The Spirit Seducer (The Echo Series Book 1) by Alexa Padgett Page A

you,” I gritted. Suddenly, my mother’s fear coated my skin. It was thick and cold and horrible. I needed to sit. I couldn’t. I had to go with Layla. Mom. What was happening? Why was she so afraid? What would Coyote do to her?
    The connection between us snapped, much like a string pulled past its limit. I gasped. Mom? Nothing. That brief moment when I’d been able to feel her was gone. And I was pretty sure she’d severed the connection herself.
    “No you aren’t. Take a shower, Echo. You’ll feel better when you’re clean.”
    I tottered forward, no more stable than a new colt. Still, no matter my condition, I wouldn’t be left behind.
    “Look, you don’t know where to look or how to fight the demons. You’ll just be a liability.” I winced, but Layla plowed on, knowing she’d scored the winning point. “The best thing you can do right now is stay here, where you’re safe. That’ll free us up to do what we can to find Almira.”
    Layla glanced at the beckoning figure, then down at me. With a sigh, she led me down a short hallway, and I followed like the well-trained puppy I didn’t want to be. But my head and heart hurt, and I was achy and filthy. Staying here—for now—made sense.
    “Zeke would want you to use this one. It’s better.” She leveled me an unfathomable look. “His room.”
    She led me into a bedroom, complete with a quilt-covered bed. It seemed big—larger than any I’d ever seen. Not that I’d seen that many beds. A chest of drawers stood against the closest wall. Made out of pale wood, it was tall but wide, featuring six deep drawers. A woven rug lay partially under the bed in the same earth tones as the quilt.
    “Shower’s there,” Layla pointed to a door. She pushed open the next door and stepped back. I stepped more fully into the room, not really aware that Layla was no longer beside me.
    The bathroom wasn’t like mine or any I’d seen at my aunties’ houses. Smoothed obsidian pebbles lined the floor, sloped toward a center drain. A large basin—more like a cistern—hung from the ceiling, piping dropped to the sink area’s large hand-pump. I pumped it once. A gush of cool water spilled over my hands and into the bowl. I washed my hands and face, unwilling to waste such a precious resource.
    I was conditioned by my years of living in the drought-ridden Southwest. The extent of the water shortage there had taken its toll—fields lay unused and many houses within the city’s limit were banned from outdoor watering. Trees drooped and flowers wilted, making the entire community look sadder. Mom cried when her flowers died, big hot tears that seemed disproportionate to the withered lilies.
    But maybe she hadn’t been crying for the flowers so much as the dying world she’d lived in most of her life.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    Layla didn’t answer. She wasn’t in the bathroom or Zeke’s bedroom. After searching the rest of the house, I wandered back into the bathroom.
    Another set of piping led to what I assumed was the showerhead. The disk was shiny—likely made out of stainless steel or chrome. It was wide and attached directly to the pipe but a few feet lower.
    There was a lever, one I’d struggle to reach, that appeared to be the on/off valve for the showerhead. I didn’t see any way to heat the water, but I couldn’t imagine Zeke living with cold showers. He lived in a world filled with magic; there must be something I was missing. I searched the room, looking for a heater or a hot-water tap.
    Frustrated, I turned back to the counter and touched Zeke’s comb. It was smooth, made from some material like bone, the tines slightly uneven. He had one of those old-fashioned razors—the straight silver blade I’d only ever seen in pictures before. For a man with an ancient style of comb, I was surprised he shaved at all.
    I continued surveying the room. Soap—check. Towels—over there on the wall. A brief prayer I wouldn’t freeze. After a long internal debate,