Fated

“Well, for the record, the cover wasn’t exactly flattering, and the story wasn’t true. But it’s not like anyone ever cares about that. The more salacious the better. Why wreck a potentially blockbuster issue with the cold, hard facts?” I shake my head, determined to not just locate that secret portal but also to find my way inside no matter what Paloma says. The sooner I can locate the source of El Coyote’s power, the sooner I can destroy it, complete my job as a Seeker, and get back to my life as I knew it.
    “But see, that’s what you don’t get,” Xotichl says. “Lita and the Cruel Crew—otherwise known as Crickett and Jacy—well, they don’t care if it’s flattering. They only care that you were in the same general vicinity as Vane Wick . And, while we’re on the subject, what was that like?”
    I shake my head, thinking: Et tu, Xotichl? Only to glance over my shoulder to see just about every girl in the room, every guy too, staring at me, presumably wondering the same thing, so I might as well get used to explaining. “It wasn’t nearly as good as most people want to believe,” I tell her, knowing that’s about as false as the story on the cover of that tabloid. From what I remember, Vane was a damn good kisser. So good I came very close to doing something I would’ve regretted. But the fact that he so easily betrayed me, means that from this point on, that’s the story I’ll stick with.
    Xotichl laughs, facing the stage when she says, “Yeah, I had a feeling about that.”
    A moment later, the lights dim and Auden stands before us with a guitar strapped to his front. “This one’s for Xotichl,” he says. “Actually, they’re all for Xotichl.”
    His fingertips meet the chords, causing a crescendo of music to swell through the room, as I lean toward Xotichl and say, “I’m gonna take a walk, have a look around. I’ll find you later, okay?”
    Already moving away, when she catches my wrist, her face grim, voice competing with Auden’s strumming guitar and plaintive wail when she says, “Careful out there. Cade’s here.”

thirty-two
    A crush of teens surge toward the stage. So many it forces me to shove my way through, mumbling, “Excuse me,” over and over again until I finally burst free and smack straight into Dace.
    My body slamming so hard into his, it sets him off balance. His fingers going for my arm in an attempt to steady me, steady himself, when he says, “You okay there?”
    I nod. Look away. Unable to reply—unable to meet his gaze. My immediate field of awareness narrowed to the space where his hand clutches my arm—reducing the world outside to blurred shapes, white noise.
    “That’s the second time you’ve smacked into me here—must be a sign.” He grins, eyes shining, as his skin fans at the sides. The two of us suspended—staring hard at each other—until I release myself from his grip, break free of the spell, immersed in a whirl of music and people swarming all around us. “The last time you seemed a little out of it—in a bit of a hurry,” he says, looking chagrined when I fail to respond. “So you probably don’t remember.”
    “I remember.” I nod. Wanting to say: I remember everything—all of it—the question is: Do you? But instead, I stare down at my feet, smiling stupidly. Everything I do around him is stupid. Some Seeker I’ve turned out to be. Attempting to redeem myself, say something normal, not let on that I already know he’s employed here—thanks to the raven who allowed me to spy on him earlier, I say, “So, I guess you hang out here a lot then?”
    He pushes a hand through his hair, as his eyes—the color of aquamarines—glide down the length of me. And damn if I can’t feel their trajectory. It’s like showering in a stream of warm, molten honey—dripping from the top of my forehead all the way down to my feet. “I guess you could say that,” he says, voice low and deep. “More than most, anyway.” He waves a damp towel, tugs on the string of his apron, and I blush in reply. The sight of it reminding me of what I saw in the alleyway—watching him lean against the wall, his face so soft and dreamy I longed to touch him—kiss him—like I did in the dream.
    I study him closely, seeking traces of recognition, remembrance—some small token of evidence to assure me that, as odd as it seems, that kiss in the cave was as real as it felt—but coming up empty.
    “So, how long have you worked here?” I ask,