Search (SEEK Book 1) (4 page)

Blood pumping like a gong in my ear, I blink. It’s a trick—it has to be. Then I think maybe the girl at the cosmetics counter who did my makeup slipped contacts in without me noticing and I stick my finger in my eye.

“Ouch!” I gasp, wiping running mascara off my cheek.

“Will that be all Miss Monroe?” The bodiless voice from the GPS asks.

“What?” I ask stupidly, forgetting I’d called OnStar.

She repeats the question twice before I’m able to coherently form words.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Yes, that’s all, thanks.” I hang up.

With the gearshift still in reverse, the car sits idle. I’m unable to coax my gaze from the mirror and drive away. I’ve been in front of mirrors all day and haven’t noticed, but then I was trying to avoid my horrifying transformation.

When was the last time I really looked at myself?
I stare at the mirror.

Sometimes I’d hunt for endless days, three or four straight. In my downtime on the compound I’d eat, work out, and send emails to my family in Destin from “college.” That was it. I had no time to think about my appearance, which explains Harnel’s explicit instructions that I stop here, but it doesn’t explain my eyes changing.

A honking car startles me back to reality. “Get back to work, Agent,” I order the alien in the rearview mirror. My eye-color dilemma will have to wait for now. I have more pressing matters to deal with, like how I’m going to avoid killing my target.

I weave through the congested mall traffic and out onto Highway 64 going over the details from Jonathan Steed’s information. I already knew he was a self-made millionaire, but I didn’t know that he’d dropped out of his Ivy League college right after dropping out of high-school. Then he joins the Brotherhood. And again, quits. And now he’s hiding out at some fishing lodge in the backwoods of Kentucky.

My conclusion is that Jonathan Steed is one lucky, very bright quitter with commitment issues. That makes my job slightly harder. But I remind myself that all I have to do in order to complete this mission is get Steed to SEEK. Whether or not he sticks around after that is someone else’s problem.

***

Laurel Gorge Lodge on Anthony Boggs Lane is concealed behind towering firs. When I pull into guest parking my suspicions are confirmed. Jonathan Steed’s silver Beamer is there in plain view, sticking out like diamonds in a coal mine. His New York license plate reads: “ICUCK.” I get it immediately; I see you SEEK.

“Subtle.” I lick my lips, shaking my head. “That’s quite a message from a man who has the Khayal doing his dirty work. How could anyone work with Khayal? It’s sick.”

I grouse the whole time I stuff ridiculous shopping bags in my duffle and sling it over my shoulder. My new heels jab me in the back.

The last time I stood on stilts it was homecoming sophomore year. But I try to appear confident in my tight new jeans, navy sweater and ruffled blouse, feeling way-too sophisticated. Though, the image is probably ruined by my army green seabag anyway.

I pass a four tiered fountain under the cedar entry and almost walk right out of the peep-toe wedges. After carefully navigating the parking lot and courtyard, I reach the entrance. It takes me two tugs to yank open the reclaimed-timber door. I tumble into the rustic lobby with no grace at all. A young girl in a headband watches me curiously from the split-log reception desk.

“Welcome to Laurel Gorge,” she drawls, failing to hide her amusement.

“Reservation for Ashley Monroe,” I answer quickly, giving her my best impression of southern-belle charm.

“Yes, Miss Monroe, will anyone be joining you?”

“Er…no, just me.” My accent waivers.

She stares at her computer screen. “I see here you’ve stayed with us before and have requested the same room #204. King bed on the main floor with a courtyard view. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Length of stay?” she asks.

“Ummm.” I pause with a gulp. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Not a problem. I’ve got your credit card number on file, you can settle up when you check out. We’re not too busy this time of year.”

I nod along with a perma-smile glued to my face. If she had half a brain she’d see the sweat beading along my hairline announcing GUILY, GUILTY, GUILTY.

Finally she tucks my room key in a green pouch and passes it over the tall counter. I grab it and scurry away, all composure disintegrating the moment I’m out of sight. I kick my feet free, heels dangling from my fingertips and peer up and down the quiet corridors. Thankfully the hotel is at minimum capacity; it’ll make it easier to spot my target. Or so I thought, but when I reach the blue door to room 204 I haven’t seen a single soul.

Inside, I’m reminded of the fishing cabin where my grandpa used to take me. The same barn-wood furniture and ugly trout upholsteries fill the cramped space. At least it doesn’t smell like fish guts.

I settle in, spending the evening unpacking clothes, stashing the price tag evidence in the outside dumpster, and studying up on my target, Jonathan Steed.

First, I look up the basics. He’s six-foot-one, one-hundred-seventy-five pounds, dark brown hair and hazel eyes.

“My eyes!” I squeal, suddenly remembering.

Papers abandoned, spread all over the wobbly oak table, I plop down on the squeaky bed and open my laptop. A quick search of what could cause a person’s eye color to change eases my nerves a little. Severe illness or certain medications can alter eye pigments. All the medical sites say it’s nothing too concerning and probably not permanent.

But I’m not taking any chances. I dig through the envelope and pullout the burner—the untraceable cell phone—and follow the directions for an automated check-in. Then I call Dr. Solomon to find out what medicines he’s given me.

I tap in the numbers from the auditory directory and wait as the line rolls to voicemail. “Dr. Solomon, this is Donavan. I have a quick question. Call me back at—” I look at the screen and rattle off the numbers before hanging up. I rollover and stare at the tongue-and-groove ceiling—expecting the phone to ring—but when it doesn’t I begin to snore.

***

The next morning I labor over my hair, make-up and clothes, finding it hard to believe some girls do this every day. I can’t even match a single outfit. Maybe I’m out of practice. Or maybe I’m not particularly gifted at primping, and it takes me almost two hours just to be halfway presentable. In the end, I admire the results of my toil in front of the vanity mirror, and feel ready to present Miss Ashley Monroe to the world.

I check the peephole, keeping an ear on the door for footsteps outside in the courtyard, but there’s been no sign of Mr. Steed. Just one elderly couple – who look to be about one hundred – and some potbellied fishermen in hip-waders talking rowdily about the big one that got away. I suspect their coolers are filled with more beer than fish.

I yawn loudly. Time to take this search mobile.

I begin by wandering the empty halls. Next, I browse the gift shop and stroll through the naturally landscaped gardens on my way to breakfast in the dining room. After two hours, I have little more information about this elusive Handler than I did when I arrived. In the parking lot his car sits idle in the same spot.

A sickening feeling floods over me. Maybe he’s not even here anymore. I hightail it back to my room.

Empty-handed and out of ideas, I pace the length of the modest space, past the mirror fastened haphazardly atop the chipped-pine dresser, talking to myself.

“He can’t have snuck out in the middle of the night. He’s right next door, I would’ve heard…wouldn’t I?”

You were out cold, a nuclear bomb wouldn’t have woken you,
I answer myself. 

“Keira!”
a voice calls from nowhere.

I whirl around—shivers crawling up my neck—fully expecting to see someone standing in the middle of my room. I stare at the emptiness, confused, and then peek through the heavy blue drapes.

Nothing. Not a single soul anywhere.

“Terrific. I’m losing it,” I huff, lowering myself onto the bed. I stick my head between my knees. Everything’s changed too fast. My job, my surroundings, my looks. I miss being me. I miss my family so much it aches. I miss having someone—anyone—to talk to. I jump up, grab the burner and before I’m even aware who I’m calling Cord’s voicemail answers. “You missed me. Leave a message.”

“It’s me. Don’t tell anyone I called.”
I miss you,
I don’t say as I hang up and toss the phone on the floor.

Frustrated, I slip outside to the courtyard, find a wobbly cast-iron table and pretend to read the romance novel I’d scrounged from the lobby. Knee bouncing, I skim the pages without reading the words. Then my luck finally turns. The maid comes out of room 202, passes my “Do Not Disturb” sign and heads to the next door, Mr. Steed’s room. My pulse quickens with anticipation. Back stiff as a board, I stare intently as the frizzy-haired woman in a yellow uniform announces, “Housekeeping,” with a swift rap on the door. When no one answers she pulls a keycard from her apron. If I was better at this Ops stuff I would’ve thought to steal that master key and have a look around myself. I watch as she props the door with her cart and enters.

I wait anxiously, until I hear the vacuum, then I stroll nonchalantly by the door, drop my book and take an inventory of Mr. Steed’s belongings. There’s a wet towel on the floor, toothpaste on the counter, an open duffle on the dresser and the bed looks as though he’d been in a fight with the sheets.

He’s been here recently. He must’ve slipped out while I was having breakfast. But where is he now? I see no evidence of gun cases or ammo. He’s probably smart enough not to leave those in his room, but it would help to know what I’m up against.

I stomp back to my room.

“Think, Keira,” I grumble to myself.

The confinement of the tiny room stifles my thoughts. Desperate for air, I dig through my bag finding boxers and a t-shirt that don’t match. Harnel would never approve, but too bad. I didn’t think to buy anything cute for running and I need to run. As I fling open the door I spare a longing glance at my bow leaning in the corner. If I sense a Khayal, I’ll have to act like everyone else and pretend I don’t. I bound out the door feeling more off balance and confused than I did when I thought I’d lost my target.

It turns out the landscape in Laurel Gorge is perfect to sweat out my frustrations. The pebbled trails hug steep crags of rock and run between thick patches of underbrush. I like the musty smell of Spanish moss like we have in the Boone – some people say it smells like feet—but there’s one major difference between the two forests.

I haven’t felt a single Khayal. It’s strange. The Gorge seems like the perfect environment for Khayal. It’s not quite as dense as the Boone, but still there are enough shadows for them to hide in.

After half an hour, with a good heart rate going, I pause for a moment to mop my brow before continuing up the vertical terrain. The trail comes to a stop at a wide yawning waterfall. I clamber over a cluster of ivy covered boulders, dodging a few scattered logs, and reach the highest peak of the punchbowl basin. The view is as indescribable as an impressionist painting, in its variations of greens, browns, yellows, and reds.

I breathe in the richness, letting it calm my nerves until my attention lands on a leaf, swirling in the breeze. As it twirls over the edge it spirals downward and lands on a wet boulder next to a fisherman. My breath catches as I stare in disbelief. Tall and lanky, dark curly hair. That’s not just any fisherman. The man flicking the fishing line is my target, Jonathan Steed.

With a slight swish of his wrist, the pale blue line snakes through the air and lands delicately on the water’s surface. He repeats this rhythmic motion over and over, like a visual lullaby, mesmerizing me. I find it hard to believe someone capable of such elegantly soothing arrangements could be sadistic enough to be a Handler—and to not only use the Khayal, but somehow control them.

My head begins to pound as I try to reconcile the conflicting person I’m seeing –innocent and peaceful looking– with the gnarly Brotherhood Handler I’m tracking.

I try to imagine this fisherman as he would’ve been dressed in a black and tan Brotherhood uniform, barking out orders to Khayal. But it doesn’t fit. Maybe I’m wrong and this is just some guy fishing. I squint, watching each and every muscle flinch, studying the angle of his broad jaw, the way his cheeks angle up– as though he’s happy.  

I realize I’ve been staring for a while when his amenable face turns upward. Breath lodged in my throat, a foreign sensation spreads from the back of my neck over shoulders, and my brain goes numb. He must’ve felt my gaze burrowing into him, because before I can restart my reflexes, his eyes flash with a genuine smile and he waves invitingly.

Seconds tick by.

I consider running the other way, but the pain of letting Lindy get this close to her surgery and then letting her down—again—holds me in place. My pulse zinging erratically in my ears, I wave back. He smiles like he’s just seen an old friend. I point that I’m coming down. He nods, still smiling, and returns to casting.

On the hike down I think of a plan. Mr. Steed’s friendly enough, it seems. I could probably convince him to hang out for a couple of days, do some sightseeing or whatever people do here. Then I’ll ease the conversation into…
what exactly?
I wonder, kicking a rock over the edge of the trail. It ticks and pings all the way down to the bottom of the ravine.

It’s not like I can just come out and ask him why he left the Brotherhood. Maybe if I smile a lot, and talk about how much I hate the government, he’ll open up without much coercion. Maybe he’s just dying to tell someone all about the big bad Brotherhood. I could be there for him. Console him. I jump down the rocky steps—meant to keep the novice hiker from slipping off the hilly trail I assume—and formulate my strategy.

“Convince him to join SEEK…or destroy him,”
Harnel’s voice echoes in my head.

I can’t—for one minute—let my guard down. I am here to play a part, not get played, I remind myself. I refuse to let Lindy be collateral damage.

“Keira,”
a breezy voice calls from the trees.

Hand over my mouth. I whirl in a circle, ready to defend myself. Nothing but red rocks and a few wind-ravaged trees stare back.

“Hello?” I call softly and hold my breath, not moving a muscle.

The only answer is that of a lonely magpie and a supple wind from the valley below lifting the hair around my ears.

Get it together. What is wrong with me? I break into a gallop.

Somewhere between that point and the bottom of the waterfall I conclude that this place is either haunted or I’m suffering from severe paranoia, the most likely scenario, given that I’m on a mission that’s expected to fail. I shake out my hands, rolling my head in a circle like a prizefighter entering the ring and race the rest of the way down the embankment.

Silhouetted against rays of sunlight peeking through the trees, I find Mr. Steed in the middle of the clear basin. The specs of sunlight shimmering like twinkle-lights on the rippling water around him. For a moment, I just watch. He looks like a dream, lost in his own little world.

He doesn’t notice me as I tuck my hair behind my ears, plaster a smile in place and step into the clearing. “How y’all doin’?” I drawl.

In a smooth movement, he turns – whether the slow-motion is in my head, or really happening I can’t be sure – his face bathed in glittering rainbows, refracting over from the water. He guides the line through the air. I stand motionless, lost in the defined symmetry of his features. My brainwaves go haywire as he steps out of the shade like a sunrise cresting over the horizon. Dark curls peek out from under his khaki hat, a hint of a shadow outlining his jaw frames his inviting smile perfectly.

In that instant, my future disappears as though the continuously-running picture in my head suddenly fades to black and the scene ends.

“Not too bad.” He jumps up on a boulder, his body language laidback and welcoming, keeping the pole carefully still behind his back.

My mind goes blank, erasing all memory of why I’m here. All I can do is gaze as his lean runner’s body cautiously navigates the rocky riverbed, slipping twice. Suddenly the reel zings, handle spinning wildly. He whirls around to wrestle in his catch. I inch closer in my tattered sneakers, standing on tiptoe, curious to see the fish on the other end.

“Do you fish?” he asks, holding up a six inch trout. 

My granddad taught me a thing or two about fishing and that little baby he’s holding is a throw-back, too small for eating and no good as bait.

I blink, suddenly conscious of how crazy I must look staring at him unhooking his catch. I’m struggling to find my voice. “Not really.” I finally manage, barely remembering to keep up Miss Monroe’s southern accent.

“Would you like to?” he asks, flashing a dazzling grin.

“I’ll give it a try.” I nod and smile back, wishing I’d remembered to brush my teeth after breakfast.

In the few feet it takes to reach him, my pulse becomes increasingly erratic. The back of my head feels numb and my ears are buzzing. I slip the yellow elastic off my wrist, wrapping it shakily around my hair, and step up to the boulder beside him.

He watches me sheepishly, brushing his hand against my arm as he holds out the pole. He clears his throat.

“Right. Well, first you want to grip the pole like you’re going to shake someone’s hand. Are you left handed?” he asks, surprised when I hold the pole like him.

“Ambidextrous.”

Why can’t I breathe?
I give myself a little shake trying to ignore the fact he’s watching with the attention of a cat chasing a laser-pointer. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate on his instructions.

“You’ve fished before?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Straight back and pause. Is this right?”
No. It’s not,
I think, feeling awkward.

“Keep your wrist stiff, elbow at your side and pull back,” he says, leaning down and placing my fingers properly on the pole.

My hands tremble beneath his, brain-fog creeping over every lucid thought. He’s not at all what I expected, he’s sweet and gentle. And very trusting to get this close to me. I squint down at the pole and jerk.

“Whoa there, not that stiff.” His warm laugh blows against my neck. “Let it happen naturally.”

Instant goosebumps. I hold my breath, trying to relax as he pushes my arms up to a forty-five degree angle.

“Let it happen. Forward and over and back—repeat—in steady swooshes. Think of it like making dragonfly puppets waltz over the river.”

His right hand feeds the line for me as I concentrate on landing the feathery-fly gently on the water’s surface.

“Cool!” I turn my face up excitedly, expecting to see his friendly smile. Instead, my head fills with molasses, as bright neon-green eyes peer back at me from under a mess of curly bangs.

Eyes just as green, just as radio-active, as mine.