Heart Seeker (The Fire Heart Chronicles Book 1)

by Juliana Haygert

  Holding my breath, I opened the door.

  My mother smiled at me. “Hello, my sweet Mi.”

  All my life, I had thought my mother was crazy. Besides her bohemian looks, which only recently had I associated to our Romani ancestry, she threw tea parties with plants from our backyard. She sat on the lawn and talked to the plants, as if they could talk back to her.

  We moved constantly, and she never offered me an explanation. The only thing I remembered clearly was my mother telling me I shouldn’t get attached to anyone, that I shouldn’t trust anyone or make friends, because we would probably have to move again, and it would break my heart.

  In all the towns we lived, she always found a small, local dance studio and taught ballet and flamenco, which she taught me too, and ironically, it was the only thing I truly loved and knew well.

  When I was about eleven or twelve, I remember my mother offering tea to her students after class. Then she did a tea leaf reading for them. It was a huge success, but to me, it all seemed like lies. Why was she tricking them like that? Because she was tricking them, right? She couldn’t really read tea leaves, and all she told them was things she came up with.

  I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

  When Layla and her family were killed, my mother freaked out. We were living in south Florida then, and she moved us all the way to northern California—with many, many crazy stops on the way, like Savannah, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Detroit, Toronto, Chicago, Nashville, New Orleans, Dallas, and so on. She made a huge zigzag across the United States and Canada that lasted three months, as if trying to lose whoever was following us. But at the time, I was too young, and she just looked like an insane person to me.

  We had our big fall out when I was seventeen. All my classmates were getting ready for college applications. They were all talking about the majors they wanted, the colleges they were applying to … They were all so excited about their futures, while I had no idea if I was going to stay in town until the end of high school.

  I wanted to go to college too, but every time I brought it up to my mother, she just told me I didn’t need college. I could continue teaching ballet and flamenco with her. Maybe someday, when things were normal, we could open our own dance studio.

  But I wanted more. I got several college applications, ones that had good dance programs, and before filling out the forms, I tried talking to her again. She didn’t want to listen. Upset, I waited until after my high school graduation to tell her I had been accepted to almost all the colleges I had applied to. All I needed to do was pick one and move. She freaked. Even more than when Layla and her family died. She told me I was out of my mind, that she would never let me go, that I couldn’t stay in the same place for four or five years, live in dorms, unprotected.

  “What does that even mean?” I had asked her. “Why do I need to be protected?”

  Once more, she didn’t tell me.

  So, I packed my things and left.

  And that, over thirteen months ago, was the last time I had spoken to my mother.

  I sucked in a sharp breath. My mother, Marisa, looked the same as ever. Her long, dark curls were tied up in a half-braid. A dark green bandana adorned her beautiful, ageless face, emphasizing the green flecks in her hazel eyes. Big golden hoops adorned her ears, and red lipstick colored her full lips. She wore a simple beige blouse with fringes and a long orange skirt.

  It was like looking in a mirror previewing the future.

  “Mom,” I whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Won’t you invite me in, sweetie?”

  I frowned. Should I invite her in? Once I let her in, it would be hard to push her out.

  With a long sigh, I stepped back.

  My mother strolled into my apartment, taking everything in. We had never lived in big houses or apartments, but somehow this apartment made me embarrassed. I wished I had something better to show her, as if saying, “Here. I succeeded.”

  I wondered what crossed her mind as she took in my place. The front door opened to the living room with a couch and a coffee table. I had only a few pieces of furniture, most of which came from yard sales, and no decorations. In the back, a tall counter and two stools and, behind it, the tiny kitchen with outdated appliances. And, to the right, in between the kitchen and the living room, two doors—one for the bathroom and one for my bedroom.

  “I thought you were going to move to the dorms,” my mother said, walking to the couch.

  “Hmm, I thought about it, but most dorms aren’t open year-round, and I needed a place where I could stay between semesters.” Since I had nowhere else to go.

  “Makes sense.”

  “Mom … what are you doing here?”

  She halted in front of the couch and faced me. “I heard about the attack last night.”

  My mouth fell open. “W-what? How?”

  “That’s not important, I just—”

  “Of course it’s important!”

  Her eyes widened as if I had tried to slap her. Then she relaxed her mien. Taking a deep breath and averting her eyes, she walked toward the kitchen.

  “Wait,” I called, following her. After the look on her face, she would try and escape? She would continue lying to me? Keeping things from me? I didn’t think so. “Spill it.”

  My mother opened the kitchen cabinets, mostly empty, until she found the shoebox that served as my tea box. With automatic movements, she filled a kettle with clean water, turned to the range, and lit it. She kept her back to me, in silence.

  “Mom,” I tried again, “please. You have to talk to me. You have to tell me what is going on.”

  She sighed and finally turned around. Her eyes found mine, sadness and desperation dripping from them. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “Risking being cliché, I would say, how about from the beginning?” I stepped closer to her, trying to give her courage to continue. “What you’re going to tell me, is it connected to why we moved so much?”

  “Yes.”

  If my curiosity had a meter, it would have reached the limit. “Tell me,” I urged. I sat on one of the stools in front of the tall counter.

  The kettle screamed. My mother went to it, turned the range off, and prepared her tea. I bit my lip and clasped my hands together, urging my anxiety to calm down and wait. She would talk, wouldn’t she?

  My mother brought the tea and two mugs to the counter and sat beside me. She served us while my chest was being ripped by my curiosity.

  Her eyes found mine again. This time, they shone with pride. “We are tziganes.”

  I blinked. “Say what?”

  “We are an ancient race, descendants of the Romani.”

  “Romani … I knew we were Romani.” I extended my arms beside my body. “Look at us. We’re just like Romani.”

  She shook her head. “No, we’re more than simply Romani. We’re tziganes.”

  “You say that word as if I should know what it means.”

  “It’s not supposed to be understood. It’s like Romani and shamans and witches and demons. They just exist.”

  My mouth fell open. “You’re telling me witches and demons exist?” If she really believed this, she was more insane than I thought she was.

  My mother smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. “They do exist, but not like you’ve seen on TV or in comic books. They’re quite different.”

  “Mom, wait.” I raised my hands and stared into her eyes, trying to find the lie in them. There was none. “Shit, you’re serious.” I stood and paced in the small open space between the kitchen counter and the back of the couch. “How come you are a ... tzigane?”

  “You’re a tzigane too, Mirella. You’re my daughter, which makes you a tzigane.”

  Me, a tzigane? Yeah, right. I didn’t feel like a tzigane. I wasn’t a tzigane. What the hell was a tzigane?

  I glanced at the tea box and remembered hers. It was a big, wooden box, with several beautiful swirly carvings. “So, all the plant talking, t
he tarot cards, the runes, the tea leaf reading ... that’s all tzigane stuff?” She nodded. “But it’s not real, right? It’s all part of the tradition.”

  “Anything is real when you believe in it,” she said. Why, for the first time in my life, did she sound serious and non-crazy?

  I swallowed hard. “How about the sixth sense?”

  “Everyone has a sixth sense. Romani people have an acute sixth sense, but tziganes know how to access and use it.” The corner of her lips curled up in a faint smile. “Yours has always been strong.”

  “It has not,” I snapped, as if I had to justify myself to her. But it was. And since my last move alone, it had been even stronger. “Why now? Why didn’t I feel it this strong before?”

  The pride vanished from her features and was replaced by embarrassment. “Usually, our powers become stronger with age.”

  “Tell me, Mother, what else have you hidden from me?” I barked. Zillions of questions zoomed in my mind. “I want to know it all. You said a tzigane has powers—then where are yours? Did my father know you’re a tzigane? He left because you’re a tzigane? Why did we keep moving? Why wouldn’t you let me get close to people?” Gulping, I splayed my hands over the counter. “Why were my friends attacked?”

  My mother reached across the counter and held my hand in hers. She took a deep breath, and avoiding my eyes, she started on my questions. “Our powers have to be nourished, otherwise they become just senses, and over time, we lose them. I was banished from my enclave a long time ago, which put a stop to most of my powers. Your father knew I was a tzigane, but I don’t think that was the reason he left.” Her eyes filled with tears. Mine too. She was finally speaking about my father. “You’re a strong tzigane, and I felt it soon after your birth. I tried to keep you at bay, but it wasn’t always easy. So, we had to move when I felt it was not safe for you anymore.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Why? Why did we have to move? Safe from what?”

  “Tziganes have many enemies. Evil people who want our powers. That’s why most live together in enclaves. Since I was banished, we had to live in hiding.”

  “Who are they, the enemies?”

  “I-I’m not sure,” her voice quavered. She was hiding something. Why? After all she had just told me, she still hid things from me.

  “How about who almost attacked my friend last night?” Then, I thought better. “There were two groups. The masked men and other men with swords but no masks.”

  “You were saved by the warriors from my previous enclave.”

  My mouth fell open. “You’re telling me there is an enclave here? In Broken Hill?”

  “It isn’t exactly in Broken Hill,” she explained as she poured more tea into her mug. “It’s deeper into the north. And there are two enclaves there, about five miles from each other.”

  I sipped from my tea, the many thoughts and realizations swimming freely in my head, making me more confused than not.

  “That’s how I knew of the attack,” she continued. “The rom baro called me and—”

  “Rom baro?”

  “That’s what an enclave’s leader is called. Rom baro,” she repeated. I nodded as if it made sense. “Oscar, the rom baro, called me because he assumed you were my daughter.”

  It was too much for my mind.

  “What now?” I asked, my voice low.

  “I don’t know,” my mother said. Then she continued, “No, I do know. You should move in with me. I’m not a tzigane warrior, but I can protect you in many ways.”

  “Mom … I’m not going back to Florida.” Which begged the question … “How are you here?” I did the math in my mind. The distance from Florida to Broken Hill, and the few hours between the attack and now. It didn’t add up. “How are you here?” I repeated.

  She stared at me for a long time. “About that. I’ve been living in Broken Hill for the last eight months.”

  I stood. “What?”

  “I tried giving you space and letting you do your own thing, but I couldn’t, Mirella. Knowing all the threats waiting to find one of us, I couldn’t stay away. I understand you need space and time, so I gave them to you. I moved closer, but I let you be.”

  “You’ve been keeping track of me?”

  “Not as well as I wanted, it seems, since you were attacked.”

  I took a step back. At every turn, she surprised me more and more. “Are you for real?”

  “Mirella.” She stood, her hands out, as if trying to wave for peace. “You have to understand. Now our enemies know they are close to a powerful tzigane. They won’t give up.”

  “P-powerful tzigane?”

  “You, my sweetie. You’re very powerful.”

  I looked down at my hands. Despite the strong sixth sense, which told me my mother wasn’t lying, I didn’t feel anything. There was no power, no magic, nothing out of the ordinary.

  “This is crazy,” I whispered.

  My mother was here, had been here for months, we were supposed to be a mythical, powerful race, and there were some deadly looking men after us? Did I miss anything?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’ve tried keeping you from this life, I tried keeping you away from the constant hunt, and I failed.”

  “No, Mom, you failed me when you chose not to tell me the truth. And I sense you’re still holding back.” I crossed my arms. “I’m waiting. Tell me.”

  She averted her eyes and shook her head. “It’s not that easy …”

  “You can’t complain I didn’t try.” I marched to my bedroom, then paused and pointed to the door. “You know where the exit is.”

  My chest heaving with frustration, I entered my bedroom and slammed the door shut.

  I leaned against the wall and listened. It took her a moment, but I heard when my mother opened and closed the front door.

  For twenty years, I had believed my mother was crazy, sometimes bipolar, and eccentric. It turned out those were her traits, her personality, what made her who she was. With a little time, I believed I could forgive that. However, I couldn’t forgive the rest. All my life, my mother had been lying to me, hiding things from me, more than I once believed. It was not only about my father. It was about our origins, about her banishment, about evil people who hunted us, and the yet-to-be-believed powers.

  Since I was a little kid, my mother had taught me not to trust others, purposely forgetting to teach me not to trust her either.

  4

  I shot up, screaming my lungs out.

  I looked around. I was in my bed, in my bedroom. Alone.

  My forehead dripped with sweat and my hands shook, but other than that, I was all right. It had been a nightmare. Just a nightmare. I took a deep breath and tried calming down.

  Untangling the sheets from my legs, I hopped off my bed and walked into my bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face.

  It had been two nights since the attack from the masked men, and only now I was having nightmares filled with them? Why not the previous night too?

  Not able to sleep anymore, I ate breakfast, not really tasting anything. I took a shower, put on some clothes, and went to the dance studio. I didn’t have classes until later that morning, but it was better than staying home and letting my mind wander. Or remembering my mother had come over yesterday—and that she was living close by.

  I walked out of the building’s front door and stopped to look at the green flower beds. At the end of the summer, they still looked manicured and as lush as the peak of spring.

  A memory crossed my mind. It didn’t matter where we had lived, my mother always planted golden shrubs around the perimeter of our house or apartment building. They were rare plants, with shimmering golden petals, and they endured any kind of weather, even the harshest of winters. Our neighbors had always asked lots of questions about them. What were they called? Where did we get them? How did they shine? I hadn’t the slightest idea of the answers.

  Something moved to my left and I snapped my head in that directi
on. A figure stepped into the narrow alleyway between the two apartment buildings—a man with a black hoodie and lowered head. My heartbeat shot up, remembering the masked men from two nights ago. Shit. This guy wasn’t one of them. Was he? No. The alleyway led to a small backyard and the building’s back door. He was just another tenant or a visitor.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, I hurried to the dance studio. And all the while, my sixth sense tingled. I had the odd feeling I was being followed, but every time I looked back, I didn’t see anything unusual. Perhaps my sixth sense was a little frayed after the scare in the parking garage.

  I forced myself to take a deep breath and let the sultry August air scorch my lungs, hoping it would bring clarity and sanity to my life. The day was quite beautiful. No clouds disturbed the immense blue sky, and the high, hot sun reigned alone.

  Julie looked up from the computer the moment I walked in the studio. “What are you doing here so early? You don’t have any classes until ten thirty.”

  “I know. I just wanted to come dance a little. Is that okay?”

  She smiled at me. “As if you needed to ask.” Then she smiled to someone at the door. “Good morning.”

  I turned around.

  “Morning,” Phillip said. Then his eyes met mine. “Hi.”

  “Miss Reyes!” Annie yelled. She opened her little arms and came running to me. I bent my knees and picked her up.

  “Hello there,” I said to both of them.

  “Are we too early?” Phillip asked, looking from me to Julie. “I wasn’t sure if the class was at eight thirty or nine.”

  “It’s at nine,” Julie answered. “But that’s okay. If you need to go, I can watch her until her teacher arrives.”

  “Oh.” He returned his eyes to me. “You aren’t the hip hop teacher?”

  “No,” I said, dropping Annie back on the floor. “But Miss Johnson is great. Annie will love her.”

  “That’s … good.” Phillip approached her. “Daddy has to run some errands, but you can stay here with Miss Julie and Miss Reyes, okay?”

  With an arm hooked around my leg, Annie nodded. “Okay.”