Order of the Omni: A Supernatural Romantic Suspense Novel (The Immortalies Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Immortalies Community

  1. Elita

  2. Elita

  3. Elita

  4. Leo

  5. Elita

  6. Elita

  7. Elita

  8. Elita

  9. Elita

  10. Leo

  11. Elita

  12. Leo

  13. Elita

  14. Elita

  15. Elita

  16. Elita

  17. Leo

  18. Elita

  19. Elita

  20. Leo

  21. Elita

  22. Elita

  23. Leo

  24. Elita

  25. Elita

  26. Leo

  27. Leo

  28. Elita

  29. Elita

  30. Leo

  31. Elita

  32. Leo

  33. Elita

  34. Elita

  35. Leo

  36. Elita

  37. Elita

  38. Leo

  39. Elita

  Join the Immortalie Community

  Leave a Review

  Dedication

  Copyright

  The loud boom of the metal cars colliding sends a piercing pain right into the middle of my eyes. It fuels the already sharp throb inside my head, and it’s the last thing I need.

  The car accident in front of me was not only avoidable but played out in slow motion. Now they block my way and both their stupidity could ruin this whole case.

  The light is still red as both drivers exit their cars.

  This is a problem. There’s no time for them to cry over their lack of concentration on the road. I’m already late setting up my equipment before Richard Carrington, the biggest payday for the year, arrives at the Hotel Chancellor. A refurbished upmarket hotel in the city, and the meeting place with his mistress. Or, so I hope it is.

  The young man from the four- wheel-drive Ute, that rammed the back end of the middle-aged woman’s hatch, throws his hands up and yells as he approaches her.

  This could take a while.

  A horn beeps from a car behind and sends another sharp buzz to the already rhythmic pounding in my head. Migraines suck. Big time.

  I move the shifter to park and rummage through my bag, looking for the white pill bottle I just picked up from the pharmacy. When I yank it out, the referral to my MRI flies out at me.

  I shake my head and scrunch it up, but I can’t make myself throw it in the makeshift trash bag that hangs off my gear shift. Instead, I bury it in the depths of my handbag, knowing I cannot ignore this problem for much longer.

  The doctor said to wait before I take the pain medication. He specifically said no driving and all that doctor rubbish. But, I’m close enough to the hotel. And these pills are my only hope of gaining back control of the basic functions this migraine is affecting.

  Maybe if I told him about my dreams, he wouldn’t have looked at me like I was pushing for drugs, even though I was. Instead, he could’ve told me I’m not dying. That he knows exactly what’s wrong with me, and I’ll be fine. It’s just stress.

  Whatever, I just need to get past the next twenty-four hours. Take the drugs, and tomorrow it will be like it never was.

  My stomach knots.

  Or maybe the MRI will show it’s a brain tumour. With the dreams and pain the side effects. Thanks again Topher for your online research and constant nagging. He might be my best friend, or more like my brother from another mother, but his really been a pain in my ass.

  That’s the only reason I’ll go to the damn appointment. If anything, I owe it to him to understand what’s happening to me.

  Even if I already know what causes it.

  The damn dreams.

  Every time I have them, I wake up like this. There’s no denying it now. Worse, it’s becoming more frequent.

  Last night was the most vivid and clearest of all. I could almost see three feet in front of me. I saw the crisp green grass, even felt it between my bare toes. That’s all. As I tried to force my head up, the sun overpowered me. I woke in a cold sweat and with the start of my dreaded migraine.

  Shaking two little white pills out, I watch as the tension is mounting ahead. As a response to whatever the male driver said, the woman sticks up her middle finger. Then rubs her neck and arches her back, hobbling.

  The man looks aghast at her. Then his arms fly like those of a conductor as he rants and raves. His voice is loud, and if I wanted to. I could wind the window down and make it out word for word. But why the hell would I do that. They just need to hurry up and get out my way.

  He stops and looks around at the traffic that’s formed. Surveying the crowd.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Your embarrassing yourself. Now get the car off to the side and move on.” I say. Obviously, he can’t hear though.

  Then he stops on me. Peers forward, and for some reason walks towards my car.

  “Shit.” I down the pills with a sip of water.

  I’m so close to the hotel, I can see it right over the parkland’s in the south end of Adelaide’s City. I didn’t get my ass out of bed just to screw up my chance because of a minor accident.

  The man knocks on my window.

  I wind it down and look up. He’s in his late twenties or early thirties, about my age and dressed very well in clean jeans and a crisply ironed graphic t-shirt. I do a double take of the four-wheel-drive Ute he came out of. Normally a workman’s car. It’s a high-end black Mercedes.

  “Did you see what happened?” He points to the scene. “That idiot is trying to say it was my fault!”

  The idiot, or woman he means, is now on her phone pacing up and down. There is no sign she is experiencing anymore pain and walking with ease.

  I nod.

  Why he feels the need to pick me out of the crowd is anyone’s guess. Just add it to the list of the day from hell.

  “Maybe you both should just move your cars off the road and wait for the police to sort it out.” I try to be as polite as I can, even flash him a well-practised smile.

  That’s probably who the woman is already on the phone with. Maybe she knows she has a better chance of getting the police on her side if she’s the one who reports it. Innocent or not. That’s part of the reason I even have a job. I’m the one who investigates when the cops get it wrong. And it just so happens that goes down a lot.

  Although I dare say the cops won’t care about this. It’s just another report number to them. Something to give to insurance companies and they are off to some other accident, with two other people who weren’t concentrating and arguing over whose fault it is.

  Says the woman who’s doctor just said she shouldn’t be driving at all, let alone under medication.

  “Did you hear me?” He clicks his fingers for my attention.

  He gets it, along with my eyebrows flying up.

  “She thinks it’s my fault.” He shakes his head. “Can you tell the cops what you saw? She’s looking for a free meal ticket.”

  First, if I were going to do him any favours, that flew out the window along with my eyebrows.

  I remember exactly what I saw. He was on his phone, not the hands-free phone call. He was holding the phone to his ear and steering with the other. The woman was stopped, waiting to turn right. That I remember because I was watching, wondering why the hell she wasn’t going on a green light. My focus was on her as my impatience grew and noticed her enthralled on her phone. Then, his black Ute just crui
sed into the intersection, his eyes on the lights only. He then throws his head back in laughter. Not once looking down at the small hatch that still hadn’t turned.

  “It was your fault,” I say. Hopefully, the truth will get him to move his god damn car out of the way. He could have stopped very easily. If she had broken down and a child was in the car, this douche’s lack of concentration could have resulted in something a lot worse.

  He raises his brow, mouth parting. Did he think that because I was his age, I was going to take his side? Or does he think because of his good looks I wouldn’t notice how much of an asshole he sounds like?

  “Well, you must be blind and stupid just like her,” he says.

  That answered that question.

  I can see how he would think that of the other woman. She was too busy checking her emails or whatever she was doing to notice she could turn right. And he was too self-centred to look down and pay attention. Me, I’m neither blind nor stupid. What I am, though, is pissed.

  There’s no need to reply to him, nor wait any longer. Thanks to him trying to get people in his corner and snitch to the cops. And the woman’s tendency to pace while she talks. There’s a small opening between the crash site.

  I unplug my phone from the dash and direct it in front of him, snapping a picture.

  “Hey!” He jumps back.

  That’s the smartest thing he’s done in our entire interaction. My foot hits the pedal hard and the car lunges forward as I drive off, barely missing him.

  His curses fade into the background as I slow down to pass the scene. I take more pictures, ones with the plates and the cars to make sure this moment is time stamped.

  No worries buddy, I will make that statement, just like you asked for. But not now. Now I have another place I need to be. And if I don’t make it on time to set up, I could very well miss Richard Carrington in the act with his girlfriend.

  Once I find a parking spot, I only have a minute to gather everything I need and go over my assignment.

  My mark, Mr. Richard Carrington, Commercial Litigation lawyer, married, one child, two Mercedes, one Bugatti, Shih Tzu owner, and according to Mrs. Carrington, one mistress. Now, with the way I’m feeling at the moment, I would have passed this appointment to Topher to stakeout. But the only reason for me dragging my ass out of bed today was because we had that cheater by the balls.

  At a glance, this meeting was nothing unusual, just your typical boring meeting with a boring corporate executive about boring litigation at a boring hotel. Well, scrap that last part. This hotel was anything but boring. If I’m honest, this is the most beautiful piece of architecture I have ever seen. Maybe in real life that experience is limited. But with the travel documentaries I’m obsessed with, I could argue I’m an expert.

  It was the hotel that gave me the lead and the ridiculous price for a spa room. Six hundred and fifty dollars for one night. That’s rent money for two weeks. Not for Carrington, though. Why else would I have followed him from his squash match last night, to a bank teller where he withdrew that exact amount? Coincidence? One thing I learnt fast in my line of work, coincidences mean you are on the right path. That is why I’m here and not squirming in pain under covers in my dark room.

  I’ve followed Carrington for eight days now. Sat in front of his workplace, followed him to business meeting after business meeting. Tracked him to his squash session, tennis lessons and if today was a bust, then tonight to his poker game, But, my gut tells me this is it and when it speaks, I have learned to listen.

  My phone rings in the centre dashboard, and it’s surprising how loud the vibration sounds as it hits the plastic, like a physical hit to my head. These pills need to kick in soon.

  “Topher?” I let out a deep breath to release some tension.

  “It’s so freaking hot today, and the generator bugs out when I plug the aircon in the circuit,” he says.

  “This shouldn’t take too long.” I try to soothe his annoyance.

  “It’s like 50 degrees in here.” It is, and he’s in a blacked-out van with a heap of surveillance gear, but there isn’t much I can do about it. I’m sitting here with a whopper of a headache, but I can’t do much about that, either. We both need this to go as quick and pain free as possible to get it done. We have big plans together and we already have come so far.

  Ten years ago, there was a skinny, light brown-haired boy hiding behind the green dumpster in the back alley of my old apartment building. It was when I first moved from the Barossa Valley into the city.

  He was shaking with fear, arms covering his head. With my hand resting on the door handle to the back entrance of my building, I was just about to open it when I heard distant curses. I leaned back, looking down the street and a group of four teenage wannabe thugs were scouring the streets looking for something. Their jeans so low it exposed the tops of their underwear and chains hanging from their pockets. I could tell from looking at them, if they saw a genuine gangster, they would crap their pants. But to this scrawny kid hiding, they were very scary.

  That’s when Topher’s head lifted, and his eyes met mine. One look from the frightened boy and I exhaled a long, resigned breath. I made my choice to step out from the shadows, and this one time, get involved. I opened the door and mouthed, “Hurry,” and that was all he needed before he bolted into the safety of my building.

  One night turned into two, and before I knew it, Topher was living in the then crowded apartment. Two lost souls who found each other. He was an orphan like me, although technically, I wasn’t an orphan. Could be, I don’t know if my birth parents are dead, but it’s something I believe in my head and it comforts me.

  He begged me not to turn him back into Social Services; he was only fourteen. It may not have been the right thing to do, but who was I to turn my back on a child in need. If the Gottschalk family had turned their back on me all those years ago, I dreaded to think where I would be right now.

  So, I am used to him whining. It’s like I have raised him since then. There’s only one sure way to get his head back in the game and to move past his current anxiety.

  “Listen, once we get through this, I will play Seven Wonders with you.” I say.

  “Don’t shit me, E,” he breathes. I can hear the excitement in his voice.

  “I’m not.” I shake my head at the things I do to keep Topher focused. “But one condition, head in the game. No more sooky lala about the weather. I wanna get home ASAP. My head is killing me.”

  “That bad?” he asks, concerned.

  “I’m ok, let’s just get this done. I will be online in ten, ok?”

  “What do you mean in ten? He will be here any minute.” I check the time. He’s right, I’m cutting it close.

  “Tony will flip out if we stuff this up,” he says. “Let alone give us the backing we need. He will probably have you repossessing cars in Port Augusta again.”

  “I will be there, relax.” Our plans to offer Penetration Testing as a service at the firm have fallen on deaf ears. Tony gives us no time and won’t even consider or listen to a pitch. That’s why I know once he finally gives us a sit down and I show him the numbers, he will be yelling at me for not bringing it to him sooner. The money is there, and it’s big money, too.

  The case we’re working on has gone through three other PI firms, and the commission is enough to keep a smile on Tony’s face for one, maybe even two months. But more importantly, he has agreed to a sit down, at last.

  “I know, I’m sorry. The appointment ran late this morning.” I say collecting my things.

  “Did you ask him what the fuck?” And here he goes. “Did you tell him you just had one three days ago?”

  He’s already worried enough with his online searching into brain tumours, clots and bleeds. His paranoia coupled with the increase in frequency that this is happening is now making me freak out. It’s at the point I have to hide how bad it is, just so I don’t stress him too much. Problem is, it’s getting harder and harder to do.r />
  “I got my prescription refilled so I can function like an actual human today. I didn’t have time for questions.” My stomach knots at the lie. More like omission. I technically didn’t ask questions. Apart from if he could refill my prescription. Again. A few too many times in the last three months, hence the referral.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  Nothing I’m going to tell you about right now. That is what I want to say to him, but I don’t.

  “Same, same. Let’s talk later. I’m gonna head in now.” The perfect excuse to end this topic.

  “But -,” he tries to push further.

  “Job. Cheater. Money. Food.” I run through the basics of what is at stake right now.

  “Fine,” he says. “Later, then.”

  I sigh and agree. That ends the conversation about my health for now. We hang up, and I pack the rest of my tools for this operation into my leather satchel and open the car door. Taking a deep, stabilising breath, I push the pounding out of my head aside and try to psych myself up.

  Game time Elita.

  When I get close enough, I look up in amazement. This hotel should be in a European countryside, a palace of opulence misplaced in the south end of Adelaide City.

  It may not be bigger than about eight stories, but it’s the grandeur, the flowed curved lines, the gorgeous ironwork that frame the windows that make it so beautiful. And the windows, for such an old-style building, are modern with a mirrored dark tint. They shouldn’t belong together but somehow it works.

  It works especially well if you wanted a private place to meet with no peering eyes from the outside. Another sign that I am on the right path. This is why he hasn’t been caught yet. He’s just as smart as he is sly. This building is the perfect place for a secret love affair.

  And who knows, maybe if my plans turn out, one day this will be my life. Strolling along cobbled paths, walking into luxurious hotels across foreign countries. Finishing my day of sightseeing, walking back to rest my feet, before my seven-course meal at...

  “YOU!” a shrill comes from behind me, breaking my imaginative, well-deserved holiday. I keep my head low and walk. Whoever the lady is talking to should run for the hills, she does not sound happy.