Gideon slowly paces around it. “Why this?” he asks when he’s circled back to me. His blue eyes are honed with intensity.
“I don’t know. I have no idea.” How do you explain a car here in the Rift? Parked like it’s been here for ages? And it’s not just any car. It’s the one Marcus was driving when we found him in the Mojave Desert last fall. Marcus fled home in this car.
Gideon’s gaze moves to Marcus and Jode, who are riding our way. “Shit.”
Marcus dismounts. He stakes his scythe in the earth and strides up, his face emotionless. He reaches out slowly and rests his hand on the hood, like he needs to be sure it’s real. I notice the shudder that rolls through his broad shoulders.
The Mustang looks as real as anything can ever be, solid and tangible. But it projects a presence too, like it’s a living thing that’s only dormant.
Marcus’s expression darkens as he stands with his hand on the hood, and I can almost see the memories playing in his mind. This car is a reminder of one of the worst times in his life.
Last fall, Marcus told me he’d taken it from one of the five guys who had beat him to death—which had led to him coming back as Death. He had attacked the guys first. But he’d been retaliating on behalf of a friend who’d been assaulted by them—a girl. Brutalized by all five. I have nightmares about what he went through. I can’t imagine how he feels. Not to mention his friend, the girl who suffered more than either of us. And who undoubtedly still suffers. Marcus had been driving for days when we found him. Out of money. Stranded in the desert. Terrified by what he’d become. Death.
I don’t think anyone knows this except me—and Gideon, maybe. It’s all Marcus has ever offered—not much. But I respect it. You don’t always get the answers. The gaps don’t always fill in. Sometimes you have to live with not knowing everything. I’m learning that.
Unquestionably, though, this car is a physical token of pain he carries inside him. Just like …
Mom.
The hair on my arms lifts and tears spring to my eyes.
“Shame to break up the fun,” Jode says dryly, “but we’re past time. We need to head back.”
We stand a moment longer, the four of us, and I feel the focus shift away from the car to Sebastian.
We haven’t seen a single sign of him.
The same feeling washes over me as when I came back to the cabin a few days ago—failure, starkly exposed. No shelter from it. No escape from the glare of disappointment.
The ride back is more infuriatingly monotonous trees. I don’t expect anything else, not even after seeing the silver Mustang, so I’m not prepared when a structure comes into view through the scrim of branches and leaves.
A house?
No, a cabin.
The Smith Cabin.
My home in Moose, Wyoming, sits beneath the trees, the A-frame roof disappearing into the thick canopy.
It’s exactly the same, with a porch and weathered green paint. Wooden shutters with the moose details carved at the center.
My fear cranks up to such a fever pitch that I go numb.
There’s no question about whether we’ll go to investigate. We quickly make a plan.
Jode will stay on watch, Marcus will look after the horses.
Gideon and I approach on foot once again. This time with caution.
I don’t want to go anywhere near it. But what if Isabel is in there?
What if Bas is?
We step onto the porch and I lead, knowing which boards creak, which ones to avoid. When I see the doormat, it stops my heart. A black bear, with the words Please pause to wipe your paws beneath it—exactly like in Wyoming.
Gideon steps aside. “Door,” he whispers.
He’s holding the sword in his good hand, I realize. He needs me to open the door for him.
I reach for the handle and pull it open.
He rushes inside in brisk, practiced movements. I feel like I’m floating as I follow him. The curtains are drawn and it’s almost pitch black and my heart can’t possibly pound any harder than it is now.
We move through the kitchen and down the hall, plunging into darkness that’s even more oppressive. In my room, I can’t stand it anymore; I grab the curtains and yank them open. Gideon and I lock eyes for an instant. Then he slips out to continue searching the cabin.
I step to the mirror over my dresser. The pictures I taped around the frame are all here. My poems. Just how I left them.
I rush back into the living room, terror choking me.
Gideon’s already there, sword sheathed at his back. “It’s clear. We’re good. We’re the only ones here.”
My eyes are starting to fill. I don’t want to be this afraid inside these walls. I live here.
He takes a step toward me. “Daryn?”
“I don’t know what this means. Why do these things keep appearing? How many will we see? Will it be something from your life next? From Jode’s? And I don’t know why we haven’t seen Bas. I feel like I should know all of this. I feel like we’re all here because of me and I should know.”
“Slow down a minute.” His hand finds my elbow. “None of this is your fault and no one’s expecting you to have all the answers. Let’s just keep this simple. One thing at a time. We’re here for Bas and we’re going to find him. I’m not going to give up. Are you?”
“No. Never.”
“Okay. You doing all right?”
For an instant I see him for what he is. An anchor. A marvel to me. “Yes.”
He nods, relaxing his posture slightly. “Scary, isn’t it? Seeing this stuff in these woods?”
“I hate it.”
“Sums it up for me, too.” His eyes dart to the door. “We should go. B Team will be waiting.”
But neither one of us moves. I want to say something to make things better between us. To set the bone that’s broken so we can start to heal, even though this is a terrible time to have that conversation. I have to do something though, so I reach for his hand. My fingers close around cool sculpted metal. “Thank you.”
He frowns slightly. “No need, Martin. We look out for each other.”
We share a beat of silence. Close and connected.
Not at all civil or professional.
Then chaos erupts outside.
Our horses squeal and Marcus shouts for us. Through the open door, I see the flash of Jode nocking an arrow and taking aim.
But it’s the screams from the distance that chill me. I’ve never heard Ben or Cordero scream for their lives before, but I know it’s them. And I know what’s happening.
Harrows.
CHAPTER 14
GIDEON
It sounds like a massacre.
I push Riot to top speed, risking missing the directional marks Marcus left with his scythe. Riding slow isn’t an option, though, or I’ll be too late to save anyone.
The Arabians are screaming—horse sounds I’ve never heard before—and the Harrows are making a crazed pack-hunting noise—something between wolf and hyena howls.
Cordero and Ben were screaming, too. A little while ago.
Not anymore.