Search (SEEK Book 1) (17 page)

“Do we have time?”

“About ten minutes.” Jonathan nods, opening the shop’s door with a curious glance.

He’s probably wondering if I’ve finally cracked. Shopping is not my favorite hobby. But I want to remember this moment. This newfound freedom. For the first time in too long, I am guilt free.

Inside, it’s warm and cheerful. Bavarian polka music plays in the background. I stroll the aisles, Jonathan looking amused with me for picking up practically every mug. Eventually, I settle on one with pointy-eared elves dancing drunkenly. “What? They remind me of Khayal.” I shrug.

At the counter, I’m pulling bills out of my wallet when I notice the man in the blue baseball hat ducking out of the store. It might just be my training making me paranoid, or it really is unusual to bump into someone who’d just been at our restaurant talking to our waiter. Whichever the case, my pulse quickens.

“You all right?” Jonathan asks, tapping my shoulder when it’s my turn.

I nod and pay the woman twenty American dollars. She gives me back some coins. They look to be equivalent to pennies. I guess the conversion rate isn’t in my favor. I wait, drumming my fingers on the counter, while the shopkeeper wraps my mug in bubble paper.

“Thanks,” I say, stuffing the package hurriedly in my purse.

“I can carry that for you,” Jonathan offers as we merge back into the street with the other late-night shoppers.

Jonathan looks happy right now, playing tourist and being normal. I don’t want to ruin it. I’m being paranoid, seeing danger where there probably is none. I glance at the other faces in the shop. There are probably ten other people who also dined at our restaurant. “No thanks.” I smile earnestly, patting my bag. “It’s not heavy, just
poofy
.”

“Well, if you change your mind.” Jonathan says, doubtfully eyeing my gunnysack purse.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask, reading the signs for the Victoria Quay pier.

Jonathan nods, but answers, “No” with a twisted grin.

“No—yes? Never mind, you’ll only think I’m silly.”

“I already think that. Let’s hear it anyway.” Jonathan chuckles.

I elbow him. Jonathan, being melodramatic, hunches at the waist and gives an exasperated grunt.

“This is important.” I snort, unsuccessful in my attempt at seriousness.

“Okay, sure. What’s up?” Jonathan straightens his face. He lips gather together thoughtfully as he looks me in the eye.

I chew a cuticle. “Your eyes, have you noticed anything strange about them?”
Do you have two flames—one green, one black—burning in your pupils?
I say on the inside, too scared to speak the words out loud. 

“Strange how? Like being obnoxiously too green? Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Jonathan widens his eyes.

“You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m just being ridiculous.” I laugh gravely, skipping a few steps ahead and feeling like a complete lunatic.

Not far up the old cobbled road, harbored along the pier, floats a majestic wooden ship. Its decks and cabins have been whitewashed, its railings polished to gleaming, and its length strung with clear lights from bow to stern. At the very top of its highest point the Union Jack Flag waves in the breeze. The moon, peaking through scattered clouds, is the ship’s only backdrop. The world seems to fall away behind the vessel.

“Wow.” I blink.

A satisfied grin lights Jonathan’s face. “Finally. You’re not easy to impress.”

Understanding floods me. All of this was for me. Not just this cruise—though he picked a spectacular ship—but everything from the hotel to dinner, that was all for me. Not for giving the bank the right address. I’m not here solely because Paul wants me to join the Fifth Column. I’m here because Jonathan doesn’t want me to leave.

I think he’s trying to woo me. I slip an arm under Jonathan’s, leaning my head against his shoulder.

I can feel the smile spread across his face. We reach the loading dock and merge with a steady flow of other cruise goers. “Just trying to blend in,” I say. Really, I’m happy for the excuse. Pretending to be Jonathan’s girlfriend isn’t the worst thing I could do.

A plump man in a black overcoat and bowtie hollers over the roar of embarking passengers. “Welcome to the Ghostly River Cruise!”

I raise an eyebrow, peering up at my escort. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in ghosts,” Jonathan says, fake shocked.

“And you do?” I ask, carefully watching the steps in my heels as we climb to the second level. We settle at a table lit only by a singular votive candle atop a white linen tablecloth. 

“We can’t rule out the existence of anything, remember? Now, what was it you were trying to tell me, something about your eyes being silly?” Jonathan’s expressing turns teasing.

I shake my head. By candlelight he’s even cuter. It’s hard to think straight when he’s looking at me like I’m his most favorite person. “I think you’re the one who’s silly.”

“Just give the ghosts a chance. It’s all for fun and who knows maybe you’ll even enjoy yourself.” Jonathan waggles his eyebrows.

Just then, a fanciful waiter swoops over to our table. “Good evening. Welcome to the Ghostly River Cruise. We’re glad you’ve come to hear tale of the dastardly medieval pirates who haunt the Buildwas. As we make way ‘round the loop you’ll need some liquid courage. What might I bring you to boost your bravery tonight?” The tuxedo wearing waiter asks in thick English brogue.

Jonathan glances at the wine list. “We’ll try a bottle of the Shropshire Corner Oak, please.”

The waiter nods to Jonathan. “Right away, sire. All right m’ lady?” he asks, turning to me.

“Sounds great, thanks.” I smile, enjoying the atmosphere despite myself. Creepy organ music drones a tune of doom. Wind gently blows the sheer curtains framing the hundred-year-old windows. It’s romantic, but not in a syrupy sweet way. It’s comfortable. But I won’t tell Jonathan that.

“If you think you’re going to scare me with ghost stories so I’ll jump into your arms, you’re wrong.” I grin.

I peek to my left and the giggle dies in my throat. Amid the crowd of tourists, a face I’ve see once before lurks against the rough pine walls. A guy I never thought I’d see again. And of all the places in the world to run into him, Shrewsbury is not a place we could both be by coincidence.

“We have to get off the boat. Now!” I leap to my feet, whirling my back to the guy in a black leather jacket and grab Jonathan’s arm. The waiter returns with our wine in a bucket of ice. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well.”

I hurry through the crowded deck, pulling a confused Jonathan along with me. He clambers down the stairs dutifully behind me. I lead him out of the hall and past a group of people waving from the railing, only to reach the exit ramp too late. The crew has just finished wheeling the gangplank back to the dock. “It’s closed!” I hiss, hanging my head over the railing. Three men on the dock are untying ropes the size of telephone poles and the ship slips free.

“You saw someone you know, someone from SEEK?” Jonathan asks, peering over the railing next to me.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I chance a glance over my shoulder, expecting the guy in the leather jacket to be standing there. “I saw someone who tried to join SEEK.”

“Yeah?” 

“Upstairs, there’s a guy who failed the hunter’s exams, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t find other employment within Kistall or Episteme, right?” I ask, watching helplessly as the ship backs away from its mooring slip.

Jonathan thinks for a minute and shakes his head. “I know how to find out. If you remember his name I can look him up, see who he’s working for.”

“Curt Nelson.”

Jonathan slides his mini tablet out of his coat, glancing over his shoulder and glides his thumbs over the screen too fast to see what he’s typing. “Got it. Curtis James Nelson. Nineteen years old. Scored eight-fifty on his S.A.T.’s., applied for college but didn’t make it and is currently unemployed and traveling Europe on daddy’s money. Looks like he’s clean,” Jonathan answers with a shrug.

That’s it? He’s not SEEK? I exhale.

The boat horn blares. The floor rolls as the ship pulls forward, smashing me into Jonathan’s arm. He smells of raspberry port.

“That’s it! I’ve got it!” I blurt out.

“You figured out who he is?” Jonathan looks curiously up from his tablet.

“No not him, but maybe a campaign platform that will get the Fifth Column the votes of every college student in America.” I gush proudly.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Underage drinking is a huge deal in the states, right?” I ask giddily.

“How did you get from Curt Nelson to teen drinking?” Jonathan asks, scrunching his nose.

“Never mind how,” I say, embarrassed. “Let’s go back to our table and see if you think my idea could work.”

Jonathan saunters back up the stairs and into the dining room, waving our waiter over.

“Feeling better, Miss?” the waiter asks politely, but I can see he’s annoyed as he hustles off to retrieve our wine.

“Let’s hear your idea,” Jonathan says, cheerfully optimistic.

I gather my thoughts. The sight of Jonathan peering at me from across a candlelit table rattles my nerves. “Back home, you and I can’t legally drink alcohol until we’re twenty one, right? But, it wasn’t always like that. The age limit used to be eighteen, until 1986. Since then, college and high school drinking has risen out of control. In 2008, some college students started the Amethyst Initiative, begging voters to reconsider Reagan’s bill to have the age limit raised in the first place. Multiple surveys have shown what a bad social policy it is. We have the second highest drinking age in the world! Think about it. At eighteen we’re considered adults. We can vote, die for our country, smoke cigarettes, buy pornography and we’re bound by legal contracts. We have bills, we pay taxes, but we can’t drink? We’re adults and we’ve put up with it for long enough!” I say too loudly, clapping a hand over my mouth and shrink down in my chair.

Jonathan leans over the table, laying a hand alongside his mouth. “So you’re suggesting that we get the new adults on board by proposing a new alcohol law? Make them feel like they have the power to change something they don’t like? It’s not world peace, but I think it’s brilliant!”

I open my mouth to agree, but Jonathan rocks back in his chair and gives an earsplitting clap.

I peer around. “Shhh.”

And suddenly Jonathan’s over the table and grabbing my face. He comes at me in a blur. His lips rest against my cheek. Time disappears. I turn into his neck, drunk on his scent of peppermint and port. I don’t know if it’s the wine, the candles, or the gentle rocking of the river, but in that split fraction of time, I kiss Jonathan’s throat. He freezes in place, his pulse racing beneath my lips.

For a moment neither of us moves—my lips still pressed against the warmth of his skin—as if he too has been sucked into this no-time continuum.

“Thank you,” he says at last, breaking the spell as he slides slowly back into his chair.

“I’m so sorry. It’s all this candlelight and wine. And wipe that goofy smile off your face.”

“Maybe now’s a good time to talk about you staying with the Fifth Column—”

A woman’s screams cut Jonathan’s words short and launch me to my feet.

“Oh, I think I see it!” the woman squeals giddily.

I lower to my seat, staring as the other passengers rush starboard. “What the hell is that all about?”

“You’ll want to see this. Remember other people don’t see what we see.” Jonathan takes my hand, leading me out into the brisk damp air.

I pull my sweater together as Jonathan and I stare out into twilight, waiting for ghosts to appear. It’s unsettling how invincible I feel with his hand in mine, like there is nothing the two of us couldn’t tackle together. A partner I could believe in, a partner I could confide in.

“He’s the one you’re meant for,”
the voice says.

A shiver of electricity tingles from Jonathan’s fingers and up my arm. Rows of passengers huddle together, peering out over the river as though they’re whale watching.

I’m questioning my sanity for the third time tonight.

I point at the crowd questioningly, but Jonathan only smiles, nodding toward the expanding river. I follow his gaze. The water, silver under the full moon, shows no signs that it holds any untold secrets. Like any other river, it just gently waves along as a river should. But then the light changes and I see the phenomena. It’s not ghosts the passengers are looking for, it’s Khayal. Dozens of brightly colored Khayal flying in circles and dipping gracefully down to touch the water, leaving only ripples in their wake, though the passengers wouldn’t see them as I do. They’d only see mere shadows of shadows. They might think they see something from the corner of their eye, only to find it isn’t there when they try to focus on it.

I take a step forward, stretching up to my tiptoes.

A chartreuse bubble bursts and a magnificent yellow-green Khayal swoops low along the river’s surface. She’s so fast I almost miss her using her hands to take a drink. I blink, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. The Khayal are flying low and drinking from the river and to me it looks like a neon, glow-in-the-dark, water ballet.