Echo Soul Seekers

four

I try it again.

And again.

And even a few more times after that—and the result never differs.

Every time I ask the pendulum a question that should result in an undeniable no, it responds as it should by spinning in a counterclockwise direction. And yet every time I repeat the one about me loving Cade, it spins the opposite way.

The ritual leaving me so red-faced and frustrated, I can’t help but blurt, “Paloma—what the heck?” I scowl, having no idea what this could possibly mean, why the pendulum insists on torturing me.

And then I remember something the Bone Keeper said.

Something about Dace being the Echo.

Which mirrored Cade’s taunt the last time I saw him:

You’ve been working for me since the day you started having those dreams about my brother … you know, the Echo?

An echo is a repetition.

A reflection.

A figure from Greek mythology who pined for Narcissus until all that was left was her voice.

How could that possibly relate to Dace?

I search Paloma’s face, in need of some answers.

“They are connected, nieta. It is all that I know. As for how deep that connection goes is for you to discover. But clearly it is deep enough for the pendulum to confuse the two.”

“It’s not possible!” I say. “They’re nothing alike!”

But Paloma just nods and places her hand over mine. “My client will be here soon,” she says. “Let’s move on to the feathers while there’s still time.”

* * *

When Paloma’s client arrives, I start to head out. But when I pass a window on my way and get a glimpse of a dark and ominous sky, I make a quick U-turn and head for my room where I stand before my closet, weighing my options.

As much as I love the old army jacket I always wear—given to me by the wardrobe stylist on a hit movie Jennika worked on a few years ago—it’s no match for a New Mexico winter. I need something heavier, thicker, something that might actually defend against the harsh wintry chill.

I stare at my meager belongings, consisting of jeans, tank tops, slouchy boots, and not much else. The warmest thing I own being the black V-neck sweater I picked up in a duty-free store in the Charles de Gaulle Airport on my way to Morocco, so I’d have something cozy to wear on the plane.

If nothing else, living life out of a suitcase has taught me to keep my belongings pared to a minimum. Books, clothes, shoes, jewelry—anything that no longer serves me is either given away or left behind. And since my last stop was LA, I’m a little deficient when it comes to winter wear.

I drum my fingers against my hip, screw my mouth to the side, and stare as though I’m expecting something new to appear. Wondering if I could maybe borrow something from Paloma until I can get to a decent clothing store, though doubting she has anything that would work. No matter how low the temperature dips, I’ve yet to see her wear anything heavier than a cotton housedress and cardigan.

I shift my gaze higher and scrutinize the still unexplored brown cardboard box on the closet’s top shelf. While I’ve lived in this room for the past several months, I still have a hard time thinking of it as mine. I guess I’m not used to claiming a space, any space.

Ever since I was a kid, all of my homes have been temporary at best. And despite Paloma giving me free rein to do whatever it takes to make it my own, the only signs of my existence are the few items of clothing occupying the closet, the small stash of socks and underwear in the tall chest of drawers, and the laptop I’ve set up on the old wooden desk—all of which can easily fit into a duffle bag when it’s time to move on.

This room is still very much Django’s, and that’s how I like it. Makes me feel close to my father in a way I’ve never experienced until now.

There’s a picture of him in a pretty silver frame that sits on the dresser—taken when he was sixteen, same age as me. And his initials are carved into the desk in the space next to my computer—the jagged D.S. half the size of my hand. Even the dream catcher that hangs above the windowsill belongs to him, so I guess I always assumed the contents in the box on the top shelf belonged to him too. And up until now, I didn’t feel I had the right to go snooping.

Although my five-foot-six-inch frame isn’t exactly what I’d call short, the shelf is still just a little too high for me to grab hold of the box without risking it crashing onto my head. I consider dragging the elaborately painted trunk that holds my Seeker tools over to the closet so I can climb on top and retrieve the box, but then I think better.

Deciding to use some of the magick I’ve been practicing, the telekinesis I’ve been working to hone, I focus hard on the box. Employing Paloma’s advice to think from the end, claiming it’s magick’s second most important ingredient, coming just after intent.

“The universe will work out the details,” she’d said. “The most important thing you can do is to state your intention, then envision the result as though it’s already done.”

So instead of imaging the box lifting from the shelf and drifting lightly to the floor as I used to, I imagine it already secured at my feet. Only to watch as it launches itself from the shelf and crashes hard to the ground. Guess I still have a few telekinetic kinks to work out.

I glance toward the door, hoping Paloma didn’t hear the commotion and won’t choose to investigate. Then I drop beside the old box and open the flaps. Instantly overcome by a whiff of dust, must, and a deeper earthier aroma of spice, mesquite, and a few other unnamed scents I’ve come to associate with this place.

I riffle through the contents. Skimming past an old hand-knit sweater I reject at first sight, an old flannel shirt worn nearly to death, a pile of yellowing T-shirts that used to be white … until I come across a black down jacket that might be a bit on the big side but will definitely serve the purpose I need.

About to close the box back up and return it to its place, I notice a pile of papers lining the bottom and decide to go through those too. Finding an old report card of Django’s, with A’s in Spanish and PE, a B+ in English, and C’s in both history and science, I rock back on my heels and smooth my fingers across the crinkled page. Shuttering my eyes as I try to picture how he was back then—a good-looking guy with a nose like mine—an average student headed for a-not-so average destiny he just couldn’t face.

I set the report card aside and dig a little deeper. Feeling oddly guilty for prying but equally eager for anything I can get, I read everything. More report cards, class schedules, a folded-up note from a girl named Maria, who was obviously into him if the string of small hearts lining the edges are anything to go by. Eventually coming to the note he left for Paloma the day he ran away, having no idea his journey would be both tragic and short. That not long after arriving in California, he’d fall hard for my mom and impregnate her, only to end up decapitated on a busy LA freeway well before she could break the news.

I take a deep breath, unable to keep my hands from shaking when I read:

Mama,

By the time you read this, I will be well on my way, and though you’ll be tempted to come after me, I’m begging you to please let me be.

I’m sorry for any disappointment and pain that I’ve caused. It was never my intention to hurt you. I am lucky to have such a kind, loving, and supportive mother, and I hope you’ll understand that my leaving has nothing to do with you as a person.

This place is closing in on me. I can’t take it anymore. I need to get far away—go to a place where nobody knows me.

Where the visions can’t find me.

You speak of destiny and fate—but I believe in free will. The destiny I choose is one that happens in a place far from here.

I’ll be in touch when I settle.



Love,

Your Django

I read the note again.

And then again.

And after reading it so many times I’ve lost count, I fold it up neatly, slip it back toward the bottom, and return the box to its place.

Then I drag on my dad’s old down jacket and explore all the pockets. Inching to the edge of each seam, stopping when I discover something small and smooth, with a surprising amount of heft to it.

I uncurl my fingers, revealing a small stone replica of a bear that’s etched in the same style as the raven I wear in my pouch. The one that was mystically carved following my very first visit to the Lowerworld, when I traveled on a soul journey aided by Paloma’s tea. And I can’t help but wonder if this is how Bear came to him too.

I always assumed that Django, haunted by the horrific visions that mark the start of every Seeker’s calling, left long before Paloma could share the ritual with him—but now I’m no longer sure.

Still, I’m happy to have a token from my dad, no matter how small. So I add it to my collection of talismans, remembering what Paloma said just after the pendulum confirmed that I should continue wearing the pouch: You shouldn’t abandon the spirit animals when it wasn’t their choice to abandon you.

I make my way to the yard, forging a path past the various gardens. One for the herbs Paloma uses in her work as a healer, one for the organic fruits and vegetables she uses to prepare all our meals. Pausing to survey the plot of land reserved for her hybrid experiments—where strange, misshapen plants sprout from the earth, perpetually in bloom no matter the season—before continuing past the fountain and the small stone bench, ultimately stopping at Kachina’s stall.

When I spot my adopted cat napping in the corner, I take great care to quiet my approach. Still, the second he senses my presence, his head pops up, his ears perk high, he springs to his feet, and he’s off like a shot—hopping the nearby fence and disappearing into the neighbor’s yard.

“Looks like Cat still hates me.” I nuzzle Kachina’s whiskers, running my palm over her perfectly striped brown and white mane as she nickers softly in greeting. “Think you could put in a good word for me? Remind him that I’m the one who feeds him—I’m the one who rescued him?”

Kachina nudges her nose against my side, prodding me toward the door of the stall—a sure sign she wants me to bust her loose so we can go for a ride. And while I like the idea as much as she does, I can’t help but think about all the other things I should be doing instead.

Like heading back to school so my tardy doesn’t turn into a truancy.

Or, more important—heading back to the Lowerworld so I can get an early start on Richter hunting.

Before I can decide either way, my phone vibrates with a text from Dace that reads:

Missed you at break—you okay?

I hesitate. Torn between an overwhelming need to see him, and knowing that if I even so much as hint that I’m thinking of going hunting, he’ll not just skip school but probably work too, in order to help, and I can’t let him do that. If he has any hope of going to college, he needs to maintain his GPA just as much as he needs to boost his paycheck.

So I type the reply:

No worries. All is well. I’m with Paloma. Drop by tonight after work?

I chew my bottom lip as I wait for his reply. Feeling guilty about the lie—a white lie but still a lie—while assuring myself it had to be done.

As soon as he answers, agreeing to meet up with me later, I toss a bridle onto Kachina, hop onto her back, and nudge her out of the stall. Leading her onto the rutted dirt road, with one destination in mind.