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 onl
y 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.
She looks like several nationalities got together and decided to donate their most celebrated physical traits to one person, and she’s the result.
“Who’s that with them?” Jennika nudges my arm. “The one standing next to Jacy?”
I continue to stare, wondering why they all seem to know her—why she keeps looking at Dace. And why Dace can hardly bring himself to return the look.
About to probe deeper, try for one of those impressions, if only to get a read on the situation, when I catch myself. Stop myself. If anything, I should be building walls between us, not knocking them down.
Jennika’s voice drones on, providing a long list of what’s meant to be helpful hints on how to handle this breakup with my friends in order to gain the upper hand. Stopping only when I say, “Jennika—”
She looks at me, face expectant.
I gnaw hard on my lip, force myself to swallow the angry retort that comes far too easily. The one about boundaries—about allowing me the freedom to make my own mistakes my own way. The one where I remind her that she can’t protect me from everything no matter how hard she tries. Instead, I just slip free of the car and wave to her from the curb. Watching as she exits the lot before I make for Chay’s old blue truck parked at the side of the building, just under the cartoon picture of a wizard, our school mascot. This was what Paloma was hinting at.
“Get in.” He leans across the seat to prop open my door. “Paloma’s waiting. Looks like you’ve got more training to do.”
I climb in beside him, and despite knowing better, I can’t keep from taking one last look at Dace as Chay pulls onto the street.
Can’t help but notice how quickly he senses me looking.
How swiftly he turns to meet my gaze.
I sink into the moment—allowing myself to bask in his presence.
Until I remember the high price of loving him and force myself to look away.
twenty-three
Dace
I sense her the second her mom pulls into the lot.
The rush of her energy, like a cocktail for the senses that leaves me thirsting for more.
So absorbed by Daire’s presence, I almost miss it when Lita says, “… and then I’m like, Phyre?” She reenacts a scene from the day before, dramatizing the same expressions, the same hair swing, so we can see it just like it happened. Going on to add, “And sure enough, it was her. She’s back in Enchantment. Can you even believe that? I could’ve sworn they were gone for good.”
“Phyre?” I stare at Lita, though I don’t really focus. The name alone is enough to reel me into a past I’d long since buried. Hardly ever think about.
Lita shakes her head, shoots me a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Um, hello? Yes, Phyre. What do you think I’ve been going on about?” She looks at everyone else, making a face she thinks I can’t see even though I’m standing directly in front of her.
“So, she’s back?” I say, knowing the question will only serve to annoy her, but I missed the details the first time around. I need the confirmation that it is what I think.
She adopts an overtly patient expression and the tone to match. Acting as though she’s been left to deal with a difficult child who needs everything carefully explained. “I saw her in town yesterday. She’s definitely back. She’s even coming to Milagro. Said she’ll start up after Winter Break…”
She goes on from there, but I’ve already stopped listening. I’ve heard all I need to.
Phyre.
Here.
At Milagro.
I try to shake free of the thought, but it clings at the edges. Encouraging the blur of long-forgotten pictures that form in my head. The slideshow unfolding to the soundtrack of my own voice, warning: You can never go back. And why would you want to?
Then, just after I think it, I realize I wouldn’t.
Go back.
Not ever.
“Wow,” Xotichl says. Always amazing me with her ability to pack so much meaning into one single, seemingly innocuous word. Her head tilts toward me, no doubt reading my energy. Trying to assess how I’m taking the news. What it means to me—what it means for Daire.
I respond to her head tilt with a shrug. Hoping she’ll sense it and rest assured that the news means nothing. I may find it interesting. Unexpected. But no more.
“Speaking of…” Jacy gestures toward the place where Phyre climbs out of a dusty white car. Her eyes lighting upon us, her face breaking into a smile.
She’s changed. Looks really different from the way I remember. Her hair is still wild, but the red streaks are new. And she’s definitely taller. Prettier too. Like the baby fat that once padded her cheeks migrated to other, more womanly places, allowing her face to rearrange itself into a series of sharp pleasing angles and curves.
I swipe a hand over my chin. Try to stop looking, but it’s no use. It’s like watching a ghost swoop down from the past, and all I can do is stand there and stare. Reminding myself it meant nothing, we were just kids, didn’t really know what we were doing.
Okay, maybe not exactly kids.
Kids don’t do what we did.
Still, a lot of time has passed. And during that time, a lot of things have changed. Actually, everything’s changed. Or at least it has for me. And, from the looks of her, she’s met with change too.
She says hello, allowing her gaze to move among us, before landing on me, where it stays long enough to take a full inventory. Holding the look just a few seconds too long—long enough for everyone to notice—before she clears her throat and says, “So … does this mean you guys are all friends now? How did that happen?”
“Daire made it happen.” Xotichl tilts her chin and scrunches her nose as she accesses Phyre’s energy. And from the way she fails to relent, I’m guessing she doesn’t approve of what she sees. “Daire is Dace’s girlfriend.” The words so unmistakably pointed, Phyre rubs her lips together and shifts her gaze to her feet.
“Then I’m sure she’s amazing,” Phyre says, her eyes glittering just a little too brightly. “So, can anyone show me where the office is? I need to register.”
She turns her focus on me, hoping I’ll volunteer, but I pretend not to hear. I just watch as Lita nudges Jacy hard in the side, and a second later she and Crickett are leading her away.
Barely making it out of earshot when Xotichl frowns, and Lita says, “I don’t like this.” She stares after them, lips twitching from side to side. “I don’t like what it could possibly mean for me.” Her words purposely leading, practically begging Xotichl and me to ask her to explain. But we know we don’t need to. Lita has every intention to continue. She’s merely filtering the thoughts in her head. “I mean, look how she just waltzes right up and blends in. She was always flitting from clique to clique, blending with everyone so flippin’ easily. It took me years to even consider acknowledging you guys.” She stops, realizes what she just said. Then shrugging, she adds, “No offense. But still…”
She drones on, weighing the pros and cons of Phyre’s sudden reappearance—how it might impact her own popularity. Either compl
etely unaware that no one’s really listening—or well beyond caring that Xotichl’s lost in her own train of thoughts, as I fight like hell not to turn around and look at Daire.
Part of me aching to see her—part of me knowing it’s the last thing we need.
Unfortunately, the first part wins. Driven by the weight of Daire’s gaze upon me, begging me to turn. To look. And, without further hesitation, I do.
And I keep on looking long after Chay drives her away, blotting her out of my view.
twenty-four
Daire
“Once kindled, Fire is fast acting and quick to consume all in its path. It burns, scorches, singes, and transforms by altering the structure of all that it touches. In moderation, it provides comfort, warmth, and illumination. In excess, it blazes an unholy path of destruction.”
Paloma bends toward the row of hand-dipped candles she’s placed on the battered wooden table in her office. Their wicks sizzling and sparking when met with the flaming end of the long wooden match she wields in her hand.
“Fire can also be used for scrying.” She looks at me, a small smile lighting her eyes. “Most any object can be used in this way, but fire adds a certain intensity, a certain animated quality you don’t often get from a rock or a crystal. So, tell me, nieta, when you look into the flame, what do you see?”
I purse my lips and peer at the line of candles before me. Trying to take the exercise seriously, since there’s so much at stake, but still not wanting to lie, I say, “Probably not what you want me to see.” Lifting my shoulders when I add, “There’s a base of blue that leads to a yellow-white tip that wavers about.”
“Good.” She grins. “That’s all you’re meant to see. Or at least for the moment, anyway. Much like you did with the pendulum, you will ask the Fire a question. But instead of the yes or no response of the pendulum, the Fire will show you images that will provide the information you seek.”
I lift a brow, knowing better than to question her. Still, these lessons just seem to get weirder and weirder.