The Firstborn (11 page)
“Do you think we can stop it?”
“I’m afraid this may be too much for just the Domani,” Morris said with a sigh.
“Then what do you suggest?”
The older man shook his head slowly. “If we don’t learn how to stand united, free of isolation, I’m afraid for the future of the Firstborn. We have to stand together or children will die.”
“Agreed.”
“Devin,” Morris smiled, “you are the future. You are the one who must lead us all to unity when the moment comes. All of the Firstborn know you and respect you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And thank the Lord you’re not that blasted John Temple.”
T
HE CAB SLITHERED UP
the road to the top of the giant hill.
John Temple stepped out and paid the driver, hoisting his single duffel bag onto his shoulder as the car drove off. He approached the big house’s gate and pressed the buzzer.
A moment.
“Yes?” a voice asked through the intercom.
“It’s John,” he said loudly into the speaker, then made a deliberate look up into the camera above.
“Just a second.”
There was another loud buzzing and the massive wrought-iron gate snapped open. He stepped through into the driveway. Cobbled stones led up to the big, Mediterranean-style house. The place was worth millions.
When he made it to the front door he knocked.
“Be right there,” someone shouted from the other side. The door cracked open.
Vincent Sobel was an athletic-looking middle-aged man with a trendy appearance. He looked John over.
“You look horrible,” he said with a smile. “Come on in.”
The interior was white stucco with statuary placed intermittently. John stared at the tall ceilings. “I like the new place, Vince,” he said with a nod. “I take it business is good?”
Vincent shrugged. “High-end stuff just isn’t selling right now. I’m only living here until I can sell it.”
“How long will that take?”
“It’s been six months already—can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure.”
Vincent poured two sodas then led John to a balcony overlooking the steep drop down the backside of the hill. In the distance John could barely make out the skyline of San Francisco against the setting sun.
Vincent took a sip of his drink. “Clay and I talked.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He’s not going to San Antonio.”
John shrugged. “I’m not surprised—he’s thought the rest of the Firstborn were out to get him for years. How long has it been since he left that fortress-mansion of his?”
“Two years,” Vincent said with a nod.
“Has it really been that long?”
“Yes, it has. And he’s still convinced that someone is trying to kill him.”
“Does he still think it was the Domani who killed his sons?” Vincent shrugged. “He never said the Domani—he just thought it was the Firstborn.”
“That’s ridiculous,” John said, shaking his head. “This amount of distrust? It doesn’t even make sense.”
Vincent shrugged. “D’Angelo warned about traitors—those who were not of the Firstborn living among them.”
“That warning is a thousand years old and was probably a metaphor to begin with.”
Vincent leaned his back against the balcony rail. “All I know is that nobody likes the Ora, never have. We see people where they are—and nobody likes to be transparent.”
“Is he paranoid?”
“Of course he’s paranoid. He’s one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood. Privilege leads to the fear of loss—”
“And that leads to paranoia?”
“Exactly.”
John looked around at the balcony, resting his hand on the marbled railing. “Of course you wouldn’t know anything about possession.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Vincent groaned. “How many of your mission trips have I funded now?”
John furrowed his brow skeptically. “What are you getting at, V?”
“I’m just saying you haven’t held a real job in, what? Six years? You’re in a new country every eight weeks or so.”
“Making the world a better place,” John interjected, trying not to sound defensive.
“Whatever,” Vincent shrugged. “I’m just saying that you owe me.”
“I’m sure that statement earns you treasure in heaven.”
Vincent groaned again.
“I guess you’re right,” John said. “What do you want?”
“San Antonio,” he replied flatly. “We want you to go to San Antonio to help represent the Ora.”
John blinked. “You and I both know that I have a really bad reputation through the entire Firstborn, ever since Trista—”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Clay doesn’t even like me. Why would he send me as a representative of the Ora?”
Vincent spread his hands calmingly. “Don’t ask me, but pretty much everybody else is afraid to go.”
“Why?”
“Something scary is going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you hear about that imam who was murdered?”
John shook his head. “I just got back from Central America this morning.”
“Somebody murdered an Islamic holy man, and Clay thinks it was one of the Firstborn who did it.”
“What?” John asked, confused. “Why would any of the Firstborn do something like that?”
“Don’t ask me, but he’s scared,” Vincent said intently. “That’s why we need strong, centralized leadership. Lone gunmen are dangerous for everybody—especially the Ora. The Firstborn have got to come together.”
“Do you mean Overseer?”
“Yes,” Vincent said with a nod. “Overseer will bring an end to the factions and to murder.”
“That’s still speculation.”
“Either way, we’re pretty sure it’s the only way to ensure the continued safety of the Ora.”
John sighed. “So he needs somebody to show up because Clay’s paranoid?”
“Pretty much.”
John fumed inwardly. “OK,” he said after a moment. “When do I go?”
“Next week.”
John considered. “Do you think Trista will be there?”
“Get over her, John,” Vincent rebuked. “She belongs to the Domani. It was never meant to be.”
John took another sip of his drink. “I guess you’re right.”
The guest bedroom was bigger than any John had ever stayed in. It was also nicer than what most Americans were used to, and a monumental leap over the conditions he’d grown accustomed to in Central America for the last six weeks.
He sat on the edge of the bed and felt his body sink into the soft cushion. A wave of comfort moved up his body. John lay back, the tense muscles feeling as if they were popping as they released against the soft fabric.
John lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He needed to call his mother.
“Hey, Vince?” he called down the hall.
“Yeah?” a voice called back.
“Can I make a long-distance phone call?”
“Sure. There’s a phone next to the bed in there,” Vincent called back.
“Thanks.”
John sat up, his softening back protesting as it lifted from the comfortable mattress. He lifted the receiver from the cradle and dialed the number by heart. His mother always wanted to hear from him when he got back into the country. Sometimes it was to hear about his trip; other times it was simply to make sure he was safe.
John had resented the thought that he was a mama’s boy for a long time, but now that he was older, he seemed to understand her more.
She had grown up in a small California town, a small-town beauty queen. The belle of the ball. Beauty of the backwoods. She’d broken more hearts than any girl had a right to and was known as the catch of the county. Prom queen, homecoming queen, hometown pageant winner—all by the age of seventeen. She dated the quarterback—and was three months pregnant with his child at graduation.
What had started out a fairy tale had become a nightmare. The child’s father married her but was hardly an equal partner—he was a drunk, mean, and hardly able to keep a job. It fell on her to serve as breadwinner. When he finally beat her so badly that she thought she might lose the baby, she fled. She gave birth to her son, Jonathan Temple, in Reno, Nevada, while she was working as a waitress.
As a result John had been raised on the road, moving up and down the coast and along Route 66, never staying long in any one place. Despite her stunning looks and striking figure, she declined every one of the many men who approached her. John was the only man in her life, and he was not going to take a backseat to another user.
When John was eighteen, he moved on to college, paying his tuition with the hefty nest egg his mother had saved for him in her many years of waiting tables throughout the American West. And the moment she was done raising and taking care of her little man, she went looking for a man to take care of her.
It took five years before she met Barry, a doughy, bald accountant from Sacramento. He was hardly a thing of glamour, but he genuinely, desperately loved John’s mother. He was good to her and spent every spare moment he had with her.
The phone rang for a moment, then the answering machine picked up: “Hi, you’ve reached Barry and Marcia Parson. We’re not able to come to the phone right now…”
John set the phone down and lay back again. It was for the best; she’d only ask if he’d seen Trista, and that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have again.
He wondered if he’d see Trista in San Antonio, then heaved a sigh, reprimanding himself.
“Let her go, John.”
H
ANNAH STEPPED OUT
of the car and looked around.
The ranch was home. It was where she spent her summers growing up. She didn’t say anything. Too much of herself still felt more comfortable nestled in her mind, away from the world, for her to share her feelings. The blizzard had passed, and in true Colorado form, nearly a foot of snow had melted to slush in less than a week. Colorado could be like that, a foot of snow one day, spring the next. There was a stinging chill to the air, even though the sun was shining.
“Come on,” her grandfather said, offering her an arm.
She took it, silently, and followed him into the house.
Hannah leaned against the fence, watching the cattle.
Blake walked and leaned next to her.
Hannah had known him most of her life. He was tall, blond, handsome, and strong. Blake was a tough man who had never lost a fight and was an expert marksman. As a result, her grandfather had kept him around like a bodyguard. She didn’t understand, but she had come to accept him. In fact, in her young teens she’d been madly in love with him, a crush that had soon passed.
