desk.
“Are you OK?” Trista asked. He looked at his niece. She was blonde and strikingly beautiful. Morris sat in his chair. “Did you see it again?” she asked.
He nodded slowly.
She approached, holding a glass of water. He took a sip and felt the cool, refreshing liquid slide down his throat.
He sat for a moment. “I’m moving forward as planned,” he said with a sigh.
She put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “Are you certain it’s the only way?”
He sat for a moment, then nodded. “It’s the only way.”
Devin drove his car through the city. He was glad to be out of the snow, back in the real world, where spring had already set in.
His phone rang, chirping pedantically from the center console. He placed his wireless headset in his ear and activated the phone.
“This is Bathurst.”
“Stay away,” a garbled voice said through the headset.
“Pardon?”
“The doctrine of isolation was created for a reason—”
Not the doctrine of isolation again, he groaned inwardly. “Look, I’m afraid—”
“You drive,” the voice said calmly, “and I’ll do the talking.”
Devin frowned.
“Have you been keeping track of the news?”
“The murdered imam?” Devin asked, thoughts racing.
“That was the beginning. Now things are going to get worse. Much worse.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to clarify.”
“The Firstborn are in danger. Something is coming, something more terrible than anything we’ve seen in generations. Brother will turn against brother, order against order.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s more important now than ever,” the voice continued. “Stay away from the other orders. Stay away from the old man and his granddaughter. You don’t belong around them.”
There was a long pause.
“Do you understand?”
Devin sat for a moment, eyes focusing sharply on the street ahead. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“That doesn’t matter,” the voice said calmly.
“Why?” he asked, trying to understand. “Why doesn’t it matter?” The stoplight ahead blinked to red. The car slowed to a stop.
“Because,” the voice said firmly, “you can’t trust any of us.”
Then the line went dead.
Domani Financial had several offices. Chief amongst them was in Manhattan, thirty floors from the street below.
The elevator doors rolled open, and Devin stepped into his old familiar office, latte in hand. Devin liked the office. It was starkly furnished with a bold contrasting of black and white. Everyone was well dressed, well behaved, and things happened on time. It was his day job, and it made sense to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Bathurst,” the receptionist said from behind the counter.
“Good morning, Sharon,” he replied and opened a glass door set in a clear wall, leading to the main offices.
The floor was hardwood with offices lining the halls, all with glass walls where all activity could be seen. Financial planning and advising was what they did here. Venture capitalism, to be more precise. Putting people with money with people who needed investors. There was money to be made—if you knew what was coming.
“Devin,” a voice said from just down the hall.
He looked up from his copy of the Wall Street Journal and saw her. “Follow me,” Trista Brightling said crisply. “Mr. Childs would like to see you.” Morris Childs was actually her uncle, but Trista believed in maintaining clear boundaries between family and professional relationships in the workplace. Devin followed her to his boss’s office.
She was blonde and thin, beautiful by most standards. In fact, it had been said on more than one occasion that she could have been a model if she had chosen. No wonder that punk had taken such an interest in her—a debacle she was still recovering from.
Her face was fixed in a continual look of command and authority—nearly a scowl. She wore burgundy as was typical with her—a color that expressed both vitality and professionalism.
“Can
“Are you OK?” Trista asked. He looked at his niece. She was blonde and strikingly beautiful. Morris sat in his chair. “Did you see it again?” she asked.
He nodded slowly.
She approached, holding a glass of water. He took a sip and felt the cool, refreshing liquid slide down his throat.
He sat for a moment. “I’m moving forward as planned,” he said with a sigh.
She put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “Are you certain it’s the only way?”
He sat for a moment, then nodded. “It’s the only way.”
Devin drove his car through the city. He was glad to be out of the snow, back in the real world, where spring had already set in.
His phone rang, chirping pedantically from the center console. He placed his wireless headset in his ear and activated the phone.
“This is Bathurst.”
“Stay away,” a garbled voice said through the headset.
“Pardon?”
“The doctrine of isolation was created for a reason—”
Not the doctrine of isolation again, he groaned inwardly. “Look, I’m afraid—”
“You drive,” the voice said calmly, “and I’ll do the talking.”
Devin frowned.
“Have you been keeping track of the news?”
“The murdered imam?” Devin asked, thoughts racing.
“That was the beginning. Now things are going to get worse. Much worse.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to clarify.”
“The Firstborn are in danger. Something is coming, something more terrible than anything we’ve seen in generations. Brother will turn against brother, order against order.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s more important now than ever,” the voice continued. “Stay away from the other orders. Stay away from the old man and his granddaughter. You don’t belong around them.”
There was a long pause.
“Do you understand?”
Devin sat for a moment, eyes focusing sharply on the street ahead. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“That doesn’t matter,” the voice said calmly.
“Why?” he asked, trying to understand. “Why doesn’t it matter?” The stoplight ahead blinked to red. The car slowed to a stop.
“Because,” the voice said firmly, “you can’t trust any of us.”
Then the line went dead.
Domani Financial had several offices. Chief amongst them was in Manhattan, thirty floors from the street below.
The elevator doors rolled open, and Devin stepped into his old familiar office, latte in hand. Devin liked the office. It was starkly furnished with a bold contrasting of black and white. Everyone was well dressed, well behaved, and things happened on time. It was his day job, and it made sense to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Bathurst,” the receptionist said from behind the counter.
“Good morning, Sharon,” he replied and opened a glass door set in a clear wall, leading to the main offices.
The floor was hardwood with offices lining the halls, all with glass walls where all activity could be seen. Financial planning and advising was what they did here. Venture capitalism, to be more precise. Putting people with money with people who needed investors. There was money to be made—if you knew what was coming.
“Devin,” a voice said from just down the hall.
He looked up from his copy of the Wall Street Journal and saw her. “Follow me,” Trista Brightling said crisply. “Mr. Childs would like to see you.” Morris Childs was actually her uncle, but Trista believed in maintaining clear boundaries between family and professional relationships in the workplace. Devin followed her to his boss’s office.
She was blonde and thin, beautiful by most standards. In fact, it had been said on more than one occasion that she could have been a model if she had chosen. No wonder that punk had taken such an interest in her—a debacle she was still recovering from.
Her face was fixed in a continual look of command and authority—nearly a scowl. She wore burgundy as was typical with her—a color that expressed both vitality and professionalism.
“Can
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