Fated

so blue, I have to force myself to meet them. “Me? An entourage?” He laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. “It really is your first day, isn’t it?” He lowers his arm, allowing the strands to fall to his shoulders when he adds, “At any rate, welcome to Milagro. This school’s not really known for being hospitable, so I doubt anyone got around to saying that.”
    “Your twin did.” I meet his gaze, striving to get a deeper, more reliable impression than the first time around, but all I get is that same cloud of kindness and love, so I turn away, force it from my mind.
    “Guess good manners run in the family. Who would’ve thought?” He laughs, quick to chase it with “Oh, and sorry if I didn’t mention it before, but I’m Dace.”
    He shoots me an expectant look, but I offer no response. If he really is a Richter, and there’s no doubt he is, he’s been made all too aware of my arrival. According to Paloma, they’ve been waiting for some sign of me ever since Django’s demise.
    “Just in case you’re wondering how this class works.” He moves past the snub. “You can work on whatever you want, and if you choose not to work, at least try to make it look like you’re busy. Coach Sanchez will be out of here soon, but see that camera at the front?”
    My eyes follow the length of his thumb as it jabs toward a point just beyond. The two of us peering into the eye of a camera perched dead center over the chalkboard—an all-seeing, unblinking eye recording all of our actions.
    “Get out of line and they got you on video.” He lifts a brow and rolls his eyes. “This was supposed to be an art class. That’s what I signed up for, anyway. But when the budget got slashed, art and the teacher who taught it were the very first casualties. No one cares about the arts in this town—it’s all about sports and the people who play them. So now, instead of drawing and painting, we have independent study hall, a surly coach who takes roll, and a camera to record all our actions. Though I’m sure it was probably the same thing at your last school?”
    I shrug, refusing to either confirm or deny, refusing to engage any more than I have. I’m too freaked by his presence—too angry with Paloma for her failure to prepare me for him. My fingers seeking the pouch I wear at my neck, reassured by the faint outline of the feather and Raven, before reaching for the waterlogged paperback I’ve been trying to finish since that mess in Morocco. Immersing myself in the magickal world the author created, scribbling notes in the corner, underlining favored passages, and doodling in the margins, until the bell rings again and I’m free.
    It’s over.
    I made it.
    It was never a given. There were definitely moments I wasn’t so sure.
    I shove my book in my bag and shoot for the exit. Surprised to find Dace just beside me, holding the door, and motioning for me to go first.
    It’s such a kind and decent thing to do in a day that’s been anything but—I can’t help but soften toward him. And when I accidentally brush up against him as I make my way out, I can’t help the way my breath hitches, the way my heart skips a few beats, the way all of my nerve endings seem to ignite—all because of his touch.
    “You never told me your name,” he says, his voice so hauntingly familiar it causes a rush of heat to blanket my skin.
    I sigh, staring blankly down the hall when I say, “Psycho Girl—Psycho Horseback Singing Girl…” I shrug. “I’ve heard it both ways.”
    He squints. His hand reaching for my shoulder, then falling away the instant he catches the look of reproach on my face.
    “Look,” I say, knowing I need to stop him before he can go any further. His kindness will only distract me at a time when I need to stay focused. “I’ve had a really bad day. And if my calculations are right, I have three hundred and eight more, give or take, before I get to graduate and get the heck out of this place. So, why don’t you just call me whatever you want. Everyone else does. It’s not like it matters…” My cheeks go hot, my eyes start to sting, and I know I’m rambling like a lunatic, but I can’t seem to stop, can’t seem to care. The world’s most socially inept Seeker—that’s me in a nutshell.
    “Don’t let them reduce you to that,” he says, his gaze intense, his voice surprising me with its sincerity, its urgency. “Don’t let them define how you see yourself, or your place here. And