Echo Soul Seekers

Having tolerated more than enough of her manipulative game.
    “Does that mean you don’t want Cade dead?” She cocks her head, buries the tip of her tongue in the corner of her lip, challenging me with her gaze.
    It’s a gaze I hold for too long.
    While the words are right—the energy’s wrong.
    I consider a soul jump. Promising myself I’ll be brief. But nix it just as quickly. I can’t afford to do anything that might compromise the work I’ve already done. Besides, I’m pretty sure there won’t be much to see. It’s obvious she’s been listening to gossip. Thinks that claiming to share my newfound hatred for Cade is a sure way to get with me.
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell her, and this time I succeed in walking away.
    My eyes briefly meet Daire’s as I make for the door. A mistake I shouldn’t have made. Knowing I can’t cross the room to be with her leaves me feeling more isolated than ever.
    I shove my hands in my pockets and exit the club. Ducking against the constant veil of drizzle as I make my way to the old chain-link fence, seeking assurance from that little gold lock.
    Needing to see if the symbol of our love is still right where we left it—stronger than the forces bent on destroying it.
    Wanting one last reminder before I find Cade.

 
    forty-two
    Daire
    I slip down the alleyway, sneak around the crowd of people taking part in the candlelight vigil, and move toward a place in back where no one can watch as I clasp my pouch tightly and call upon the elements. Summoning Air, Fire, Water, and Earth, I sing their individual songs under my breath and beg for their favor. Pleading with them to do me this one small bidding. Bestow the gift of a Christmas snowfall for a beleaguered town and its people, who because of my failings—my failure to sacrifice Paloma’s soul, my failure to evict all the Richters from the Lowerworld—have suffered far more than anyone rightfully should.
    A rustle of wind lashes my hair. A surge of flame licks a path near my feet, leaving a trail of freshly scorched earth.
    Though the promise of snow is soon dashed when the light steady drizzle increases to a hard sheet of rain.
    I sigh in frustration. Bury my face in mitten-covered hands. Unwilling to reenter the club and face my friends, I head for the chain-link fence. Hoping to lift my spirits by confirming the lock is right where I left it, I round the corner only to find Dace there instead. One hand gripping the lock, the other fidgeting with the key that hangs from his neck.
    My knees go feeble and weak, buckling beneath me.
    My hand instinctively flies to my chest, as though to keep my heart caged, keep it from leaping free of my flesh.
    While my eyes remain riveted on the very thing I’d hoped to never see.
    Dace—holding the lock—wielding the key.
    Dace giving up on us—giving up on me.
    He turns, sensing my presence as his eyes light on mine. One look at my grief-stricken face enough to prompt him to drop the key, abandon the lock, and call out my name—but I’m already gone.
    Already turning away.
    Catching a glimpse of Phyre watching from the shadows, her eyes strange and glittering as they stare into mine.
    I veer toward her. Deciding Lita’s right, it’s time I confront her, demand to know what she’s up to—what it is that she wants. Having just reached her when the rain ceases and becomes something else.
    Something lighter.
    Drier.
    Something that lands in small white squares at my feet.
    I lift my chin, close my eyes, and allow it to drift softly onto my cheeks.
    Heart soaring in triumph—knowing I did this—I’m responsible—it’s because of me that it’s snowing!
    Excited shouts reverberate all around me, as the club empties into the alleyway, crowding the street. Throngs of people pushing and shoving, eager to get to it first—to take part in the miracle, my miracle, the one that I wrought. Voices overlapping, they call, “Snow! It’s snowing—you’ve got to come see it!”
    I turn, searching for Dace, needing to see his reaction. Finding him still beside the fence with his hands splayed before him, welcoming the bright white squares that fall onto his flesh.
    His chin lifting, gaze darkening, as he motions to me—urges me to see what he sees.
    It’s not at all what we think.
    Snow is crisp. Pure. Wet.
    It doesn’t smudge.
    Doesn’t leave a trail of charcoal when rubbed.
    Only ash can do that.
    We gaze at each other, separated by a shroud of