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.”
“Nope.”
“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.
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