Page 5 of Resurrection
“What?” Imogen asked as her chin turned toward her sister.
“We can’t tell them about this. Right?”
For once, they were in agreement.
“No. You’re right. Not a word. Especially before we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Okay. Good.” Jury paused. “What do I tell them about the tattoos?”
“You’re over thirty, Jury. You don’t have to tell them anything.”
She pushed the button, and the engine purred to life.
“What about tonight?”
Imogen shifted into Drive and glanced at her sister. “We’re going out. Sister-bonding time. Stick to the truth.”
CHAPTER THREE
“We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry,” Imogen said as she put some hustle in her bustle to cross the street.
Out of an abundance of caution, they’d had the car they’d ordered drop them a block over and a street down. It had been Jury’s idea, and Imogen couldn’t find fault with it. But the car had gotten caught in traffic—no surprise in the Quarter at this time of night—and now they had to hurry.
“I’m coming. Slow down.”
But Imogen wasn’t about to. Punctuality was woven into the fabric of her soul.
She scanned the fronts of the beautiful historic homes for 912 Dumaine. “There it is. Up ahead. Across the street.”
“Well, don’t get hit by a fucking scooter.” Jury grabbed her arm before Imogen could dart into the street and oncoming traffic. “Jeez. You should be the one telling me to look both ways before crossing.”
Imogen hadn’t even noticed it. She was too intent on the numbers on the building across the way. “Come on. It’s almost eight.”
“And we’ll be there in perfect timing. Chill.”
But Imogen couldn’t chill. Something about Keira’s death, beyond the fact that it had happened at all, unsettled her. She hadn’t known much about the shadowy world her sister had gotten involved in, but something just didn’t feel right. She couldn’t explain it, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it.
They crossed the street, and Imogen checked her watch—7:59. Shedespisedbeing almost late.
“See, perfect timing,” Jury said as the time flicked to eight o’clock. Her sister reached out to touch the bell.
Imogen took a deep breath. Whatever they were doing, it was so far out of her normal range of activities that she didn’t know if she should be scared, excited, or something else altogether.
Footsteps thudded inside, and the door opened.
“Punctual. Appreciated.” The man who spoke the words was dressed in a dark gray suit and light-blue shirt, with no tie. His thick mane of golden-brown hair was long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. “Here.” He held out an envelope.
Jury snatched it from his hand. “Who—” she started to ask the question, but he shut the door in their faces.
“What the fuck?” Jury said.
“Let’s go.”
“No way. I want answers.”
“Then look in the envelope.”
Jury stared down at it, but made no move to open it. Imogen grabbed it from her and slid her finger beneath the flap to unseal it. Inside was a key and a piece of paper. She tipped the contents into her hand. The key was attached to a key ring with a gold metal disk, engraved with a7.
