Destiny Gift (The Everlast Trilogy) - By Juliana Haygert Page 0,57
us, a low building that reminded me of a manufacturing plant stood alone—or half-stood, since most of its windows and roof and some of the walls were in ruins.
“There’s no one in there,” I said, eyeing Micah from the rearview mirror. “Is there?”
Furrowing his brows, he nodded. “Someone’s there. Let’s go.” He opened the back door and jumped out of the car.
Before following him, I scanned the area. Even in the daytime it was dark, and the streetlamps were like the nearby buildings: broken. I didn’t want to run into any bats even if Micah could repel them.
Tugging my jacket closer, I left the car, Victor right behind me. I glanced skyward. At least it wasn’t too chilly down here.
Side by side, the guys and I walked to what seemed the main door of the rundown building. When we entered, I saw that the interior was as devastated as the exterior, at least in the first room. Micah jumped over chunks of wood and what was left of cushioned seats, and reached a door in the back. Different from the others, this door was whole and clean.
Before opening it, he waited for Victor and me to approach. Together, we entered a tidy reception room complete with a desk in front of another door, chairs, a sofa, and a blaring TV.
A receptionist greeted us. “How can I help you?” She wore a fake smile. Her red hair was super false and her chubby cheeks were nothing compared to her belly. She was wearing a black mini dress, three sizes too small. The heavy cloud of perfume she wore couldn’t cover up her strong, too sweet stench. I almost threw up.
“We’re here to see Morgan Holt,” I said, stepping closer to her.
“Do you have an appointment with him?” she asked, her fake smile wavering.
“No.”
“Then you’ll have to come back another day.” She grabbed an organizer from her desk. “We can schedule a date now. Tell me what this is about.”
Yeah, right. “It’s urgent, ma’am. Could you please call him?”
“Everyone’s problems are urgent,” she snapped.
Before I could snap back at her, a young black guy came out of the door I wanted to enter. He was dressed in a white robe.
“Miriam,” he started, but stopped when he saw us. “May I help you?”
“I need to see Morgan Holt,” I said, turning my back to the receptionist and throwing some charm at the young man. I flipped my hair and batted my lashes, hoping my green eyes would do the trick.
He smiled at me. “Do you have an appointment?”
Oh, here we go again. I stepped closer to him, moving my shoulders as if I were uncertain of what to do. “I don’t. But, you see, I need to see him. My friends and I came from New York to talk to him.”
“New York. Really?” he asked, still smiling. “I love New York, though I haven’t been there in five years.” He showed me the door, beckoning for me to come with him. “How is the city?” he asked as we crossed the door’s threshold.
While we walked, he told me his name was Carl and that he was one of Morgan’s assistants, though I still had no idea what they did.
About fifty feet down the corridor there was a large staircase. Carl led us down the stairs to the basement.
“You flirt,” Micah whispered in my ear when Carl was busy opening another door for us. Sure, I was flirting a little, but I would use every trick I had to figure out what was going on with the visions and with Micah, Victor, and me. I shrugged and waved him off just as Carl turned back to me.
We entered a large room with many cushioned chairs along the wall.
“Wait here, please,” he said, walking toward the white double doors in the back of the room.
Frowning, Micah came to stand right beside me, staring at the doors.
Before Carl had taken a few steps, the doors opened and a blond man in white robes came out, staring straight at Micah.
“Morgan Holt,” I whispered, recognizing the man from my vision. He looked older in real life, about fifty-something, with highlighted blond hair down to his shoulders, and big, round brown eyes. Not too tall, but slim.
“By the gods, you three are like fireworks,” Morgan said, sounding much younger than he seemed. As if in disbelief, he gaped at us. “Who are you?”
“Hi, Mr. Holt, we—”
“Mr. Holt is my father,” he said. “I’m just Morgan. And you are?”