Seeker (Riders #2)(7)

"Do you believe it's possible she might go after Sebastian alone?"

It's exactly what Daryn would do. Exactly.

Before I can reply, Ben jogs into the room carrying his laptop this time. He sets it down on Cordero's desk. Instantly, I know this isn't a false alarm. My heartbeat starts pounding in my ears as we crowd around it.

The screen is divided into four squares. My eyes pull to the top right quadrant first. It's a photo.

Of Daryn.

A close-up shot of her in an old Ford pickup. She's leaning slightly out of the driver's window as she hands money to a tollbooth operator. Her hair is up in a ponytail and she's wearing sunglasses with lenses in the shape of hearts, which seems weird and unlike her but then again, I haven't seen her in six months, aside from seeing her in my head all the damn time, so maybe she's changed. Maybe I never knew the real Daryn. Maybe everything that happened between us was fake.

Whatever. Doesn't matter.

Good. So that quadrant's out of the way.

The one below it has a shot of license plates with the registration information. It's registered to Isabel Banks of Moose, Wyoming. Which takes me to the left two quadrants. Both are maps. One is the projected route Daryn drove, or is still driving, from Georgia to Wyoming. The other is a map with Isabel Banks's last known address.

125 Smith Ranch Road, Moose, Wyoming

Daryn is in Wyoming.

Has she been there this entire time? Just miles from where I last saw her?

The name Isabel Banks sounds familiar. Daryn told me once that Seekers have a tight network. They help each other with connections, travel, boarding, money. That's how we think she got into Fort Benning.

I remember. Isabel was the Seeker that mentored Daryn when she first started having visions. She's like an aunt to me, Daryn told me.

"I got it right," Ben says. "That's her, isn't it?"

I can't answer him. My jaw feels welded shut and I'm back on quadrant one, a hundred thoughts racing through my head, not a single one sticking.

Cordero looks up, waiting for confirmation.

"That's her," Marcus says.

"That's Daryn," adds Jode.

"Ben, get us a flight to Wyoming." Cordero grabs her laptop and stands. "Let's go track her down."

I'm already out the door.





CHAPTER 3

DARYN

"Daryn? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I reply automatically. I pop a piece of cornbread into my mouth, buying a second to figure out what I just missed. Isabel was telling me about something at the ranch. "No kidding, a black wolf?" I say, catching up.

It's raining outside. Actually, it's pouring. A quiet roar fills the cabin like the hushed sound of my noise-canceling headphones times a million. I missed when that started, too.

Isabel takes a sip of her tortilla soup and nods. "Yes, right behind the ranch. Caitlin and Samantha were clearing trails for summer and almost ran right into him. They said he was ten feet away and so enormous they thought he was a black bear at first." She smiles. "He gave those girls the scare of their lives."

This bit of news is actually noteworthy. There are tons of wolves in Wyoming but you never see them. They're too good at keeping their distance, which I admire. But a black wolf is especially rare. Ordinarily this would hold my interest but as Iz fills in the details, I feel myself slipping into my own thoughts again. Because what's more rare than a rare black wolf sighting?



       
         
       
        

Going to rescue a friend who's stuck inside a realm with a demon.

As soon as Isabel leaves, I'm doing it.

Fifteen minutes from now, I'm finally going to right some major wrongs.

As we finish our soup, I do my best to nod and reply at the correct moments but my thoughts keep straying to the things I'll need to bring with me tonight. What does one wear into an alternate dimension? Warm clothes, phone, rope, knife-wait, knife?

Yes. Knife. The goal is to come out of this alive, and with Sebastian.

"You sure you don't want to come tonight?" Isabel asks as we start on the dishes. She washes a glass, her movements flowing into one another-scrub, rinse, drain-like they're words in the same sentence. I've always loved the way she moves, so gracefully, still bearing the mark of her younger years as a dancer. Even her features are graceful, a mix of Japanese and Spanish traits that make her look like a living watercolor. I'm practically an ogre next to her. Tall. Muscular. Cloddish, with my Norse roots and crazy blond hair that's not straight but not curly, either. Little Vikings, Dad used to call Josie and me.

"Things are picking up," Iz continues. "We're fully booked this week. And you know the teen boys won't dance unless you're there."