Kemp’s feet ached from all the walking he’d done in the last four hours. He also felt the beginnings of a headache from the tension as street after street of houses yielded no results. If Rikard did have a home here either he wasn’t in residence at the moment or he was so well shielded that Kemp wasn’t able to feel his presence.
It was time to stop for the day. He had a job to get to, assuming it was still his. After last night he wasn’t going to bet on that. Looking around he realized he was only a block from Lafayette Cemetery and wondered how many of his foes went to ground there during the daylight hours. He was certain if any had they were probably truly dead and gone by now as there were three, well now four if you counted him, dhampirs in the city. He’d have to ask Trevor next time he saw him. With a few minutes to spare he decided to wander through just to see if he could feel the presence of a vampyre.
The shadows had begun to lengthen giving an eerie quality to the paths winding between the tombs. As he strolled he found himself speculating about the history behind some of the families buried here as he read the names on the plaques and at the tops of family vaults. Once he thought he sensed a vampyre and made a mental note to tell Trevor, or come back here himself, maybe after work. The thought of work had him hurrying out of the cemetery. He’d probably be late as it was, if he didn’t get lucky and get to the trolley line ASAP.
Forty-five minutes later he was dashing into the club, pausing just inside the doorway when he saw Sinclair look up and scowl. The man beckoned him to come over, pointing to the end of the bar. Kemp stopped when he got there, waiting for a tongue lashing at the very least.
“You’re late,” Sinclair growled.
Kemp hung his head, “I know, I’m sorry.” After a long moment of tense silence he looked up at Sinclair. “I owe you an apology for last night.”
“Indeed you do. To me and to your father.”
“Is he… No, he’s not here.”
“Did he return home?”
“Nope.” Sinclair picked up a glass and began polishing it, letting Kemp stew.
“Are you going to tell me where he is then?”
“Nope. Now get back there and change. There are a dozen tables that need bussing.”
Taking a deep breath, about to ask again where his father was, Kemp decided he’d better do as Sinclair told him, since apparently he still had his job.