Riders (Riders, #1)(36)

CHAPTER 21

After we left the Kindred behind, we met up with Daryn in the garage. She was waiting right by the Jeep as planned. The relief at seeing her there, unharmed, stopped me in my tracks for a second. Samrael had shown no hesitation in killing the studio guard. I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he’d caught her.

We piled into the Jeep and I drove. Daryn and Sebastian traded quick hellos. I gave Daryn a summary of the studio lot events. Then we spent sixty miles quietly and individually processing the extreme suck of the situation.

With my pulse finally evening out, I looked up, meeting Sebastian’s gaze in the rearview mirror. I was pretty positive he’d just seen his first violent death too. We were stuck in this thing, the two of us. This was happening to us both.

“I don’t even know how to thank you for what you did back there,” he said.

Daryn stirred, her gaze moving between us. Sebastian and I had been quiet, but she’d been more than quiet. She had a way of sinking so far into her thoughts, it felt like she went away somewhere.

“You just did,” I replied. “Sorry about your flying disks, though. Those were pretty cool.”

“You mean the scales,” Sebastian said. “Famine has scales. In the Book of Revelation.”

He paused after every comment, waiting for some sign of recognition from me. I couldn’t give it to him. I’d remembered a little more about the four horsemen, but it still wasn’t much. Just another reason I didn’t understand why I’d been given the job. I knew they rode horses of different colors and that they were involved in the end times. I knew generally about sacred seals being broken, setting a series of cataclysmic events into motion before Judgment Day. But Daryn had said we weren’t doing any of that. We were incarnations of the horsemen, manifested for a different mission. The mission, so far defined, being the protection of an object no one except Daryn knew anything about.

“Anyway, no worries,” Sebastian said. “I have them right here.”

I glanced back and saw the weapon resting on his legs. “Explain.” I didn’t like that he had a weapon. And apparent control of his horse. I didn’t have any of that. “Explain right now.”

“Wait a second. You told me you were War. I thought you’d know. You told me you had answers.”

I tipped my head to Daryn. “She does.”

“Some answers. I know some things, but”—she gestured to the scales—“the weapons, the horses. That’s all you guys.”

“Hey, Daryn,” I said, my frustration hitting a boil. “You realize you gave me the worst mission briefing that’s probably ever been given in the history of time?”

“Hey, Gideon. This is a need-to-know situation. You know what I need you to. I have to get you all together. You can figure out your weapons and horses then. And it’s not like I know everything myself.”

That wasn’t a satisfying explanation at all, but at the moment I was more interested by the scales. “How did you get them back?” I asked Sebastian.

“Watch,” he said.

I took my eyes off the road and turned. The scales disintegrated into a whirl of black ribbons. Poof. Vanished.

That made sense. He could telepathically call the superweapon from magic cuff land when he needed it. Should’ve figured that out myself. “Our horses. Are they disappeared, too?” We’d left our horses standing guard, and for all I knew, they were still hanging out at the studio.

“I called mine back. My guess is yours just followed.”

“Perfect. Listen up, Sebastian. As soon as we get out of this Jeep, you’re going to tell me how you did that. You’re going to show me.”

I sounded like the cadre in RASP, laying it down in ruthless no-BS terms, but whatever. Intel. I needed it.

“No problem,” he said. “And you can call me Bastian or Bas.” He shifted around in the backseat, trying to stretch out his legs. “Most people do. I only really use my full name for work. My real name’s my stage name.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind taking all that extra time to say your full name.” Not very cool of me, but I was having a hard time being so far behind the learning curve on stuff that seemed pretty damn critical.

“Gideon has OCPD tendencies,” Daryn said. She pulled my Giants sweatshirt on. It felt like her sweatshirt now.

“Say again?”

She smiled. “Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. It’s an extreme preoccupation with perfectionism, orderliness, and neatness.”

Was that how she saw me? Like a human graphing calculator? Great. “You missed a few, Martin. I also like specifics. Thoroughness. And winning. At everything. But I gotta say as a soldier I fully support your use of acronyms.”

“Ten-four, buddy,” she said.

“In the Army we say ‘Roger that.’”

Her smile grew wider. “Ten-four, buddy.”

For a second there, it felt like maybe she was messing with me, in a good way. Then she raised her eyebrows like, dude. Stare much? And started giving me directions that put us on Highway 15, which was toward Vegas.

“So, no Death Valley?” I asked. “For Death?”

Dumb comment, but my balance was off.

Daryn reached down and rummaged in her backpack like I hadn’t said anything.