Soul Seekers03 - Mystic

by Alyson Noel

  We all laugh a little longer than the joke actually merits. Hungry for an excuse to lighten our emotional loads.

  “Aren’t you going to have some?” Lita asks, when Paloma joins us at the table.

  “I am fasting until she returns,” she says. “These are Daire’s favorite. I make a fresh batch every day, so they’ll be here when she comes back.”

  Lita falls silent, busying herself with her cupcake and tea, as I lean toward Paloma, and say, “I brought Lita because I think it’s time she learns the truth of this town, and I figured you’re the best one to explain it.”

  The muted squeak of her finger running circles around the rim of her mug tells me I need a better way to sell this.

  “With Daire missing—” I pause, needing a moment to collect myself before I continue. No matter how many times I say it, it doesn’t become any easier. “There’s no other Seeker to replace her. Which means we’re all going to have to pitch in and do our part. But we can’t protect each other if some of us don’t even know what they need protecting from.”

  Paloma remains quiet for so long, I’m on the verge of begging, when she says, “I suppose you’re right.” Her voice, like her energy, is weary but resigned. “So, where do you suggest I begin?”

  “How about the beginning,” Lita says. “I’ve got a feeling the history of this town is nothing like they taught us in school.”

  Paloma nods in assent and settles into her chair, relaying a story so strange I keep careful watch over Lita’s energy to see how she’s handling it. And to my surprise, she’s not nearly as shocked as I assumed she would be.

  “I knew it!” Lita cries, the second Paloma’s story ends. Smacking the table for emphasis, which from my end looks like a sharp streak of orange merging into a stagnant stream of brown. “I so totally knew it.” She over-enunciates every word. “I mean, maybe I didn’t know that all of the Richters, also known as El Coyote, are pretty much evil to the core. And maybe I didn’t know that Cade could turn into an actual demon because he’s basically the spawn of a demon and contrived by black magick. And maybe I didn’t know that this town is filled with secret portals, or vortexes, or whatever you call them…”

  “So, what exactly did you know?” I ask, unable to keep from grinning.

  “I knew that Cade was bad news. I knew there was something very dark about him. And I feel like hurling every time I think of all of the things that I … that we…” She steadies her breath, rubs her palms against the table, and starts again. “Anyway, as for that creepy coyote of his, I’ve seen it. More than once. And the first time I saw its eyes glowing red, I screamed bloody murder and ran. But then Cade told me some made-up story about how he found him abandoned as a pup and decided to rescue him, train him, and keep him as a pet, and … ugh. I can’t even tell you how disappointed I am in myself for being so charmed by all that. I can’t believe I actually believed him!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Paloma slides away from the table, the chair’s legs scraping hard against the tiled floor. “The Richters know how to alter perception. They altered yours, as well as most everyone else in this town.”

  “Everyone except Xotichl.” Lita swivels toward me. “How come you never fell for his act?”

  “Cade can’t get to me.” I duck my head, take a sip of my tea. “None of the Richters can. It’s the benefit of being blind.”

  “Are you saying he glamoured me?” Lita’s voice pitches so high, she practically squeaks. “That he looked into my eyes and hypnotized me like the vampires do on TV?” She’s torn between fascination and outrage, as demonstrated by the way her energy sparks and flares.

  “Not exactly,” Paloma says. “They need the benefit of your sight in order to alter the way you perceive things. It’s an esoteric practice that very few have been able to master. As the story goes, before they happened upon the secrets of this particular skill, they were average, if not honorable, citizens. Or at least until they became warped by the power. They grew increasingly greedy, acquisitive, drunk on their own authority. No matter how much damage they do, the people continue to perceive them as a family worthy of their awe and respect. All too happy to toil away for the Richters’ various interests, while spending all of their earnings eating and drinking in their bar and other establishments. It’s a terrible cycle ensuring they remain forever indebted. You know the saying: Absolute power corrupts absolutely? The Richters are a prime example of that.”

  “And Cade is the worst of them all, having spent the last year stealing bits of people’s souls, which he then fed to his dead ancestors in order to resurrect them and do his bidding,” I say, wanting Lita to know that while her falling for Cade wasn’t exactly her fault, the truth is far worse than she thinks.

  “Are you seriously telling me that he used my soul to fuel some godforsaken, Richter zombie?”

  If I thought she squeaked before, it was nothing compared to how that sounded.

  “Not all of it. Just a piece,” I say, instantly regretting being so blunt. It’s a lot to swallow in just one gulp. I need to break her in slowly.

  “It was returned to you on the Day of the Dead when Daire convinced the Bone Keeper to release them,” Paloma says. “You’ve probably noticed a few changes since then.”

  “The same day I broke up with Cade!” Lita gasps, and then, as though it just now registered, she says, “Wait—did you say, the Bone Keeper?” The squeaking reaches an all new high. “Now you’re telling me there’s such a thing as a Bone Keeper too?”

  “She has a skull face, she feeds off the stars, and she wears a black leather corset, stiletto boots, and a snake skirt,” I tell her. “Well, according to legend, anyway. Though Daire did confirm it.”

  “So … she’s a goth?”

  “Probably the original goth,” I laugh. “Oh, and the snake skirt is made of real snakes that slither around her waist and legs. And those same snakes did the soul retrieving by slipping down the Richters’ throats and—” I pause, watching as Lita’s energy fades into something horrible and bleak. So much for my attempt to rein it in.

  “Okay, so, in a nutshell, the Richters are evil, Dace and Daire are good, spirit animals are not superstition, they’re real, there are three worlds—a Lowerworld, an Upperworld, and this one, the Middleworld, and—” Lita pauses, hesitant to actually say it. “And a piece of my soul was stolen by my ex-boyfriend, which he then used to reanimate a dead ancestor, until it was rescued by a snake, and found its way back to me?”

  “In a nutshell,” I say, my voice small and regretful.

  “Sheesh. And to think I’ve lived my whole life here, and the entire time I didn’t have the slightest clue of what was really going on.”

  “Most people only see what they want to see,” Paloma says. “It’s only when they can no longer afford that luxury that they see what they must.”

  “Anything else I need to know?” Lita asks. “What about vampires and werewolves—oh, and fairies? Where do they fit in—are they real too?”

  “While I can’t speak for them, I can say that Daire’s the one who made it snow.” I grin at the memory, imagining the triumph she must have felt when the flakes began to fall after so many failed attempts.

  “And Cade is responsible for making the sky bleed fire,” Paloma says.

  The words so unexpected, I lean toward her, as Lita grumbles, “Figures.”

  “How so?” I ask, listening intently as Paloma rises from the table, goes to an old locked cupboard, and retrieves a heavy tome she places in the middle of the table.

  “The Codex,” I whisper, voice laced with awe, as the vivid colors of its energy blooms in the space before me.

  “Codex? What’s a codex?” Lita swivels her focus between Paloma and me.

  “A codex is an ancient text. This particular codex was created by Valentina—”

  “One of the first of the Santos family Seekers,” Paloma explains. “She suffered a great many trials to accumulate the knowledge contained in th
is book, so that all future Seekers might someday benefit.”

  “And you’ve seen this before?” Lita directs the question at me. Though she’s quick to correct herself when she adds, “What I meant was, you’re familiar with this?”

  “I’m familiar with it and I’ve seen it.” I grin. “And while I may not be able to see the actual pages, I can read its energy.”

  “And what is its energy telling you now?” Paloma slides the ancient leather-bound book across the table until it’s resting before me.

  I lift my palms so they’re hovering just a few inches above it. My attention instantly claimed by a very strong impression I’m reluctant to share.

  It can’t be.

  It’s impossible.

  And what if I dare say it out loud and it turns out that I’m wrong?

  “What do you see?” Paloma urges, her tone leaving no question that she’s onto me, knows that I’m not being entirely forthcoming.

  “Yeah, tell us what you see,” Lita says. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

  I take a deep breath, clear my throat, and say, “The prophecy has changed.”

  “How?” Paloma moves her chair closer to mine.

  “You were right about Cade. He’s the one who filled the sky with fire. He did it to force the prophecy. He was impatient. Convinced that if he could just get it going, then he could hasten the day that he’d rise up and rule. But some things cannot be forced, and now the prophecy is … dormant … for lack of a better word.”

  Paloma’s energy deflates as she sinks deeper into her seat. “I’m afraid you’re right,” she says. “The night Daire went missing, Chay stood right here beside me as we watched the words lift from the page. I didn’t mention it to you until now because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But I’m sure your impressions are correct. Cade is immature, impatient, and so he forced the signs before their time. And though I check the book daily, the space where the prophecy stood remains stubbornly blank.”

  “Have you checked today?” I venture, unsure if I should voice this incredible sensation I’m getting.

  “I checked this morning. It’s the first thing I do.”

  “Check again,” I say. “You know, just to see.” I strive to keep my voice light, as though I’m merely hoping to be humored. Afraid of giving too much away, planting a seed of hope, when there’s a chance I might have it all wrong.

  I hold my breath as she slides the book toward her. My cheeks bubbled with air as the cover sounds a dull thud against the tabletop, and the worn vellum pages turn one by one. That same rush of air whistling from my lips when she and Lita both gasp, the sound alone confirming the very thing that I sensed. Those ancient, yellowing pages are now shimmering with the promise of new text, where just a few moments earlier it stood blank.

  “What does it say?” Lita asks.

  “I don’t know.” Paloma’s voice is uncertain but more enthusiastic than I’ve heard in days. “The symbols are hazy, out of focus…”

  I’m about to lean toward it, wanting to see if I can maybe intuit something, when I sense a subtle shift of wind. The slightest alteration in the atmosphere that might’ve gone completely unnoticed if it weren’t for the bright flashes of color, the surge of warmth, and the celestial chorus that accompanies it.

  It’s a chorus I’ve heard once before.

  The tempo lilting, lifting, until it rises into a crescendo so glorious, I can no longer contain it. I leap from my chair and cry, “Somebody needs to go open the gate.” Making sure I have their full attention before I add, “Somebody needs to go open the gate and let Daire in—she’s home!”

  ten

  Daire

  I pause in the doorway with my eyes closed. Savoring the aroma of mesquite logs burning in the fireplace and ginger tea seeping into the air. Along with the sweet smell of cardamom cupcakes, lavender oil, vanilla perfume, and peppermint soap—the scent of home, family, and friends.

  “Nieta!” Paloma crushes me to her chest so tightly I can feel her bones jutting from her shoulders in a way I don’t remember. “Nieta, what happened? Where have you been?” She draws away, runs the back of a hand across my brow and presses both palms to my cheeks. Staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes, as though she can’t bear to have me out of her sight for one second more.

  “It’s a long story,” I say, eager to brush it aside in order to get to more urgent topics, like Dace. Just about to ask where he is, when I’m distracted by the deep lines of worry now permanently etched around her wise brown eyes, and the stark streaks of silver in her long dark braid that weren’t there before. Her face is drawn. Her body frail. Clearly my disappearance has taken a toll.

  I switch my focus to my friends, noting the way they hover on the sidelines, too tentative to approach. Xotichl with her light brown hair, soft gray eyes, and beautiful heart-shaped face—and Lita with her gorgeous dark eyes, and long dark hair with ends that were recently dyed to look as though they were dipped in red paint. For someone who’s not used to having friends, I’m amazed by how much I’ve missed them. Still, I rushed back for a reason, and I need to confirm that Dace is okay.

  “Where’s Dace?” I glance between the three of them. “I really need to see him—let him know I’m okay,” I say, only to have Xotichl’s voice overlap with mine when she raises a hand toward the scar marking my chest.

  “You’re injured!” she cries, face creased with worry. “I can sense it from here.”

  “Oh my God!” Lita slaps a hand over her mouth. “Who did that to you?”

  “Cade.” I shrug, allowing Paloma to guide me to the couch where she settles a blanket over my shoulders, lowers the slim straps of my dress, and examines the wound. “He killed me,” I say, amazed at how easily the words just roll off my tongue. “And then Axel saved me.”

  Axel.

  I close my eyes at the memory, but I’m quick to open them again. There’s no time for guilt. No room for remorse. I did what I had to. He left me with no other choice.

  “Axel? Nobody mentioned an Axel.” Lita glances between Xotichl and Paloma. She hates to be out of the loop.

  “Axel is…” I shake my head, having no idea how to explain him.

  Axel is my savior.

  Axel is my captor.

  Last I saw, Axel was sprawled in an unconscious heap on the floor.

  “Axel lives in the Upperworld,” I say, figuring it’s best to stick to the facts as I know them. “He’s the one who stitched the wound closed. He’s the one who stopped Cade from stealing my soul.”

  “What did he look like—was he cute?”

  Lita leans forward, eyes wide, as Xotichl shakes her head and says, “Lita—honestly! I can’t believe you sometimes.” She mumbles something unintelligible under her breath and tucks a lock of light brown hair behind her ear.

  “Well, was he?” Lita insists, ignoring Xotichl as she returns her focus to me. “I mean, since there’s no cute boys here, I was thinking maybe…”

  “You were thinking what? That you’re going to move to the Upperworld so you can check out the hotties?” Xotichl groans, feigning complete exasperation that doesn’t hold for very long before it turns into a grin.

  “Well, when you put it like that…” Lita folds her arms across her chest and frowns, as the two of them go at it like an old married couple. Their ease with each other making me wonder just how long I was gone, how much I might’ve missed.

  “To answer your question, he had platinum hair, fair skin, and lavender eyes.”

  “Seriously?” Lita squints as her lips twist to the side, presumably trying to assemble those pieces in her mind.

  “You met your spirit guide?” The folds around Paloma’s eyes deepen.

  “I’m not sure. He never did say. He referred to himself as a Mystic. That’s the most I ever got out of him. Though he failed to explain what that is.”

  Paloma assumes a thoughtful expression. “The Upperworld is populated by Mystics,” she says. “Spirit guides and Mystic
s—and sometimes they’re one and the same. Though Mystics are thought to be even more powerful than guides. The tales of their magick are legendary.” She reaches toward the buckskin pouch and key at my chest, determined to remove them in order to better examine me, but I clasp my hand over hers before she can get very far.

  “Please leave them,” I say. “I’ve been too long without them.”

  She tips her head in assent and arranges the cords so the talismans hang down my back. “The wound is serious,” she murmurs, along with a few choice words in Spanish I can’t understand.

  “You should see what he did to my insides,” I quip. “He sliced my heart nearly in two. I truly was on the verge of death, when Axel restored my breath, took me to the Upperworld, and used some of that legendary magick to sew me back together again.” I glance at my friends, noting the way Xotichl leans toward me, as Lita looks on in horrified fascination. Unable to discern what they find more disturbing—my disfiguring scar or the detached way in which I relay the events.

  “I will make a poultice,” Paloma says. “Something to help the wound fade.”

  She struggles to her feet, about to head for her office, when I say, “There’s really no need. I prefer to keep the scar.”

  She looks at me. They all look at me. Three sets of eyes bearing the same shade of concern.

  “Trust me, you definitely want it to fade,” Lita says. “Take it from someone who has the memory of Cade branded on my brain. If I could erase it, I would.”

  “I prefer to remember,” I say. “If nothing else, it’ll remind me to never leave myself vulnerable around a Richter again.”

  “You seriously think you need to be reminded of that? After all that you’ve been through?” Xotichl tilts her chin in my direction.

  “Okay, then I’ll use it to remind me of my success,” I say, convinced there’s no way to argue with that. “It’ll remind me of how despite what Cade did, I still managed to avert the prophecy and save Dace’s life.”

  The second the words leave my lips they fall silent. Each of them carefully averting their gaze to look just about anywhere but at me. Lita examines her hands, as Xotichl tucks her chin to her chest and fools with the hem of her sweater. While Paloma, after a few moments of silence, looks upon me with deep grieving eyes.