The Spirit Seducer (The Echo Series Book 1) (7 page)

Brushing out my long hair, I squeezed the excess water out of it and into the sink. I was shivering again when I finished, but I didn’t have any other clothes to put on. Next question of the day: After using up my host’s water, did I go through his small chest of drawers to find something to wear?

I didn’t really have a choice. I wasn’t putting back on the filthy clothes I’d worn earlier, and I sure wasn’t going to be caught in a damp towel. Not by Zeke and especially not by those warriors Coyote traveled with.

On a sigh and a mental apology, I scuttled to Zeke’s dresser and opened the top drawer. “No way.” I pulled out a pair of green panties. Hipsters. The kind I preferred. They slipped from my shaking fingers, but not before I saw the label. My favorite brand, my size.

I snatched the underwear and the matching bra beneath it. I collapsed on the edge of the bed, caressing the material. Layla was much taller than me, and outweighed me by nearly forty pounds. Silly as it was, those tween girls hadn’t been wrong to call me a little echo. I barely weighed enough to be considered an adult, and I was shorter than most high-schoolers. Layla and I had never been able to wear each other’s clothes.

Therefore, Zeke had clothes in his drawers for me. Or Zeke only dated pint-sized women. Not Layla-sized women.

So what did that make Layla and Zeke?

I needed to get a grip. I added the questions to my think-about-later list, and slipped into the lingerie, thankful for the minimal protection it offered. Opening the next drawer, I pulled my hand back just in time to keep from touching Zeke’s undies. I slammed the drawer shut quickly and opened the next.

Folded there were a few sets of my favorite style camisoles and fleece sleeping pants. I practically lived in these at home. Once going to school with my peers was off the table, I took the Santa Fe mantra of casual to the extreme of loungewear, much to my mom’s disapproval. Sure, it was a small rebellion, but it was a comfy one.

I pulled out the first pair of pants and a black camisole, questions whirring through my head as I dressed. I hung the damp towel on its peg in the bathroom. I was clean and dressed. Fairly presentable. And full of so many more questions, with no one available to answer them. Still alone, I sat on the edge of the bed.

My stomach rumbled. I was hungry. Like, really. Hand on my angry middle, I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten anything. Last night.

Considering I’d used up his water and gone through his drawers, raiding Zeke’s food stash didn’t seem like too bad an idea.

The house was dimly lit and too quiet. I trudged into what I assumed was the kitchen. The space was on the far side of the living area and had a deep, beaten copper sink. A loaf of bread and some apples sat on the counter.

I didn’t see anything electrical—no fridge or cook top that I could find. Just one of those old-fashioned fire hearths. I groaned. I could barely make decent food with all the modern conveniences. No way could I handle a fifteenth-century spit or whatever that thing was.

My stomach howled in protest at my hours of neglect. I bit into one of the apples, wishing it was one of the huge trays of enchiladas my mother had made that morning. I could almost taste the piquant flavor of the green chile, the soft saltiness of the cheese. I leaned my good hip against the counter.

I yelped when cold, wet air spilled across my foot. Bending down, I saw a small panel had slid open a little. I opened it and cold air swirled around me, raising gooseflesh on my arms.

It was an icebox. At least I guessed it was, as I’d never seen one before. Whatever it was, it held my favorite kind of coconut-milk ice cream.

“Oh,” I whispered. First clothes, now this. I smiled, warmth building in my chest.

After shutting the small door, I dug through the few drawers until I found a big spoon and then popped the lid, shoving the first bite into my mouth.

Sweet, creamy deliciousness slid across my tongue. My stomach gurgled with the same pleasure as my taste buds.

I continued toward the small patio off the living area. I opened the door just as the descending sun met the edge of mountains, so different from the Sangre de Cristos, turning them bright orange. Like a flame. These peaks were more rugged but shorter. The vegetation was sparser where the crag barely rose above the timberline. The house nestled into a rock-strewn indention partway up one of the lower ridges, giving occupants adequate time to sight visitors long before they made it to the house. As long as they didn’t just step out of a distance-warp portal, like we had.

A strategic placement, I decided. I wished I’d learned more than basic Internet chess. All of a sudden, war games didn’t seem so silly.

I heaved a big sigh as I scooped up another bite, savoring the flavors. I plopped into one of the leather-and-stick chairs, marveling at its comfort.

The furnishings here seemed more original than those adorning my house—as though artisans and craftsmen had made each piece as opposed to a factory churning about five thousand replicas in a week. Skill and time—that’s what this chair represented. Both time to make, but also years of use. I leaned back and watched the sun set, slowly devouring the entire container of ice cream as I considered what little I knew about my life.

* * *

W
hen I was five
, I asked my mom what happened to my father. I’d probably been questioning her for years, but that afternoon was the first time I remembered asking, thanks to my cousin Graciela. I was at her house helping her make gifts for Father’s Day. Popsicle picture frames that said “Number One Dad.”

I’d been building a picture frame, humming to myself, until Graciela pointed out I didn’t have a dad or even a picture of my father to put in the frame. She’d said no one wanted a bastard or an ugly, sickly girl like me. She’d called me other names, and then laughed when I started to cry.

I’d yanked her hair as hard as I could before I burst into tears. My aunt came running, shrieking in a string of English and Spanish.

She sat me outside until my mom came to pick me up. I crawled between my aunt’s lilies and waited.

Mom didn’t say a word when she scooped me up from the flowerbed. She didn’t talk as I buckled my seatbelt in the car and we drove home. She didn’t speak at all until we walked into the house.

I’d moved to sit on the couch, my feet dangling about a mile above the carpet.

“Why would you rip out your cousin’s hair,
mi’ja
? Your auntie says you yanked out a huge handful!”

“She called me names,” I said, glaring up at my mother.

“Oh? So that makes it fine to destroy another person’s head?”

“She called me a bastard.” I yelled the word into my mother’s face. A fierce jolt of satisfaction shot through me when her face went slack. I didn’t know exactly what the word meant, but I’d already figured out it was bad. Mom’s reaction confirmed my suspicions.

“She—she says this to you?” My mom was fluent in English, but when she was flustered, her cadence reverted to her native Spanish.

I nodded before I flopped back on the couch, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Graciela said I couldn’t make a present for my father because I didn’t have one. She said I must have been so bad when I was a baby he took one look at me and ran away. That I was a bastard and a freak. No one wants a freak.”

I started to cry because I felt like it and because I’d already learned tears would keep me from a severe punishment. Mom sat down next to me and stroked my hair from my face.

“You do have a father. Of course you do.”

“He’s not here,” I wailed.

“Ah,
mi vida
. Life, it isn’t that simple.”

She cradled me gently in her arms while I wept against her shoulder. Those were big, ugly tears at the unfairness of life. I wanted a father, someone to curl his large, rough palm around my much smaller one when we crossed the street. Someone to cheer for me during the dance recitals I dreamed of performing in. My mom filled the role as best she could, but she wasn’t enough.

I wanted a daddy.

Her hands sifted through my long ponytail. Eventually, she took my face between her two hands.

“Your father is a powerful man,
mi’jita
. Some say too powerful. That makes others envious. They would hurt you to hurt him. We made the choice—you understand? We feared for you. I can’t regret knowing him, for he gave me you. But . . .”

Her eyes turned cloudy, dulling the usually bright copper. Her mouth lifted in a wistful smile.

“I do wish we’d had more time to plan, to spend together as a family. You are his daughter so very thoroughly; I can just imagine the conversations you would have.”

“Does he want me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said it with complete faith, looking me straight in the eyes.

“Will I meet him?” I asked, excitement bubbling up into my chest.

She studied me, worrying her lower lip. “I pray no. If you do, I will have failed.”

We hadn’t talked about it again, but soon thereafter, my cousin Graciela and her family moved away. Different state. I never saw her again, and I never asked about my father who was too powerful to be one to me.

* * *

M
y heart ached
. I missed my mom.

Something shimmered in the dark. I shrank back in the chair, thinking of the way Coyote had landed in my yard that morning.

“I’ll take you to her.”

I couldn’t really make out the person speaking, but her voice reminded me of autumn leaves falling from the Aspens near our home. I’d never liked that hike—the beautiful golden mountain losing its gorgeous color to the dirty piles of brown clogging the mountain trails. I placed the ice cream container and spoon on the ground and stood to see the speaker better.

“Who are you?” I called.

Should I even be talking to someone out here? Was it like the videos I’d seen as a child—the ones that talked about the trouble a child could get into just by opening a door? I took a step back, closer to the house wall and the door.

“A friend. Zeke and I go way back.” This time, her voice was sultry, like a summer breeze.

“He’ll return soon. I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk with you then.”

She stepped forward enough for me to make out pale, iridescent eyes. They glowed like full moons from her thin, shadowed face.

I pressed tighter to the cool adobe wall of the house.

“You’re so small,” she said. “I don’t see the appeal.”

Gah. I’d just been thinking about mean girls. Some didn’t outgrow the stage. “Um, well, duly noted.”

“Come on. Coyote’s left her alone. We can get her out.”

Need tangled with caution. What should I do? The woman kept walking. I could barely see her outline.

Cursing, I followed. No way could I leave my mom out there. She could be hurt . . . even tortured.

I walked to the fence line. Once again, I hesitated. Zeke had told me to stay here, no matter what. So had Layla.

“Um, you know . . .”

I didn’t see her anymore. Instead, four sets of eyes blinked from the night. They glowed—nacreous. I stumbled back, my heart leaping in short, frantic bursts.

Strange sparks lit up the patio. Like millions of fireflies swarming into the yard in one smooth, sliding dance. The air around me crackled with energy—the same type I’d felt when I stood on the top of Atalaya Mountain in a thunderstorm. In less than a second, the light faded. My eyes sought something there, in the dark. I could feel warmth, hear a breath.

“What is it?” Zeke appeared seemingly out of nowhere. His dark eyes were trained on me, and heat crept upward from my chest, slowly inching to my hairline.

“Eyes. Big. Out there.” I waved my hand toward the fence.

He spun on his heel, facing toward where I’d pointed, and drew that long spear from his back.

“Stay here.”

“No way. I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t have time—” He cut off when one of the sets of eyes slunk closer from the left. Its head jumped from just inches off the ground to as tall as me. Another set of eyes drifted in from my right.

“How do you kill them?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.