Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

e appear once again.

Unwilling to admit that as much as I don’t want to go—as much as I dread the moment when Jennika will leave me in the care of my grandmother’s friend who will drive me to New Mexico while Jennika heads for the Phoenix airport where she’ll trade in the rental car for an airplane bound for Chile—I can’t help but hang onto the small seed of hope that Paloma’s really not some crazy, sorcerer, witch doctor. That she’ll be able to save me—spare me a future of sterile-faced, white-coated men with their long, sharp needles and fast-draw prescription pads. So far, she’s the only one who hasn’t accused me of going stark-raving mad.

“Wake me when we get there,” I mumble, settling in as though I might sleep, when really, I’m just doing what I can to shut out the glowing ones, who are already popping up along the side of the road. Their piercing eyes following—watching—wanting me to know that, like it or not, they’re not going away until I do what they ask.

five

We meet in the clearing.

It always begins in the clearing.

And though I’ve no idea how I get there, there’s no other place I’d rather be.

I lift my face toward the trees, watching the leaves glimmer and dance in the wake of a soft trailing breeze, as a large, purple-eyed raven stares down from above—our gaze meeting, holding, until the boy appears just behind me.

His mere presence causing my breath to catch, my cheeks to heat—and when I turn and gaze upon the dark and startling beauty of him, that’s all it takes for my heart to skip several beats, for my knees to fold and grow weak.

“Daire,” he says.

Or does he merely think it? I didn’t see his lips move so there’s no way to be sure. All I know is that the sound of his voice causes the smile that widens my cheeks as my eyes graze the length of him. Pausing on icy-blue irises banded by a nimbus of gold, reflecting my image thousands of times—the stream of glossy black hair that flows down his back—the silky smooth skin—the long and lean limbs—the hands that hang open and loose by his sides, giving no indication of the pleasure I know them to give.

Those same hands curling around mine as he leads me out of the clearing, and down toward the bubbling hot spring where he gestures for me to wade in. My dress growing damp, transparent, clinging like skin—I head for the far side and eagerly await him.

Anticipating the feel of his lips upon mine, the burn of his fingers traveling over my flesh. His teeth nip at my neck, my collarbone, and then lower still, as he unbuttons my dress, slides it down past my shoulders, and gazes upon me in wonder …

* * *

“Hey.” Jennika’s blue glitter-painted nails scratch at my shoulder, refusing to stop until she’s sure I’m awake. “Daire, wake up, we’re almost there.”

I unfurl my legs and straighten my spine, using the back of my seat as a guide to haul myself up. Taking a moment to get my bearings, blink the fog from my eyes, and reestablish my place—making the transition from the dream state to the waking state, despite the way the images cling.

It’s a dream I’ve had before—one that I actually look forward to—and I’m relieved to know the meds haven’t banished it for good. I stretch my arms overhead, lay my palms flush against the roof of the car—holding fast to the image of the boy’s smooth brown skin, glossy black hair, and the lure of those icy-blue eyes.

I have no idea what his name is, despite the fact that he knows mine. Still, I like to think of him as my dream boyfriend. He’s been visiting me for the last six months, give or take, which pretty much makes him my most enduring relationship to date.

Jennika parks outside the restaurant, glances between her watch and me, and says, “This is the place. Looks like we’re early.”

I shake my head, causing my dream boy’s image to disintegrate, much like the pictures on the portable Etch A Sketch I lugged around as a kid. Trying my best to appear stoic, brave, despite the way my stomach dips, my heart skips, and my hands go all hot and clammy and shaky.

“But it looks like he’s earlier.” She nods toward some tall, dark, solidly built stranger climbing out of an old pickup truck, its faded blue paint glinting dully in the afternoon sun.

“How do you know it’s him?” I squint, straining to get a better look as he crosses the parking lot and pushes through the smudgy glass door. Trying to glean a little something about his character—his measure of trustworthiness, whether or not he really is some creepy, serial killer, pervert like I fear—from a glimpse of his dark Wrangler jeans, black cowboy boots, starched white cotton shirt, and the shiny black ponytail that falls just shy of his shoulders.

“He fits the description,” Jennika says, and when I look at her and see the way she’s looking at him, I know she’s as nervous as I am. “So, what do you say, shall we head inside and make sure?” She grasps my hand in hers, squeezes tightly, if not briefly, then props her door open, slides from her seat, and motions for me to follow suit.

I shove my hands deep into my pockets and walk in behind her. My feet dragging across worn beige tiles, my head tilted in a way that encourages my hair to fall forward, obscuring my face. Determined to get a better look at him than he can of me, carefully noting all the small details I missed at first glimpse: his turquoise-tipped bolo tie that falls halfway down the front of his carefully pressed and starched shirt, his high cheekbones, broad nose, and startling dark eyes that are filled with such kindness my shoulders sink in relief.

You’re in good hands.

The thought swirls through me, though I’m quick to discard it. I can’t trust the things that I hear any more than I can trust the things that I see. Besides, it can’t be that easy; he needs to earn my respect.

We head toward the back, toward the very last booth where he sits. Watching him rise when he sees us, moving in a way that’s surprisingly agile for someone his age. And as much as I’m prepared to hate him, as much as I’m determined to find some big glaring flaw that’ll change Jennika’s mind and cast a final vote against him, the smile that greets us is one of the most genuine I’ve seen in a very long time.

He reaches forward, offers his hand, and introduces himself as Chayton—Chay for short—and I’m pleased to find his grip both firm and sincere. He doesn’t give me some wimpy handshake just because I’m a girl.

I slide onto the opposite bench, moving toward the wall as Jennika slides in beside me. And when Chay folds his hands on the table, leaning forward as he speaks, I can’t help but like him even more for not talking about sports or the weather or some other dumb thing that ignores the disturbing reality of what brought us all here.

He gets straight to the point when he looks at me and says, “I won’t pretend to imagine how you feel right now. Only you know that. And whatever feelings you’re experiencing, whatever thoughts you may have, I have no doubt they’re justified. What I can say is that the drive to Albuquerque runs around seven hours. And then it’s another three from there to Enchantment where your grandmother lives. You and I have a long trip ahead, but we can spend it however you chose. We can talk if you want, and if you don’t, that’s fine too. If you get hungry, we’ll stop. If you need to get out and stretch your legs for a bit, we’ll stop for that too. If you just want to speed on through, aside from filling up on gas when we need it, we can manage that as well. I have no expectations. I ask nothing from you. Whatever it takes to make your trip comfortable, you tell me, and I’ll do my best to see that it’s done. Any questions? Anything you’d like me to know about you?”