The Firstborn (14 page)

Devin stepped out of the shower, clearing a long path of open mirror as he dragged his hand through the moisture on its slick surface.

He looked into his own eyes, seeing if they betrayed anything. His game face needed to be on tonight—the kind of thing that people couldn’t simply see straight through. Whatever happened, he needed to remain calm and placid. The politics were too delicate.

His black suit was laid out on the bed. His shirt was white and crisp, freshly ironed. He dressed leisurely, putting his cuff links in place with an expert twist. A half-Windsor knot came to an effortless close, the knot sliding into place beneath the stiffness of a starched collar that snapped down over the red tie.

Devin looked himself over in the mirror.

Power. He exuded power.

Good, he thought. The last thing he wanted was to betray any kind of weakness—especially in that den of wolves.

John sat on the corner of the bed watching television. It was a movie involving a murder mystery. He looked at his watch. The meetings would begin soon.

Reaching into his duffel bag he removed a brown, suede-leather sport coat—slightly wrinkled. He threw it on and walked to the mirror.

Untucked white button-up shirt, blue jeans, and a sport coat. It was about what he’d wear to church here in the States, or maybe to a club if he were in the mood. Regardless, it was just a meeting.

Feeling restless, he headed down to the lobby for a drink. It was a five-star hotel. Conference hotels were always five-star, a fact insisted upon by the Domani and one that the Ora had no objections to. Most of the Prima wound up staying in nearby motels, but it was all the same in the end. When a group of fifty or so people got together like this, there really wasn’t any way to make everyone happy, and nobody minded out-voting the stingy Prima.

Regardless, whenever John was asked to go to one of these annual meetings, the Ora always picked up the tab for him, so he didn’t complain.

He was entering the lobby when he saw her. He stopped. He stared.

Trista Brightling. Gray business suit, blonde hair, perfect posture. She stood at the desk, alone, checking her watch.

John felt a lump in his throat. His hands might have been shaking; he couldn’t tell for certain. His pulse quickened and his stomach turned.

He took a breath and moved forward.

Trista sighed, looking at her watch again. Her uncle Morris was supposed to meet her soon. She’d come down to the lobby early with the intention of being on time but now found herself waiting with nothing to do.

She wished she’d brought a book.

Trista scanned the room for Morris again—

“Hello,” John said, approaching with his incorrigible swagger. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Her mood instantly soured.

“What are you doing here, John?” she demanded coolly, trying not to betray her disgust.

“The Ora sent me this year.”

“Really?” she said skeptically. “And why is that?”

He shrugged with his typical, infuriating, devil-may-care grin. “I guess they just like me.”

She glared. He was reckless, uncontrollable, a rebel without regard for the rules. No one liked John Temple—especially not her. Not since—

“What are you doing right now?” he asked, obviously trying not to give a hint of the invitation that was coming next.

She sighed and looked at the door, hoping desperately that Morris would arrive to save her. “I’m waiting for someone.”

John looked at his watch. “Do you have a minute?”

“No,” she said, her tone as flat and nonnegotiable as possible.

“Hey,” he said with a sickening smirk, “I just wanted to catch up. See how you’re doing these days.”

“No,” she glowered, “not again, John.”

“I just—”

She walked away. Uncle Morris would understand.

“Wait,” John called after, following, “I just want to talk.”

He grabbed her wrist and she spun into him. She glared, sending him every ounce of filthy look she could muster.

“What?” she demanded, openly angry now. “What do you want to talk about? To ask me how business is? To ask how my uncle is? To see what it was like to be an outcast in my own order? To ask what it’s like to beg and plead and grovel my way back to decent standing?”

His expression went blank, startled by her sudden change of tone.

“You’re an Ora. I’m a Domani. It’s that simple,” she said, nearly growling. “One of us has to accept that.”

“Trista—,” he began.

“Not again, John,” she declared with all the strength she had. “Not ever again.”

He moved his hands to her arms, holding them tightly the way he used to. His expression softened and he looked into her eyes, an expression of mischief and charm. She took a long, deep breath as his thumbs pressed against her biceps.

Then she let her air out and looked into the eyes of the old familiar cad.

“Get over me, John,” she said definitively.

His expression seemed almost confused.

“But—?”

“Am I interrupting something?” Morris said from the left.

“No,” Trista said coldly, her scathing eyes still burning into those across from her. “Mr. Temple and I are finished.”

He nodded, let go of her, and took a step back. John looked at Morris, nodding again. “I’ll let you two get to your appointment.”

“Thank you,” Trista said.

John said his good-byes then walked away.

“Did he bother you?” Morris asked.

“I’m fine.”

Morris removed his glasses, breathed on them, then held them up to the light. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

Trista watched as John slipped through the crowd, his suntanned hand swinging loosely at his side, an elephant-hair bracelet around his wrist.

Reckless and free.

“No,” she said. “I don’t feel anything for him at all.”

Chapter 8

T
O
D
EVIN
B
ATHURST THERE
were moments when being a member of the Firstborn felt less like carrying a gift for Christ and more like being a member of the mob. For him this was one of those moments. Of the fifty or so people who showed up at these things, fully half were acting as bodyguards. The others were usually just the richest or most politically ambitious members of the Firstborn. Machiavellians, mostly.

Most five-star hotels had executive meeting rooms. This one had been reserved at the hotel months in advance, and now guards stood at the door. Each order used a different name for their guards—each with the purpose of checking invitations, but they were guards all the same, meant to keep the outside world out of the Firstborn’s business and to keep unwelcome members of the same organization from crashing the gates and welcoming themselves in.

He approached from the elevator, walking to the doors. Devin removed the invitation from his jacket pocket, along with a photo ID, holding them both in a single hand as he flashed them at the nearest guard.

“Thank you, Mr. Bathurst,” the first said, his nametag indicating him as a member of the Domani.

Devin gave him a nod.

“I need to see your invitation also,” another said—Ora. The man took the invitation and the ID, examining them closely.

“You know me,” Devin said flatly.

A moment later the guard nodded sheepishly and handed the materials back.

Two down, one to go, he thought. He approached a guard from the Prima. Each order wanted someone at the door checking credentials—partly in the hope that redundancy would promote security, and largely because no one order would trust the others exclusively with security.

He moved through the crowd and into the meeting room, where as many as two dozen members of the Firstborn lingered around the long table, talking. The conversation was mostly polite but always tainted with the discomfort of suspended isolation.

“Devin Bathurst,” a voice said from behind.

Devin turned—John Temple. He groaned inwardly.

“What brings you here?” Devin asked genuinely, knowing full well the Ora wouldn’t send John on such an important errand.

John approached. “Nobody really wanted to represent the Ora this year, so they dropped it on me.”

They shook hands. “So have you done anything useful with your life?”

“I just got back from Central America,” John replied, as if it were supposed to be something impressive.

“Do you have a job yet?” Devin ribbed through a faint smile.

“My work is loving the Lord,” John said with a smile, “and doing His work all over the world.”

Devin nodded. What a crock. John was a bum—a globe-trotting teenager who had never grown out of his wanderlust and inability to commit to anything.

“Well,” Devin said, trying not to sound sarcastic, “that sounds very…noble.”

John nodded weakly. “How about you? Still making money hand over fist?”

“Business has been good,” he admitted, then stopped. Out of the corner of his eye Devin saw something he didn’t expect—

Henry Rice stood at the door in a cheap suit, and next to him, looking sheepish and unsure, was his granddaughter—Hannah Rice.

What was she doing here?

“Excuse me,” Devin announced as he walked away from John. The unemployed missionary said something, but Devin didn’t hear it clearly, nor did he care.

“Mr. Rice, I thought the patriarchs weren’t supposed to arrive until later.”

Henry shrugged as he turned to him. “I figured I might as well come and sit for the boring parts—makes me more accessible.”

Devin nodded. The old man might be crazy, he thought, but you have to respect a man who forgoes the privilege of sitting out the boring parts.

“Ms. Rice,” Devin continued, extending a hand to Hannah. She looked surprised. “It’s Devin Bathurst, we met—”

“I know,” she said with a nod, obviously nervous.

“What brings you to the meeting of the Firstborn?”

“She’s with me,” Henry interjected.

“Does this mean…?”

“Yes,” Henry said, “yes, it does.”

How interesting, Devin thought.

A thumping on the microphone caught their attention, and they all turned to face the speaker. Devin watched as John Temple took his place at the front of the room. “This is the Ora’s year to perform the opening prayer, so I will be leading us as we seek God through our meeting.”