Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

I dig in my heels, flop onto my front, and claw at the dirt in a fight to scrape my way up. I’m not fit to be a Seeker. If this is what it entails—being buried alive with insects, and worms, and roots swirling about me—I want no part of it.

My fingers continue to shovel, digging deep into the loam, but it’s no use. I can’t fight it, can’t get any traction.

There is no going back.

Not when the tunnel behind me closes the second I’m through.

Not when the tunnel before me continues to open and yawn—churning faster and faster to hasten my fall.

I flip onto my back, refusing the scream now lodged in my throat. Telling myself to keep calm, to preserve what little oxygen I have left—when I swoosh into a field of light so bright, I’m forced to clamp my eyes shut and reopen them slowly, allowing enough time to adjust.

My body jamming so hard into the sand I’m like a runaway truck. And after a few dazed moments, I rise to my feet and take a good look around. Finding myself in pretty much the last place I expected—a beautiful white sandy beach with clear turquoise waters, a postcard of paradise.

I head for the shore, thrilled to find myself free of my wounds, free of my cast. Allowing my toes to inch into the water, and smiling when the foamy spray rushes over my feet, soaking the hem of my sweatpants before slipping away and leaving a faint trace of bubbles that pop on my skin.

There are dolphins at play in the distance, along with a small pod of breaching whales, their sleek, broad bodies diving and lifting—and closer still, several schools of tiny shimmering fish racing circles around my ankles and feet. Though not one of these beings is my teacher—of that I am sure.

I abandon the shore in favor of the place where the coast transitions into a beautiful forest sheltered by trees with wide, sturdy trunks bearing branches so thick with leaves they block all but the faintest glimmer of light. The colors so vibrant it appears more like an oil painting than an actual place. The blooms bigger, the moss springier, the cocoon of silence broken by the rush of wind dancing among the leaves, causing them to rustle and sway and chime softly together—a whisper of song urging me to keep going, keep moving on.

I follow the wind. Taking Paloma at her word when she said everything has a life force, a way to communicate—I follow it all the way to a clearing I know from my dreams, and I’m not at all happy to find myself here.

My gaze darts, searching for a rock, a stick, something I can defend myself with should this go wrong again—when I hear a low, deep croaking sound and turn to find the raven hovering in the space right before me.

I narrow my eyes and stare hard at the enemy—the raven with the piercing purple eyes, the one that led me to the horrible scene with the demon boy.

I stoop toward the ground, curl my fingers around a small solid stone, but before I can so much as take aim, he’s gone.

I turn, casting about, until I hear his calhing cry once again and find him perched on the ground just a few steps behind me.

Rock still in hand, I raise my fist high—my aim careful, more deliberate this time but just like the last time, before I can release the rock, he’s vanished from sight.

My heart races, my breath goes ragged and quick as I spin on my heels, stopping when he appears just before me again—his curved bill yawning wide as he emits a deep croaking sound and his eyes flash on mine.

I tighten my fist. Raise my hand high. Eyes narrowed on my target when I say, “Third time’s a charm!” Seeing him blink as I let go of the stone, my aim wild, way off—as Paloma’s words replay in my head:

“He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention.”

“You!” I stare. A whispered accusation directed at him.

And the next thing I know, he lifts into flight. Pointed wings spanned wide as he flies a perfect circle over my head, before soaring ever higher and trailing the wind.

Paloma’s hand on my shoulder, coaxing me back to the comfort of her warm adobe home, her voice no more than a whisper when she says, “Come back, nieta. It is time to return.”

sixteen

I lift my head from the table, tousled and blinking as I push my hair from my eyes and secure the loose strands behind my ear. Marveling at how clear my head is—not at all soupy and thick like my meds made me feel.

“How long was I out?” I stretch my neck from side to side, muscles pulling, loosening, as though waking from a nice, long nap.

Paloma smiles. Places a glass of water before me and urges me to drink. “About thirty minutes—though I suppose it felt quicker for you. Your journey was successful, I hope?”

I take a sip of water, then push it away. Tugging my sleeves until they cover my knuckles as I try to come up with some kind of reply, not realizing at first that I still hold that small black stone in my fist.

Successful?

Not really the word I’d use. Still, I look at her and say, “I met my teacher, if that’s what you mean. Though I’m not sure it’s a good thing…”

That last bit spoken so quietly it trails off completely, but even though I’m pretty sure she heard it, she moves right past it and says, “Which direction did you travel? Up, down, or sideways?”