Echo (16 page)

The water hisses—seething and whispering with impatience. Drawing my attention away from Leftfoot and back to the dueling curls of steam leaping before me.

Leftfoot’s teachings circling my mind:

Every man must decide the kind of path he’ll walk—now it’s my turn to choose.

Every action has a reaction.

The prophecy is written. It cannot be undone.

It’s that last part I refuse.

If the prophecy can’t be undone—what does that say for free will?

Why even pretend I can choose my own path if it’s already been determined for me?

The words contradict. Don’t make any sense.

It’s up to me to assemble the pieces of my life, call upon everything I’ve learned, put it all together, and prove the prophecy wrong.

Daire will not die.

Not on my watch.

I’ll do whatever it takes to make good on that.

I narrow my focus, watching the curls of steam weave and gyrate before me. Then without another thought, I designate the one that I’ll follow. Watching as it sparks and blazes, doubling in size as it consumes the other and leaps wildly before me.

I wish I could say that what I feel is relief. But the truth is, the sight leaves me unsettled.

Still, the choice has been made; there’s no going back.

There will be consequences for sure, Leftfoot promised as much.

But it’s nothing I can’t handle. There’s no price too big to save Daire.

*   *   *

By the time we leave the sweat lodge, the night is nudging well into dawn. Though, despite the lack of sleep, I’m not the least bit fatigued.

If anything, I feel renewed. Transformed. Like I grew from a kid to a man over the course of one night.

“I want you to go to school today,” Leftfoot says, as we dress ourselves again. “Not only because your education is important, but also because it keeps Chepi from worrying, and it gives you the appearance of normalcy. Which is something you must work to maintain, now more than ever.” He studies me closely, and I suck in my breath, ready for him to make mention of it. Give me grief over the choice that I made. But he just goes on to say, “Also, you must return to the Rabbit Hole and apologize for missing the last few days of work. Act contrite. It’ll cost you nothing but a moment of pride, which is something you should try to rid yourself of. It’s an overrated virtue that only serves to isolate, separating us from each other when we’re better off working together. Then, once you’re back in, I want you to locate that vortex I mentioned. Daire knows where it’s located. But since it’s best to avoid her at the moment, you might turn to Xotichl. She’ll be able to guide you.”

“And once I find it?” I ask, realizing that despite all he taught me over the course of the night, he never got around to telling me how he expects me to use what I’ve learned.

“I just want you to find it, that’s all—or at least for the moment, anyway. They’ve already breached the Lowerworld, so that particular damage is done. For now, I just want you to keep an eye on it. Look for anything out of the ordinary, and report back to me with your findings.”

I rub a hand over my chin. Surprised to discover a wide swath of whiskers that scratches my skin. Seems like days since I last showered and shaved.

“And Dace—”

I turn to face him.

“Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

Despite Leftfoot urging me to rest, despite the fact that I haven’t slept for days, when I get to my apartment, I’m way too wound up to do anything more than briefly consider it.

Sleep means closing my eyes.

And closing my eyes means dreaming of Daire.

Daire smiling.

Daire laughing.

Daire loving.

My head filled with the movie of her—culminating in the way she looked just after I told her we could no longer see each other. How she slumped over my kitchen table as though stabbed by my words …

I shake free of the thought, train my focus on getting cleaned up. Changing into clean clothes I pick from the laundry basket I never got around to unloading, and grabbing a quick bite to eat before I head out for school.

Fueled on nothing more than a bowl of stale cereal, weak coffee, and the adrenaline of pure determination, I glance at the clock as I make my way out. I’ll be early—but early is better than sitting here trapped in my memories.

twenty-two

Daire

Jennika stops by early the next morning, under the guise of wanting to enjoy breakfast with us, but I know better. She wants to see me dressed and ready for school. Living the kind of life that won’t cause her to worry any more than she already does.

She knocks on my bedroom door, barely allowing me enough time to respond before she barges in and plops down on my bed. Spouting some lecture she must have spent half the night composing. Her voice rising and falling as I dart from my bathroom to my closet in various stages of dress.

It’s the same talk we parted with when she left Enchantment just a few months earlier. More warnings about the dangers of boys—especially the cute ones, like Dace. In “The World According to Jennika” boys like that live solely to sweet talk their way into your skinny jeans, only to dump you once they’ve had their way.

Kind of like what Django did to her.

Only Django didn’t dump her.

He died.

And Jennika never got over it—never forgave him.

Which is why she’s so desperate to stop me from repeating her mistakes by giving my heart to someone who might die on me too.

But it’s too late for that. I’ve already given my heart to a boy who died in my dreams, never mind the prophecy. Though if I have anything to do with it, he won’t die in real life—not for many years to come.

“What about Vane?” I stand before her, one hand perched on my denim-clad hip, the other dangling the new boots she bought me. Fielding her blank look when I say, “You remember, Vane Wick? Global heartthrob—certified member of Hollywood’s Youngest and Hottest—the guy I attacked in that Moroccan square?”

“What about him?” She picks at her sparkly blue fingernails. Peeling off the paint in the same way she always scolded me not to, claiming it weakens the nails.

“Well, I don’t remember hearing this lecture back then.” I shove my feet into the boots, smiling faintly when I see they fit perfectly.

“Because I knew you were too smart to fall for someone like Vane. You were never starstruck, Daire. You’re far too savvy for that. I knew you could see right through his act, which is why I was never concerned about you two hanging out.”

I turn toward the window, eyeing the dream catcher that hangs over the sill. Remembering the night Vane lured me into that alleyway, the expert way that he kissed me. How he nearly succeeded in talking me into doing the very things Jennika lectures about. How it was only the visions of glowing people that spared me from that.

But I don’t share that either.

I shake free of the memory, listening patiently when she says, “I knew Dace was different the moment I saw you together.” She frowns. Presumably remembering the night she caught us in his car. We were just about to kiss when she interfered and made sure that we didn’t. “Daire, honey.” Her green eyes slant toward mine. “You know I’m just trying to save you from making the same mistakes I made.”

“Yes, I know.” I turn away, angrily shoving a pile of books into my bag. “And, just so you know, I just love it when you refer to me as a
mistake
. Seriously. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

She huffs under her breath. And though my back is turned, I know her well enough to know her eyes have slid closed as she silently counts to ten. “You know what I mean,” she says, as soon as she gets there.

I frown. About to reply with a nasty retort, when I see her looking so small and defenseless, something inside me loosens up and gives way.

It’s like I can actually
feel
how she felt when she found herself knocked up at sixteen by a boy who’d just died—only to lose her parents just a few years later.

Knocked sideways.

Kicked in the gut.

Left gasping and breathless—scrambling to build a new life.

I grab hold of the chair, fingers curling around the rail as I fight to steady myself. Overcome by the strength of this
impression
—of involuntarily diving into her experience.

It’s the same phenomenon Paloma told me about, urged me to hone. Claiming it will help me to know the truth of a person.

The first time I experienced it was when I ran into Dace and Chepi at the gas station. Without even trying, I’d instantly tuned in to the cloud of sadness and grief surrounding his mom—along with the stream of pure, unconditional love that flowed from Dace to me.

And now, without even trying, it’s happening again, only this time with Jennika.

After spending just a few moments beneath her steely veneer, I can no longer be angry with her. Can no longer take that same snarky tone. Like most people, she’s just doing the best she knows how.

“C’mon.” I lift my chin, making an exaggerated show of inhaling. “Smells like Paloma’s making her famous blue-corn pancakes and, trust me, you don’t want to miss them.”

*   *   *

As committed as I was to being nicer to Jennika, when she insists on driving me to school, I can’t help but shoot Paloma a pleading look, begging her to intervene in some way.

We need to talk. Need to continue my training. But now with Jennika’s surprise visit, I’ve no idea when we’ll be able to manage. By the time she left last night, it was too late and too cold for Paloma to teach me how to determine the firesong, so I was hoping we could do it today. But from the way things are going, that particular forecast seems doubtful.

Despite my pleading look, Paloma just tells me to have a good day—that she’ll see me when I return. And though there’s a hint of something deeper lying just beneath the words, before I can grasp it, Jennika’s tugging on my sleeve, dragging me outside to her rental car.

“You really should learn how to drive.” She climbs behind the wheel as I slide in beside her.

“I know,” I say, hoping she won’t offer to trade seats and teach me. We’ll just end up arguing at a time when I’m really trying not to.

“Not that there’s anywhere to actually drive to once you do get your license…”

She makes a frowny face. Letting me know, yet again, just how much she detests this place. Continuing to mutter under her breath, the same tired dialogue about how she can’t understand why I would choose to live in this dump over the super-cool place she just got in LA. Stopping only when she sighs, fluffs her hair, and trains her focus on the car stereo.

When she asks me to look inside the glove compartment for her Hole CD, I know she wants to start over and find common ground. Nineties music, the songs of her youth, is always the go-to when she’s looking for a reminder of less troubled times.

“You look cute in that top,” she says, her mood instantly brightening after a few beats of Courtney Love singing “Celebrity Skin.” “And those jeans are a perfect fit—I had a feeling they would be.” She shoots me an appraising look, as I shrug, mumble
thanks
, and stare out the window. Watching a mangy stray dog plow through the contents of an overturned trash can, while an even mangier cat looks on, waiting to spring into action at the first opportunity.

“Dace Whitefeather is going to be damn sorry he dumped you,” she says, in a misguided attempt to cheer me.

“I truly hope not.” I peer at her. Satisfied when I see the flash of shock that crosses her face.

Her brow merging in an attempt to make sense of my words—make sense of me. Trying to find some trace of her teachings, the values she fought to instill.

“It’s better if he doesn’t think anything about me.” I push the words past the sob clogging my throat—the one that’s been permanently lodged there since that awful night in his kitchen. “It’s better if he just moves on.”

She considers me for a moment, her head bobbing back and forth as though weighing my words. Ultimately choosing to drop it, she says, “Where’d you get this?” She pinches the sleeve of the black down jacket I wear. “I’m not sure what’s worse, Daire—that old army jacket you always wore or this thing.” She shakes her head, having decided I’m an enigma who makes the kind of choices she’ll never understand.

“It’s Django’s.” I watch her jaw drop as her eyes grow bigger than I’ve ever seen them.

“Where’d you find that?” She stares at me, gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles turn white.

“In a box full of his stuff. You should look through it while you’re here. I think you’d find it interesting.”

“No.” She rips her gaze from mine, focuses on the bumpy dirt road ahead. “Maybe.” She rubs her lips together, continues to squint out the window. “I don’t know. We’ll see.” She sighs, her shoulders sinking in surrender and remaining that way, until she pulls into the parking lot and says, “Hey, aren’t those your friends? And isn’t that your ex standing with them?”

I follow her gaze to where Xotichl, Auden, Lita, Crickett, Jacy, and yes, even Dace, are talking and laughing. My eyes grazing over them, before settling on
him
—but only for a moment before I force myself to look away. I can’t afford to allow my gaze to linger.

“Wow. I would’ve expected them to be on your side.” Her eyes dart between them and me. “Do they even know about your breakup?”

“Probably not,” I mumble. “Seeing as how I didn’t go to school yesterday.” My voice fading as I watch some new girl, someone I’ve never seen before, with a wild mane of dark spiral curls, cautiously approach them.

“Well, clearly he’s not about to tell them what a jerk he is. So make sure you do it.” Jennika huffs under her breath, looking like she’s considering marching right over there and telling them for me.

But all I can do is stare at that slim, beautiful, exotic-looking girl with the halo of hair, the long almond-shaped eyes that tilt up at the sides, the dainty nose, and the generous full lips.

She looks like a dancer—sinewy, fluid—the very manifestation of grace.