Seeker

by Veronica Rossi

  “I can imagine you miss them even more now.”

  “Yeah.” Everything is sharper since I saw them, not just the “missing.” The longing and the guilt have ratcheted up. And the emptiness in me, the part of me that used to be fulfilled by the Sight.

  “Keep being patient. You’ll know when it’s time to move forward.”

  “Right.” I hope that sounds less glib to her than it does to me. I’ve waited for a vision to show me the way forward for almost eight months. Patience has gotten me nowhere. The time to move forward is now—even if I don’t have the assurance of knowing what’s coming.

  “Okay.” Isabel nods, like it’s settled. She takes her heavy coat off the hook by the front door and pulls it on, then tucks her purse under her arm and pulls the door open. Rain blows in, pushing back her hair and her coat like she’s at the helm of a ship. She looks at me just before she steps outside, and I see it. The sadness that’s probably on my face, too. This is the first time we’re lying to each other. We’re both holding something back.

  * * *

  In my room, I open the trunk at the foot of my bed and push aside my old running shoes and the dozens of letters I’ve written to Mom, Dad, and Josie and never mailed, unearthing my backpack from the bottom.

  This battered leather bag traveled the world with me as I drifted from place to place guiding the lost. Protecting the small. Connecting those who needed help with those who could offer it. I loved what I was until the Kindred came along. I’d always done good with my Sight up until that point.

  Unzipping the main compartment, I remove the blue oxford I permanently borrowed from Jode in Norway and unwrap the orb from the soft material, my heart squeezing tight as the memories threaten to flood back.

  This sphere is small, only about the size of an apple, but infinitely layered with colors and depths, with skies and suns and seas swirling and dancing within it.

  Beautiful.

  Immeasurably so.

  And incredibly powerful.

  This orb is the key that opened the realm and started everything.

  After Bas disappeared and Gideon was hurt, I spent weeks curled up on my bed staring at it, reliving those awful moments in painful detail. I kept seeing Gideon’s face when Bastian was stung by the demon Ronwae. Seeing Bastian’s face as he sacrificed himself to take down Samrael, sending them both to a place that I can only imagine. Seeing Jode and Marcus looking like they’d lost part of themselves. But lately when I look at this orb I don’t feel remorse. I feel outright panic.

  I brush the glassy surface, running my thumb across the crack that appeared two weeks ago.

  I’m not sure what this is—this fault line or tear—but little by little it’s been growing deeper and longer. That can only mean one thing: Time is running out.

  This is why I drove to Georgia.

  Look at this, I wanted to tell the guys. Our window to go after Bas is closing.

  But then how would I explain the eight months it took me to go for them?

  The Sight. I was waiting for the Sight.

  I’ve been lost without it, and I didn’t want to risk any of you getting hurt again.

  I just didn’t trust myself.

  In my head, they sound like weak excuses. In my heart, they’ve felt real and justified. But after days of thinking on the drive to Georgia and back, I realized I don’t need anyone’s help to go after Sebastian—or even want it.

  I can do this alone. It’s dangerous, but what part of this hasn’t been? And if something goes wrong this time, I’ll be the only one who will pay the price.

  I slide the orb into the outer pocket and move around my room, gathering my rain parka, phone, notebook. When Bastian and Samrael went through the portal last fall, I saw impressions of a frozen landscape, ice and snow and jagged mountains like the Tetons, so I pack gloves, my wool beanie, and a scarf.

  In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water and a couple of granola bars, then hesitate over the knife drawer, open it, close it, open it, grab a three-inch paring knife.

  If you run into trouble, are you going to peel your attacker?

  For that matter, why bring the notebook? Do I really think there will be breaks to sit down and write?

  The journal stays because it’s my security blanket, but I switch the paring knife for a longer cutting knife, which I have even less confidence in. I’m strong and fast, but I’m not exactly Katniss. I have no experience of any kind in fighting, but it’s no time for hesitation. I zip up my pack and I’m out the door, rain slapping at my shoulders as I jog to the barn.

  Shadow watches me with alert eyes as I tack her up. Like all the guys with their mounts, Bas could get Shadow to call up her otherworldly tack. He could also get her to shift into threads of darkness, taking him with her. Folding, they called it. But without Bas, Shadow hasn’t done any of that. She’s been stuck in her horse state, so I have to use a regular harness, bit, and saddle. My hands start shaking as I fasten a lariat to her saddle, the reality of what I’m doing sinking in, but I get it done and bring her out into the rain. Then I mount up and we’re off.

  Shadow settles into a confident trot, navigating the mud puddles, rocks, and fallen branches without a stumble, despite the storm and the darkness.

  She’s much more confident than I am. I have to keep reminding myself to loosen my grip on the reins and stay gentle with her mouth.

  As I ride toward the Snake River, the headlights from the main road are the first to disappear, then the porch light of the Smith Cabin.

  Home, Daryn.

  Will you ever call it home?

  By the time I find the trail that follows the river, there’s no sign of mankind and I’m soaked in spite of my raincoat. All I hear is water—rushing, dripping, and flowing. My backpack thumps against my lower back, heavy with the weight of the orb, and the grass blurs beneath me.

  I’m so caught up in being alternately amazed at my bravery and furious at my recklessness that the ride passes quickly and I reach the stand of long pines sooner than I expect. The trail is overgrown and harder to see at night, but I find it and take Shadow up the hill, stopping at the top—a perfect secluded spot with no houses or roads around for miles.

  Dismounting, I scan the night to make sure I’m alone. Then I say a quick prayer for Isabel, Bas, and for Shadow and me, before I reach inside my backpack for the orb.

  It feels unnaturally heavy in my left hand. I take Shadow’s reins firmly in my right.

  When I opened the realm before, I knew I could do it. Knew in my soul how to do something I’d never done. I remember that moment—Samrael blackmailing me. Bas’s life at stake. As I opened the portal, I felt Samrael poisoning the beautiful energy that had run through me. I felt him tainting the portal with his evil just before Bas sacrificed himself, launching into Samrael, sending them both hurtling into the realm.

  That was how last time went. This time I’m on my own.

  “Okay. Here we go.” My pulse thundering, I draw a final fortifying breath and ask the orb to open, a request that whispers through my soul.

  The orb’s energy stirs and I feel it. Buzzing warmth that seeps into my hand and then hums down to my elbows, spreading through my chest and down my legs until it’s a continuous wave, rolling through me.

  In my palm, the orb is a small maelstrom of everything. Twisting fire and flowing water. Cold black granite and pillowy clouds. Earth, sky, stars. Laughter and tears. All churning with a speed I shouldn’t be able to track, but easily do.

  The orb lifts off my hand, light as a bubble floating into the air. It hovers over my palms and unravels like a ball of yarn, threads of fire swirling with green grass, twisting with streams of white feathers and veins of blood. It floats away from me, unraveling and growing in size, doubling and tripling until I no longer feel the rain, my drenched clothes or freezing hands, or even my fear.

  I feel only love and connection—a connection that’s immense and infinite. So like how I felt when I had the Sight, conn
ected to the necessity of everything. Even me. In some remote part of my mind it registers how long it’s been since I’ve felt this way. Necessary.

  The orb unravels to twice my height and the swirling pattern solidifies into a tunnel like it did all those months ago. A portal with no end, no visible other side, but with walls that are stars and sun-seared deserts and the faces of every person in every time that ever was.

  It moves toward me, or I move toward it, and one thread grows wider, liquid and glimmering like a sunstruck stream. Beside me, Shadow fades between her physical and ethereal form, smoky one moment and solid the next. I can’t see beyond the thread, but Shadow pulls on the lead and I sense in my gut that it’s the way to Bas.

  I step forward.

  It’s instant agony—a cleaving inside me. Mind shredding away from body, heart pulling away from soul. Relentless pain, like a rift tearing through every part of me, and I know this is the poison that shouldn’t be here, the poison Samrael brought to something that should be pure. I’m just beginning to wonder if it’ll ever end when, with no warning, I lurch forward and go somersaulting over and over, no idea which way is up or down, no concept of where my body ends, until I finally stop.

  Shaken, I climb unsteadily to my feet.

  Dizziness hits me and almost sends me back down. A salty taste slides over my tongue and I feel a deep throbbing ache begin at the base of my skull, like my heart has relocated there. I take a few deep breaths, waiting for it to go away, but it only lessens. Knowing I’ll have to experience that again to leave here, dread starts to creep in. I can’t focus on that now, though.

  Shadow stands a short distance away. She’s trembling and wide-eyed but looks unharmed.

  The orb hovers a few feet away from me, spinning slowly and bright as a star. I pluck it out of the air and it immediately begins to dim in my hand. My breath catches as I notice that the crack on its surface looks longer, angrier.

  Did I damage it by coming here? Have I broken it?

  Panic bolts through me, but it’s another thing I can’t dwell on.

  “It’s okay, Shadow. We’re okay.” I run my hand over her neck, trying to give her reassurance I need myself.

  I’ve arrived in a forest—not the arctic landscape I’d expected—and I’ve left the rain behind. The trees that surround me are ancient and gnarled, as much snaking roots as arching branches. I turn in a circle, still wobbling on my feet. I don’t recognize what species of tree. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. They’re everywhere—all I see.

  That’s when I notice the stillness.

  Every single branch is motionless.

  Even every leaf.

  There’s no wind here, no breeze, and it’s dead silent. Soft moonlight filters down through the treetops like powdered chalk, and a subtle earthy smell surrounds me.

  Shadow lets out a whinny and I jump, startled.

  “What is it, girl?” Her ears flip forward and back. “Okay, Shadow. Easy. We’re just going to see what happens for a minute.”

  It scares me that she’s nervous. What’s she sensing that I’m not?

  I listen for what feels like an eternity. All I hear is Shadow’s breathing and my own. Disappointment settles in, but what did I think would happen? That Bas would be right here, waiting for me to show up? Maybe this isn’t even the right place.

  Shadow nudges me in the back.

  “Good idea.” I remove my heavy coat and tie it to the saddle. Then I mount up and put her into a walk, alert to any sign of Bastian. Extra alert to signs of Samrael. He came through the portal too; I can’t lose sight of that.

  Under the canopy, the thud of Shadow’s hooves on the loamy forest floor sounds close, like it’s right beside my ears. The throbbing at the base of my skull has evened out to a noticeable but painless weight, like a hand resting on the back of my head.

  Which isn’t creepy, Daryn. Just a concussion, probably.

  I pass tree after tree, and nothing changes. It’s almost as though I’m on a treadmill. Moving with no visible progress. After a while—how long?—I stop Shadow and dismount. Time feels strange. When I check my phone to see how long I’ve been here, I discover that it’s dead.

  Of course. Of course it is.

  I slide it back into my pocket and resist reaching for the knife stashed in my backpack.

  It’s too quiet here, too creepy, but I can’t leave without Bas. Just the thought tightens my lungs. It makes my breath shallow and irregular, like a gear that won’t catch.

  This is how I felt as a girl when Mom was sick and I couldn’t do anything to help her. The feeling is fuller here somehow. It’s 3D despair. Despair that floats around me.

  “Where is he, Shadow? Can you smell him?” All I want is a clue that he’s alive. “Sebastian! Bas, where are you? Please be here.”

  Something pale catches my eye at the base of a tree in the distance. I drop Shadow’s reins and sprint over.

  Growing under one of the sprawling trees, between two roots that look like outspread arms, is a patch of white flowers. The petals are mutedly bright in the darkness, like teeth are at night.

  I kneel in the soft dirt and touch the furry leaves.

  White begonias.

  Mom’s favorite flowers. She had them planted all over our yard in Connecticut.

  At home.

  Home.

  The pressure at the base of my skull pulses harder, matching the drumming of my heart.

  It’s been eighteen months since I left home. When depression had her, really had her, it was like a dimmer switch had been turned down inside her. I couldn’t reach her. Neither could Dad or Josie. Sometimes we couldn’t do anything at all for her but watch her suffer. After my visions started, there was no point in staying. My problems would only have detracted from the care she needed. But I never meant to be away so long.

  How has it been a year and a half?

  I spot more clusters of begonias up ahead. They weave a path, making a trail that’s almost bioluminescent in the dimness. I don’t even think twice. I follow it, conscious of Shadow walking close behind me.

  Soon I come to a break in the woods where a field of begonias glows under direct moonlight. A figure sits at the very center, surrounded by the white blooms. I can’t see well in the low light but the figure looks small. Not lanky like Bas.

  It’s not him.

  Then … who is it?

  As my eyes begin to adjust, I see that it’s a woman with honey-colored hair that rests on straight shoulders. Her long white dress pours over her legs and feet, and blends with the flowers that surround her. She’s wearing a gold necklace with two charms that rest close to her heart. Though I’m too far to see the letters engraved in them, I know they’re “D” and “J.”

  And as I near, she smiles like she’s been expecting me.

  My blood freezes. I stop.

  It’s not possible.

  “Mom?”

  “Daryn, my sweet daughter,” she says. “I knew you’d come home.”

  CHAPTER 4

  GIDEON

  “Twenty minutes out. Probably less,” Travis Low says as he peels out of the tiny airport that serves Jackson Hole. The SUV fishtails on the soaked road but Low regains control and pushes past eighty miles an hour in a matter of seconds.

  I look through my window. Rain clouds hide the tops of the mountains in the distance. The Grand Tetons. I flew over them in the fall. On the back of a demon that had taken the form of a dragon. I also lost Bas here and got my left hand cut off.

  Lots of fun memories in Wyoming.

  It’s hard to believe that roughly three hours ago we were still in Georgia. Moving a team this fast takes money but if there’s a limit to the unit’s budget, I haven’t seen it yet.

  In the passenger seat, Jared Suarez checks his GPS. “Thirty minutes is probably closer. Traffic a mile up.”

  Between swipes of the windshield wipers, a string of red brake lights appears up ahead. “Drive around it, Low,” I say, thumping the back
of his seat for emphasis.

  Suarez shoots me a dark look. “This is the United States, Low. Don’t drive around it.”

  “Drive around it, Low,” I repeat. “That’s an order.”

  He laughs. “Blake’s full of it today, ain’t he?” he says to Suarez, loading his Texas drawl with all the sarcasm it’ll hold, which is plenty. He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, chewing his gum in slow motion. “Yes sir, Blake sir.”

  We’re all on equal footing under Cordero so I shouldn’t be giving orders to anyone, least of all a commando thirteen years older than me. Travis Low has a hell of a lot more relevant experience than I do. Life experience, in general. Fortunately, Low and I go way back. Jared Suarez, too.

  Last fall they were “Texas” and “Beretta” to me, respectively. The guys who stood guard while I was interrogated by a demon disguised as Cordero. They saved my life from that demon.

  Low’s a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound lethal giant. Like Bas, he’s always looking for his next laugh. Low doesn’t take anything seriously except missions and his three-year-old son back in Texas. The guy drops everything when his kid calls and gets this heartbroken, happy look on his face. I’ve wondered if my dad felt that kind of pain when he talked to Anna and me back home while he was deployed.

  Jared Suarez is ninja-quiet and calculating. He was a blue-chip high school baseball recruit—a catcher like I was. In a way, it’s still Suarez’s vibe. When Cordero’s not calling the shots, Suarez steps in with the strategy and manages things. With the exception of Jode, who needs to question air before he breathes it, the rest of us pretty much follow Suarez’s lead.

  After fighting the Kindred with them and spending the past months in Cordero’s unit, I have solid history with these guys. Marcus and Jode do, too. The respect and smack talk flow in equal measure in all directions.

  As we approach the stalled traffic, Low doesn’t slow down. He pulls onto the gravel shoulder and bears down on the gas, sending a hail of rocks and rain into the windshield. Low passes car after car with an expression on his face like he’s supremely bored as Marcus and I bounce around like popcorn in the backseat.