Seeker (Riders #2)(2)

Isabel's eyebrows lift. "So … ?"

"I was on the computer at the ranch about two weeks ago doing some research."

"Research?"

"On the friends I used to have until I disappointed them horribly? Gideon, Jode, and Marcus? I wanted to see how they're doing. Whether they're okay." And hopefully not as miserable as I am, I add silently. "I came across an announcement. An event where I knew they'd all be, and I couldn't resist. I had to go see them in, um … " On three, Daryn. One, two, three. "In Georgia."

Saying it out loud makes it sound even more extreme and I almost wince, but Isabel doesn't react.

"Why Georgia?" she asks, like she's not at all surprised that I drove four thousand miles in nine days.

"Marcus enlisted. It was a graduation celebration for him from the Ranger program-the one Gideon was in, too. I knew Gideon and Jode would be there for it. They'd never miss something that important."

I couldn't miss it, either. For several reasons.

"And how was it? Did you get a chance to talk through everything? Were they angry with you?"

She knows this is my greatest fear. That Gideon, Marcus, and Jode will blame me for what happened to Sebastian. I mean, I blame me. Why shouldn't they? It's a fear that's kept me immobilized here for more than half a year. That, and no longer having visions to tell me where I'm needed.

Right after the battle against the Kindred, aka my epic fail, they completely stopped. I've been totally cut off from the future. Without visions, I've felt incomplete. I've felt this constant quiet dread, like I've forgotten something important. Except it's not that I can't remember what I should know. It's that I can't foresee it.



       
         
       
        

"No, they weren't angry with me."

"That's good," Iz says, brightly.

"Not really. It's not anything." Isabel's smile fades. I can't look at her anymore, so I look at Shadow. With the daylight fading and the darkness reaching for her, anxiety curls low in my stomach. Her coat is so black, so deeply black, I've always had an irrational terror of losing her at night. "I didn't talk to them."

My words sound confessional and they hang in the stormy silence. A cold breeze sweeps across our property, stirring the trees at the edges of the field and lifting a lone hawk into the unsettled sky.

"Daryn  …  You went all that way and you didn't speak to them?"

"I chickened out, Isabel! I couldn't figure out what to say! 'Sorry'? What good would that do? I'm the one with the Sight. Was the one. I knew we'd have that showdown with the Kindred. I should've had a better plan. I should've anticipated every outcome. But I didn't and Gideon lost his hand because of me and Sebastian's hurt or possibly dead but definitely trapped in a realm with a demon. A realm I opened. How do you apologize for that? For making a mistake that big? What could I have said to make any kind of difference?"

Isabel carries a meditative quiet about her. I love it. I used to try to emulate it. She taught me that the quieter you are, the more you hear and see and understand and even feel. Quiet lets you fill yourself up. There's wisdom to be found in listening, in silence. But since my screwup, I'm not always quiet. I have a new volume, a yelling volume. It comes out of nowhere too, like those air horns people bring to sporting events. Just hit the right nerve and WAAHHHH!

It's awful. Isabel doesn't deserve it. Neither does Shadow. She takes a few steps toward me before she realizes I'm fine. Mostly fine.

My throat feels raw and I'm biting down so hard I may crack my own teeth. Isabel reaches over and squeezes my wrist with her strong potter's hand. I watch the hawk riding the storm winds as I wait for the tears that have welled up to be reabsorbed into my eyes. To the west the clouds have broken and are spilling themselves open. Unlike me.

"This is as close as I got." I slip my phone out of my pocket and pull up the only photo I took during my week away. I've looked at it five hundred times and every time it hits me with a different feeling. This time it triggers an aching, wishing feeling, like I want to be that hawk up there, gliding through a storm like fear is just a myth.

Isabel takes the phone. "Is this Gideon?" She must see the answer on my face, because she turns back to the phone and studies the photo. I wonder if she's looking for his prosthetic hand. You can't see it in the photo. I could barely see it in real life. "He's handsome." 

"It's a picture of his back." He was turned away and standing in a crowd about forty feet away from where I lurked like a stalker. Which I technically was.