by Conlan Brown
He checked the stove clock. Only five minutes until she was supposed to arrive. Like usual, he was running behind schedule. Like getting to meetings and work, punctuality was something that he had never gotten the hang of.
With Trista he’d imagined that he could at least start dinner on time. But this wasn’t proving to be true with her either.
He caught sight of his hand, wondering if he’d seen it shake. His heart rate was faster than usual. Excitement did that to him sometimes—and tonight?
It had been a year since she’d left the country. Funny—last time he was the one who bolted. Now he had an inkling of how she’d felt when he’d abandoned her. Why did they keep running from each other every time they seemed to get close?
The doorbell rang.
John froze. The last thing he needed was an uninvited guest at this moment. He walked to the door of his apartment and looked through the peephole—
Blonde hair pulled up onto her head. Faded blue jeans and a red sweater. She always looked so good in red.
“Trista,” he said as he opened the door, “come in.”
She stepped across the threshold, looking around. The Firstborn had insisted that he have an apartment befitting his status as Overseer, so they’d found one already furnished with spare, modern pieces. He’d managed to cover the walls in art from around the world, giving the place some hint of personality. He gestured toward the kitchen, and Trista settled onto a bar stool at the counter and scrutinized the shiny new appliances.
“This is a very nice apartment,” she said with an approving nod.
“Yeah,” John agreed. “Vince Sobel got me put up here when I started working as Overseer.”
“It’s sure a change from the huts and tents you’re used to sleeping in.”
John shrugged as he moved back into the kitchen. He picked up a spoon and began to stir the pasta. “This is a nice place, but”—he tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot—“sometimes I miss the backwoods of Kenya.”
They looked at one another for several moments.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Um”—she shrugged—“sure.”
John reached into a cabinet. “Have you ever had tea in the Middle East?”
“I’ve never been to the Middle East,” she replied, “even though I keep meaning to go.”
“I forget that,” he muttered, pulling ingredients from the nearly empty cabinet. “Anyway, the tea they make there—they call it chai—is amazing, and I’ve been working on finding out what they do that makes it so good.”
“And?” she asked.
“Cardamom,” he replied, holding up a container labeled as such.
“Cardamom?”
“Makes all the difference in the world.” He turned on another burner, reaching for the teakettle. John set the water to boil and turned back to Trista. “So,” he asked awkwardly, “how are you?”
She was quiet for a moment. “I’m good,” she said after a few seconds.
“So,” he asked excitedly, “how was Belize? I haven’t been there in—”
“I met someone.” She interrupted flatly.
John stopped. The only sound in the kitchen for several seconds was the sound of water boiling. His body felt cold, as if all the blood in his veins had evaporated in an instant. Something seemed to catch in his throat.
“Trista, I—”
“I was having trouble dealing with the loss of my uncle Morris and everything else that led up to it. He was there for me.”
John’s mind raced, a feeling of nausea overcoming him. He thought he might vomit right there on the kitchen floor. He shook his head, confused. “But before you left, I thought we kind of”—he shrugged helplessly—“reconnected.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I needed someone, and he was there.”
“So, it’s over?” John asked.
“He asked me to marry him,” she said.
“Oh,” John replied, trying to sift through it all. “What did you say?”
She looked away for a moment. “I told him that I needed to get a few things in order before I could say yes.”
“And that’s why you’re back in New York.”
She nodded.
There was a small whine from the teakettle as the water began to boil. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” John asked.
Trista didn’t make eye contact. “This morning didn’t seem to be the right time,” she said. “And I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Like this?” John rebutted, voice raising, the tea starting to whistle.
“I didn’t want you to learn like this. I was going to—”
“What?” John demanded. “You were going to send me an invitation to the reception in Belize and hope I understood?”
“Please don’t react like this, John.”
“Like what?” he demanded, exasperated. The teakettle screamed. John crossed his arms. “You left the country with little more than twelve hours’ notice, didn’t keep in contact, and then you drop this on me.” He picked up the kettle and dropped it loudly on a vacant burner. “How am I supposed to react? How am I supposed to feel?”
He turned off the burners with a snap and braced himself against the stovetop, head hung. Trista didn’t say anything. The boil of pasta began to slow, evening out to a placid calm.
“What’s his name?” John looked at her, waiting for a response.
Trista fidgeted for a moment. “Holden.”
“What’s his first name?”
“That is his first name.”
Standing up straight, John shook his head. “So,” he started, looking down at his hand, “what does…Holden do for a living?”
“He’s a banker.”
“Oh.” John bobbed his head sarcastically. “A banker.” His heart rate quickened with every breath. “So, that’s what it takes to get a woman’s attention? A banker? If I were a banker would you have stayed in the country?”
“It wasn’t like that, John. I left because I didn’t think that it was going to be safe for me.”
John clenched his fists, leaning against the counter. “I was Overseer. I could have made it safe!”
“That wasn’t the only reason I left,” she argued.
“Then what? What was it that made it so stinking important for you to leave the hemisphere?”
Her cheeks got rosy. “It was you, John. I had to leave because I was falling for you again—and I couldn’t let that happen.”
He threw his hands up, letting out a furious sigh. “Oh, but of course—because falling for me is the worst thing that could happen, and escaping as far away from me as possible is the only solution.”
“John!” she shouted. “What was going to happen? We’d already tried it before—”
“And it was the most meaningful thing I’ve ever experienced,” he growled.
“Really?” she demanded. “Was that before or after you ran away to Thailand for a year, leaving me alone, humiliated, and heartbroken?”
“That was different!”
“How?” She snarled. “How was that different?”
“I came back for you!”
“Only after I had endured all the public shame and humiliation I could stand.”
John shook his head with vigor. “And when I came back— eating crow by the mouthful—you fed me to the dogs!”
“Always the martyr,” Trista spat. “Can’t you just once think about the consequences of what you’ve done?”
John folded his arms, looking away. “This is ridiculous.”
Trista was quiet for a moment. “I’m not going to take this, John,” she said, reaching for her purse. “You want to know why I couldn’t stay around you? Because you’re an unstable, showboating, lazy child!”
“And Holden is a real man?” John spat.
“Yes,” she said, walking toward the door. “He’s everything you aren’t—and that’s why I’m not marrying someone like you!”
The door slammed as she left.
John seethed. Kicked the refrigerator. Screamed to himself, then slid down the wall, sitting on the floor.
His head tipped back, resting against the kitchen cabinets.
It was all falling apart. His life. Everything.
He was failing as Overseer. In every way that he could fail he had, including a horrifying audit by the IRS. He couldn’t get the Prima to send hardly anyone to represent them or join in the unification process, and he couldn’t get the Ora to come out of their offices and deal with their Domani hosts, who in turn hardly spoke to John except to nod when he told them to do something. He had failed to protect Hannah—who had almost died in that house fire. He had failed Devin—deploying him in areas where he didn’t belong and wasn’t called. And he was failing Trista—who just wanted a real man.
John thought he might cry for a moment, but didn’t. Not because he held it back—it was just too much work. Too much trouble to go to. The whole world of the Firstborn seemed to be crashing down in a hideous mess around him. And it was his fault; he knew it.
Outside tiny snaps of rainwater started to click against the windows—the only sound in the entire apartment.
John sat on the floor of his kitchen.
Alone.
Chapter 7
DEVIN BATHURST SAT in his office. There was work to do. An assassination to study, anticipate, and prevent—and a day job to keep his commitment to. The result was late hours. Alone in the office. The only alternative was to go home, but that wasn’t really—
There was a loud, solitary crack of thunder. It was fast and unexpected—he nearly missed the flash, it was so quick.
Rain rapped at the windows that covered the wall to his right. The droplets hammered away as if they wanted to get into the dark office where he worked—a single lamp glowing on his desk.
He turned back to his computer. No one was surviving the economy well, and that had seriously hurt their investing opportunities. It was a fact of life that the market had its ups and downs, but John’s attempts to save them from the market crash had only incurred the wrath of the federal government. And Devin had been so busy chasing after every wild goose people in other departments didn’t want to deal with that he hadn’t caught the problems in time. What a mess. Devin adjusted his tie, tempted for a moment to loosen it, but he still felt compelled to remain in his business attire as long as he was in the office. He returned to his work.
He was only too aware of how everyone in the office, how all of Domani Financial, looked to him to see what was coming next—to tell them where to put the money and what to sell the investors on. But that would all be irrelevant if the IRS froze their assets. The money would be as good as gone, and business would screech to a halt. And business was a living organism, a bit like a shark. If it stopped moving forward, it would die. Who knew how long an investigation would take? Devin had always prided himself that Domani Financial had six months’ worth of assets to fall back on in case of a downturn, but with the economy going bad, those funds had dwindled. And they would ultimately be irrelevant if everything was frozen.
There was a sound across the desk from him, at the door.
Devin looked up.
A grungy-looking man in dark clothes and a long coat. Lightning flashed, revealing a detailed view of stubble and stringy hair. The man said nothing.
Devin closed his laptop computer and stood. “May I help you?”
The man stepped forward, through the darkness. “My name is Angelo.”
“Like Alessandro D’Angelo?”
“Founder of the original Firstborn orders,” Angelo responded. “We share a name.”
“Angelo,” Devin said with a nod.
“It means angel,” Angelo continued, moving forward slowly. “A messenger.”
Devin buttoned his gray sport coat, smoothing the front. “You have a message?”
Angelo stopped just in front of the desk. “You’re walking into a trap.”
“You called me on my phone,” Devin said. “You told me the same thing then, and I’ll tell you the same thing now.”
“The Thresher will be unleashed,” Angelo said, eyes unblinking. “If you do this thing, greater evil will result than any temporary good you might do.”
“I can’t help that,” Devin said unapologetically.
“You don’t understand!” Angelo shouted suddenly. “None of you understand!”
“I’m not entirely certain you understand what you’re saying.” Devin leaned forward, bracing himself against his desk. “But I’ll be certain to take your concerns under advisement.”
Angelo seemed to crumple, hands twitching in some kind of repetitive tick as he pulled at his long hair. “I see it coming,” he said frantically, not looking at Devin. “I’ve felt it happening. I’ve watched it happen.”
Devin stood, reaching for his phone. “Do you require assistance, sir?”
Angelo shrieked to himself.
“Do you require a doctor?”
“You can’t do it,” Angelo said again, continuing to pull at his hair, delivering a blow to his own forehead.
“Do you want me to walk you to the elevator?” Devin asked, patience getting thin.
Angelo began muttering to himself under his breath, none of the words audible or coherent.
Devin looked the man over. He was crazy. Completely insane. A raving lunatic.
He snapped his phone open and walked toward Angelo. “You need help, Mr. Angelo. I’m going to make a phone call to an institution I think can help you.”
Devin approached, setting a hand on Angelo’s elbow—the only legal place to touch a person in an unsolicited manner— and moved to lead him toward the door.
Angelo stopped muttering and twitching. He stood up straight, facing Devin, looking him in the eye—noses mere inches apart. “I know you feel an obligation to help, Mr. Bathurst,” he said with a calm voice, suddenly and eerily lucid. “But I simply cannot allow that.”
Devin Bathurst looked the man back in the eye, neither blinking. They seemed to size each other up for a moment, then Devin spoke. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid that I can’t let this go.”
Angelo’s eyes remained fixed on Devin. Hawkish and predatory. Steady and calm. “Mr. Bathurst,” he said again, “I cannot allow that to happen. And Hannah cannot be allowed to help.”
Devin studied the other man for a moment. “I think that it’s time for you to go.”
Angelo’s hand was on Devin’s chest, as if by magic. A rough shove, and Devin felt the small of his back hit his desk, his body tipping backward.
“I cannot allow you to continue with your plan!” Angelo barked.
“Take your hand off me,” Devin replied, unflappably.
Angelo shoved again, slamming Devin’s shoulder blades into the desktop. “I cannot allow it!” Angelo shouted, ravenous. The man’s hands moved to Devin’s collar, grabbing fistfuls of shirt. “Do you hear me?”
Devin took a deep breath, looked Angelo in the eye, then jammed his fingertips into Angelo’s side—watching as he backed from the desk, sucking for air. Devin stood, facing Angelo, and then saw a shift in the other man’s demeanor.
Angelo came at him—fast and ruthless.
They slammed into the desk—papers scattering, a cup of pens clattering. Grappled, spun, hit the bookshelf—a loud thud. Their bodies clawed at one another as they hit the shelf again and again—books raining down in an avalanche.
Angelo—attacking with savage blows, arms swinging wide. Devin holding his arms close, trying to protect his sides from the onslaught.
Devin took a punch to the face. He saw stars. Took a blow to the stomach—suddenly nauseous, pain running up his sides like a zipper.
They spun again as Devin grabbed a fistful of long hair, tugging hard—swinging for Angelo’s throat.
Angelo blocked, knocking away a series of perfectly executed moves—saw an opening—kicked Devin in the back of the knee.
Devin hit the floor, landing on hi
s knee. Felt an arm reach across his chest and grabbed on—performing an expert throw, sending Angelo tumbling onto his back.
Vicious blows traded from one to another as Devin came in fast. Punches turning to grappling as they tumbled across the office floor, grabbing for throat, gouging at eyes, delivering elbows and punches.
They hit the side of the desk. Papers falling. A picture toppling—glass cracking as the frame hit the floor.
Devin lost control—not certain what had happened in that moment. Both sitting—sides pressed against the desk. Angelo was behind him—arm around Devin’s throat, squeezing tight. Vision blurring. A blood choke.
Devin coughed. Losing strength. Punching over his shoulder directly into Angelo’s face, causing him to flinch. Devin capitalized, lifting to his feet—Angelo on his back—flung his back into the tall windows.
Lightning. Glass crashing.
Angelo shoved off the glass, pushing forward, trying to send Devin face-first into the floor.
Devin captured the momentum—spinning all the way around—Angelo slamming into the glass again.
Glass flexing in expanding cracked circles.
Devin broke free—pressing the advantage—throwing punches. Shoved back with precision—slamming into the desk. Back hitting the desktop. Breaking free of Angelo. Rolling away—off the other side.
A moment of hope—looking for a way to make the most of—
Angelo was charging him—shoulder slamming hard— ramming Devin into the bookshelf again. More volumes tumbling—hitting the floor in a flapping mess.
A blow to the side. Devin sucked air, unable to breathe.
Angelo reached for the desktop—grabbed the lamp. Devin saw it coming in full swing—raising his arm to protect the side of his head—pain shooting through his forearm in a slicing pulse—the lamp striking hard. Devin hit the floor—arm trying to block the incoming swings.
The lamp hit him—over and over again.
Pain—in waves.
He kicked at Angelo’s leg—fighting his way to his feet—vision going blurry. Another impact.
Devin grabbed at Angelo—trying to hold his arms.
They hit the bookshelf again—books dumping out by shelffulls—the shelf tipping forward. Angelo pulling away. Devin tried to run.