Grave Expectations - Jess Vandermire 4 Page 3

  ALL THE LIGHTS were on inside the Lumination Building, and it appeared to be business as usual at four o’clock in the morning. Britt entered the lobby and crossed to a circular reception desk crammed with young, enthusiastic greeters in the center.

  The air had been scented with ozone and something slightly sweet that he couldn’t identify. Soft music filtered from surround-sound speakers. Cameras were tucked unobtrusively into every corner of the room.

  So, the illustrious evangelist wasn’t all-trusting. Interesting.

  “May I help you, sir?” a slim blonde with spidery eyelashes asked him, shoving her black plastic glasses further up her tilted nose, and smiling at him.

  He ran a hand through his hair and considered his options. The monk had told him Fisk was one of his own kind. Those three words hung in his heart like a wooden mallet… . His own kind—what could that possibly mean?

  “Sir?”

  He’d made a decision, but he wasn’t sure it was the right one. “Is it possible to speak to Malcolm Fisk?”

  She looked at him as if he’d just asked for a personal audience with the Dalai Lama. “I’m sorry, sir, that’s not possible.”

  He inhaled slowly. Yep, he was going for it. “Make it possible,” he said in a soft but firm tone. “This is important.”

  The other three younglings behind the desk formed a huddle and whispered madly. Britt looked up at the camera. “Tell Fisk he and I have something in common. I want to speak with him.”

  The woman’s glittering pink lips stretched wider into a fake smile, allowing him to see her even, ultra-white teeth. “Again, I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  The phone rang beside her and she picked it up. “Front desk,” she said, her thinly tweezed brows knitted together while she nodded as if the person on the other end of the phone could see her. She glanced up at the camera and nodded again, verifying his assumption. “Yes sir, I understand.” She hung up the phone.

  “Which elevator?” Britt asked.

  With tattooed pink fingernails that probably hosted Malcolm Fisk’s logo, she indicated a lone door on the right. “Take that elevator and hit the button with the star on it. You’ve been approved directly to the penthouse.”

  His need to speak to Fisk suddenly outweighed the monk’s warning, but only because Britt actually hoped the man had answers he could use. And, since the monk hadn’t been exactly forthcoming, he didn’t really know who he could trust. He’d have to find out on his own.

  It was a quick ride to the fortieth floor. But if Fisk had wanted him to be out of sorts by exposing him to disconcerting G-forces, he’d be sorely mistaken. It’d take more than a theme-park ride to shake Britt up.

  The door dinged and slid open, and Britt came face-to-face with a massive bald man in white robes.

  “Are you Fisk?” he asked. “Definitely not,” the man said in a hushed feminine voice. “I am but a servant of our illustrious leader.”

  Shit! This was going to be a very long, tedious night. “Look, bub, I don’t know why you’re stalling, but can you get out of my way? Mister Fisk and I have to talk.”

  “Let him in, Brewster,” a deep-timbered voice said. Unfortunately, Britt couldn’t see past the jiggling mound of flesh in front of him.

  “Your name’s Brewster?” Britt grimaced at the bald guy in white robes. “Brewster? Really?”

  The man’s face turned red. Was he really an esoteric aide to an evangelist? No, he thought not. He knew a guy from New York City in costume when he met him. Maybe even in drag.

  The big man barely stepped aside far enough for Britt to shove past. Brewster felt as phony as everything else in this multi-billion dollar enterprise. Britt couldn’t wait to get a look at the evangelist himself.

  “Where are you, Fisk?” Britt asked, irritation riding his backbone.

  “I’m right here, Mister Brittain.” A tall, white-blond-haired man with weird green eyes entered the room from a side door. He wore an expensive silk business suit and a tie that somehow matched the intricacies of the varying degrees of color in his irises.

  “How do you know my name?” Britt asked.

  Malcolm Fisk waved off the mountain in the caftan. The door slammed ever so perceptibly.

  “Please, take a seat,” Fisk said, in a professional I-don’t-have-time-for-you voice.

  Britt looked around for an actual seat. He didn’t see one, so he chose an odd little pod chair near the window. Fisk chose to balance himself on the edge of his desk. No wonder. The pod chair was about as comfortable as a rough-cut tree stump. “You keep strange hours, Mister Fisk.”

  “What is it you think we have in common?” Fisk asked, ignoring Britt’s comment.

  If he hadn’t already given himself away, Britt didn’t intend to expose any more of what little he knew about his own abilities.

  An old movie came to mind. Maybe Fisk would try to slice his head off with a long, dangerous blade if he didn’t play this out carefully. Could there be only one Highlander? If they weren’t Highlanders, what in damnation were they? Besides which, Britt had no Scottish roots that he knew of. And he didn’t own a broadsword, nor did he have the desire to own one.

  Fisk shifted his perch on the edge of his desk. He appeared a little disappointed that Britt didn’t share.

  “You look like the type of man who goes after what he wants and usually gets it,” Fisk said.

  “That would be true.” Britt’s shoulders tightened and he narrowed his gaze on the man.

  Fisk leaned forward. “And, just what is it you want from me?”

  “Actually, I assumed you’d know.”

  “That you and I are alike? I’ve heard rumors.”

  Hairs prickled on Britt’s arms. “From who?”

  Fisk’s cocky grin set Britt’s teeth on edge. Maybe he’d made a mistake in coming here after all.

  The evangelist stood, then took several pamphlets from his desk drawer and handed them to Britt. “If you decide to join my flock, I think you’d make a very valuable team member. We can always use more people like you,” he said. His weird eye colors distracted Britt for a split second before he tore his gaze away.

  It appeared they were at an impasse. Neither of them were about to share.

  Britt took the fliers, rifled through them and noted a schedule for worship. He’d be in the audience the next time Fisk performed. But he’d go incognito.

  “Thanks for these,” he said, standing. “I appreciate you seeing me.”

  Disappointment flared in Fisk’s eyes. When he held out a hand to Britt, something arced between them. A blue light, not unlike the one Britt had used to kill the vampire horde in the caves under the city. Only this filament of light was more like a cord, connecting them for a split second.

  He had the distinct feeling Fisk had done it on purpose to find out if they were really the same. His eyes narrowed on Fisk again. Being an evangelist could be totally selfless, or it could be ultimately self-serving. According to the monk, Fisk was the latter. But why? What did any of this have to do with Britt’s new abilities?

  SECONDS AFTER dusk fell, Jess turned the doorknob and entered her brother’s office.

  She caught the man claiming to be Regent looking at himself in a small mirror. It was almost as if he didn’t know the much younger man staring back at him. Obviously, none of his old clothes fit. They were too big at the waist, and the neck of his shirt was too large.

  Maybe it was just that his skin was tighter? His eyes were a little sharper in color than Regent’s, or had his blue irises been faded for so long, she just didn’t remember the true color of his eyes anymore?

  The way his steady hand held the mirror made her think of the palsy Regent had experienced for the last four years. If he truly was Regent, that affliction was nothing but a memory, now.

  “Evening,” she said. She still felt off, but the sleep had helped.

  Jamming the mirror into the desk drawer, he leaned back in his chair and pressed one hand ag
ainst his forehead, the same way he used to do when pressure bands tightened around his skull.

  “Okay, tell me,” she said. “If you are Regent, what happened to you? How did they make you young again?”

  His head almost wobbled on his shoulders. “Much about my experience is foggy. I must’ve been drugged, I’m not sure.”

  His mannerisms were spot-on. Could he fake that? While he rubbed two fingers on his nearly creaseless brow, she thought about how Regent had earned his worry lines the hard way, fighting vampires and keeping her partial soul within the light.

  “Look at this office,” she said.

  He looked around and nodded.

  “This was Regent’s comfort room. See the aged wood of his desk, the worn leather chairs? They belong here. He belongs here,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “Right here,” he said. “Sitting in my favorite chair.”

  She made an irritated noise and strode to the fireplace. She didn’t want to lose her temper. No, what she wanted was to get the information out of him before she hurt him.

  “You’re not looking much better tonight,” he said. “I wondered if my prayers had helped you while you were in stasis. You’ve never gone without prayers before.”

  That reminded her that not once, in the last fifty-two years, had Regent missed praying for her. At least, not until he’d been kidnapped.

  “I guess it validates the fact that the prayers are keeping you strong,” he said, as if shocked by how bad she looked without them.

  She sighed. “I’ll repeat my question. Where is my brother?”

  “Oh Jess. I don’t know how to prove it to you. What can I say to make you believe me, when I can barely believe it myself?” He folded his hands on his lap.

  “If I knew the answer to that, I’d be forcing you to do it right now,” she answered between gritted teeth.

  “You’ve been fighting the vampire inside you with every shred of strength you could muster for decades. I don’t know if I could’ve been as strong if I’d ended up in the same circumstances.”

  He got up, retrieved a packet of blood from his mini fridge and held it out to her. She ignored the offer.

  She continued to watch him warily. “If you really are Regent, why do you look different?”

  He sighed and shrugged. “I have no idea. In fact, there’s not a lot I can tell you. They did this to me and somehow made me forget how it happened.”

  She made an anxious sound. “They? As in the Vatican?”

  He shrugged. “I think so. At least, some section of the Vatican. I did manage to hear a few whispers. It sounded like they are some ancient and well-kept secret sect.”

  “Convenient,” she said cynically.

  “I understand why you don’t believe it’s really me. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see someone else, too. I feel as if I’ve been sent to a plastic surgeon, who did a fine job but lost the essence of me in the process.”

  She bit back the fangs that threatened to grow. Why wouldn’t this guy tell her where Regent was? Didn’t he know what the consequences were going to be? Or that it wasn’t a good idea to rile her up on a fairly empty stomach.

  “Does Britt know you’re here at the rectory with me?” he asked, frowning. The crease in his brow set her teeth on edge, because it was a little bit familiar, but not familiar enough.

  “Damned if I know,” she said, suddenly suspicious of his question. Did he have something up his sleeve?

  “Dear, you know I don’t like it when you swear.”

  Damn it. This impersonator had done his homework. He probably even knew their favorite movie was The Bells of Saint Mary’s.

  “No offense, Jess, but you look worse than I’ve ever seen you,” he said, reaching for the prayer beads in the drawer to the left. “Maybe this will prove something to you.”

  “Thanks. Now that you mention it, I feel like hell, too,” she said, noting he’d had time to check everything over, and had most likely found the beads while she was in stasis. That didn’t prove a thing.

  His fingers started working the beads, and his lips moved rhythmically.

  If this really was Regent, she’d physically feel the effect of his prayers. She always did. An imposter could only go so far before he fell flat on his face, because Regent’s prayers packed a powerful hit against her dark side.

  She sat on the aged leather sofa, waiting to call him on his charade. Instead of focusing on the prayers, she focused on how she’d manipulate his body until he gave up the answers she wanted.

  Nothing happened right away, and her nails dug into the arm of her brother’s chair. She’d sliced the leather here, more than once over the years, and the arm had been patched many times.

  He noticed her digging into the leather and shook his head, then closed his eyes and prayed a little louder.

  Unexpectedly, a splinter of warmth tingled through her desiccated blood vessels. Light seeped into her heart, and her soul deepened. Holy …

  It really was her brother?

  Right here, in the flesh—and decades younger.

  She let him continue because she’d been so close to losing herself. She needed his prayers right now, before it was too late.

  Half an hour later, and with a flush of warmth affecting her flesh, she sat straighter while he put away his rosary and got out his cross for the final prayer.

  She lowered her head, and let him make the sign of the cross in holy oil on her forehead.

  “It’s really you, isn’t it?” she said. “No one else could do what you just did.” But how could it be true? This man, this younger man, was truly her brother.

  “Other than Britt,” he reminded her, frowning again.

  Were his eyes bluer than she remembered?

  “Something is bothering me, dear,” Regent said. “Judging by the state you were in a moment ago, Britt must have missed more than a couple days of prayers. I don’t understand how he could let that happen. Why hasn’t he protected you in my absence?”

  “I think he forgot. Something happened to him after he saved Terry, James, and Sephina from vampirism. I’m sure he feels he should’ve been able to save me, too.” She shrugged. “Now, he’s afraid he might hurt me by mistake.”

  Regent lowered his head. “Poor man. I guess his fears are understandable.”

  “I’m not sure what he’s thinking these days. To be honest, I’m having a hard time connecting with him. Maybe what we had is over,” she said.

  Regent made a noise of disbelief. “Never!” He ran a hand through his sable-colored hair with a hint of gray at the temples. She remembered when his hair had been that color—thirty years ago. None of this made sense.

  “There’s got to be a good reason for Britt to do this,” Regent said.

  Jess sighed. “It might be that Britt and I will have to face the truth. He might not feel the same about me anymore.”

  “Dearest, do you believe it’s me now?”

  She smiled at him. “It took me a while, but now I’m sure of it. I just don’t understand it.”

  Regent made a face. “That makes two of us.” He sighed and folded his hands on his lap. “You’ve always trusted me, Jess. Trust me now, when I tell you that John Brittain will never stop loving you.”

  THAT EVENING, Britt dialed Jess’s number and waited. The ringing continued until his call went to voicemail. Why wasn’t she answering? All he could do was leave a message on her cell phone, asking her to call him back ASAP.

  Standing on the street opposite Fisk’s building at dusk, he realized it was in a perfect location for nighttime activity, especially since this section of the city consisted of mostly high rises and offices. Any of the shops and lunch counters in the area kept the same hours as the businesses, so they were closed. Apparently, Fisk stayed open twenty-four-seven. His office was fully lit, and people were coming and going.

  Shadows clung to recessed doorways, and suddenly Britt’s intuition told him he wasn’t alone.

 
“Damn it! If only Jess would answer her cell, he’d feel a lot better. Something was up, he could sense it in his bones.

  He’d barely shoved the cell phone back into his pocket when two thugs dressed in silk suits stepped out of an alley and made for him. Given their pasted-on tough-guy expressions, they meant business.

  Britt gritted his teeth. If they were smart, they’d run the other way.

  “Can I help you boys?”

  “Nuh-uh, we’re going to help you. Seems you’re interested in Malcolm Fisk. That true?”

  “S’cuse me? I’m just walking down the sidewalk.”

  “We saw you leave the building earlier. Don’t try to fuck with us.”

  Britt readied his stance.

  One thug tipped his head sideways. “I don’t like his attitude, do you, Vince?”

  “Nope. Not for a second.”

  Britt glared at them. One of them was a little taller than Britt, the other about his size. “Don’t mess with me, boys. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The tall one’s eyes narrowed on Britt. “I’ll ask the question again then, before we rearrange your face—what interest do you have in Malcolm Fisk?”

  “Maybe I just want to sign up? Is that a crime?” Britt wanted to keep the two men talking. Maybe they’d slip up and tell him why they’d stopped him. Why were they so interested in people aligning themselves with Fisk?

  “You investing in his business?”

  Britt stared at the man. “I guess we’re not talking about saving souls for the Lord?”

  The big guy laughed. “Funny, ain’t ya?”

  Britt made a show of pulling out his badge and flashing it in their direction. “Why are you interested in Fisk?”

  They stared at each other before one of them spoke. “Shit, he’s got a cop on the payroll. Dom won’t like that.”

  “Quiet, idiot. No names! Have you considered that maybe the cops are keeping Fisk under surveillance, too?” The heavyset thug nudged the skinny one. “That’d be ripe.”

  Usually, Britt had the ability to make people talk with his practiced stare. But it didn’t work on criminals or idiots. There wasn’t enough gray matter between their ears. But now, he had a name. Dom. Or had they said, Don. As in, the leader of a Mafia gang?