Fated Read online

  * * *

  Once the horses are brushed, watered, and fed, with their stalls lined with fresh straw, we hop into the truck and head out. Stopping at the gas station/convenience store where Chay runs inside to get our drinks, while I field yet another frantic phone call from Jennika.

  I slip out of the truck, head over to the edge of the lot where I park myself on the curb next to the water and air pumps. Struggling through really bad reception that strangles her words, making it sound like she’s calling from somewhere deep underground.

  Though it’s not much of a struggle to fill in the blanks—it’s pretty much a repeat of the same conversation we’ve been having for the past several weeks. Ever since the day she woke to a string of angry messages from me, only to call Paloma and learn I’d been hit by a car. Her questions coming so fast, it’s like an assault. One blending into another until there’s no way I can answer them all.

  “I’m fine, seriously. There’s no reason for you to come here,” I say, which pretty much serves as my standard reply every time she mentions quitting the gig in Chile so she can come get me.

  But it’s not like it works. It never does. She just goes on to say, “Daire, you can tell me—has Paloma done anything weird?”

  I roll my eyes. From Jennika’s perspective everything Paloma does is weird, but I no longer see it that way. Paloma may be strange, definitely on the outside of mainstream, but there’s no doubting her healing powers—no doubting that she’s the only one who truly understands what’s happening to me.

  “Define weird,” I say. It’s what I always say.

  “Daire…” She drags out my name, wanting me to know that kind of reply no longer floats. “Answer the question. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Paloma’s fine. I’m fine. Chay’s fine. Enchantment is … fine.” My fingers curl around the phone as I try not to choke on the lie. “I’ve already told you, I had a first-day freak-out. That’s all. And trust me, you’d be amazed by what Paloma’s been able to do. My wounds are healed and I don’t have one single scar—including the cuts on my arms that I got in Morocco. Oh, and the cast is coming off soon—maybe as early as tomorrow.”

  “I need pictures! I need proof! You need to send me lots and lots of pictures. It’s the only way I’m going to believe you’re okay. The only way I’m going—”

  I sigh, yank the phone away from my ear, and place it on the curb just beside me. Jennika’s frantic voice screeching, threatening, pleading—a song she’s sung too many times. Leaving me to bury my face in my knees and wait for the chorus to end.

  Glancing up in time to see Chay waving to me as he heads back to the truck, the sight prompting me to say, “Jennika, I gotta go. Seriously though, there’s no need to come here, no need to worry. I’m perfectly okay. I’ll send you a photo—a whole slew of photos. I’ll send you so many photos, you’ll be sick of looking at me, okay? But until then, try to chill. Try to believe what I tell you.”

  I rise to my feet, brush my hands against the seat of my jeans, and hobble across the lot. Maneuvering around an old, primer-gray Mustang pulling up to the pump, as a boy with beautiful, long, dark hair climbs out of the driver’s side, and an older female draped with the most exquisite turquoise jewelry opens the passenger door.

  “Oh—excuse me!” she says, when the door nearly hits me. Her eyes meeting mine, exchanging a look that’s admittedly brief, but still enough to wash me in a cocoon of all-encompassing kindness that holds for a moment before succumbing to a sadness so deep, so insistent, I’m frozen in place even though she’s moved on.

  Paloma told me about this. Said this sort of thing—these kinds of impressions—were to be expected. Claims it’s a gift that’ll serve me well in the future—that I should take time to hone it whenever I can. Every time I come across someone new, she says, I should rely less on what I see and hear and more on what I feel deep down inside.

  Thing is, other than the trip to the graveyard and today’s outing with Chay, I’ve been recovering in bed. And from what I’m told, any future trips out of the house will be as tightly monitored as those were. Paloma claims it’s too dangerous for me to head out on my own, and Chay seems to agree. Though so far, neither of them has bothered to explain just exactly what that danger might be.

  I switch my gaze to the boy at the pump, watching as he leans against the car and keeps a close eye on the meter—grimacing at the way the dollar amount multiplies as the gallons lag far behind. My eyes grazing over his dark glossy hair, his strong shoulders, and well-defined arms that spill out of his black short-sleeved T-shirt, seemingly immune to the weather. His torso long and lean, sexy and sinuous—narrowing into a pair of dark denim jeans that hang low on his hips. The sight of him so mesmerizing, so distracting, I’m forced to shake my head, close my eyes, and start over. Paloma’s words replaying in my head, reminding me it’s not what I see that counts but what I feel.

  “A Seeker must learn to see in the dark—relying on what she knows in her heart.”

  I close my eyes, keeping my breath steady, even, as I try once again. Instantly overcome by yet another swarm of kindness—much like the older woman before him; only this particular wave is so open, so pure, my knees grow weak in response. And instead of disappearing into sadness like hers, it leads to something else.

  Something that—if I didn’t know better—I’d mistake it for love.

  The true, unconditional kind of love.

  The kind of love I’ve experienced only in dreams—and once, for a brief fleeting moment, right before fleeing the Rabbit Hole.

  I should go. Escape while I can. Leave before he catches me staring, gawking—but I’m too stunned to move—too stunned to make sense of all this. And the next thing I know, he’s turned. His icy-blue eyes finding mine—mirroring my image thousands of times.

  His gaze deepening, lips parting, as though preparing to speak.

  The sheer sight of him causing my limbs to tremble, my body to sway toward his—much like it did in the dream. The two of us drawn to each other—bound by forces unseen. But before he can get to the words, I break free of the spell and make a mad limping dash for Chay’s truck.

  Taking a long, greedy swig of the soda Chay offers as he pulls out of the lot—my gaze tracking the dry, barren landscape until it fades into night. Unable to shake the lure of the boy—the weight of those icy-blue eyes meeting mine.

  fourteen

  Chay pulls up to the gate as Paloma helps a girl my age into the passenger seat of a dust-covered SUV. Folding a long white cane with a red tip, she hands it to her, waves good-bye, and makes for the truck. Her eyes lighting on mine when she leans through the driver’s side window and says, “Nieta, did you enjoy yourself?”

  I give a quick nod and hop out. Landing on my good leg, backpack in hand, I hobble toward the house, hoping she won’t ask if I had a good time riding Kachina, since I’m pretty sure I can’t lie with conviction—or at least not to her. She’s far too intuitive—able to sense the truth behind my words well before I can speak them.

  “Bueno.” She smiles, watching as I push through the gate. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll meet you inside. It is almost nightfall—almost time to begin.”

  I give her an odd look but do as she says. Heading into the house, down the short hall, and into my room, wondering what the sun’s descent could have to do with my training. Should I have taken her literally when she said all Seekers must learn to see in the dark?

  I reach for the clean pair of sweats she left folded at the foot of my bed and carry my dirty sweater and jeans to the hamper, frowning when I take in the seam we had to tear from the ankle to the knee in order to make room for my cast. Despite Paloma’s promise to replace them with a new pair as soon as I’m healed—I seriously doubt I’ll find anything that compares. Those jeans are my favorite, dark and skinny—I practically live in them. Not to mention I got them in Paris, a place I won’t be returning to anytime soon. From what I’ve seen of Enchantment, there�
��s not one decent boutique. Heck, there’s not even a Target or Walmart.

  But Paloma doesn’t view clothes the same way I do. For her, they’re less an expression of individuality and more a sensible way to cover the body. Although her clothes are clean and pressed, and well kept, it’s obvious that for her fashion is more of an afterthought, if she even thinks of it at all. From what I’ve seen, her wardrobe consists of a handful of light cotton shift dresses she wears in the house—her feet always bare—and those same dresses paired with a tattered sky-blue cardigan and navy blue espadrilles when she heads out. And yet, as strange as it is, I can’t help but find it refreshing.

  Paloma’s indifference is a welcome change compared to the fashion meltdowns I used to witness on movie sets. When emergency meetings were called in order to discuss the pros and cons of some starlet’s hemline, as though the fate of the world, much less the movie, depended upon it. Not to mention Jennika’s penchant for treating my own meager wardrobe as an extension of hers.

  It’s like, Jennika got an overload of the girly gene, I got a smidgen, and Paloma got none.

  Or at least that’s what I think until I tie my hair back into a ponytail and head for my window to close the curtain. Seeing the gate still open and Chay still parked right beside it, only now the driver’s side door is flung open in a way that allows Paloma to lean in and embrace him.

  I watch them together—I can’t help it. It’s just so unexpected. Surprised to see it’s less the brief, back-patting kind of embrace exchanged between friends, and more the slow lingering caress shared between two people who deeply care about each other.

  I knew they were friends, but I always assumed. it was platonic. It never occurred to me that their relationship might extend a bit further.

  Though just as I begin to talk myself out of what I’m seeing, sure I’ve read too much into it, they kiss and confirm it. Prompting me to snap the curtain shut and head for the kitchen where I sit at the table and wait for my first official day of training to begin.

  My father never made it this far. He refused to take part, and I can’t say I blame him. But, in an effort to avoid the same grisly fate, I promised myself I’d at least give it a chance and see where it leads. If I don’t like it, I’ll do what I can to find a way out. But it won’t be rash. And I won’t end up dead. Unlike Django, I plan to be smart about my exit.

  Paloma steps inside and closes the door behind her. Her fingers working the buttons on her cardigan, she rubs her palms together and makes for the fireplace where she prods the wood with a long, iron poker until she’s satisfied with the way the fire sparks and spits, then turns to me and says, “Chay has a sweet tooth.”

  I stare, the words so odd and unexpected, I have no good response.

  “He is a good man but a bad influence.” She laughs, claiming the seat opposite mine and folding her arms on the table. “Your training will require many lifestyle changes, the first being diet. I’m afraid you and Chay have enjoyed your last soda together, so I hope you enjoyed it.” She reaches forward, places her hand over mine. Hers appearing so tiny and dark it makes mine look like a large, pale blob in comparison. “From this point on, you will eat only that which nature provides, in its purest possible form. Which means no sugar additives, no processed foods, no fast food—in short, no junk.”

  I gulp. Stare at her wide-eyed and dumbstruck. Wondering what could possibly be left—she nixed pretty much all of my favorites.

  “The first few days will prove difficult, as you will soon see. Sugar is a powerful substance and highly addictive. But it won’t be long before you start to feel better, stronger, and healthier in body, mind, and spirit. The results will be so pleasing, I’ve no doubt this new way of eating will become second nature. But if not, if you find the opposite to be true, I’m afraid you must find a way to live with it. There is really no choice in the matter.”

  “But … why?” My face scrunches in a way meant to convey that not only do I object, but I also doubt the validity of what she just said. It reminds me of the carb-free cult all the celebrities embrace before a big shoot, regarding the bread basket as their number-one enemy. “Other than my injuries, which are almost all healed, I’m healthy. So I really don’t understand what difference the occasional Coke or candy bar can make.”

  Paloma pushes away from the table and heads up the brick ramp to her office. Motioning for me to take a seat at the square wooden table, as she fills a small copper pot with bottled water, sets it on a single burner, and busies herself with pinching off bits of dried herbs hanging from a multitude of overhead hooks.

  She rolls the pieces between her forefinger and thumb, singing a soft, lilting tune I can’t quite decipher. Then she drops the tiny herb balls, one by one, into the pot, adding a small dark stone she retrieves from the soft buckskin pouch she wears at her neck.

  The rock landing with an audible plop, when she says, “We hail from an ancient line of shamans.”

  I stare at her back, face scrunched in disbelief. “Shamans?” I shake my head, trying to tame my annoyance, reminding myself to be patient, to give her a chance. Surely that’s not what she meant. “I thought you said we were Seekers?” I frown, doubting I’ll ever get used to the random things she says. From the moment I arrived I’ve been in a state of perpetual confusion, and I’m beginning to doubt it will end.

  Paloma shrugs off her cardigan, drops it onto the counter beside her, returning to pot stirring when she says, “Shamans, medicine men, healers, Light Workers, seers, mystics, miracle workers, those who know, those who can see in the dark—” Her shoulders rise and fall. “Different names for what is essentially the same thing at heart.” She glances over her shoulder, ensuring I heard before she gets back to stirring. “Shamanic concepts date back thousands of years—its origins have been traced to Siberia when a shaman’s primary role was to care for the community. To maintain the well-being of the tribe by providing healing when needed, tending to the weather to ensure the availability of crops and food, leading sacred ceremonies, serving as the primary link between this world and the spirit world, and more. It was a revered and sacred role—a calling of the highest order. Fanned out across several continents, separated by great bodies of water with no way to communicate—their ceremonies and rituals were found to be shockingly familiar. Though unfortunately, in later years, when we all became civilized,” she forms air quotes around the word, “shamans were persecuted and forced into hiding. They were deemed witch doctors, sorcerers, accused of conjuring evil. They were said to be dangerous, when really they were just misunderstood by those too ignorant to look past their own narrow concepts of how the world works. Ignorance is one of the greatest evils known to man.” She turns to me, her dark eyes flashing. “With ego and greed trailing a very close second and third.”

  She tends to the pot, giving it a few more stirs before placing a strainer over the top and pouring the brew into a mug. Then, grabbing a pair of small tongs, she lifts out the wet, steaming stone and places it on the table before me.

  “Over the years, the role has evolved, and the name along with it. Among our kind, we are now known as Seekers. We are Seekers of the truth—Seekers of the spirit—Seekers of the light—Seekers of the soul. And it is our job, our calling, our destiny, to keep things in balance—a balance that requires us to walk in the spirit worlds just as easily as we walk in this world. There was a time when keeping the balance was much simpler, but those days are gone. And, to answer your original question of why, the ability to walk between the worlds depends on your commitment to purifying yourself, both inside and out. Which, my sweet nieta, begins with your diet.”

  She peers into the mug and inhales deeply. Then, deeming it ready, she places it before me and says, “And now you must drink.”

  I screw my mouth to the side and stare hard at the mug. Not entirely on board with her agenda but not wanting to reject it outright and end up like Django either. The horrific image of my father’s battered, bloodied head hanging fro
m a spike and screaming to get my attention providing all the motivation I need to empty the cup until there’s not a single drop left. Surprised to find the liquid offers a comforting warmth as it slips down my throat, and though the aftertaste is bitter, I don’t really mind it.

  “There is much more to the world than it seems,” Paloma says, returning to her seat. “It is actually made up of three worlds—the Upperworld, the Lowerworld, and the Middleworld. Each of those worlds consists of many dimensions—including the Middleworld, which is the one you are used to—the one we reside in during our normal, daily lives. Though most people never look past the surface—never realize it’s populated by unseen forces that influence their lives in ways they could never imagine. What you see is not what you get, nieta. In each of those worlds you will find many lovely, compassionate beings available to help you on your various quests. They’ll appear in the form of animals, humans, mythological creatures, even something as simple as a blade of grass is able to help us. Everything has its own energy—its own life force—and someday you will communicate with the earth and its elements as easily as you communicate with me—all in good time.” She looks at me, her fingers steepled, fingertips pressed tightly together. “I know you might feel a little overwhelmed by it all, it’s a lot to take in. That’s why it’s important for you to remember that you are never alone. I will serve as your guide, though I’m not so much here to teach you as to help you retrieve what you already know deep down inside.”

  I glance around the room, taking in shelves filled with tonics, potions, all manner of herbal remedies—while others are crammed with books, rattles, an assortment of crystals and rocks, and a red-painted drum. And though I try to keep an open mind, try to do my best to play along, I have no idea what she means. I’m the kid of a traveling makeup artist—everything I know I learned from a movie set, the Internet, or direct, hands-on experience. Though I never learned anything like this. I’d never even heard of shamans or Seekers until I came here.