moment the raven’s clawed feet squeeze my shoulders so tightly they nearly puncture my flesh. His wings fluttering, spreading, lifting him high into flight—and though I turn my gaze skyward, do my best to track him—it’s only a blink until he’s vanished from sight.

His mission complete, I’ve no further need of him. Having reached my intended destination in the form of this beautiful grass-covered clearing I’m in.

I run an anxious hand over my dress—hoping I look presentable, pretty, for the friend who awaits me. Sensing his presence well before I can see him, I shutter my eyes, inhale his deep earthy sent—savoring the rush of adrenaline that kick-starts my heart into a flurry of spasms—stretching the moment for as long as I can, before he calls to me, begs me to face him.

The sound of my name on his lips causing a smile to widen my cheeks as I admire him, absorb him, in the way he does me. My eyes grazing over this beautiful, nameless boy with smooth brown skin, and glossy black hair that sweeps over his face. His torso lean and bare—his shoulders wide and capable—while the hands that dangle by his sides merely hint at the promise of the pleasure I know them to give.

He reaches for me, entwines my fingers with his, leading me away from the clearing, to the other side of the forest where a beautiful, bubbling hot spring awaits. Its clear thermal waters eliciting a fine misty heat that swirls and dances and skims along the surface.

I’m the first to step in, the water claiming my dress until it clings just like skin. I wade toward the far bank, where I eagerly await the sweet burn of his fingers exploring my flesh. My need like a fever raging within—relieved only by the feel of his hands cupping my face, his lips meeting mine—merging and melding—tasting and teasing—the kiss so bewitching it causes a spark of images to blaze through my mind.

Visions of a flower budding, blooming, falling from its stem, only to rise up and bud once again—fading into one of a crowd of dazzling souls that shine brighter than day, butting against souls turned so dark they blend with the night. The souls becoming one with the elements, showing the sky’s constant recycle of snow, dew, and rain—the wind’s

two faces of harm and respite—fire’s equal ability to heat or destroy—and the earth’s stoic patience as it struggles to absorb all we demand …