Echo Soul Seekers

warm and glowing as a kiss.
    My heart flutters.
    My lungs bubble with breath.
    And the next thing I know, I’m crashing through a glorious silken spun web—bursting into a world of bright golden light.

 
    season of miracles

 
    epilogue
    Axel
    The girl lies bleeding in my arms.
    Her brown shiny hair spilling over my shoulder—the pink of her cheeks fading as quickly as the life force within her.
    Still, she is beautiful.
    Far more beautiful up close.
    Inquisitive too.
    And though I long to reassure her, it serves no purpose to lie to her.
    She teeters on the edge of the abyss. Stands a very good chance of tumbling in.
    I press a finger to her lips and urge her toward silence. She can’t afford the luxury of speaking and thinking—can’t afford to expend the much-needed energy.
    When her eyes flutter closed, I tighten my hold.
    Every inhalation a prayer: Save her! Spare her!
    Every exhalation indulging a long-dormant rage—cursing the lot of them.
    She didn’t deserve this.
    Never stood a chance against them. And, as it turns out, neither did I. Having failed in my bid to help her—look after her—guide her.
    Though it’s not over yet.
    I gaze upward, our destination still so far away. And though her heart continues to beat, it seems only to do so in order to pump more blood from her wound.
    She’s fading.
    There’s no way she’ll make it.
    Yet she still summons the strength to ask if it’s snowing—hoping to leave a gift for her friends.
    Ready to surrender to death just as soon as I confirm it. A trace of a smile lifting her cheeks as she rolls toward the edge.
    And though I know it’s wrong—though I’ve been warned many times before—it doesn’t stop me from cupping her face in my hands and molding my lips tightly to hers.
    My silent plea for forgiveness, chased by a single life-restoring breath.

 
    Paloma
    “Come to the window, cariño. It’s snowing. Looks like Daire has done it after all.”
    Chay looks at me, waiting patiently. But when I fail to join him, he crosses the room to the battered old table where I hunch over a book that’s been part of my life for so long, I can no longer remember a time before it.
    “What are you looking at?” He rubs a comforting hand over my back.
    I nod toward the codex. Robbed of my words along with my breath. Unsure if what I’m seeing is real, or if I’m merely a tired old woman gone suddenly mad. Needing him to confirm either way, and secretly hoping for the latter.
    His whispered “My God” providing all the proof that I need to know it’s not me.
    His strong arms fold around me, though it’s not enough to buffer me from the truth.
    It really is happening.
    A long-foretold future has gone into limbo.
    The two of us huddle together, gazing upon the ancient tome. Watching as words that have remained there for centuries, slowly lift from the page.
    Leaving a large blank space where the prophecy stood.
    “What does it mean?” Chay’s haunted eyes search mine.
    I pull my red cardigan tightly around me and look toward a window framing a flurry of snow that falls from the sky.
    Reluctant to admit I don’t know what it means.
    I haven’t a clue.
    For the first time in a long time, the answers elude me.

 
    Phyre
    We’re more than halfway home when the snow begins to fall.
    More than halfway home before my dad decides to acknowledge my presence in his car.
    “Is it safe to assume you failed?” he asks in a voice as stern as his face—as stern as the harsh black suit that he wears.
    I press my forehead to the window, stare into a wide expanse of night now glinting with white.
    “Answer me!” He slams hard on the brakes. Stops the car right in the middle of the road, as though we’re the only ones on it. We are.
    I press hard against the door, shoulders cringing inward. I’m in for it now.
    I sneak a hand to my face, erasing the few tears I’ve indulged in before he can see them, knowing that’ll just make it worse.
    This is my role. It’s not like I don’t know the part. I’ve been rehearsing since I was a child, since the day he pointed his finger at me, declaring that between me and my sisters, I was his Chosen One.
    “Well?” he demands, refusing to move on until I provide the answer he seeks.
    “It’s not as easy as you think,” I say, regretting it the instant it’s out. It’s too defensive. Puts the blame more on him than me. I should know better. That sort of tactic never goes over well.
    “Is that so?” He