Seeker

  He holds up a small black pouch, saving me from myself. “Dr. Gideon Blake, at your service. I’m here to literally watch your back.”

  “Great. Come in.” I feel my face warm and I don’t know why. We established a professional code of conduct. This is no big deal. I gesture to the kitchen. “Is here okay? The bathroom’s tiny.”

  “Sure.”

  I turn and lift my baggy sweatshirt, wondering if he’ll comment. It’s a San Francisco Giants sweatshirt. Not his, but exactly like the one he had that I borrowed a lot last fall. I had to get myself a replacement.

  His fingers are warm as they trace the cuts. Every touch is like a tiny tremor that spreads through me. Small earthquakes of feeling. I’m instantly so nervous that words start building up in my throat, fueled by a need to create conversation and hopefully make wound care less sexy. “Does it look better?”

  “Marginally.”

  “That sounds promising. Am I going to have to file a medical malpractice suit?”

  “No way. I rocked this. Your dad couldn’t have done a better job on these.”

  “You remember he’s a surgeon.”

  “I have a good memory.”

  “For me or for everything?”

  I hear him swallow. “Sometimes there’s no difference, but … both.”

  All the words in my head disappear and my breathing goes shallow and quick. For a long time, all I feel is his touch on my back. It’s the epicenter of all sensation.

  “Forget I said that, Daryn.”

  “I’ll never be able to.”

  “It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Things with Cordero seemed tense before. At the meeting.”

  “She’s doing this all wrong, but don’t change the subject.”

  “She’s just thorough. You’ll get used to her. You should read the minutes. They’re epic.”

  “Please stop changing the subject.”

  “I’m all done here.” He tugs my sweatshirt down. “The bandages should hold until morning. I’ll leave this stuff with you. Maia can handle it next time.”

  I turn. He’s already on his way out. “Gideon, wait. I really messed things up, didn’t I?”

  He stops at the steps that descend to the door. “No. We’re on this. We’re going to get him back tomorrow.”

  “I mean between us.”

  He freezes on the small landing at the bottom, hand on the door, his back to me like the photo I have of him at Marcus’s graduation. His head falls to the side like he’s relaxing, but I know he’s not. “What are you doing, Daryn?”

  I step down to him. He turns and his blue eyes find me. They’re guarded, and suspicious.

  I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m taking my foot off the brake. Just this once. Just to feel what I’ve imagined all these months. I lift onto my toes and bring my mouth to his.

  I thought he’d hesitate or draw away, but he doesn’t. He wraps his arms around me and we collide, connect, combine. His lips are surprisingly soft, his tongue softer, but the energy between us is hard, desperate. Every cell in my body charges with his strength, his energy, his clean alpine smell. His uneven breaths dance with mine, our hunger for each other raw and equal.

  He pushes or I pull, and my back thumps into the wall.

  “Your back.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He bends to kiss me again and I steal glances, so I don’t forget. I see slivers of sky through his long golden lashes. His wet lips, his eyebrows furrowed with intensity. It’s all the friction and disharmony between us, reversed and multiplied and perfect.

  “Daryn,” he says hoarsely. “My hand.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “But it’s—”

  “Fine, Gideon.”

  His hands slip under my sweatshirt and run up my sides, cool and hard on one side, warm and soft on the other. I want to tell him how he makes me feel but it seems impossible to describe. I pull his shirt up and he understands. Reaches over his back and it comes off and he stands, hair ruffled, eyes heavy. He moves toward me again, but I’m not done looking at him yet.

  He’s beautiful. It’s possible that he was made for me. Strong and lean. Every line of him fascinating.

  Tattoos. He has tattoos now. A cross on his right forearm. And script on the inside of his biceps, ornate and only three letters.

  Bas

  I look away before responsibility crashes back in. There’s a black brace on his left arm. It wraps around his elbow and biceps, extending over his forearm and becoming the sculpted metal that’s his prosthetic.

  A sick feeling blooms in my stomach. Dread for all the things I’m trying to ignore. All the things we haven’t said yet.

  Gideon has gone stone still.

  I look up.

  The expression on his face is definitely, definitely not what I want to see.

  His anger I can take. Not this.

  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to regret this,” he says. “Took a little longer than last time.” He grabs his shirt off the step and leaps up to the hallway, disappearing into the bathroom. He leaves the door ajar and I hear the faucet run.

  This regret, this mortification, whatever this is, makes my heart feel sick.

  A knock sounds on the RV’s door and I start in surprise.

  “Don’t answer it yet,” Gideon says, shutting off the tap. “Give me a second.”

  Moments later, he appears at the top step, shirt on.

  He looks hurt, and he should. We drew a line in the sand and I stomped all over it.

  “Gideon, it’s not that I don’t want…” I don’t know what to say. Apologizing feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.

  “I know.” He comes down and stops in front of me. This close, I feel his anger. It’s a dull feeling, not sharp and pointed.

  My ears burn and I notice a drop of water on his neck. Water is the essence of life. He is essential. He makes time stop, makes my mind rhapsodize.

  I want us to disappear into each other like waves into sand.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out what ‘darken, surround me’ means from your poem,” he says. “The one called ‘Blue.’ Because I’d do it, Daryn. Whatever it is that means to you, I’d do it if I knew it was what you wanted. But you need to be sure first. Otherwise we’ll just keep hurting each other.” He pushes the door open, steps around Maia, and strides off into the night.

  * * *

  My list is what saves me. I add to “Reasons” until sleep slams the door on my mind.

  8. Carnivore’s Delight pizza, really good even cold

  9. New friends, maybe? It’s been so long

  10. Butterfly bandages, gauze, antiseptic—sometimes healing is easy

  11. White begonias

  12. Puppies named Chief (what do you look like, little Chief?)

  13. Shadow’s bravery today

  14. Kissing Gideon! Amazing. All-encompassing. Lips should not possess such limitless power. And the way he looked at me—ardently (!!!)

  15. The Terrible End to #14—tragic, save for the discovery that a) he read my poem and remembered it, and b) he might actually understand me

  16. Tomorrow, because we’ll find Bas and this will all be over

  CHAPTER 12

  GIDEON

  “What’s keeping them so long?” Jode tugs at his hair. “Have I gone completely gray yet? Do I look like Gandalf the Grey?”

  Lucent shakes his massive white head, as impatient as his rider. He’s ready to go, too.

  “Yes,” I say. “You’re exactly like Gandalf, except a pop-star version. Lord of the Sing.”

  “This isn’t good, man,” Marcus says.

  “Yeah, it was a reach.” Bas would have liked it, though.

  I reach down and check the saddlebag for Bas’s weapon—the scales. Like Shadow, they didn’t go through with him into the Rift. Cordero has kept them safe until now. Soon I’ll be handing them back to him.

  Marcus ti
ps his chin, indicating the rest of the team. “How’s this gonna work?”

  We’ve been sitting in our saddles for an hour on the edge of camp under a bright morning sun, waiting for them. The problem is their horses.

  Cordero, Ben, Maia, Low, and Suarez will be riding into the Rift on the five Arabians that were trailered here late last night. So far, integrating them with our horses isn’t going well. Riot appears to be the main issue. The Arabians can’t seem to make sense of a totally chilled-out, happily burning horse. We have ten people trying to figure out how to settle five horses, and everyone seems to have a different method.

  Marcus’s comment was only meant for us but Cordero hears it.

  “Once we’re inside we’ll split up and give them some distance to your mounts,” she says. “It’ll work.”

  Seeing her in black tactical gear is kind of disorienting. Low, Suarez, and Maia pull it off, of course, but Ben and Cordero look like they’re going trick-or-treating dressed up as ninjas. I remember what Daryn said yesterday—that Cordero’s handling this the wrong way. But Cordero’s smart and knows her stuff. She’ll keep a solid chain of command. That’s critical to the success of any mission. And whatever gets Bas back is what I want.

  Cordero lifts her foot into the stirrup and swings up in a motion that’s exaggerated. The mare dances beneath her, and Cordero does all the right things, turning the horse in a circle. Establishing who’s boss. But I notice the mare’s quivering muscles and wide eyes. Riot makes a low sound like he disapproves, and Marcus looks at me, sending the same message.

  Ben’s next, mounting up with Low holding his horse by the reins. Cordero insisted that everyone on the team take riding lessons when she first formed this team, so they’re conversant in horsemanship. Conversant. Definitely not fluent.

  Finally, with Young Gandalf about to lose his mind, everyone settles in enough for Daryn to bring Shadow out. Shadow’s the last add by design, since she’s already so jumpy.

  Daryn rides up from the direction of the stable. I remind myself where my head needs to be. Not on what happened last night. I’m getting Sebastian back today. If I’m lucky, I’m getting some revenge, too.

  Cordero gives the signal and the posse gets moving. I’m in front until Jode takes the lead. Conquest has to be first or he gets chippy.

  After a little while I turn in the saddle, checking out the group. Cordero was right. At the rear, the Arabians seem to be settling down.

  In ten minutes base camp is a spot of brightness behind us, like a mirror in the sun. To the west, a small defensive military force has dug in. There’s also a larger secondary line farther back, and air support if needed. This is a precaution Cordero arranged in case the Harrows come through during our crossing. The last thing we want is more demon trouble.

  We reach our designated location for entering the realm—a spot that was marked with an orange flag by someone earlier today.

  Suarez leaves his horse with Low and goes to Cordero. She removes a black box from her saddlebag, and keys in a code. Suarez brings the box to Daryn, who lifts the orb from inside. The process seems too formal or ceremonious. Especially compared to last fall, when it was just me, Daryn, and the guys, running from demons and camping out in the mountains of Norway.

  “Where is it?” Daryn looks from the strongbox to Cordero.

  Cordero says nothing for a long moment. “It’s in your hand. You’re holding it.”

  “The other piece. Where’s the shard that broke off?”

  “Ben?” Cordero asks.

  He shakes his head. “First I’m hearing of it.”

  “You didn’t think to tell us about a broken piece?” Cordero asks Daryn.

  “I guess I forgot to submit it to your agenda, since no one told me when anything was happening.”

  Marcus looks at me. I know we’re thinking the same thing. Not good.

  “We’ll look into it later,” Cordero says. “Will the orb still work?”

  “There’s only one way to find that out.”

  “Then let’s do it. We can’t delay this operation, Daryn. We have to get into the realm now.”

  Daryn’s eyes flash with anger as she nods. “I understand. All these people are here. We have a schedule to keep.” She cues Shadow forward. Then something tumbles over the desert in front of her, and I realize it’s the orb.

  My first thought is that she dropped it, but then it rolls into the air. Rolls up, like gravity is nothing, until it’s hovering at her eye level. Just spinning there, ten feet away.

  Apparently it still works.

  Someone behind me gasps as it begins to brighten and spin, unraveling. But most of us have seen this before. This is how we lost Bas—through this portal. It’s where Samrael disappeared into, too.

  On that thought, I call my sword. Samrael could be waiting on the other side with his bone blades and his mind tricks, ready to attack. Jode and Marcus must have the same idea. They summon bow and scythe.

  A thundering crack shreds across the desert to a flash of blinding white. Then shadows slash across the brightness, streaks of darkness and color whirling around us. Spooling with images of every kind, every thing. Howling wolves and white-sand beaches. Pigeons scattering off rooftops, comets trailing across the sky.

  Jode and Marcus are beside me, but I’m seeing them through a blizzard of flash and color. Ahead, Daryn stands before a thread flowing with images of trees. I recognize them from her description—gnarled and eerie.

  There’s a sudden jarring lurch and I’m moving at warp speed, sure I’ve left parts of me behind. My lungs and my thoughts. My eyes and my heart.

  It’s agonizing pain, splintering pain, and I understand why Daryn called it a rift. It goes on and on, and I’m reaching my breaking point when I come back with a jolt and rock forward.

  My face smashes into Riot’s neck. My teeth dig into the inside of my lip, unleashing a warm flood in my mouth.

  Leaning down, I spit on the dirt by Riot’s hoof, telling myself it’s not a bad omen that I’ve bled here before I’ve even drawn a breath.

  Straightening, I scan the woods.

  Then I take a head count.

  Everyone made it. And we’re not in immediate danger, as far as I can tell.

  I reach down and pat Riot, feeling the tension in him. He’s disoriented and completely torched up, fire covering all of him and most of my legs. “It’s all right, Riot. We’re good. Except you split my lip.”

  He makes a low sound. Maybe you should’ve moved out of the way. I don’t like this place.

  “I hear you, Big Red.”

  The cut inside my mouth isn’t half as bad as the ache that’s melting out of my body. And I see that I’m not the only one having a hard time.

  Low’s cursing in English. Suarez’s cursing in Spanish. Both Ben and Cordero look pained and it doesn’t help that their horses stamp and struggle at their reins, wanting to bolt. Jode holds his bow at full draw. He looks ready to blow something up. Marcus has his scythe resting against one shoulder, waiting for the rest of us to pull it together.

  Daryn has dismounted. The orb is in her hand, solid again. Still bright, but fading. “Everyone okay?” she asks.

  “Not really,” Maia says. She slides off her saddle, staggers a few feet, and vomits.

  “Welcome to the Rift,” Low mutters.

  I pull in a deep breath. We’ve left behind the glare of the desert for forest darkness. The air smells leafy, damp and cool. The long branches almost block out the sky—a purple sky, like fading dusk.

  It’s hard to believe I’m here. Where Bas has been for the better part of eight months.

  “Gideon, I think you’re bleeding,” Ben says, grimacing like injuries don’t compute in his mind.

  “Just a cut.” I wipe my mouth. “I’m fine.”

  Jode lowers his bow. Then he frowns at it. “Gideon, call away your sword.”

  I do it.

  Try to.

  “Gideon?” Cordero says.

&nb
sp; “Nope.” My connection is down. My sword is still right in my hand.

  We all look at Marcus, but we know it’ll be no different. He lifts the scythe off his shoulder and gives it a sweeping turn in the air—his favorite way of calling it forth and sending it back—but, like the bow and sword, the scythe goes nowhere. His mare, Ruin, starts to prance anxiously beneath him. “Nothing.” Marcus sends me a pissed-off look. “We can’t fold, either.”

  I reach for Riot anyway, asking him to go to fire. It’s like we’re in the dark, no way of finding each other. Riot bobs his head up and down, about as happy about this as I am.

  This isn’t good, Gideon. I can’t protect you if we can’t fold.

  I rest my hand on his withers. “We’re good, big guy. All good.”

  If our abilities as horsemen are gone, the only good news is we won’t have to worry about my anger contagion in here. Marcus and Jode, too. Their effect on others would also be gone. Not that either of them struggle as much as I do. They’re both way more adept at controlling fear and will than I am at controlling anger.

  The only thing left to verify is whether we’re still capable of rapid healing, but the cut inside my lip will answer that soon enough.

  “GPS doesn’t work,” Low says. “Neither does my compass or my watch.”

  “Digital?” Cordero asks.

  “Negative, it’s windup. Both hands have stopped moving.”

  Everyone looks at me, and my gut sinks. I can’t get my prosthetic to change gestures. It’s stuck in a half-open position like a metal mannequin hand. But at least it came through with me. I’d worried it wouldn’t. “Only one of my hands stopped moving,” I say, to be hilarious.

  “I told you about this,” Daryn says to Cordero. “I told you my phone didn’t work before.”

  “As we’ve verified.” She looks at Suarez. “We’ll have to adjust.”

  Lots of setbacks, but we do adjust. We’re prepared.

  Cordero takes the orb from Daryn to return it to the lockbox. “It’s getting worse. The damage is more severe,” she says, pausing to study it in her hand. There’s a note of actual concern in her voice.

  “Yes, it is. Take good care of it,” Daryn says. “And don’t lose any more pieces.”