Search (SEEK Book 1)

by Candie Leigh Campbell

  “That’s not likely. Lindy’s Khayal would’ve been trying to find her in Florida. Now that she’s moved, the Khayal might be making her way north. But it’ll be easier to show you. The best part is Paul’s formed an underground army to save the Khayal by using Episteme’s technique.”

  I study him, wondering if I should say anything or not, he looks so sure of his information, but for Lindy’s sake I have to know. “Army or not, Paul has to be wrong. I was bitten by two Khayal, the first one I shot, remember?”

  Jonathan’s silent shrug is louder than any denial he could utter.

  “You already knew,” I say.

  “Paul could be wrong, but so is the Brotherhood. The Khayal do have an order to how they chose a person. I’ve seen it firsthand. The Brotherhood tried to push their top people to be chosen by Khayal and failed. Paul’s using an algorithm to determine the likelihood of a Khayal-to-human bond.”

  “But it’s not for certain. I mean, no one really knows for sure. What would happen if I took Lindy into a den of Khayal? A Khayal might choose her.”

  “Essentially, but with Paul’s program her chances are phenomenally higher.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, you don’t believe me? Or okay you’ll come meet Paul?” Jonathan asks, a hopeful spark burning in his eyes.

  “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.” His hands rub together.

  “But if I don’t like the situation, I leave, with your plane. No questions asked,” I remind him.

  Jonathan leans over the aisle with an outstretched arm, offering me a handshake. “Deal.”

  I accept the gesture and it seems it’s done. Jonathan may have just answered all of my prayers. Or at least he’s solved the dilemma of how to get my family out of Washington State. Now all that’s left to do is get them out of a house under twenty-four hour surveillance.

  “Hey, what other tricks can BackWatch do? Any chance you could help me—?” I begin to ask if he’ll make sure Cord is being buried with honors and see how Jackson’s doing. But my questions are interrupted by the appearance of the older, uber-sophisticated, leggy-blonde pushing a cart of still-steaming burgers and French fries. The smell alone leaves me drooling as Janet sets the plate in front of me. “Thanks.” I try not to think about how ridiculous I look next to her in this Amish prairie-girl dress as she moves on to Jonathan.

  “I read your status while you were driving. You love gourmet burgers, right?” He beams at me proudly.

  “I feel violated.” I wipe my chin and choke back a laugh. Jonathan looks like a rat caught in a trap. “I’m kidding. But you should know that my entire account is bogus. I don’t know any of my ‘friends’ and every single status posted on there is a lie except one. I do love a good burger.”

  “I assumed SEEK didn’t let you go to concerts and raves.” He nods, scarfing down another steak fry. “But the post you wrote about missing The Hangout’s burgers couldn’t have been faked. That came from your heart.”

  My face burns hot. My own family never suspected a thing about my social media posts. I mean, I took the time to be authentic. I even befriended people who actually go to Brown. I posted the same things they were posting. “How could you know that? Did your little backdoor tell you that?”

  Jonathan chuckles into a fist. “No. I could just tell it was really written by you. You must’ve been feeling homesick last June.”

  My stomach churns, the half-eaten burger looking for a sudden escape route from my stomach. June twelfth. Lindy’s accident anniversary. Two days before her birthday. We always went to the Hangout in Gulf Shores Alabama for burgers on Lindy’s birthday. I was homesick. I still am.

  “You okay?” Jonathan asks when I push the half-finished meal away.

  “Yeah, I’m just tired.” I rest my head against the chair, willing the memories of what can never be again to leave me in peace.

  I drift to sleep.

  Instead of tranquility, remorse rolls on like a scary movie boiled down to the pivotal points playing over and over in my dreams. June twelfth the police came to our door at three in the morning. My mom wouldn’t stop crying as we drove to the hospital. Lindy was more machines and bandages than human when we arrived. What little of her we could see was bruised and bloodied. My mom and dad were both crying.

  By June thirteenth I was numb. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel anything but guilt. The accident was entirely my fault. Lindy had been in a car with a boy named Patrick whose blood alcohol level was three times higher than the legal limit. She was crushed inside the car. Her spinal cord was severed.

  Lindy would never walk—or swim—again. My parent’s never stopped crying.

  “Keira,” Jonathan’s tender whisper startles me awake. My father’s sobs fade away.

  Blinking at the dimly lit cabin I scramble out of a Mohair throw. I’m on my feet, reaching for my bow. “What?” I haven’t a clue where I am, until the plane suddenly takes a serious drop. I tumble backward, landing with one leg sprawled over the arm of the recliner. Turbulence. Jonathan’s plane.

  “Whoa. Sorry,” Jonathan gasps. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Again.”

  “There’s a difference between alarm and alert.” I stammer, rearranging my features.

  “My mistake.” Jonathan masks a grin.

  I turn to the window, surprised to see a vast city of lights stretching out below. “Is that Big Ben and the Tower of London, already? How long was I sleep?”

  Fisher’s Theorem

  At some point, while I was most likely snoring and hopefully not drooling, Jonathan changed into a clean cotton tee and jeans.

  “I should change,” I announce, suddenly desperate for a bathroom.

  “I had Janet put your things in the washroom,” he says, pointing to the door where his assistant hides.

  The plane is even bigger than I thought. I hear the soft mumble of a one-sided conversation as I head down the narrow hall. I find Janet, freshly showered and wearing a blue tightly-fitted dress, sitting behind a small desk and talking on the phone. She glances up briefly—with a look that makes it clear I’m not welcome—and points me to the next door.

  “I can’t talk now,” Janet whispers as I walk away.

  I would’ve found it without her help. It’s labeled SHOWER. The bathroom is small, but still has all of the essentials; a shower, a vanity, and a toilet. Janet has already picked out my clothes and laid them neatly on the counter. I hate to admit it, but the outfit is both cute and functional. Maybe she’s not as awful as she seems.

  After a long overdue shower, I dry my hair with the wall-mounted blow-dryer and feel like a normal human again. I’m on my way back to my seat when the seatbelt sign dings on over the bathroom mirror. I dash down the hall, barging through the door.

  The airplane nose tips down. I scramble to my chair and buckle in. “I couldn’t find my Beretta.”

  “You can relax here, weapons are illegal in Britain. Plus, I already checked, no one has any idea that we’ve left the country. They’re looking for us Ohio right now, thanks to an anonymous tip I had Janet phone in.”

  “Oh, good. Good,” I mutter, scowling at the thought of being unarmed in a foreign country. I’m supposed to be a wanted murderer. What if some vigilante goes all renegade on us? Then I wonder if any Brits pay attention to American news. I hear it’s all bogus anyhow.

  I’m midway through chewing off a fingernail when Jonathan, ignoring the seatbelt warning, leaps from his chair and drops to his knees in front of me. “I’m worried about you. You were crying in your sleep.”

  “What are you doing? We’re landing.” I recoil from his closeness, fidgeting with the buckle in my lap and doing my best not to look at his baby-soft face directly.

  “You were also talking in your sleep.”

  His voice is too intense. He smells fresh. Like mountain air and laundry soap. If there was anywhere to run to I would.

  “I know you’re suff
ering from the choices you’ve been forced to make. But stop punishing yourself, Keira.”

  The way he says my name leaves me lightheaded and gasping for breath. “What are you doing?”

  “I know you love your family and your country and I know you like me. You had plans for your life. You were going into politics before Lindy’s accident. You volunteered for SEEK to help her. You stand up for what you believe in. I respect that. I respect you.” His fingers trace the planes of my face.

  I can’t help myself, lean into his hand. His tender caress is more loving than anyone’s touched me in years. My parents haven’t even hugged me since before the accident. They blame me too. They haven’t said as much—they haven’t really said anything—but I know they do. They have to. I search Jonathan’s eyes, looking for answers to why he doesn’t see what everyone else sees in me, guilt, shame, regret. But all I find is never-ending understanding.

  Just as my hand comes up to reach for his face, the landing gear bounces once on the ground and lurches back into the air. Jonathan flies forward, smashing my chin upward with his head as he face-plants directly into my chest. He’s buried in my cleavage for a good twenty seconds before I shriek, “Get off!” shoving my palms against his forehead.

  His hands fumble and grope for the chair. Instead his fingers find my neck—lingering on Irkalla’s bite mark. A stunned blank stare fixes in his eyes. He gapes in opened-mouthed silence. Just for a moment, before a violent shiver shakes his shoulders. The sensation seems to frighten him.

  My bottom lip quivers as my humiliation melts into amusement. A deep, guttural laugh bursting free. Un-caged and wild.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Jonathan sputters, rocking back on his heels, his face going from pink to scarlet.

  But my laughter cannot be suppressed. I grab my sides rocking from the force of it.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he mutters, his face glowing burgundy.

  “Third base in two days. Not bad. Do you always move that fast?” I gasp between fits of giggles.

  He scrambles up, puffing out the words, “I wasn’t…you don’t think…I wouldn’t. God, you’re only seventeen.”

  That kills the hysterics with a sharp jab to the throat. “You’re only eighteen months older than me. I’m not exactly jailbait,” I snap.

  The plane taxis inside a dark hanger and the cabin lights flicker on to full brightness. I whip my head around and we stare at each other, his chest rising and falling under his soft tee.

  “I dare you to insinuate that I’m a child one more time.” I storm to the exit.

  Jonathan trails on my heels. “I just meant…I wouldn’t…”

  “Spare me the speech.” I throw an elbow, knocking him out of the way and jerk on the door, but the handle won’t budge.

  “Keira, I am attracted to you. That’s the problem. I’m older. I’m obligated to protect you.”

  “I’m an obligation now?” I snarl.

  “You know what I mean. I feel protective,” he corrects.

  “Don’t.” I keep my back to him, fighting angry tears. “I don’t need you to take care of me. How do you open this friggen thing?” I shake the metal latch, desperate for air, space, and sanity. He means nothing to me I tell myself, begging my heart to believe it.

  As Jonathan brushes against me, grabs the handle and lifts it gently, he watches my face as the door swings easily open. With one foot hoisted in the air, I’m about to leap down the stairs into complete darkness, but Janet’s unexpected arrival yanks my head around.

  “I’ll wait for you,” her satiny voice purrs as she slips an arm around Jonathan’s shoulder.

  I glance from Janet’s cheerful smile to Jonathan’s sad, serious expression.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says, returning an unenthusiastic side hug.

  Quick erratic pulses drum in my ears as little Miss Long Legs steps smugly past me. I go out behind her. Invisible and insignificant. Why is it so easy for some girls to be girls, but for me it’s a battle? I could never be like Janet, or Martin, or even Lindy for that matter. I could never walk with such grace or flirt on purpose. It’s just not in my DNA.

  Headlights blind me the instant I clear the stairs. I raise a hand against the glare.

  “Janet,” Jonathan calls out, stomping down the steps behind us.

  Janet’s oversized, shiny handbag swings and her clacking heels come to an instant halt. As she turns, it’s like watching a supermodel on the runway. I roll my eyes, clenching a fist.

  It’s at this precise moment that I understand why I’m mad. I have a crush on Jonathan. Even admitting it makes me want to duck-and-cover. I should be thinking about what I’m really doing here, not creating fantasies in my head. Lindy. Lindy. Lindy. I remind myself, willing my mind to stay focused, but another voice echoes back. Jonathan. Jonathan. Jonathan.

  “Stock the kitchen. Just in case,” Jonathan says.

  “Certainly.” Janet nods, ducking into the backseat of the idling towncar.

  “There’s something I don’t like about her,” I say under my breath.

  “Jealous?” Jonathan asks, patting my back.

  “Maybe.” I shrug as the short limo backs out, taking the lights with it, more footsteps echo down the stairs.

  “Thanks, Tom. Bert.” Jonathan shakes his pilot’s hands as they pass.

  “Night, Mr. Steed. We’ll be on standby,” the hairy, Italian-looking one says.

  “Appreciate it.” Jonathan waves as they jump into a Jeep.

  I stand frozen as the Jeep speeds out into the night, taillights vanishing into the darkness.

  I squint into the cavernous depths of the hangar in search of another vehicle. “Where to?” I grin sheepishly, hoping he doesn’t tell me to take a hike after my embarrassing fit of temper.

  “I keep a condo here, for business, but we’re leaving London.” And just like that Jonathan reaches for my hand, as though it’s the most normal thing to do. He leads me toward the blackness. Before all light fades, I look down at his fingers wedged between mine.

  “Love,” that strange inside voice announces in my head.

  The back of my neck tingles with goosebumps. I try to free myself from Jonathan’s grip, but he me holds tight.

  “Is this necessary?” I ask, lifting our conjoined hands.

  “I don’t want you to trip. It’s dark in here, and we shouldn’t turn on the lights.” Jonathan pulls me around a twisted hunk of metal.

  Despite his careful guidance, I still manage to kick it. “Ow! What’s in here?”

  “Storage.”

  The sound of a car horn chirping suddenly leads the way. A red Mini Cooper glows like a beacon in the night. Around it, dozens of odd cars—and their disassembled parts—line up in rows.

  Jonathan fumbles for the Mini’s handle and opens the door. “In you go.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, unsure of how I feel about being ordered about.

  Jonathan scoots around the back, the tiny car giving a shudder with each bag’s thud as he drops them in the hatch. Then he scrunches into the driver’s seat, scoots the seat back so far he’s practically sitting in the backseat, and starts the engine.

  I snort.

  “You don’t like the Mini?” He raises a brow, handing me my pocket-sized handgun and holstered hunting knife.

  While the engine idles, I stare at the gun and knife. “I thought weapons are illegal?”

  “They are, but I trust myself not to get pulled over and I trust you to get us out of it without killing anyone if I do.”

  Jonathan’s hand expertly maneuvers the stick shift into position and the Mini scoots between parked cars effortlessly.

  I buckle up, absently peering through the windshield at a thousand greasy car parts scattered across the hangar’s floor. Jonathan trusts me. That’s it. He trusts me to keep him out of custody and to not kill anyone while doing it. I’m not sure what that says about his character. He saw what happen to Cord, Jackson and Martin. I bite a nail. I
wonder if I should bring it up again and ask him to find out how they are. But decide now is not the right time.

  “How many innocent cars had to die for your collection?” I ask lightly.

  “They’re not dead. They simply require surgery. Look over there.” He flips on the brights and illuminates the back wall.

  An ancient Mercedes, a Volkswagen Beetle, an Austin Healey, and some type of muscle car that used to be neon green, sit waiting their turn to run again.

  “Just a hobby,” Jonathan says, as he turns the little car sharply around the jet and drives out of the hangar. He clicks a garage door remote over his shoulder as we leave.

  I turn around for a last glimpse, but all that shows in the deep hangar is the white nose of the jet. “So, Jonathan, we should establish some boundaries if we’re going to make this work.”

  “Oh yeah?” He zooms along the narrow street, squeezing the car between a flat-nosed delivery truck and a European compact.

  I’m not normally prone to motion sickness, but brake lights blink on and off faster than a video game. It feels as though we’re going the wrong way. Everything’s on the wrong side. Now it’s my turn to brace myself against the dashboard.

  “Yeah. I don’t like that you think it’s okay to rifle through my life or to use your invasive spyware to dig up personal information on me.”

  “I only want to help. Tell you what? I’ll let you spy on me.”

  “That just means you don’t have anything exciting for me to see,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and biting my lip. Pictures of his friends, and former girlfriends, could tell me a lot about who he is as a person. Is he really the quitter-guy I pegged him for or—? Then I remember I’m not supposed to care and scowl out the window.

  “You didn’t say you wouldn’t want to see it though.” He laughs. “Interesting.”

  “No, but I was thinking it,” I lie.

  “You were not.” Jonathan reaches a hand off the wheel and pats my hand.

  “Hands on the wheel. And why do you keep touching me?”

  Jonathan’s face lights up, but he releases me, clutching the steering wheel two-handed again. “Why do you pretend it bothers you?”