Immortal
By V.K. FORREST
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Copyright © 2009
Colleen Faulkner
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-1718-9
Chapter One
"How was Florence?" Fia stood directly in front of
Fin, pushed his hands aside, and grasped his thin,
navy blue tie. "Let me do this before you hurt yourself."
"Florence was ..." He shrugged, letting his hands fall
obediently to his sides. He was roughly sixteen hundred
years old and still taking orders from his big sister. "It was
Italy: motorbikes, nice leather, sexy women, superb pistachio
gelato." He had to speak loud enough to be heard over
the sound of the SpongeBob SquarePants cartoon blasting
from the living room. The tiny cottage he and his brother
had rented for the summer was already feeling too small.
"Much trouble?" She looked into the green eyes that mirrored
her own as her fingers deftly manipulated the fabric.
Fin exhaled, surprised he was nervous about his first day
on the job. Especially since he didn't even want the damned
job. "Assignment went fine. We're tracking this guy who
belongs to an organization here in the U.S. called The
Brotherhood. It's like a serial killer club." He laughed but
without humor. "Bunch of freaks."
"And we're not?" she teased.
He grimaced. "Guy was on vacation. I saw him stalk three
different middle-aged women in four days, just from my
chair at a café on the palazzo."
Fia looked down at her handiwork as she slid the knot
snugly beneath his light blue collar. "I have no doubt in your
abilities to fact-find. You're the best. I'm talking about the
visions."
Fin pushed her hands away, suddenly having had enough
of his sister's fussing. "They're bad." He touched the knot
of the tie and drew his hand downward over the fabric. The
memories were still so fresh in his mind, he didn't have to
close his eyes to see the blood slick on the stone tiles of the
town square. "You sure it's straight?"
"You look great." She stepped back and smiled. Then her
gaze flickered to his again. "You should see Dr. Kettleman
about the visions."
"A shrink? I don't think so." He picked the hairbrush
up off the sink and drew it through his still-damp dark
hair. "I'll be fine."
She stepped back, giving him room. "But you said they
were starting to affect your work."
He tried not to think about the decapitated heads rolling
through the rivers of blood. "They're only bad when I dematerialize."
She crossed her arms over her chest, her facial expression
one of annoyance, impatience, and worry all rolled into one
big-sister grimace. "And that's not affecting your work?
Every time you dematerialize you fall into some kind of
karmic bloodbath and you're saying that's good for business?"
"They'll subside. They always do. They're always worse
just before and after I make a trip to Italy. You know that."
The visions had plagued him intermittently since the incident
in the sixteenth century, but they seemed more vivid
this trip. More real. He didn't know why.
He glanced in the mirror over the sink in the tiny bathroom.
He looked too young to be a cop. His youthful appearance
was an advantage when traveling abroad for the
sept. It was easy to make people believe he was a college student,
but he had warned the chief of police that this was a
bad idea. Fin was going to take a load of crap on the
boardwalk. He just knew it. "I have to go. Thanks for
stopping by." He stepped around her into the hall and had
to squeeze between the wall and a stack of cardboard
boxes to reach the living room. "You going to do something
about the rest of the boxes?" he shouted to Regan,
who lay stretched out on the plaid couch they'd picked up
at Goodwill.
Remote in hand, his identical twin stared at the TV atop
a cardboard box marked sheets & blankets in black Sharpie.
On the screen, SpongeBob was flipping Krabby Patties as
he argued with his pet snail. Loudly.
"Regan!" Fin barked.
Remaining prone, Regan glanced at Fin. He looked him
up and down. "Nice outfit."
Ignoring his brother's jibe, Fin stepped in front of the
TV, shut it off, and turned around.
"Hey!" Regan clicked the remote control in his hand,
but Fin was blocking the transmission to the TV. It didn't
come on. "I haven't seen this episode."
"I asked if you were going to get those boxes unpacked
and out of the hall, but I guess the TV was too loud for
you to hear me."
"I'll take care of it. Now, can you move? Patrick's having
a crisis."
"Patrick?"
"SpongeBob's best friend," Regan explained.
"And a job? How's looking for a job going?"
"Jezus," Regan groaned, sitting up. Barefoot, he wore
boxers and a T-shirt. It was three o'clock in the afternoon.
"I'm still in a delicate state here. Fee, help me out." He
gestured to their sister with the remote. "I'm just out of
rehab. Can you explain to my brother how difficult the transition
back into the world can be after ninety days of
detox?"
"Two hundred and thirty, give or take," she said dryly.
"If you count the other time and a half you were there in
the last year." She walked toward the front door. "Fin, you
want a lift to the station?"
Fin stood in front of his siblings in the uncomfortable
uniform, wishing he was anywhere but here. At this moment,
even the palazzo in Florence, with its rolling, decapitated
heads of children, seemed a better alternative. "I'm only
doing this out of duty to the sept." He glared at Regan.
"And to my family. I'm doing it because I was asked, not
because I want to."
"Maybe you'll get some kind of award at the end of the
summer from the Council. You know, for finding lost dogs
and toting beach bags to cars for tourists." Regan got up
off the couch, tossing the remote on the indentation in a
cushion. "You going to the grocery store? There's nothing
good to eat around here." He headed for the kitchen.
Fia held open the front door. "Come on, Fin. You'll be
late."
Reluctantly, he followed her onto the porch.
"You know, this is a good thing you're doing here," she
told him.
"Babysitting my brother for the summer when I should
be on assignment making the world a safer place?"
"Helping Uncle Sean fill the summer vacancy on the
force, and keeping an eye on Regan. I really do think he's
going to stay clean this time. He just needs some family
support."
Fin followed her down the porch steps. "You could take
a leave of absence from the Bureau and keep an eye on him."
He halted on the sidewalk and pointed to the shiny shield
on his uniform. "In fact, you could have this badge. You
know I'm not cop material, Fee. But you are."
She reached out and straightened his tie one last time.
"Sorry. The family took a vote. You won fair and square.
You were appointed Regan's keeper for the summer."
"And where was I during this vote?"
She walked toward her car, parked on the street. "Um ...
Brussels, I think." She smiled, giving a smart-alecky salute.
"Have a good first day at work."
"You know, I haven't been able to stand you since you
and Arlan hooked up," he called after her as she climbed
into her car. "You're way too damned happy!"
Fin's radio crackled in his ear and he groaned. Four hours
on the job and he had walked at least ten miles. He had
carried two beach umbrellas to a car, pushed a wheelchair
and its octogenarian occupant in a red bikini out of the
sand, chased down a runaway shih tzu on a pink leash, and
shown a teenager how to shut off the car alarm in her new
Mustang. Twice. That was the sum total of his police work.
No kidnappings. No assaults. No armed robberies. The only
citizen complaint he had fielded concerned the portion of
fries a retired woman on a fixed income got for her four
dollars and seventy-five cents these days.
"BP-5," the static voice popped in Fin's ear. "Come in."
He tapped the mic on his shoulder. "BP-5. Go ahead."
Why he was beach patrol five, he didn't know. As of right
now, he was the only Clare Point beach patrol officer. Didn't
he at least get to be #1? And he was barely a policeman; he
didn't even carry a gun, just a billy club, a small can of Mace,
and a bad temper that flared more often than he cared to
admit.
"BP-5, report of a possible F-5 in progress. First Ocean
Block. Hilly's Five-and-Dime."
"Proceeding to Hilly's Five-and-Dime," Fin said into the
radio.
"You're supposed to say copy that," the dispatcher corrected.
"Sorry, Mrs. McGill. I told you I wasn't good at this," Fin
explained into the radio as he turned south. The boardwalk
that ran along the Delaware shore was only three blocks
long, so no matter where he was, everything was close.
"And I don't intend to get good at it," he added testily.
"Copy that, BP-5. We really appreciate your help," the
sixty-year-old woman said. "Stop by tomorrow for homemade
snickerdoodles before you head out on patrol."
Fin couldn't resist a grin. "Copy that. BP-5 out." Careful
not to draw any attention to himself, he wove his way
around families with strollers, bare-backed teenaged boys
carrying skateboards on their shoulders, and couples walking
hand in hand. He walked fast, and with purpose, but
doubted it would occur to anyone he passed that his destination
was a possible robbery in progress. It was a nice evening
on the boardwalk and locals as well as visitors were out
enjoying it; the sky was clear, a cool breeze coming off the
water. Despite the humidity, the temperature hung at a refreshing
eighty-one degrees, according to the giant red thermometer
at the Italian ice stand.
As Fin approached the five-and-dime owned by Mr. and
Mrs. Hill, he noted no unusual activity under the blue and
white awning that ran the length of the old brick building.
Patrons were entering and exiting through the glass doors,
a wind chime jingling over their heads. There was chatter
and laughter. If there was a robbery taking place inside the
store, it was an unobtrusive one.
Fin stepped inside the door and a blast of cold air from
an air-conditioning vent decorated with red, white, and
blue streamers hit him in the face. The chimes overhead
signaled his arrival. Inside the doorway he hesitated, making
a careful observation of the store. Nothing appeared or
sounded out of place. Brightly colored beach chairs, sand
pails, and rafts hung from the ceiling and there were long
rows of shelving displaying various sundries of the summer
beach trade. In business since 1910, the old building
smelled of suntan lotion, mildew, and a piece of Americana
that was fading fast.
"'Bout time you got here," Mrs. Hill called from behind
the counter. She was ringing up two sand pails, a plastic
shovel, and a romance novel for a customer whose neon
sunburn clashed with her bright orange dress. "Guess
we'd be dead if they had handguns. You know, handguns
ought to be outlawed. That'll be twelve forty, ma'am." She
began to drop the items into a plastic bag.
"I came as soon as I got the call, Mrs. Hill," he said respectfully,
not bothering to point out that she could not
die from a gunshot wound. Or any wound, for that matter.
His gaze drifting, Fin took note of teenagers, two boys and
two girls, standing at the end of the counter. Mr. Hill appeared
to be detaining them. All the kids were locals. All
men and women Fin and Mr. and Mrs. Hill had known
since the fifth century. The bandits?
The teens didn't look much like bandits. Or vampires,
for that matter. The girls were his niece Kaleigh, the resident
would-be wisewoman, and her best friend Katy. The
young men the girls were dating, Rob Hill and Pete Cahall,
stood beside them. Rob stared at his big feet. Pete
seemed to be scrutinizing a Scooby-Doo raft hanging overhead.
Fin approached the huddle, thinking to himself that if
other small American towns had only these kinds of criminals,
the world would certainly be a safer place. "What
seems to be the problem, Hilly?" Everyone called Mr. Hill
"Hilly" though he didn't know why. They had all once
been Kahills but after their arrival in the New World from
Ireland in the seventeenth century, many had taken on new
surnames so as to not draw suspicion from humans. Fin
found it amusing that most families had not strayed far
from the sept's original name.
Kaleigh, in red pigtails and a teeny tiny tank top, crossed
her arms over her chest and presented a bored teenager's posture.
The guilty party for sure. Fin adored Kaleigh, but the girl
was a pain in the ass every time she became a teenager again.
Before Mr. Hill could speak, Mrs. Hill came from behind
the counter. "Have a good day. Come again!" she called
after the customer in the orange dress. "What's the problem?
I'll tell you what the problem is." She turned to Fin,
inflating and deflating her cheeks like a puffer fish Fin had
seen at the Baltimore Aquarium. "These kids are thieves
and they should be arrested!"
"I told you we didn't steal anything," Kaleigh protested
emphatically.
Fin just happened to catch a glimpse of a smirk on Pete's
face. Oh, yeah. Something was going on.
"Little liars. Lying ought to be outlawed. Handguns and
liars," Mrs. Hill proclaimed.
Fin spread his legs slightly, taking an authoritative stance
to balance out Kaleigh's surly one. "Could you tell me what
happened, Hilly? And you keep quiet, Kaleigh," he warned.
The man with a stubby crown of white hair barely got
his mouth open before his wife cut in. "I'll tell you what
happened! Those kids stole a pack of bubble gum. Pink
Double Bubble. The king-sized pack. Seventy-nine cents,"
she declared righteously. "They owe me seventy-nine cents
and they ought to go to jail. The girl for stealing it. The
others for not turning her in." She pointed an accusing finger
with an artificial nail on it like a talon.
Fin shifted his gaze to his niece, deciding that there wasn't
a chance in hell Mrs. Hill was going to let Hilly speak in
her presence. She hadn't in at least a century. "Kaleigh?"
"We didn't steal the stupid gum." She held both hands
up, palms out.
"Liar! The gum was there on the counter when I looked
down at the register to make change for your drinks. Then
the gum was gone."
"You can look if you want." Kaleigh shrugged her slender,
suntanned shoulders. "Rob, show Uncle Fin, I'm sorry,
Officer Kahill, the bag."
Rob, a pleasant, shy young man, reluctantly stepped forward
and opened the white plastic bag. Fin peered into it:
two cans of Coke, a Mountain Dew, and a water.
"Well, of course they wouldn't put it in the bag!"
Mrs. Hill's cheeks began to puff again. "Check their persons.
I'm pressing charges, I swear I am. Teenagers shouldn't be
allowed inside stores. It should be against the law! No one
under eighteen inside stores."
"Want to pat me down, Uncle Fin?" Kaleigh turned around
and placed her hands on the counter, spreading her feet.
Pete ran over to the counter and copied her pose. "You
should pat me down too, Officer Kahill," he said, excitement
in his voice. "Just like on Cops."
Katy began to hum the theme song from the TV show.
"Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?" the teen sang
dramatically under her breath. "Whatcha gonna do when
they come for you?"
Fin shot Katy a look that silenced her and then turned
back to Kaleigh, obviously the ringleader. She always was.
He waited.
"You can search us all if you want. Maybe you should
search everyone in the store." Kaleigh glanced over her
shoulder at a young Asian man with a baby in a backpack.
He pretended to read a suntan lotion bottle.
The young father glanced at the teens spread-eagled at
the counter and then Fin in his uniform, and made a hasty
dash for the door, leaving the lotion behind.
"Enough with the drama, Kaleigh," Fin snapped. He'd
had just about enough of the kids and this job. He was disappointed
in his niece. It was hard to believe that this
smug young woman had stood up in front of the entire
General Council the previous week and made several well-thought-out
suggestions on how the sept could aid recently
reborn members adjust to American culture. One day she
was an integral part of the governing body of the sept, the
next day a would-be hooligan.
Fin glanced at his wrist watch. He was off at eleven. He
wondered if he could make it another two and a half hours.
"Get over here, Kaleigh," he ordered, indicating the spot
beside him.
Recognizing that he meant business, she hurried over.
Fin held out his hand for the gum.
"I don't have it. We didn't steal it," Kaleigh insisted.
Fin looked at her sternly.
She exhaled. "Fine. We were just having a little fun. It's
there." She pointed toward the ceiling.
Fin squinted. "Where?"
"On the green raft," she said, as if he was an idiot.
His gaze settled on a green and white striped raft just to
the left of the cash register and hanging a good eight feet
over it.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Immortal
by V.K. FORREST
Copyright © 2009 by Colleen Faulkner.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
