Cheat the Grave

“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