Blind Sight Page 5

  Her brother held up a wicked gun, loaded with silver darts filled with holy water. “It’s right here.”

  “Jordan Ann, get your ass up here now!”

  She sighed as Quinn’s enraged voice cut through the peaceful night, silencing the crickets and tree frogs. Nathan threw her a sympathetic look and took her arm, wrapping it around his own.

  “Come on; I’ll go with you. He won’t bitch long because we don’t have time for it. We have to start tracking this thing.”

  Jordan held up her hand, grabbing her phone. She typed a quick message and pressed the ‘send’ button.

  “Who’d you send that to?”

  “Quinn, I told him to just text me.”

  Nathan’s laughter rang out as Quinn screamed in frustration from the front of the cabin. Jordan moved her feet like a condemned person walking the last mile to her death. With Nathan’s help, she trudged up the bank that led to the lake. It hadn’t seemed so steep going down. Fragrant honey-suckles paired with crisp cedar and the creaking of summertime insects lulled her into a false sense of peace.

  Despite the crappy accommodations (Jordan was sure the cabin – not able to hold all of their weight – would slide off its pilings and crash into the lake, sending them all to a watery death) the campground wasn’t too bad. There was something about the innocence of nature that had always appealed to Jordan. She loved how every living thing – from the animals to the trees -- played a part to keep their world in balance. She sighed. If only they could accomplish the same. For every creature or demon they managed to get rid of, two more took their place. The worst part for her was that the Circle overshadowed her entire life. Like a huge vacuum, it sucked the color from everything, leaving Jordan picking her way through shades of black, white, and gray. She wanted nothing more than to have a normal life: white picket fence, two chubby children, a loving husband, and no more fighting evil. If she never had to pick up another weapon, read another lore-filled journal, or scribe another ancient rune or pentagram, she didn’t think she’d lose much sleep. Some members, like Quinn, were born to do this. They lived for the next kill, ignoring or pushing away anyone who might interfere or bring any real sense of normalcy to their lives. For them, this was normal. Nathan and Uncle Case walked a thin line; managing to do what was right without falling into the abyss of despair, anger, and hatred that always loomed just out of sight. Quinn was barely hanging on by the tips of his fingers.

  Jordan didn’t know exactly where she stood in all this. Being a Seeker, seeing innocent people die in the most painful, terrifying ways possible should have driven her to the nearest padded cell a long time ago. When the visions first began, she had nightmares, couldn’t eat, and begged Gabe to make them stop. She became afraid for her brothers and uncle each time they went on a hunt. Even though they were aware of how the creatures killed their victims – even finding dead bodies on occasion -- that knowledge was nothing compared to actually witnessing it while it happened. They never heard the heart-wrenching screams or the victims pleading for their lives; they never saw the look of horror on their faces. After three years, she coped with it better. She no longer threw up after every vision, retching so hard she felt as if her intestines were being pulled on a chain from her stomach out through her mouth. The bad dreams where her family members took the places of people in her visions began to dissipate long before the dawn, eventually disappearing altogether. As for how she felt, well, that was a question she asked herself every day. Different emotions churned inside her. It was impossible to distinguish which elements were worse: sadness, anger, loss, heartache, fear, hate…each one played a part. In the center – the eye of the tempest – were angels and demons. When the storm finally played itself out, they would be the only beings left standing – the only survivors. And maybe God. Unfortunately, Jordan had a strong suspicion He checked out of this game a long time ago, if He was ever a part of it at all. She often doubted God even existed. If He did, she was sure He’d spout some bullshit about how all of His followers have free will and it was up to them to fix the world they’d screwed up so badly. The end result would still be the same. As members of the Circle, was it really worth throwing away everything when, in the end, they wouldn’t live to see any results from their sacrifices?

  Quinn leaned against the hood of his car, a combination of James Dean and Greek God. His arms, crossed over his chest, strained against the sleeves of his faded t-shirt. The silver, Celtic Warrior ring Jordan bought him for his birthday a few years before glinted on his right hand. She was surprised he still wore it. Pebbles scattered in the wake of Quinn’s Red Wing boots as he impatiently shuffled his feet and she dragged her own. His jeans were ripped in several places. She needed to buy him some more.

  Jordan shuffled up to her big brother, imaginary shackles around her feet making those last few steps almost impossible. For a moment, Quinn said nothing, only stared. The feeling of déjà vu was so strong she almost stumbled. How many times in her life had she been in this same position, looking up at her brother, begging forgiveness for some unknown sin she’d committed while he looked down at her in disgust? Too many to count.

  Like the second act in a play she’d seen a hundred times, he leaned down, inches from her face. “Two more people died last night. That’s two lives that could have been saved if you hadn’t been so fucking selfish.”

  His breath bathed her in the scent of whiskey and spearmint gum, bringing back memories of her father. He and Quinn were definitely fired in the same forge.

  “What did they die for, Jordan? A ham dinner and simulated family time? Their blood is on your hands.” His face contorted, morphing into something dredged from a nightmare. “I sure hope it was worth it,” he sneered.

  “Quinn, back off.” Nathan went to step in front of her but she grabbed his sleeve, stopping him. She didn’t want Quinn’s hatred for her to come between her brothers. In the end, Nathan and Case were all he had. But she was tired -- so damned tired -- of taking his crap.

  “Fine, Quinn -- it’s all my fault, but the blood will have to be put somewhere else. My hands are still stained with Mom’s, remember?”

  The color drained from Quinn’s face, leaving him as washed out and faded as an old lady’s housedress. “Don’t talk about her! Don’t disrespect Mom by slinging flippant remarks and acting like a bitch!”

  Sick – her brother was sick in the head. Her anger, which had been a slow simmer before, suddenly raged out of control. “Flippant? You think I’m being flippant about Mom’s death? Dammit, Quinn, I have paid for that moment every day for as long as I can remember! I didn’t ask to be born! I was a baby, for Christ’s sake. Was there ever a time in your life when you cared for me? Was there ever a time -- one solitary second -- when you didn’t look at me and see a murderer?”

  Her eyes began to water and burn. Without waiting for an answer, she quickly turned away, heading for the cabin and sparse bedroom designated to her. Nathan called her name, but she kept moving. One foot in front of the other, eyes to the ground in case her uncle was watching from one of the dingy, film-crusted windows. She wasn’t sure if what Aamon showed her in the bedroom that night was real or an illusion he wanted her to see, but Jordan was taking no chances.

  She skipped gingerly up the termite-infested steps, tiptoed across the equally decrepit porch, and made it into the cabin without falling through and breaking a leg. The concentration it took to cross the obstacle course created by wood-eating insects, rot, and mold relaxed her taut nerves. By the time she got inside, her eyes were no longer burning.

  Uncle Case was using special markers to draw runes and pentagrams on the walls, floors, windows, and doors of the shanty they were calling a temporary home. The pictures would only show up under a black light, which Case had taken the liberty of placing in a sad light fixture hanging from a rusted chain over the coffee table. Jordan picked up a marker and began to draw an intricate pentagram on the front door.

  “You and Quinn arguing again?�
�� Case groaned, knees popping as he struggled up from the floor, finished with the Ihwaz rune he’d drawn. That particular symbol was for defense and would protect them from demons if they managed to enter the cabin.

  “It’s what we do best,” Jordan answered dryly, concentrating on the pentagram to avoid her uncle’s gaze. Still, she saw him shake his head from the corner of her eye. She sighed. Jordan knew that she and Quinn’s never-ending face-offs were a major thorn in Case’s side. He’d step in and bury the bone of contention and, like a pair of unruly dogs, they’d dig it up again. Well, Quinn did. She tried her best to stay invisible where her brother was concerned, but her presence drew him in like a bad reality show on cable.

  Case went to the miniscule kitchen. He returned with a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. She finished her pentagram and gratefully accepted the strong brew. The heavenly scent of Green Mountain awoke synapses in her brain she hadn’t realize were asleep. They’d only grabbed a few hours’ sleep the night before and had driven long and hard to reach the campground before the office closed. Jordan checked her watch – the witching hour was upon them and their night was just beginning.

  Chapter Seven

  Jordan sat on the surprisingly comfortable couch, working on her second cup of java while Uncle Case and her brothers studied maps at the tiny dinette table. They were going over trails in the area, deciding which ones to investigate first. She would have joined them, but Quinn’s dirty looks paired with overwhelming weariness kept her where she was.

  She could hear them whispering. Every once in a while Nathan or Case would glance her way, but no one bothered to include her in the plans. It pissed her off, but it wasn’t surprising. Since becoming a Seeker, they’d slowly edged Jordan out of the hunts. She knew Case and Nathan loved her, but love wasn’t enough to get by on when a person felt useless.

  Not for the first time, Jordan considered moving out on her own. She took another sip of lukewarm coffee and let her mind drift over plans she’d made -- lifetimes she dreamed about while lying in bed in an empty house while her family hunted creatures on the other side of country. They may as well have been on the other side of the moon.

  Her passion was horses. When she was little, she spent many hours propped up in motel beds with coloring books filled with horse pictures gleaned from dollar stores and pieces of crayons saved in a sandwich bag. When she turned fifteen, Uncle Case surprised her with Archer for her birthday. The sight of his soulful eyes peeking out from inside the stall had made her cry, and Jordan wasn’t the type to spill tears easily. There was something about horses and how they reacted to people that revealed a person’s character – who they were inside. When Archer accepted her with no reservations, she felt blessed in a way she never had before.

  She graduated high school through an online course – made good grades, too. Jordan always wanted to get a job at one of the local ranches in the Wyoming area. One of her favorites was the Good Shepherd Riding Academy where special-needs children were paired with gentle horses. There, they learned to ride, gained confidence and trust, and slowly began to believe in themselves.

  I could do it, she thought. Why not? Clearly, her family didn’t need her to help on hunts. She had quit as a Seeker. There was nothing to hold her back. With her gone, maybe Case could get some peace and quiet and Quinn could begin to heal from their mother’s death. She’d still see Nathan when he was in town.

  Her eyelids grew heavy as the thoughts began to take on weight. Her family, still talking around the table, began to waver in her sight, shimmering like heat on black top. Slowly, the lights dimmed and went out.

  Sunlight streaming through yellowed, lace curtains found Jordan curled up on the couch at dawn. Sometime during the night, someone had thrown an afghan that may have been clean five years before over her. She sneezed, flinging it off before her sinuses exploded from the dust. Hobbling from cramped legs, Jordan made her way to the bedroom to grab a change of clothes and her toiletries. A quick check of the cabin showed she was alone. She had no idea if Case and the boys had been out all night or if they had come back and left again. Her knowledge of their whereabouts was not a top priority.

  The shower head in the closet-sized bathroom sputtered lukewarm water, but to Jordan, it felt like heaven. She washed away two days of road grit and sweat, shampooing her hair twice. By the time she dressed and blow-dried her hair, the sun was sitting much higher in the sky and her stomach was gnawing a hole through her backbone. She needed coffee and breakfast.

  Moments later, Quinn stumbled through the door, dropping gear and weapons in his wake. He staggered to the couch, falling onto it like a man who’d been treading water for too many hours before finally reaching a lifeboat. His face was partially hidden by the throw pillow, but Jordan could see a dark circle shadowing one eye. He was gaunt from stress and lack of sleep. She wanted to go to him – to give him a hug and tell her big brother that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Instead, she picked up his things, putting the camping gear in a corner of the room and his weapons on the kitchen table. He followed her movements with one visible, weary eye.

  Groaning from the exertion, Quinn sat up, his head rolling back against the cushions. “Where are Case and Nathan?”

  Jordan frowned. “I thought they were with you.”

  Quinn nodded. “We split up last night.” He ran his hand over his face, as if trying to slough off his fatigue. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

  Jordan’s stomach growled, sounding like a muffled diesel engine. Quinn heard it. He fumbled the car keys from his jeans pocket and tossed them to her. “Take my car and grab some breakfast from that diner down the road.”

  Jordan caught the keys in midair. “Take your car?” she asked in disbelief.

  Quinn kicked off his boots and closed his eyes. “Do you want to walk instead?”

  Jordan headed for the door, pausing before opening it. “Did you find the Kongamato?”

  Her brother sighed. “No. I saw signs after the sun came up – scratches high up on tree trunks, a patch of dried blood that could have come from anything. We need to find where it’s bedding down. Our best chance of catching it is in the daytime when it’s sleeping.”

  “I’ll go over the maps again when I get back.” She glanced at Quinn, expecting a snide remark about her sleeping all night instead of doing her job, but he was already asleep. Even in repose, his facial muscles did not relax. She wondered if he ever took a break, slipped out of his hunter’s façade, and let go. Maybe when he was having sex, but she doubted it.

  The Broken Yolk diner was as quaint as its name. A hand-painted sign led to a gravel parking area shaded with oaks and maple trees. A handsome building made of treated pine shimmered under the summer sun. The outside boasted a wide front porch bedecked with rocking chairs and planters full of flowers. Jordan steered the Charger into the parking lot and got out. She breathed deeply, fully appreciating the tantalizing smells escaping from inside and the sound of birdsong in the trees.

  The Charger’s powerful engine drew the attention of three bare-chested teenaged boys standing around a mud-splattered Chevy truck with giant tires and a gun rack in the back window. They cat-called to her as she passed by, laughing when she ignored their redneck mating rituals.

  Inside, she savored the scent of frying bacon and fresh-brewed coffee. Small tables covered in red checked tablecloths and decorated with mason jars full of colorful zinnias were placed next to cozy booths. A handsome river-stone fireplace anchored the room. To the left, behind a polished bar, was the kitchen. Jordan had a seat on one of the bar’s padded stools.

  A plump, pretty lady dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt closed a nearby register and smiled at Jordan. Tendrils of light brown hair streaked with gray tumbled out from underneath a green handkerchief tied around her head. Cheerful eyes sparkled from within a kind face made beautiful by laugh lines.

  “How ya doin’, hon? My name is Ruthy and I’m the owner of
this fine establishment.” Her Southern accent rolled over Jordan like warm river water. She couldn’t help but smile. Ruthy placed a menu in front of her. “Know what ya want?” she asked, pulling a pad of paper and a pen from an apron tied around her waist.

  Jordan studied the breakfast section. It all sounded delicious. “You have a very nice place here, ma’am. What would you recommend for three hungry men who spent all night fishing and didn’t catch a thing?”

  The owner laughed – a hearty chuckle that filled the room, causing other patrons to smile in response. “Say they didn’t catch anything? I bet they’re as ornery as a couple of bears coming outta hibernation! Sounds like they need our House special: River omelets and hotcakes. We stuff omelets with steak, cheese, and garden veggies and serve ‘em up with hotcakes as big as wagon wheels smothered in butter and syrup.”

  Jordan couldn’t help but lick her lips. “Sounds perfect. Can I get four orders to go with coffee, please?”

  Ruthy put her order in and returned with a pot of coffee and a mug. Before Jordan could say anything, she poured her a cup, placing it in front of her with a small pitcher of fresh cream and a container of sugar. Jordan dressed her coffee and took a sip, closing her eyes in bliss as the rich brew slid down. When she opened them to thank the owner, she found herself staring at a plate with a biscuit so pretty it could have adorned the cover of a cooking magazine. Beside it was a basket filled with mini jars of jellies and jams. Jordan looked up at Ruthy for an explanation.

  “No charge. Whichever jelly or jam you choose to use, you get to keep. I recommend the blackberry jam myself. It’s my specialty.” She winked at Jordan and left to ring up another customer.

  Jordan slit open the biscuit with a butter knife, still hot and steaming from the oven. The smell of warm yeast made her mouth water. She slathered the fluffy insides with butter and Ruthy’s homemade blackberry jam. The first bite – the mixture of the sweet butter, warm biscuit, and tart jam – made her taste buds stand at attention. If heaven were a food, it would taste just like this. She chewed slowly, savoring the flavors, hoping to make the treat last as long as possible.