The Soul Seekers: Horizon Page 4

  “Work continues at the Rabbit Hole. Which means someone must be in charge of rebuilding, and if not Leandro, then who?” Chay looks from Leftfoot to me.

  “It’s a big family.” I dip my head for another sip of coffee. “There’s no shortage of cousins. Any one of them could’ve taken the helm.”

  “You really believe that?” Leftfoot’s narrowed eyes meet mine, practically daring me to disappoint him and insist that I do.

  I shake my head. Should’ve known better than to be so glib. As a longtime student of Leftfoot’s I know better than most that he requires absolute seriousness in matters like this. “No,” I say. “I don’t believe it for a second. Guess I’m just trying to enjoy the break while it lasts.”

  “Really?” Leftfoot leans toward me, as Chay busies himself with his soft-boiled egg and fruit plate.

  Gone are the days of the covert cheese Danish. Now that Paloma’s no longer around to lecture him about the evils of sugar, seems he’s finally decided to heed her word. Just one more way he chooses to honor her memory. The other is the woven leather bracelet he wears at his wrist bearing a carved silver Wolf’s head.

  Paloma was guided by Wolf. And I can’t imagine how he gets through each day without her. If I was in his place . . .

  I shake free of the thought, and return to Leftfoot who’s still waiting for my response.

  “Is this how you enjoy the break? By reading books on shape-shifting?” He flicks the stack with his index finger and thumb.

  “Looks like you’ve already decided the answer.” I meet his look square-on. Even though he’s technically my uncle, Leftfoot’s always been like a father to me. Despite struggling to raise his son, Lucio, on his own, he never hesitated to look after me. And I’ve never thought of him as anything less than a dad. Because of it, we argue as much as any father and son.

  He shoots me a look that manages to convey his extreme annoyance while still managing to be supportive and fatherly. Tossing a wad of bills on the table, he rises impatiently and motions for me to follow.

  “Where we going?” I glance from him to Chay, but Chay just pushes away from the table and shrugs, even though I’m convinced he’s informed. The two of them are thick as thieves. Always in cahoots. There’s no dividing them.

  “Your honeymoon is over.” Leftfoot slips an arm around my shoulders and pushes me into the daylight. “We’ve got work to do. Serious work. Make no mistake, the worst is yet to come.”

  SIX

  DAIRE

  Having spent the first sixteen years of my life studiously avoiding pretty much all forms of physical activity that don’t involve lounging and/or reading, I’m amazed by how much I’ve come to love running. How quickly I’ve taken to it. How fast I’ve progressed.

  Turns out there’s nothing like a good, brisk run to clear away the cobwebs and relieve a little of the tension crowding my head. Not to mention how it’s a useful way to get home after a night spent at Dace’s. Or at least until I get around to getting my driver’s license. And though there are quicker routes to choose, none allow for as good a view of the Rabbit Hole.

  I slow when I reach the far corner, cast a quick glance each way, then dart across the street and edge toward the alleyway. Where I take a quick detour and cruise by the chain-link fence where I secured the padlock as a symbol of Dace’s and my love, if only to ensure it’s still there. With so many forces working against us, there was no guarantee. Then, I move toward the clamor of hammering and workers shouting from the other side of the barrier. The clouds of dust and noise providing ample proof that the rebuild continues. Though the barrier fronting it is so solid, tall, and imposing, it’s impossible to get a sneak peek—one thing is sure: El Coyote is alive and well and planning on making one hell of a comeback.

  And, I’ve no doubt Dace knows it too.

  No way does he truly believe that they’re dead.

  Dace is too smart to ever believe such a thing.

  Like me, he’s prepping for what’s next—whatever that should turn out to be.

  I’ve caught him doing push-ups, crunches, and lunges when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ve even caught him shadowboxing, but I just slipped back into bed without saying a word. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. Besides, I’m sure his secrecy is less about keeping things from me, and more about quelling my fears. And while I’ve no doubt his aim is well intentioned and sweet, truth is, it’s not really working.

  Great clouds of dust waft over the partition, as a chorus of jackhammers and drills drones on without ceasing. About two months after the explosion, the construction began. And now, after four months of working in earnest, I have to think it’ll be ready soon.

  And then what?

  The doors spring open and it’s back to business as usual?

  With large crowds of people lining up for overpriced drinks, loud music, and mediocre food?

  I duck my head low and place a hand on each knee, forcing deep exaggerated breaths as though I need a break from the run, but really using the moment to take a good look around. Searching for at least one familiar face—something to clue me in to exactly what’s going on.

  My wish is seemingly granted when a big, black truck pulls into the lot that at first glance, I mistake for Cade’s. It’s only when I see the red-and-orange flames licking the sides, and Marliz behind the wheel, that I realize it belongs to her fiancé, Gabe.

  While she’s not exactly the person I was hoping to see, I can’t help but wonder why she’s still here, driving his truck, if Gabe’s supposedly dead.

  I lower my cap, tuck my chin to my chest, and crouch to one knee. Fumbling with my laces as though retying my shoe, I track Marliz as she slips free of the cab, takes a quick nervous glance all around, and darts for the barrier, leaving me only a handful of seconds to decide what to do.

  Our relationship, if you can call it that, has always been troubled. She’s the first person I met in Enchantment (other than Paloma and Chay), and, to her credit, she did try to warn me away. But aside from that, and the brief period I managed to release her from the Richters’ curse when she fled to L.A. with a little help from my mom, she’s pretty much been working against me. Last time we spoke she made good on her threat to thwart me. And with the Richters holding her spellbound again, there’s no reason to believe she’d be up for a chat.

  Still, I shout her name as loudly as I can in an effort to be heard over the din. Watching as she pauses and turns, her yellow-blond hair swirling around her slim, suntanned shoulders—her heavily made-up eyes widening when she finds me waving from a few feet away.

  She stands frozen before me, her tattooed arm with the snake slithering around her bicep clutching hard at her purse, as her long, skinny legs teeter atop a pair of impossibly high wedged heels.

  With both hands raised in surrender, wanting her to know I mean no harm, I slowly approach. All too aware that the slightest misstep will only serve to scare her off.

  “Marliz—it’s me. Please don’t run. We need to talk . . .”

  Her gaze darts wildly. She lifts a hand to her hair. Then the next thing I know, she’s spinning on her heels and racing for the barrier. Her left hand raised before her, she aims her bright blue tourmaline ring toward the wall, causing a blinding flash of bright light and a glimmering veil of dust that seems to swallow her whole. One moment she’s there, and the next I’m left staring at the empty space where she stood. Wondering if I somehow imagined it, until I see the trampled mound of glittering powder she left in her wake.

  After a quick look around to ensure no one’s looking, I drop to my knees and skim a tentative hand over the top. Coating my fingers with a strange, dark, sparkling substance with razor-sharp edges that looks nothing like the usual construction dust.

  I quickly fill my palms with the stuff, pull my hat from my head, and drop it into my cap. While I may not know what it is, one thing’s for sure: This is not your average rebuild.

  The Rabbit Hole is getting a mystical makeover.
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  The building’s enchanted—protected by some kind of spell—and the Richters are at the helm of it all.

  Just as I suspected, they’re not dead—they haven’t gone anywhere.They may be lying low for now, but they’re in there—somewhere—I feel it in my bones.

  They’re plotting.

  Planning.

  Biding their time.

  Just as I’m biding mine.

  SEVEN

  DACE

  “How long is this gonna take? I have to be at work in an hour.” I cast an agitated glance at Leftfoot, but he purposely ignores me and hurries me along toward my truck.

  Settling beside me, he thrusts an impatient finger toward the window, and says, “Make a left at the corner.”

  “Care to tell me where we’re headed?” I crank the key in the ignition, once, twice, until the engine roars to life.

  “Do you always need to know your destination?” His eyes dart toward mine, the question as wry as his look.

  “As the driver, I find it comes in handy, yeah.” I clench my jaw and ignore the stop sign at the corner, hardly bothering to slow as I barrel into the turn.

  “Who taught you how to drive?” Leftfoot squints. His eyes so hooded it’s impossible to tell if he’s joking or serious.

  “You did.” I shrug. Aware of the tension draining from my shoulders, my spine, when his delighted laugh bellows between us.

  “But I’m serious about needing to get to work,” I say, thinking maybe this time he’ll listen. “I can’t be late. That sort of thing doesn’t go over well.”

  “This is more important than work.” Leftfoot bobs his head as he takes in a string of broken-down adobes lining the street.

  “Easy for you to say.” I shake my head, rub a hand over my chin.

  “You want to work at that gas station forever?” His gaze veers toward me.

  “Forever?” I turn to face him. “No thanks. For the duration of the summer? Well, yes, that’s what I was hoping. I need money to live on, Leftfoot. I live in the real world, you know.”

  “You live in the Middleworld.” Leftfoot grins, slapping his knee as he laughs hard at his joke.

  “And you don’t?”

  He shakes his head, eyes glinting at the turn this conversation is taking. “As medicine man, I have one foot in this world, and one foot in the spirit worlds. And today, if you’ll stop resisting my efforts, I’m going to teach you how to bridge those worlds too.”

  “Seriously?” I quirk a brow. “And we can accomplish all of that in the span of an hour? Because that’s all I’ve got, as I’ve already mentioned.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.” His grin fades. His voice takes a sharp turn. “This day should come as no surprise. I’ve been leading you to this moment since you were a kid. You’re finally deemed ready.”

  “I’m finally deemed ready? Or the El Coyote situation has become so dire my shelf date got bumped?”

  “Does it matter what prompted it?”

  “You’re in charge, you tell me.”

  He laughs again, even though I was entirely serious and not trying to be funny. He grabs his belly and howls like the madman I’m suspecting he is. Finally calming himself enough to lead me through a series of turns that takes us straight to the reservation where I was born and raised.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me we were headed here?” I make no attempt to hide my annoyance.

  “Because you would’ve taken a route of your choosing which would most likely involve a shortcut or two.”

  “In the interest of saving time and fuel, yeah, you’re right, I would have.”

  “And what purpose could that possibly serve when I need you to get used to following directions?” He looks at me like he wants me to reply, but before I can, he’s off and running again. “Make no mistake, since the moment you inhaled your first breath, your life has been a test that you are always on the verge of failing. If you want to pass, and you’re ambitious to the degree that I’m sure that you do, then you need to listen. You need to pay attention. You need to let go of your attachment to things that hold no real importance. And you need to learn to embrace the importance of taking the necessary steps to do a job properly.”

  “What does it matter, if the end result is the same—or, in my case, even better?”

  “You think that just because you shave ten minutes off the clock and save an extra gallon or two of fuel you would’ve been better off ?”

  I look at him dumbfounded—sure that the question must be rhetorical.

  “Then I’m afraid this is going to take even longer than I thought.” He shakes his head sadly, and motions for me to drive on.

  Instead of directing me to his house like I thought, Leftfoot leads me to Chay’s where he and Leftfoot’s apprentice, Cree, are busy getting four of Chay’s vast stable of horses saddled up and ready to ride.

  “All set?” Leftfoot glances between the two men.

  Chay nods, Cree grunts, as I resist the urge to look at my watch.

  Thing is, as nervous as I am about being late for work—or, more likely, losing my job—I know better than to doubt Leftfoot for long. Around these parts, he’s honored, revered. And though he’s taken me under his wing since the day I was born, I try not to take his teachings for granted. It’s taken me years of hard work, over a decade spent earning his trust and respect, to even get to this point.

  From what I’ve seen over the last sixteen years, many have knocked on his door, but only a few are allowed entry.

  Whatever he insists on revealing today must be important—possibly sacred. He knows what a struggle money’s always been for Chepi and me. He would never risk a job I sorely need if he wasn’t convinced it was of the utmost importance.

  He turns to me with a knowing gaze, leaving me to suspect that he spent the last few minutes eavesdropping on my innermost thoughts. Then he nods toward the smallest horse in the group—the one that’s barely bigger than a small Shetland pony, and motions for me to hop on.

  I stand before the horse, refusing to budge. Sure this is yet another one of his tests I’m destined to fail, but no way am I riding that thing. I’ll look ridiculous. He’s smaller than the pony I learned to ride on.

  Leftfoot shakes his head, working his jaw as he says, “Do yourself a favor and rid yourself of your vanities, and the foolish assumptions they cause you to make. You’ve never ridden Big Thunder. I guarantee he’ll surprise you.”

  “Big Thunder?” I shake my head. Shuffle my feet uncertainly. But after a few prolonged moments under the elders’ impatient glare, I climb on. And, just as I suspected, they waste no time indulging a long, hearty laugh at my expense.

  Chay and Cree take the lead, talking mostly among themselves, as Leftfoot occasionally calls out to various animals and birds. Many of which are considered to be dangerous and predatory—but who, in the thrall of Leftfoot’s calm, peaceful energy, merely follow along for a bit, before moving on. While I mostly fight to keep pace and stay on my steed, whose power and strength defy his small stature. Studiously making a point to observe all I can, remembering what Leftfoot said about my life being a test, and knowing this particular lesson began the moment I ran into him at Gifford’s. Leaving no doubt he’ll call upon me to access these observations later.

  The ride drags on much longer than expected, consuming the better part of the day. Finally ending when Leftfoot dismounts by a small grove of trees where we tether our mounts in the shade and continue on foot up a long, steep trail ending at the mouth of a cave.

  Same cave I visited when my vision quest collided with Daire’s.

  She was scared. Hungry, thirsty, tired, and desperate to end it. Caught in a sort of netherworld between delusions and reality, she was just about to slip past the border and wave a white flag in surrender, when I appeared before her and urged her to stay. To see her initiation through to its end.

  I told her we were different. Not like the others. That our paths were chosen for us and it was our job to follo
w them and live up to the task. Something of which I become more convinced each day.

  Then I gave her a glimpse of her future.

  Showed her the radiant, magnificent being she could someday be if she could just stay the course.

  Luckily, it worked.

  Still, being here now somehow feels wrong. This cave belongs to the Santoses. Without Daire, I have no right to enter.

  The elders move a round me, as though I’msome annoying obstacle they’re forced to tolerate. Chay sprinkles a fresh layer of salt along the front entrance that’s meant to keep it free from predators and intruders—including, possibly, us? As Leftfoot looks at me and says, “You recognize it?” Accurately reading my expression.

  I nod. “It’s sacred ground for Seekers.” I meet his gaze. “I’m not sure we have any right to intrude. We have our own sacred places—why force ourselves on theirs?”

  “Since when have I ever forced myself anywhere?” Leftfoot makes an exasperated face, and pushes ahead of me until he joins Cree and Chay inside the cave, while I remain stubbornly fixed outside. Trying not to cringe under the weight of Leftfoot’s scrutinizing glare when he says, “You questioning me?”

  I shift my weight from foot to foot, knowing I shouldn’t, that I have no place to doubt his wisdom, yet there’s no denying the truth.

  I rub a hand over my chin, shoot him an apologetic look.

  Only to see him grin as he says, “Good. You passed. Never trudge onto sacred land without a proper invitation. But now that you’ve been summoned, you have a handful of seconds to join us, before the offer will close and you’ll be shut out for the duration.”

  EIGHT

  DAIRE

  I enter the house to the sound of shrieks and giggles drifting from under the door of my old room that can only mean one thing: Lita and Axel are at it again.

  I head for the sink, drop my cap on the counter, flip on the faucet, and stick my head under the spray. Looking to cool off after a long run in the scorching heat, and hopefully drown out the blare of the love-fest down the hall.