Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

I pause for a moment, remembering the tree, the roots, the tunnel, the worms … “Down,” I say. “I journeyed deep into the earth.”

“The Lowerworld.” She nods. “It is almost always the Lowerworld on one’s first visit. The Upperworld is much harder to reach—even for the well-practiced Seeker. It took me many years to get there.” She looks at me. “So, tell me, how did you find him??

??

I glance down at my hands, two cloth-covered mounds, saying, “I followed the wind.” I kick a leg up under me, squirm in my seat, feeling more than a little ridiculous for admitting such a thing.

“And your teacher, he showed himself three times?”

I nod. My fingers curling tighter, pressing the rock so hard it makes my hand ache. “He did indeed. But just so you know, it’s not the first time we met. He came to me in a dream that didn’t end well. No thanks to him.”

Her eyes grow dark and serious in a way that prompts me to continue.

“Long story short, someone close to me, someone I really care about—or at least in the dream anyway—well, he died. And my teacher’s the one who purposely led me to witness that death. It’s the dream I told you about when we were in the graveyard—only I guess I failed to mention that part.”

Her gaze grows wide as her hand flutters over her heart like a hummingbird searching for nectar. “Nieta, this is wonderful!” she says, her eyes beginning to glisten. “This is more than I ever could’ve imagined—more than I ever dared hope! And you say the wind led you there?”

I frown. Pull my shoulders in. More than a little put off by her excitement, my failure to make myself clear. “Someone died, Paloma.” I level my gaze on hers. “Murdered by a demon. And my so-called teacher is the one who’s responsible for leading me there. It may sound dumb to you, but the dream felt so real, I haven’t been able to shake it no matter how hard I try.” I stare at her, pleading to be heard, but despite all the emphasized words, she still doesn’t get it. I can tell by the way her face softens, as her eyes grow increasingly misty.

She lowers her lids, keeping them closed when she says, “Dreams cannot always be taken literally, nieta. Sometimes death is really just a metaphor for rebirth. Allowing the old version of one to slip away so that a newer, better, stronger version can stand in its place.” Her eyes meet mine. “If your teacher led you there, then I’m sure there was a reason. Though there is only one way to be sure that he is your teacher—do you still have the stone that I gave you?”

I uncurl my fingers and present it to her. Watching in dismay as she carries it over to the burner and motions for me to join her as she drops it back into the pot, sets the water to boil, and stares into the cloudy mixture of herbs with an infinite patience I can’t even fathom.

She murmurs in Spanish, her hand fisted, pressed close to her heart. And though I stare into the pot right alongside her, I can’t, for the life of me, determine what she’s so excited about.

A few moments later, she reaches for the strainer and drains the hot water into the sink. Then lowering the pot onto the counter, she turns to me and says, “Is this what you saw? Is this the teacher you met on your journey?”

I lean over her shoulder, not expecting to see much of anything, and gasping in shock when I find that the small black stone morphed into the shape of a raven. Its wings clearly etched, its eyes glimmering purple.

“Is this the teacher you saw?”

I gulp. Nod. It’s all I can manage. The sight of it has rendered me speechless.

I continue to stare at the stone-turned-raven, knowing there’s no way it can be true, and yet there it is, sitting right smack in front of me. Reminding me of the stone animal fetishes I once saw in a tourist shop in Arizona—so shiny and intricate, hand-carved by the Zuni tribe, bearing a close resemblance to the one in this pot.

“We all have an animal guide—each and every one of us.” She gazes upon the stone replica. “Though sadly, most people live long full lives without ever realizing theirs. Different animals bear different purposes, different meanings. And as it just so happens, yours, the raven, is a very fortuitous one indeed. He represents magick, a change in consciousness, and the power of stunning transformation.” She looks at me, eyes shining with pride when she adds, “He soars into darkness only to return with the light. He will whisper the secrets of magick—though those secrets must never be revealed. Raven’s arrival heralds the fulfillment of prophecy.” She presses a hand to her mouth, overcome by a rush of emotion I can’t quite grasp. “It also appears that the wind is your element. Oh, nieta!” she cries, her voice hoarse, thick. “I didn’t expect you to determine that so quickly, which is why I didn’t bother to mention it. That sort of thing usually comes much later in the training. This is very unexpected, to be sure.”

“Is that … good?” I ask, still trying to make sense of the rock and her words, but feeling more confused than ever.

“It is more than good!” She smiles, hands clasped together. “It is wonderful! Though I suppose I should have guessed. You come from a very strong bloodline—a bloodline that contains powerful magick on both sides. And, in addition, you’re infused with Django’s untapped potential, it had to go somewhere, so it found its way to you,” she says, her words triggering a question I didn’t think to ask until now.

“When you say ‘a very strong bloodline with powerful magick on both sides…’”

Paloma shoots me an apprehensive look, as though she already senses the question to come, which she probably does.

“What does that mean? Who is Django’s father—my grandfather?”

She sighs, her voice as resigned as her face when she says, “His name is Alejandro.”

I lean toward her. “Is—so he’s still alive then?” Brightening at the idea of having two living grandparents.

“No, nieta. Sadly, he is not alive in the way that you mean. Though, like Django, his presence is everywhere, which is why I refuse to refer to him in the past tense. Alejandro and I were brought together for a purpose. His family hails from a long line of very powerful shamans—Alejandro was known as a Jaguar Shaman of the highest order. Our match was arranged by our parents in the hopes that our union would result in offspring bearing the kind of gifts I’m seeing in you. Though it wasn’t long before we grew to love each other, which is why I was devastated when he was called back to Brazil on a family emergency only to have his plane crash shortly after takeoff. It wasn’t long after when I learned I was pregnant—not unlike what happened with Jennika and Django. I’m afraid Seekers aren’t known for their happy, long-standing unions, nieta. That’s a part of the legacy I hope you’ll escape.”

It takes a moment to digest—three grandparents lost to a plane crash—Paloma discovering she was pregnant just after losing him—what a strange way history has of repeating itself.

“It’s no accident, nieta.” She addresses the thoughts I failed to speak. “The dark forces are responsible for these tragedies. It’s their attempt to prevent us from producing offspring who will one day join the fight against them. But both times they were too late, a child was already well on the way—one of them you.”

“So, that’s why you think I’m advancing so quickly—because of all this untapped potential that’s finally unleashed?”