Heart Seeker
The Fire Heart Chronicles Book 1
Juliana Haygert
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Juliana Haygert
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
First Edition June 2018
www.JulianaHaygert.com
Edited by H. Danielle Crabtree
Cover design by Ravven
Any trademark, service marks, product names, or names featured are the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms is used.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Thank you
About the Author
Also by Juliana Haygert
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoy reading Heart Seeker!
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1
Everyone had to do things they didn’t like. Grocery shopping, cleaning, ironing, answering calls—who still used the phone for that?—and, in my case, going across town. Unfortunately, it happened more often than I liked it to. In the thirteen months I had been living in Broken Hill, this was the fifth time I had to come here.
Pulling my jacket tighter, I hugged myself and stepped off the bus. The weather here still boggled my mind. It was August and it was supposed to be hot, but here, up north, deep in the woods of Connecticut, it never got hot enough, not like California, Texas, Florida, or the other places I had lived before. And most days, it was chilly enough in the mornings for a jacket.
I glanced around and my chest deflated. This side of town, Southend, was meager and busier, and it wasn’t uncommon for people to be robbed in the middle of the street. But the one place that sold cheap pointe shoes, which I currently needed, was right in the heart of this neighborhood. My pointe shoes had been broken for a few weeks, and I tried holding on to them as long as I could, but now they just hurt. A new pointe shoe wasn’t that expensive, but I needed to save every single penny I could to pay for my tuition.
Suck it up, Mirella, I told myself.
Sighing, I walked down the busy street, careful with the cracked, uneven sidewalk, and trying not to look around. And failing.
In a rapid speech, vendors chatted with shoppers in hopes of convincing them to buy more than they wanted. Kids played ball in the middle of the closed street. Women, half-hidden behind some of the shops, moved suggestively.
Like any other Sunday, Romani caravans had come out with their clans and filled the square, playing and dancing flamenco right in the center of the street. A crowd gathered around them, clapping in rhythm with the songs. Some of the women walked around the crowd, offering palm or tarot reading.
I lowered my head and kept walking. Why did this store need to be on the other side of the market? Shit.
Something tugged at me, deep inside, and I glanced around. One of the women, a brunette with long, brown curls, big, dark brown eyes, and red lipstick on plump lips fixed her gaze on me. She had big hoops in her ears and a pink bandana covering her hair. She smiled, and I ducked into the crowd, praying for her to leave me alone.
I stepped into an alley. A red door was open on the left and the sign on the wall read: The Everything Shop. Past the door, I went up one flight of stairs and through another red door. It really was the everything shop. Tall, overstuffed shelves that reached the ceiling crammed the space. Pots, pans, soap bars, portraits, toys, notebooks, plastic plates and cups, paper towels, over-the-counter medicine, greeting cards, clothes, bikes, skates, helmets, dance shoes, and everything in between. If they sold puppies, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“How can I help you?” a young woman asked.
I told her the model and size of the pointe shoes I was looking for. She found them in the back of the store and brought them out to me. I tried them on to make sure they fit before paying and darting out of the place.
Once outside, I lowered my head and stayed as far away from the Romani people as I could.
The woman wearing red lipstick and a pink bandana stepped in my way, making me halt.
“Hello there,” she said, smiling.
“Um, excuse me.” I stepped aside.
She let me pass, but she kept walking beside me. “I’m Esmeralda. Would you like to have your palm read?”
“No.”
“Oh, but it should be fun.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I sense something in you. I’m itching to read you.”
I stopped and turned to her. “I don’t care.”
She leaned closer and took a deep breath. Did she just … sniff me? Gross.
“I can feel … something,” she said, her voice carrying an enthralling lilt. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to mesmerize me or if she was the one mesmerized. “Can’t you feel it?”
I could. I could sense the something in me; I could feel it. I also could sense something in her. Like her strong sixth sense trying to break the walls I had learned to erect long ago. I had no idea how it worked, but I chanted in my mind: be strong, be strong, be strong. Hopefully, my walls would keep her out.
I stopped and glared at her. “Look, you may fool some idiots who want to believe in the shit you do, but you won’t fool me. You can’t read palms; you can’t sense anything. It’s all theatrics to steal money from people.”
She flinched as if I had slapped her. “Wow. Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”
This time, I flinched.
Bingo. She hadn’t even read me and she knew the truth.
“It’s none of your business,” I snapped.
“Are you sure?” She tilted her head, watching me. “You’re just like me.” She waved her hand up and down, gesturing from my head to my toes—and I knew she meant more than my Bohemian clothes.
I gulped. Then, she grabbed my hand and leaned over it.
“Hey!” I pulled my hand back.
She lifted her face, now pale and sporting wide eyes. “I saw it.”
I glanced at my hand. Saw what? She had seen my palm for only a second. Besides, it was one thing to feel, to sense things, but to see them? That would take some convincing.
“Death is coming for yo
u,” she whispered, as if saying the words would bring bad luck to her, too.
A chill ran down my spine.
What did that even mean? Playing it cool, I snorted. “Death is coming for all of us.”
“No, not like this.” Her spooked eyes turned into sad pools. “I’m so sorry.”
I cradled the hand she had touched, that she had read. This was bullshit. She didn’t see anything. It was all lies. Fabricated statements to enthrall her customers. However, the customers were usually told nice things, vague, hopeful things that made them come back for more.
Why would she say something so horrible to me?
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, retreating.
I watched as she rushed away and disappeared among the other Romani as if I had the plague.
Groaning, I turned on my heels and marched back to the bus stop. All the while, her words echoed in my mind.
Death is coming for you.
I spun once, twice, three times. Chassé, grand jeté, arabesque. The song ended, and I turned to my audience—girls of twelve and thirteen years old. They were one of my several classical ballet classes, and every now and then, they asked me to perform some solo from Giselle or Don Quixote or Coppélia. At this age, they were still in love with dance and thinking about pursuing it for real. Seeing me dancing these variations made them more excited about it.
I smiled and bowed to the sound of their applause.
“Miss Reyes,” Holly started. “Why aren’t you dancing with a big company?”
My smile fell. I got that question rather frequently. Honestly, I didn’t have a good answer other than I had never auditioned. Traveling to where most auditions were held cost money, and I didn’t have any.
I opened my mouth to answer, to tell them something, but I caught sight of the time on the clock over the door and changed the subject. “Time to go.” I waved them off. “See you next week.”
The girls filed to leave the classroom, and I whirled to the shelf in the corner, and turned off the stereo. In the wall mirrors, I saw two girls standing close to the back shelf where my bag was.
“Girls,” I called, and they jumped. “Can I help you with something?”
“No, Miss Reyes,” Serena said. Huddled together, she and Amy left the classroom.
A prickling sensation teased the base of my neck. Something was wrong. The pendant pinned to the inside of my bra strap warmed against my skin. I closed my eyes, and opened my mind. I sensed a disturbance in the air around me, around the dance studio, but couldn’t be sure. I tried pushing my senses farther away, but I didn’t know how. It was a miracle I was able to do this much.
Groaning, I snapped my eyes open.
The first time I had felt my sixth sense so strong I couldn’t ignore it, I was six years old. I fought it, thinking I was either going crazy or creating things out of boredom. Normal kids had imaginary friends. I had an advanced sixth sense. The fight lasted for over a year, until the force of that powerful sense broke me, literally driving me to my knees. Moments later, I found an old teacher from my elementary school having a heart attack in the library.
After that, it was hard to ignore the increasing sensation and the hard truth. The damn stories my mother had told me before bed, the Romani legends, were more than fairy tale. It was all true, and I was a Romani.
Of course, I never told anyone. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I wasn’t doing much to hide it, though. On top of my dark brown curls falling to my waist, my tanned skin, and my big greenish-hazel eyes, I dressed like a bohemian. Big earrings, lots of bracelets and rings and necklaces, ripped jeans or flowing skirts, blouses and dresses and jackets with lace or fringes. Odd boots or ballet flats. And everything colorful. I tried changing it so no one would know I was a Romani, but the change in style seeped into my mood. I wasn’t happy in regular jeans and tanks and black jackets. Or with my hair dyed another color or hidden. Or without jewelry.
This was me. It wasn’t as if I was looking for anyone’s approval.
My mother had been the same. She was an older version of me, with the same style of clothing and the same love for dancing, especially flamenco. I should have asked her about our ancestry, but I never summoned the courage. She never mentioned it, so I pretended I couldn’t feel her sixth sense, even more powerful than mine.
Sighing, I walked across the room and picked up my bag. It was open and my red, yellow, and orange bracelets were missing. What the hell? Oh, Serena and Amy. That was why they had stayed a little after class. Shit.
Shaking my head, I took off my pointe shoes, shoved my feet in my flats, and shrugged into my thin jacket. I slung my bag over my shoulder and marched to the lobby.
“Hey, Mirella,” Julie, the receptionist, said, looking at me from over her cat glasses. “How was class?”
I looked around. A few parents waited in the common room for their kids, but other than that, we were alone at the front.
“Aside from the fact that Serena and Amy stole my bracelets, it was great.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I’m in shock, too. Do they have any other classes during the week besides mine?”
Julie shifted her attention to the computer and typed a few things. “They have jazz with Miss Dona tomorrow.” Miss Dona was the owner of the dance studio.
“What time?”
“Same time as your ballet class.” The one for four to six year olds.
“Good. Thanks,” I said as a young woman entered the dance studio.
I hadn’t seen her before, but I had joined the dance studio last July when I moved here, a mere thirteen months ago. She looked my age, so she could be an old student coming to visit. I had seen it happen a handful of times.
Julie smiled at her. “Hello. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” the young woman said, coming to stand before Julie’s high counter. “I just heard that you’re opening flamenco classes for adults, and I’m interested.”
“Oh, that’s great. The first class starts in three days. It’ll be one hour per week, every Thursday evening.”
The young woman smiled. “Cool, I can do that.”
“Great.” Julie gestured to me. “This is the instructor, Mirella Reyes.”
“Oh.” She turned her smile to me. The blue in her eyes caught my attention. Having boring hazel eyes, blues or bright greens always entranced me. Under a red beanie, her strawberry blond hair curled down to her shoulders. She extended her hand at me. “Hi. I’m Ellie Clarke. Nice to meet you.”
I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, still smiling. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was expecting the teacher to be older than me.”
“I get that a lot. Don’t worry. I’ve been dancing since I was four, and I’ve been teaching for over five years.” One of the bright sides of my childhood had been all the dancing. My mother was a dance instructor, and it was only natural I became one, too. By the middle of high school, I was teaching ballet and flamenco to the younger girls.
“Nice.”
“Have you ever danced before?”
“I took ballet and jazz when I was little, but it wasn’t my thing. But I’ve always loved watching flamenco. I’m a big fan of Joaquin Cortez.” She lifted a hand and fanned her face. I almost smiled. “I guess I decided it’s time to try new things, you know?”
“Are you from around here?” Julie asked.
“No, I’m from Virginia. I started college here last year.”
“Broken Hill University?” Julie asked.
“Yes.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’m in the dance program.” That was why I had moved here, because I had been accepted into the college. Granted, I only took a few classes per semester since I didn’t get a full scholarship and my salary at the dance studio was meager.
“That’s cool. I’m still undecided, but I’m leaning toward arts.”
“Sounds good.” Julie handed her a clipboard wit
h some forms. “You can fill these out.”
“Cool.” Ellie took the clipboard and sat on one of the chairs edging the lobby walls.
For some reason, I lowered my walls and let my senses feel Ellie. I didn’t know how to read people, but I could get a sense of what I thought was their soul. Ellie emanated serenity and happiness. And she looked like—she had a small smile on her lips as she filled out the form. Smiling even when nothing fun was happening, because she was happy.
A little jealous pang raced through me. I was never like that and probably would never be. I had been taught to be guarded, to keep my feelings to myself, to not trust anyone around me. No one.
That made for a very lonely life.
2
Tuesday. One of the rare days I didn’t have dance or school early in the morning.
I squeezed the honey bottle over my homemade waffle with one hand and turned on the TV with the other. Like everything in my apartment, I had found my TV at a yard sale. It was an ancient thing of thirty inches, those old tube models. But it worked. Sort of.
I flipped on the news channel and took my time savoring my lazy breakfast.
Goose bumps made the hairs on my arms stand on end as the anchor changed subject.
“Last night, outside the Broken Hill Plaza, two middle school-aged girls were attacked by what they described as masked men. The first victim, Amy Lancer, was stabbed in the stomach and is in the hospital, but in stable condition. The second victim, Serena Brown, escaped and ran for help.”
Heart Seeker (The Fire Heart Chronicles Book 1) Page 1