Echo Soul Seekers

my soul would be darkened by grief?
    Whatever her reason, there’s no doubt my soul could use a little darkening. If I’ve any hope of overcoming the circumstance of my birth—overcoming my demonic brother—then a little soul tarnish might come in handy.
    Don’t fight fire with fire, Paloma said. Claiming it comes to no good.
    But how else am I supposed to fight?
    Am I expected to glow so bright and good that Cade’s destroyed by the sheer blinding sight of me?
    Am I supposed to sit back and do nothing—allow my brother to kill Daire by stealing her soul like he did in my dreams? A dream I mistook for a nightmare. Couldn’t imagine why I’d continually awaken, night after night, drenched in sweat and consumed with thoughts of a girl I’d never met.
    Until she ran into me that night at the Rabbit Hole, and the sight of her flipped my world upside down.
    Not long after that, when Leftfoot came to me, claiming that my turning sixteen meant it was time for my vision quest, I never imagined my quest would involve her.
    Never imagined I would travel to the cave of her vision quest, convincing her to stay put, to see it through. Showing her the kind of greatness she could one day achieve if she could only hang in there just a little bit longer.
    By the time it was over I was left with more questions than answers. What did it mean? Why was I there? Why hasn’t Daire ever once mentioned it? Not even the kiss that we shared?
    I glare at the Rabbit Hole with its stupid neon sign with the glowing arrow pointing down a steep flight of stairs.
    The Richters are idiots.
    When the portal failed to admit them to the Lowerworld, they tried to force their way in by digging deep into the earth. Not realizing they stood a better shot at reaching Australia than a mystical dimension inhabited by all things good.
    When they finally realized their stupidity, they decided to put it to use by turning it into Enchantment’s most happening place to hang out—Enchantment’s only place to hang out. The drunks on the upper level, the teens on the lowest level, and it’s a wall-to-wall crowd every night.
    But now, thanks to Cade stealing Paloma’s soul, and Daire’s inability to sacrifice her grandmother’s eternity for the greater good of all—they’ve found a way to breach the barrier. The story I was forced to cobble together from the scraps I managed to overhear—since everyone seems to think I need protecting, that I need to be shielded from the truth of my family.
    Do they really think I’m so freaking pure I can’t handle my own reality?
    And worse, do they truly believe I’m incapable of defending myself?
    I grip the wheel tighter, glaring at the side of the building as I punch hard on the gas, forcing the pedal all the way to the floor. Wanting nothing more than to crash through that fake adobe exterior, smash that stupid sign to bits, along with all the Richters inside.
    But at the very last moment, I swing a hard U and head away from downtown.
    Making my way to the reservation, in search of answers that are long overdue.

 
    fourteen
    Daire
    By the time we exit the liquor store with the cigarettes secured in my bag, Dace is gone. Hopefully headed back to school, having realized the huge risk he takes by following me.
    Thinking of me.
    Loving me.
    I follow Chay into the bookstore, where he proceeds to meander the aisles, peering at the kind of titles I’m pretty sure he has no interest in. Loitering in a way that makes me wonder why he decided to bring me here in the first place.
    When the redheaded woman working the register calls to some unseen person in back—saying something about heading over to Gifford’s to buy a roll of stamps—I can’t help but notice the way Chay perks up as she exits. Darting for the counter the second the door closes behind her, he approaches it with a purpose I can’t even fathom. Then smiles in greeting when a man with jet-black hair and eyes to match slips from behind the curtain, his gaze slanting toward me in question.
    “Daire Santos.” Chay bends his head toward me.
    “Lucio Whitefeather.” The man nods, gripping my hand in a nice, firm shake.
    “Whitefeather?” I glance between him and Chay.
    “Lucio is Leftfoot’s son,” Chay mumbles, as he guides me through the curtain, into a back room that, from the looks of it, seems to do triple duty as a storeroom, a break room, and a shipping center, judging by the number of large cardboard boxes strewn all about.
    “Good