Fated

by Alyson Noel

  “It’s all yours,” he says. And when he lifts his head and smiles, my heart just about leaps from my chest.

  It’s the boy from my dreams.

  The boy from the Rabbit Hole, the gas station, and the cave—sitting before me with those same amazing, icy-blue eyes, those same alluring lips I’ve kissed multiple times—but only in slumber, never in waking life.

  I scold my heart to settle, but it doesn’t obey.

  I admonish myself to sit, to act normal, casual—and I just barely succeed.

  Stealing a series of surreptitous looks as I search through my backpack, taking in his square chin, wide generous lips, strong brow, defined cheekbones, and smooth brown skin—the exact same features as Cade.

  “You’re the new girl, right?” He abandons his book, tilting his head in a way that causes his hair to stream over his shoulder, so glossy and inviting it takes all of my will not to lean across the table and touch it.

  I nod in reply, or at least I think I do. I can’t be too sure. I’m too stricken by his gaze—the way it mirrors mine—trying to determine if he knows me, recognizes me, if he’s surprised to find me here. Wishing Paloma had better prepared me—focused more on him and less on his brother.

  I force my gaze from his. Bang my knee hard against the table as I swivel in my seat. Feeling so odd and unsettled, I wish I’d picked another place to sit, though it’s pretty clear no other table would have me.

  He buries his smile and returns to the book. Allowing a few minutes to pass, not nearly enough time for me to get a grip on myself, when he looks up and says, “Are you staring at me because you’ve seen my doppelganger roaming the halls, playing king of the cafeteria? Or because you need to borrow a pencil and you’re too shy to ask?”

  I clear the lump from my throat, push the words past my lips when I say, “No one’s ever accused me of being shy.” A statement that, while steeped in truth, stands at direct odds with the way I feel now, sitting so close to him. “So I guess it’s your twin—or doppelganger, as you say.” I keep my voice light, as though I’m not at all affected by his presence, but the trill note at the end gives me away. Every part of me now vibrating with the most intense surge of energy—like I’ve been plugged into the wall and switched on—and it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing hold of his shirt, demanding to know if he dreamed the dreams too.

  He nods, allowing an easy, cool smile to widen his lips. “We’re identical,” he says. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed. Though it’s easy enough to tell us apart. For one thing, he keeps his hair short. For another—”

  “The eyes—” I blurt, regretting the words the instant they’re out. From the look on his face, he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Yours are … kinder.” My cheeks burn so hot I force myself to look away, as words of reproach stampede my brain.

  Why am I acting like such an inept loser? Why do I insist on embarrassing myself—in front of him—of all people?

  I have to pull it together. I have to remember who I am—what I am—and what I was born to do. Which is basically to crush him and his kind—or, at the very least, to temper the damage they do.

  He shoots me an odd look, moving right past my words when he says, “What I was going to say is we’re only identical on the outside, inside is a whole other story. He’s far more social, always surrounded by large crowds of fawning admirers who follow him around like some kind of starstruck entourage.”

  “And you don’t have one of those—an entourage?” I ask, wondering how that could possibly be. With his good looks and easy demeanor, he’s way more attractive than his brother.

  I shake my head. Clear the thought from my mind. No matter how cute he may be, no matter how kind his energy seems, he’s still a Richter—a bona fide member of the El Coyote clan. He’s someone to keep a close eye on, but no more.

  He leans toward me, his eyes so piercing, 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 th
em 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 if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m not hard to find. I’m either in class, reading in the library, or eating lunch in the North hallway.”

  The second he says it, my gaze flies down the length of him. Slipping past a gray V-neck tee and dark denim jeans, not the least bit surprised when I land on the same heavy, black, thick-soled shoes I spied earlier.

  Then before he can say anything more, I’m gone. Trying to ignore the comforting stream of kindness and love that swarms all around me.

  These impressions as Paloma calls them, may come in handy in my life as a Seeker, but if I don’t get a handle on them in my life as a student, if I don’t learn to control them, they’ll have me labeled as a much bigger freak than I already am.

  Not that I should care what any of my classmates think—it’s not like they made such a stellar impression on me.

  I push through the double doors and into the light. Taking in the rush of activity—people hugging and saying good-bye, carrying on like they’ll never see each other again, before hurrying to catch buses, or meet up with the long line of cars that trail along the curb. A few of them unlocking bikes, fewer still choosing to walk, and I can’t help but regret my decision to tell Chay not to come get me. I don’t have it figured out nearly as much as I’d thought.

  Despite my newly honed skills and burgeoning magick, when it comes to navigating the rules of high school, I’ve never felt so lost and inadequate.

  I can skip down the Spirit Road, survive a brutal vision quest—but can I handle high school? Not even close. The thought makes me laugh.

  Though, unfortunately, the laugh wasn’t just confined to my head, and before I know it, I’m met with a chorus of: “Psycho!”

  The girls are back. Back in formation with Lita standing tall in the center, flanked by her sidekicks. She shakes her head in disdain, while the other two snicker. But as much as they’re committed to hating me, the boys remain undecided, their eyes narrowed as they take a full inventory. Willing to risk whatever wrath their interest evokes, simply because I’m a new girl in a school where everyone knows everyone.

  I take a deep breath, prepping myself for another round with Lita and company, when Cade saunters up from behind, addressing me when he says, “Sorry you had such a tough day. Milagro’s not used to newcomers.” Winking when he adds, “Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow offers a fresh new start, as they say. I look forward to seeing you then, Daire Santos.” He starts to turn away, then stops just as quickly as though a new thought occurred to him. “It is Santos now, right?” His mouth tugs at the side. “You no longer go by Lyons?”

  He pauses, waiting for me to confirm it, but I don’t. Can’t. His words leave me stunned.

  Meeting my silence with a flash of his most practiced, most devastating smile, he leads the group away, as I stay rooted in place, left to grapple with his words—the fact that he knows more about me than he rightfully should.

  Knows more about me than I know about him, and it’s time Paloma caught me up—nothing but full disclosure will do.

  I watch him fade into the distance, disappearing into the student lot, where I assume he’s parked his truck. Just about to get moving again, when I’m stopped by a girl’s voice calling out, “Hey, Daire—you need a ride?” And I turn to find Xotichl, wondering how she could possibly know my name when I never told her, never told anybody. Not that anyone cares, they’ve already christened me Psycho, and I’m pretty sure it’ll stick.

  “So, do you?” She stops before me, as I hesitate, unsure what to say.

  While I could certainly use a lift, I’m not so sure I’m willing to accept the offer. She seems to know an awful lot about me, even about Cade’s interest in me—all without being able to see—and it kind of gives me the creeps.

  “I know where you live,” she says, which is not reassuring. “It’s not all that out of the way either. Well, maybe a little. But not to worry, I’m a really good driver.” She smiles. “I may be vision impaired, but all of my other senses are more than enough to compensate. In fact, if it makes you feel any better, you should know that I’ve only had one accident that I was charged with being legally responsible for. One out of five.” She shakes her head. “Not bad odds if I say so myself.”

  When she gets to that last part, the jig is up. I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to remove the sting of discomfort her disability brings out in others, by making light of it, treating it as though it’s something to joke about. And it breaks my heart so much I just smile and say, “Sure, thanks for offering.” Noting the grin that brightens her face as I walk alongside her. “In fact, you’re way ahead of me. I’ve yet to get my license, much less my permit.”

  “I know.” She turns in my general direction when she adds, “I know because Paloma told me.”

  “So that’s it.” I laugh. “You know Paloma.” I shake my head, remembering the time I saw Paloma ushering a girl with a red-tipped cane into a dusty sedan after my first horseback ride with Chay and instantly realizing it was Xotichl. “That explains everything.”

  “Well, I know you’re her granddaughter. I know she was so excited about your coming to stay, she told me all about you, described you in great detail. You’ve had one glamorous life.” She shakes her head and whistles through her teeth. “What was it like growing up on all of those movie sets? Was it as cool as it sounds?”

  I hesitate, wavering between answering honestly and giving her the answer she most wants to hear. People always get so excited by the Hollywood thing, assuming it’s way more glamorous than it actually is. Eventually settling on some semblance of truth when I say, “It was just life as I knew it. I had nothing else to compare it to.” Though still not willing to let her off the hook when I add, “So, how did you know it was me? You know, this morning in the hall?”

  She presses her lips together, takes a moment to decide on her answer. “I read energy, which means I don’t need to see someone’s face to sense what mood they’re in. Some call it intuitive vision—some call it blindsight. And I hate to break it to you, Daire, but you definitely exhibited a classic case of new-girl nerves. Your vibes were all over the place.” She laughs in a way that urges me to laugh along with her.

  “Well, I guess I can’t deny that,” I say. “But that still doesn’t explain how you knew Cade was into me.” I study her carefully, figuring the more info I can gather on him, the better. There’s so much Paloma hasn’t told me.

  Noting the way Xotichl’s face darkens, the way she turns away, making for the big, iron gate, her cane sweeping before her with newfound urgency. “It’s like I said, I can read energy,” she tells me, moving three steps ahead before she nods over her shoulder and adds, “Hurry now, our ride’s here.”

  twenty-seven

  As it turns out, Xotichl’s ride is a really cute guy with sandy blond hair and soft brown eyes, driving an old, beater, wood-paneled station wagon that, despite its dilapidated state, turns out to be a welcome change from all the trucks, Jeeps, and SUVs everyone else seems to drive around here.

  “This is Daire, the one I told you about,” Xotichl tells him as he helps her into the passenger side, while I slide onto the seat just behind them.

  “Aw, Paloma’s nieta,” he says, pronouncing the word perfectly, even though he doesn’t look the least bit Hispanic. Then again, neither do I, despite the fact that it constitutes a good bit of my bloodline. “I’m Auden, like the poet, named after the poet. So, how was day one? Did Xotichl show you the sights?”

  “There are sights?” I joke, aware of the pang in my gut when he leans toward her, brushes her bangs from her eyes, and gazes upon her with such open admiration, I can’t help but look away.

  It’s a shame she can’t see it. It’s the kind of look most girls can only dream about. But the way she meets it with a smile, the way she leans into hi
s touch, it’s clear she wasn’t kidding about the blindsight, she doesn’t miss a thing. If anything, she’s reading the energy of it—of him. The energy so palpable, I can feel it back here.

  “How long have you guys known each other?” I ask, trying to get the conversational ball rolling as Auden steers the big boat of a wagon away from the curb and onto the street.

  “Forever,” he says. “I can’t remember a single day without her.”

  Xotichl laughs, gives his shoulder a playful slap. Head tilted in my direction when she says, “We met last year. It was love at first sight. But unfortunately, my mom doesn’t quite see it that way. She doesn’t approve.”

  I look at Auden, taking a quick mental inventory. He’s cute, sweet, and obviously lives to breathe the same air as Xotichl—what could possibly be the problem?

  “I’m in a band … left high school early only to drop out of college…” Auden shrugs, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

  “How old are you?” I ask, having assumed Xotichl was a junior like me, but maybe she’s older. Maybe he is too. This town has no shortage of illusions, that’s for sure.

  “Seventeen—” He starts to continue, but Xotichl butts in.

  “For the record, he’s a prodigy. Left Milagro at fifteen to go to the university. He’s being ridiculously humble,” she says, ruffling her hand through his hair.

  “I was a full semester into it when I decided it wasn’t for me. I love music.” He shifts in his seat, looks at me. “I didn’t want to study music, I wanted to create music. Music and Xotichl—that’s my life—it’s all that I need.” He lifts his hand from the wheel, pulls her closer until their shoulders bump together.

  “It’s all true, except the last part. He loves music more than me,” Xotichl says, squealing with delight when he leans in to kiss her, the sudden move causing the car to swerve slightly out of the lane before Auden rights it again.