Tentyrian Legacy (20 page)

In the corner of the room, Daria had designed
a small hiding space under a marble tile. Noticing the tile was
loose when the construction on the villa was first completed, Daria
decided to pry it off completely rather than asking Pello and his
team to fix it. She borrowed a chisel and dug a hole two feet deep,
creating the perfect hiding space. At the time, Daria didn’t know
what she’d use the hole for, but she figured having a space of her
own that no one knew about would come in handy.

Daria quickly lifted the tile and reached her
hand in to get the book. It was then that Stavros emerged from the
shadows.

“I was hoping you’d come back here,” he said.
Stavros didn’t make a move toward them. “My guards caught Phoebe
and Zoe picking up a few stragglers, and I knew you’d be back also.
Always putting the well-being of your people first . . .”

“That would be something you know nothing
about, Stavros,” Daria replied icily as she clutched the book to
her chest. He dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand.

“That’s Hathor’s book, isn’t it? I’ve heard
the rumors, but I never knew it actually existed. This day is
looking up. I’ll make you a deal. Give me the book and I’ll let the
people you’ve managed to collect go.” Dread filled Daria and
Maximos—Stavros knew where they were hiding the survivors. “Oh yes,
I know exactly where you are keeping everyone. Unfortunately, we
can’t shift inside because we don’t know what it looks like. But
the Guard is searching for the architectural plans as we speak.
They are also gathering the appropriate resources to break down the
door. It looks like you lose again, Daria.”

“Your word means nothing,” said Maximos.

“Maybe, but are you willing to risk it?”
Stavros answered. “And Daria, I suggest you weigh how much your own
sister means to you. You’ve already lost Calypso. Do you really
want to lose another? If you give me the book, I’ll also throw in
Phoebe. Just to sweeten the deal. Selene is keeping her
company.”

“And Zoe?” Daria asked.

“She’s dead,” Stavros said bluntly. Evander
would be devastated. “I know my word means little to you, but the
truth is that I didn’t want to kill you or your sisters. I could do
without the others, though.” Stavros directed the last bit at
Maximos. “You and your sisters have the strongest powers, and I
thought over time we could come to an agreement. I’d allow you to
see your children, and you could do the occasional favor for me.
But that little rebellion you stirred up changed that. So what do
you say? Phoebe and what remains of your people for the book?”

“I won’t agree to anything unless I see her
first,” Daria said vehemently.

“Let’s go, then, to the bathhouse gardens,
where it smells a little less of death?” Stavros suggested. Daria
looked at Maximos. He nodded in agreement. The three of them then
shimmered away.

Daria saw Phoebe lying on a garden bench. She
looked peaceful, as if she had been lulled to sleep by the
trickling fountains. Her torn robe, disheveled hair, and
blood-spattered body told a different story. Selene stood above her
with eyes fiercely focused.

“You said she was unhurt,” accused Daria as
she stood with Maximos about ten feet away from Stavros and from
where her sister lay. They wanted to ensure there was ample
distance in case it was a trap.

“She is,” Stavros said, “at least relatively.
She took a mild blow to the head, and Selene has been keeping an
eye on her since. We can’t have her shifting, now can we? So what
next, Daria; what is your decision?”

“Wake Phoebe up and have her walk towards
us,” Daria demanded. Stavros challenged her in return, “No, give me
the book.”

“Not happening. You’ve already taken
everything from us. If you kill the survivors, it won’t make much
of a difference,” Daria lied. “Now give me my sister or I’ll take
this book somewhere you’ll never find it. I doubt that bitch can
prevent all three of us from accessing our powers.”

“Selene,” Stavros snapped. “Wake her up.” The
traitorous maid gave Phoebe a shake and altered her piercing gaze.
Phoebe sat up suddenly.

“Phoebe, come towards me,” Daria called.
Phoebe tried to shift but couldn’t; Selene kept her mentally
tethered. Phoebe started to walk toward her sister and their gazes
locked; she saw the book in Daria’s arms and realized the magnitude
of the trade. She couldn’t let it happen. Phoebe wasn’t strong
enough to take on Stavros. But if she took out Selene, Maximos and
Daria had a better shot at killing him and getting away.

Phoebe took one step toward Daria and said,
“I love you.” With a quick pivot, she turned and wrapped her hands
around Selene’s surprised neck and ripped off her head.

“No!” Stavros yelled. He lunged at Phoebe,
who put up an electric wall in front of her, trying to hold him off
while her power flickered like a dying lightning bug.

“Go now, Maximos,” said Daria as she shoved
the book at him with the key closed between its pages. “The key is
inside. Get them out of the infirmary if you can. Lock the
Sanctum.”

“Blessed be,” Maximos said as he shifted
away, knowing he would never see her again.

A strange calm came over Phoebe as she
channeled the last of her energy. The world became quiet, and the
next few minutes occurred in slow motion: Stavros coming closer as
he screamed something unintelligible, Daria handing the book to
Maximos, Daria’s outstretched arms enclosing her, the sun on her
back—bright and hot, spreading its rays over them together, no
feeling, their mother’s arms wrapped tightly around them, white
light.

After giving the Book of Hathor to Maximos,
Daria catapulted herself toward Phoebe. If she could reach her
before her energy barrier completely failed, she could get them
both away. But it was not to be. Just as Daria reached her sister,
she saw Aglaia and Asia. Flames swallowed them both. Daria’s last
prayer was for the future Luminaries to prevail.

2010 AD, July

New York, New York / Suwanee, Georgia

“My name is Arianna Parker. I’m here for a
9:00 a.m. meeting at Leo Capital,” I hear myself say to the
attendant at the World Financial Center security desk.

She looks up from her phone, clearly
irritated I’ve interrupted her texting.

She slides her chair over to the computer
screen and with a few impatient taps asks, “Meeting with Allison
Fox?”

“Yes,” I reply with a smile.

She picks up her phone, calls up to the
respective floor, and drawls, “A Ms. Parker is here.” I take a seat
in the waiting area while I wait to be retrieved. A quick scan
through my BlackBerry shows I already have over thirty e-mails
awaiting my attention. It’s only been fifteen minutes since I
replied to the most urgent. I take out my personal phone and shoot
Laura a quick text: Laur: Waiting for the interview start. Can’t
wait to debrief you tonight!

As much as I hate being away from the office,
this is an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Leo has been recruiting
me for months, along with dozens of other private equity firms. My
“all-star” status as proclaimed by Town & Country’s “Top 25
Under 25 Movers and Shakers” propelled me to the top of
headhunters’ lists. While it’s an uncomfortable notoriety, it has
been helpful in pursuing my next job.

My five years at Crest Rock have been great.
It was daunting at first, having to pay my dues as the lowest
analyst on the totem pole. But the seventy-hour weeks and
chauvinist verbal abuse helped harden me into the businesswoman I
am. I know Crest will pay to keep me, especially after the last
opportunity I tossed in their basket, but money isn’t the appeal. I
need something different, a new challenge. At least, that is what
I’m telling myself.

In the last year, a sense of anticipation
started to creep up on me. It feels like walking around with
butterflies in my stomach—all the time. I am waiting for something
. . . but what? Raad chalks it up to my impending twenty-fifth
birthday and tells me to keep up my tai chi. Laura thinks love is
just around the corner. But I can’t help but feel something greater
is on the horizon. Maybe Leo is it.

“Ms. Parker?” I look up at the severe woman
calling my name. “Right this way if you’ll follow me. I’m Allison,”
she says as she extends her hand toward me. It’s a weak handshake.
I gather my laptop bag and purse. Sometimes a handshake can be just
as helpful as doing a mind filter. You can always tell the extent
of someone’s grit. Allison’s severe look and glasses are
misleading, but then again appearances can be. I should know.

When I started working, I purposely tried to
look innocuous. I only wore black suits, a striped button-down,
black pumps. Hair held back with a headband. No makeup. At first, I
was just the analyst asked to get coffee and order the late night
dinners. But while I ordered those chicken parms and trudged on
with my own work, I carefully learned the lay of the land and the
intricacies of the business.

I first proved myself on the discarded
acquisition of an energy plant. Crest Rock had been working on the
deal for at least three months, and they were in the final stages
of negotiation. Analyses were complete, showing the acquisition
would be profitable if we could restructure the company and sell it
as two separate entities within two years. The partners met with
the plant’s management teams several times, and the contracts were
all but signed. That’s when I stepped in.

I wasn’t part of the deal team, but the
investor presentation came my way for some additional formatting.
It was mindless busy work with charts. That’s when I decided to dig
into the supporting data, which showed some flaws. They were
nuanced flaws, but I realized they could have crippling effects
within a month if we went forward. I didn’t even need to use my
telepathic powers to determine the deal was a lemon. I suppose if I
had hard-core scruples, using my power in the workplace would never
be a consideration. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t
occasionally do it. And why not? In a world dominated by men, I
figured my ability only helped level the playing field.

Rather than cleaning up the presentation, I
worked all night on my own analysis. At 7:00 the next morning, my
manager expected to see the fruits of my graphic work. Instead of
pretty graphs, he saw a ten-page report showing the pitfalls of the
deal. He was furious and told me to take the day off. I took it
with a grain of salt and went for a walk by the water. As I sat
watching the ferry cross the Hudson, my cell phone rang. I was told
to get back to the office immediately. Later that morning, I walked
the investors through my report, and it was agreed the deal would
be tossed. We found out only three weeks later the plant filed for
bankruptcy. It was clear our infusion of cash and expertise
wouldn’t have been strong enough to save it. Crest Rock would have
lost over $330 million.

I was promoted from the “bull pen,” which was
the open area of desks filled with data monkeys like myself, and
was given my own personal glass cage with a view. I soon abandoned
the headbands and black pumps and began to show my true colors—in
more ways than just the sassy Louboutins and bright Hermes scarves
I sported. By then, I had spent six months understanding the minds
of my colleagues, their motivations, and the business. My quick
learning landed me the plum deals and the right to speak up in
meetings. Instead of ordering the dinners, I was taken out to
them.

My meteoric rise was wonderful, and the extra
money in my checking account didn’t hurt, especially since I was
financially independent. But aside from Raad, I didn’t have anyone
to truly share it with. Occasionally I saw Jayne and Rosemary, but
with my work schedule, I spent any free time I had sleeping, trying
out new recipes, or focusing on my health—a precarious thing to
manage.

Fortunately, not long after my promotion to
director, I bumped into Laura Delia on the red line. I hate taking
the subway and I normally prefer to walk. But it was raining hard
that morning and I couldn’t justify spending $15 for a one-mile
commute. So I braved the crowded subway car and found myself a nook
in the corner to stand. As I was going to my happy place in an
attempt to ignore the stifling air and thoughts of those around me,
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Laura, all grown up.
Miraculously she recognized me, because at first blush I wouldn’t
have recognized her.

Her lean, boyish frame had filled out. Her
runner’s body, once awkward, now stood confidently in front of me.
She had cut her long blonde hair into a short bob that angled down
in the front. But her friendliness and quickness to smile hadn’t
changed one bit. In the five minutes we could talk before my stop,
I learned that Laura worked in advertising and lived uptown with
three of her sorority sisters from Vanderbilt. We exchanged numbers
and agreed to meet up for drinks that night.

We met at one of Laura’s favorite haunts, the
Roosevelt rooftop deck. It was a beautiful summer night, and for
once I was genuinely glad I left the office before nine o’clock. It
was true I didn’t get out much, but it didn’t mean I was out of
touch with fashion. Shopping online, next to my obsession with the
Food Network, was an addiction I readily embraced. I had chosen a
Carolina Herrera ivory and black degrade silk and organza cocktail
dress. The pleated skirt gave it just enough poof to keep it girly,
and the thin black leather belt gave it an air of sophistication I
loved. I found Laura at the bar in sky-high heels, a sequined tunic
dress, and with two martinis in hand. She was talking to a hunky
businessman, but as soon as she spied me, she yelled my name and
pranced her way toward me. The poor fellow didn’t get a glance
back.