Read Search (SEEK Book 1) for Free Online Page B

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