Cheat the Grave

7

Las Vegas actually dozes in the early morning hours, resting up from the roughshod night, and catching its breath before it rides again. Unfortunately, you don’t fall asleep after a night like I had. You drop into a pool of exhaustion, and land in restless half-consciousness. But only after locating a place of relative safety, where demons wearing bowler hats can’t plow soul-stealing blades through your innards.

For me, that place turned out to be a bright conference room streaming with morning sun, espresso fumes, and the disapproval of twelve board members constituting the whole of Archer Enterprises.

“Ms. Archer?”

Too late I realized my head had lolled on my neck again. Snapping upright, I checked for drool. Seriously, these blue bloods were so boring they could send Mackie back into his coma. Still, it was my first board meeting of Archer Enterprises, where I’d just replaced Xavier Archer as chairman of the board. It occurred to me that maybe I should make an effort. I yanked off my oversized shades and shielded a ginormous yawn.

“Sorry. You lost me at the bit about that vesting thing.” They’d drawn the subject out so long I think oceanic plates had shifted.

The man to my left, six feet away but still seated closest at the long, glossed table, studied me drolly. “Late night?”

“It was a killer,” I replied huskily, and reached for the water.

The man beyond him-indistinguishable but for the three feet separating them-placed his pen down and folded his hands in front of him. “Yes, word is your traveling disco got hijacked. It must have been terribly traumatic for you.”

I let my water glass dangle dangerously from two fingers just to see him squirm, and discarded the idea of detailing what “trauma” really meant to me. “It was more of a rave than a disco,” I said, angling my glass in a halfhearted toast.

He stared at me with undisguised disdain, and though I hated to do so, I blinked first. Olivia Archer didn’t “do” stare-downs, though I quickly followed up with another gaping yawn. At least that didn’t have to be faked.

“Perhaps we can get back to the business at hand?” One of the eleven identical twins intoned. It was John, Xavier’s attorney, whom I’d apparently inherited as well. “The compensation plan again, then?”

I replaced my water glass with a pen and waved down the table with my free hand. “That would rock.”

He began his monotonous intonation again…and I began to doodle. Catching the words “strip” and “straddle,” I perked up a bit, then realized he was talking about how they intended to keep the money I paid them this year. Oh well, I thought, broadening my pen stroke along my pad. Someone would go over all this with me later, I was sure. Ad nauseam.

As John droned, a shape formed beneath my pen. I jolted upon recognizing it, marring the precise whorls, but was back at it before it could escape me. I began sharpening the outline more consciously, scrollwork leading up to a pair of wings. It wasn’t just familiar, it was somehow mundane. I pulled back my pen, frowning. It was also the symbol I’d spotted on the giant chest from in the previous night’s treasure hunt. Cher’s report that Arun’s servants were the ones to arrange the hunt and plant the clues initially surprised me, but it was now clear that someone with unnatural powers had infiltrated Arun’s little cadre. Maybe, I thought, pen stilling, Arun Brahma himself. Could he be an agent? A rogue newly arrived in the valley, and using Suzanne and Cher to get to me?

Or, if the weapons were left for me, could he actually be some sort of ally? My pulse leapt at the thought, not because it was particularly likely, but because the idea of an ally in a world rife with enemies was shiny enough to draw even a magpie’s attention.

It was worth looking into either way, if only because of Suzanne and Cher. I might not be a superhero anymore, but I’d die before I allowed another attack on someone I cared for, like the one that’d taken Olivia’s life.

Making a mental note to research Arun Brahma when I wasn’t being bombarded by balance sheets and cash flow statements, I started drawing the emerging symbol again, trying to remember where else I’d seen it. And what did it mean?

“Excuse me, Ms. Archer?”

Blinking, I startled into awareness. “What?”

“You said something?”

Shit. I’d spoken aloud. “Um, I said…what does that mean?”

“Which part?”

“Um. The last part.”

John lifted a brow.

I waved my hand. “Just the bit before I interrupted.”

He sighed, and started over.

I tapped my pen. Maybe the symbol was benign. Or meaningless alone. Stripping it of context might also have removed its significance. But I’d had Cher take a picture of the chest. I could study that and try to make out the surrounding carvings. A quick Internet search might yield the information I needed.

Yeah, but will it keep you alive?

I sighed heavily, and the attention of the room shifted my way. I ignored it. Let them think I was shallow, hungover, and ineffectual. A death-dealer on a mission took precedence over stock options any day.

Then the door to the conference room opened . Or maybe not.

Dropping my pen, I crumpled the paper with the strange symbol between my palms, and slid my hands-with their printless fingertips-into my pocket. Then, touching the phone Warren had given me, I watched the leader of the paranormal underworld, my birth father, enter the room. His flinty gaze roamed the length of the suddenly silent conference table before landing on me, at its head. My mouth went dry. He sensed it…and smiled.

Here’s the thing about the Tulpa. You never knew when or where he was going to turn up. The agents of Light had long known he’d been Xavier Archer’s benefactor, and the one who actually ran Archer Enterprises, but his appearances were as random as tornadoes. As far as I could tell, even his own troop didn’t know when he’d drop in. Grasping the phone tighter, I slid lower, like I was again nodding off.

You could never be sure what physical form he was going to take either, and clothing was the least of it. While agents could be given new identities or take over others-like the way I’d been transformed so convincingly into Olivia-his body literally shifted and morphed depending on what he needed to present, and to whom. I’d seen him as a mafia don, a mild-appearing professor, and a monster pulled directly from Stephen King’s dreams. As you can imagine, it made him rather hard to track.

It also freaked me out. This man was my father. A mutant being that had somehow taken on enough cells and atoms to impress a genetic code upon me. It made me wonder how I’d have turned out if he’d been wearing his horns at the time of my conception.

I’d seen him in this current guise once before, at Xavier’s wake, so it was clearly the personage he wore when taking care of any Archer-related business. His skin was unmarred by freckle or line, his limbs deceivingly slim and long. Yet he was still seated as he made his way into the room, the benign exterior framed in an electric wheelchair. That was the difference since we’d last met. Were I still able to sense the power swirling around him, I’d have realized it sooner. Yet even in the absence of that ability, one thing was achingly clear.

The Tulpa was exhausted.

The thin skin beneath his eyes was powdered in gray, and though smooth as clay, his mouth turned down at the corners. His lids were heavy, and his right hand trembled slightly at the control panel. Despite the careful attention paid to what had to be a three-thousand-dollar suit, one side of his hair was mussed, like he’d just come in from the wind.

Or he’d just come out on the losing side of a battle.

The men at the table recognized him, and the way John stiffened told me they didn’t care for him either. I remained prettily slouched. Better to observe the dynamics of power from Olivia’s usual position. Window dressing.

“Don’t tell me I’m late.” The whiskey-strong voice was as smooth as ever.

“Almost an hour,” said one of the men meekly, earning a hard look from the others.

“You’re not on the board,” John said shortly.

He was the board, I knew, eyes racing over every face.

The Tulpa smiled, unperturbed. “Xavier never seemed to mind. He rather appreciated my advice. Benefited from it too.”

“Xavier’s dead.”

“So severe, John.” The Tulpa rolled up to the opposite end of the table, one corner of his mouth lifting so a dimple flashed. “You should be more sensitive. His grieving daughter is sitting right here.”

Silence rang, and I pretended to startle awake. “Sorry. Are we done?” I ran a hand through my hair, but paused halfway through a stretch. “Who are you?”

The Tulpa inclined his head. “I was your father’s consultant in all matters of business. We met at his wake, remember?”

Clearly. He’d been at Xavier’s bedside, keeping vigil with the corpse. Seeing if there was any lingering soul energy he could suck out and use as personal power.

“That day is a bit…fuzzy,” I said lightly, looking down at my hands.

“Understandable.” His voice smoothed out even further. Backing up, he pushed a couple of finger levers and headed my way. “Mind if I sit to your right?”

I’d rather pull my own tooth. Fortunately, John minded as well.

“This meeting is for board members only.”

“Xavier never minded as long as I helped make him money.” The Tulpa’s pale face took on a new shape, almost menacing, as his brow quirked up. “If I recall correctly, neither did the rest of you.”

“Well, I’m the senior board member now.” John sniffed. The others looked back to the Tulpa, like it was his volley.

I tilted my head. Wasn’t I the senior board member?

The Tulpa rose from his chair slowly but steadily, catching the eye of each board member, who gazed back as if mesmerized.

“Maybe,” he said in a liquid whisper, “we should vote on the matter.”

And like machines, everyone lifted their pens. I felt a pull too, and looked down, horrified to find the hand previously gripping Warren’s phone snaking toward my gold pen. It wasn’t done as quickly as the others, but the impulse was still there. Shit. I looked up to find the same confusion marring some of the men’s faces, while others had hands already poised over their pads as if waiting for dictation. I followed suit and pretended to wait as well. It wouldn’t do if Olivia Archer were seen as strong-willed. The Tulpa found anyone in control of their own mind an irresistible challenge.

“I love democracy,” I quipped, though it might have been overkill. The Tulpa’s gaze left John’s, who I saw slump out from the corner of my eye, and locked onto mine.

“Then you, as the controlling partner and figurehead of Archer enterprises-not to mention the only lady in the room-should vote first.”

Heads swiveled my way. They should form a synchronized swim team, I thought, though even my dry humor fell away when I saw the blankness shellacking their gazes. I felt that pull again, the Tulpa willing me to press my pen to the page, and let my gaze gloss over as well. I didn’t know why I had partial resistance to this- perhaps because he was my father?-but I wasn’t complaining. And yet, I hesitated. “But, sir. I don’t even know your name.”

It was a sore spot, not one I could afford to push even were I still an agent, but I couldn’t help it. The Tulpa didn’t, and would never, have a name. So even though the words were delivered with the sweetness of pure cane sugar, I knew they stung. Leaning forward, he pressed his palms flat on the table. “Sir is fine.”

The mental pressure urging me to write increased. To hide my worry, I bent my head, and decided to listen. Just a little.

My hand automatically began to scribble.

Yes.

And John is out.

With deadened eyes, I pushed my vote forward for all to see. I might be a figurehead, but as the Tulpa had said, I had majority interest. Even I was interested to know exactly how much power that would yield me.

“Read it, Brian,” the Tulpa said, so smoothly the words were almost slurred.

The man closest to me-the one so offended by party buses-pulled the page in front of him, and gasped. His mouth worked silently until the Tulpa’s amused voice encouraged him to pass it along. Apparently board meetings were just like middle school, I thought wryly. Pass notes, form alliances…and always keep an eye out for the big motherfuckers.

John froze as he gazed down at the paper. “I’m your father’s attorney,” he finally said, leaden-voiced.

“My father’s dead.” I returned his earlier words, my feathery voice gone flat.

He sputtered in a mixture of indignation and poorly concealed disdain. A corner of the Tulpa’s mouth rose slightly, and words rose in my mind with it. I knew them as his will, like a collision between his spirit and mine, and also knew I had a small ability to control them, but I didn’t.

“And I don’t like you.” My mouth moved oddly over the syllables. It was like licking Braille, tongue catching on the individual hooks and sounds.

“Listen, Olivia-”

“It’s Ms. Archer,” I said sharply, this time my voice all my own. “To all of you. Now vote.”

The Tulpa sat back in his wheelchair, as if a mere observer, his will withdrawn. Moments later the votes were counted, and John was out. The bombastic attorney remained motionless a time longer, eyes fixed straight ahead, brows bunched, though he didn’t bother arguing. He’d obviously seen, felt, and done this before. Finally he stood. “This is not over.”

And he left. Weighty silence returned to the room, punctured only by heavy sighs.

“Well, that was very uncomfortable.” I pushed back from the table, my chair thudding behind me. “Let’s try this again tomorrow, and see if it doesn’t turn out better.”

Picking up my handbag, I patted my pocket to make sure the phone-my lifeline to Warren and the troop and help-was still on me, and made my way down the table. “My secretary will schedule something. Oh, and don’t forget to invite…” I waved in the Tulpa’s general direction. “… him.”

I was almost out the door by then, and proud of how airy I sounded while sharing a room with a man who could insert his thoughts into my mind.

“Ms. Archer?”

These words were voiced and not merely thought.

“Olivia.” I turned slowly and inclined my head. “Please.”

“Olivia,” the Tulpa purred, wheeling closer. “You dropped something.”

I glanced down and found the crumpled paper with my carelessly drawn mythic doodle in his hands. He smoothed it out for me, then jerked and stilled.

Should I wait for him to toss me from the fifteenth floor window, or just throw myself from it now?

His voice betrayed no emotion. “This is interesting.”

When dealing with a man constructed of lies, truth was always the best policy. “I saw it last night. It was on a box used in a treasure hunt, a game we were playing. For some reason I couldn’t get it out of my mind.”

The Tulpa held the paper out to me, though he didn’t release it when I took hold. “Perhaps I could take you to lunch and we can discuss it further?”

“Kiss-ass,” Brian muttered lowly. The Tulpa, facing me, whirled in his chair unnaturally fast. The room fell silent again.

They fear him without knowing why, I thought, as Brian’s face went ashen. It didn’t matter how frail he seemed. Never mind the paranormal battles forcing him to conserve energy. A whisper of quiet madness told them he’d willingly pin them to a board, dissect them like frogs, and do it while they were still alive. And for just one moment that madness screamed.

Despite my own survivor’s instinct, I stepped closer. “Perhaps, Brian, you’d like us to take another vote?”

As the Tulpa and I looked at him together, a thought raced through my head.

The Shadow will bind with the Light.

It wasn’t the Tulpa’s thought. It was a prophecy, but I told myself it had nothing to do with me, or this. I was no longer Light.

Brian, meanwhile, couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “N-No. You’re right. You two go have your lunch. We’ll finish up here.”

“No.” I tucked the wrinkled sheet of paper in my bag, just to get it out of sight. “You are finished. However, I’d be most grateful if you’d catch my consultant up to speed on that…stuff you were talking about earlier.”

Turning to the Tulpa, I forced myself to meet his eyes. Tar black, their intensity made mine dilate, and time unexpectedly slowed. Blinking fast, I managed, “A rain check for lunch?”

My father’s voice was schooled again, his features as smooth as mine. “I’ll call for you soon.”

And he said it like I’d come running.