Tentyrian Legacy (36 page)

“Old friend, of course not,” he says, trying
to diffuse the tension, placing a hand on my shoulder. “But you
forget yourself with me sometimes. In the interests of our
partnership, I’m only trying to remind you.” Like hell you are. I
smile.

“Forgive me. It’s been a stressful couple of
months. Are the shipments ready?” I ask. I’ll put him in his place
later.

“Yes, the DTPA12 is prepped to ship to São
Paulo, Mumbai, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Washington, DC, Los Angeles,
London, Paris, and Berlin.”

“Excellent. Full speed ahead then. Have you
heard from Aglaia, by the way?” Calix smiles in response with an
arched brow.

“Right, still aren’t speaking yet, are you?
Give it a hundred years or so. She’ll come around.” I leave him
with a pat on the back and shift to my brownstone.

In my townhouse, it’s most convenient to find
Aglaia in the parlor. She’s lounging on the Queen Anne settee, her
leather skirt showing plenty of thigh. Upon my arrival, she doesn’t
look up from the screen of her iPad, but she knows I’m there.

“Really, Stavros, I don’t know why you insist
on keeping the most uncomfortable furniture around,” she says in
her typical, bored voice.

“I see you’re being useful again. Online
shopping, are we?” I make my way over to the bar cart and pour
myself a generous scotch.

“Well, it’s unlikely Saks Fifth Avenue is
going to be thriving after most of the human race dies, isn’t it,
Stavros?” Her finger doesn’t stop its swipe as she peruses the
digital pages of designer clothing.

“Well we all must make sacrifices. Try buying
some real clothes this time, Aglaia; you look no better than a
hooker.” That gets her attention. “And I should be taking fashion
advice from you? You look like you just walked out of a Sherlock
Holmes novel. Do you have a pocket watch too?”

“All I’m saying is that erring on the
conservative side, my dear, isn’t a bad thing. Leaving something to
the imagination, hmm?”

“Your idea of attractive is a corset and legs
swallowed in petticoats. No thanks, Stavros. Been there, done that.
I like my freedom.”

“Well that’s evident. What was his name last
night?”

“None of your business. But he was a sweet
boy,” she says, tilting her head with a lazy smile on her heavily
lipsticked red lips.

Aglaia is gorgeous, the spitting of image of
her now-deceased sister. Between their long chestnut curls,
heart-shaped faces, and curvaceous bodies, I used to have a
difficult time telling them apart. But since her twin’s death in
1941, Aglaia had cropped her hair short and insisted on an overtly
sexual look. So different from how she used to be. Asia’s death was
hard on Aglaia; it was like losing her other half. In part I guess
that’s why they were both so flippant about men. At the end of the
day, the two of them preferred each other’s company. But World War
II changed that.

Initially, we played both sides, supplying
weapons to both the Allies and the Nazis. Essentially we did what
we always do—supply the toys and let the children hurt each other.
On a routine trip to Berlin, however, Asia didn’t come back.
Somehow she had been careless in her feeding, and our Nazi partners
received a tip she was a vampire. She was followed, ambushed, and
before she could shift away, a grenade rendered her powerless and
on the brink of death. But death would have been a better fate than
what she received.

The Nazis took her dying body and
experimented on her. By the time we recovered her, it was too late.
Her powers were useless, and her mind was completely gone. We tried
everything to heal her. Aglaia patiently nursed and cared for her
for years. But there was nothing that could be done—she was a
vegetable. One day, Asia jumped out the window of their London
apartment and fell to her death four stories below. Some part of
her must have recognized that she no longer had a life worth
living.

Aglaia was devastated, constantly ranting
about the evilness and fickleness of humans. I never pointed out
the hypocrisy of her beliefs; I’m too much of a gentleman and
strategist. But who is she kidding? She murders people every day.
It wasn’t until something precious of hers was taken that her
hatred of humans was solidified. I suppose that is always the
genesis of motivation, though. It has to become personal for it to
become real. Fortunately for me, it is just that type of conviction
I need for our cause.

“Aside from your own personal exploits, did
you manage to accomplish what I asked?” I finish the drink in one
swift swallow.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Aglaia taunts me
playfully as she uncrosses her long legs. She abandons her new iPad
and slinks over in her patent leather heels to the armchair I’m
lounging in. She perches herself seductively on my lap. Aglaia
loves to tease, but her overtures are innocuous, and right now
she’s just angry at Calix. Their on again, off again relationship
is enough to drive me crazy. She’s smart enough to know I won’t
take the bait.

“I left you a present upstairs in your
bedroom,” she says.

“A present? What’s the occasion?” I ask,
surprised.

“There isn’t one. But hopefully you’ll stop
acting like such a bore. Her name is Laura. She’s Arianna Parker’s
friend.”

“Very good, I’m impressed. And may I ask what
condition she is in?”

“Don’t fret. I didn’t touch her—not even a
taste. She looks like your type. Thin and blonde...”

“What does she know?”

“You can see for yourself. But it’s clear she
doesn’t know where Arianna is. She can tell you, though, about our
mini Daria’s relationship with the doctor. You were right. She was
his patient.”

“Did anyone see you take her?”

“Yes, as you requested. The Brothers were
watching her. Really, they are such simpletons.”

“Excellent. It’s time we step up the game.
Aside from her friend, did you find anyone else who knew
anything?”

“Her parents are still off the grid. I found
an old boyfriend who seems like a sleazebag. Not particularly
helpful. But he did say that their relationship ended abruptly when
she figured out he was cheating.”

“Aglaia, how is that even remotely
insightful?”

“He was genuinely surprised that she figured
it out. He used the words, ‘It was like she read my mind.’”

“Shit.”

“Exactly. On that note, I’m going to head
out.” Aglaia gets up from my lap slowly, allowing me a generous
view of her behind. She isn’t wearing underwear.

“Where to?” I ask.

“To the office. Trebuchet Global isn’t run
solely by you, Stavros.”

“I never said it was.”

“You didn’t have to. Enjoy my treat,” she
says over her shoulder before she disappears.

2010 AD, July

Ambrosine Island, Ionian Sea

“Oh Laur, you shouldn’t have done this!” I
exclaim. “Are you kidding me, Ari?”

“Yes I am. But really, these are too
beautiful and expensive.”

“Girl, it’s your twenty-fifth birthday, and
since you wouldn’t let me throw you a party, this is the only
alternative.”

“I love them, I love them, I love them!”

“I know you eyed them last time we were
shopping. They are faaaaabulous!”

I give Laura a heartfelt hug and kiss on the
cheek as I tear the tissue paper off the Ferragamo hot pink Blejan
heels.

“Now where do you want to wear them tonight?
This is part one of your present; part two is getting ridiculously
drunk and dancing inappropriately all night. Maybe even some
tabletop action, give or take a few kamikazes,” says Laura.

“Your pick. You know everyone and the best
places to go. I’m just the tagalong, Laur.” I give her a twirl in
my heels, and I get the nod of approval.

“More champagne?” I ask, reaching for the
Veuve chilling in the crystal ice bucket on my coffee table.

“Yes, please. Of course you put the onus on
me. That’s fine, I’ll let it slide. You are the birthday girl,
after all.” I fill Laura’s glass to the brim, and she quickly
drinks the bubbly foam before it flows over. After a healthy sip,
she leans back into the sofa, where we’ve been lounging for the
past hour attempting to recover from the birthday dinner food coma.
I think we’ve only done more damage with the champagne.

“That reminds me,” continues Laura. “I have
one more gift for you. It’s not wrapped, so you’ll have to close
your eyes.” I shut them immediately and hear Laura rustle around in
her bottomless Marc Jacobs. Several lipsticks and tampons later,
she finds what she is looking for and places it on my hair. I open
my eyes and touch it. It’s a plastic tiara. “Now, I expect you to
wear this out tonight. We’re bound to get free drinks!” Laura
enthuses.

“Laur, this really is the best birthday.
Dinner was amazing, the cake was amazing, and the shoes are
amazing! And the tiara, you remembered . . . I’m so lucky to have a
friend like you.”

“You say that every year, Ari. I think it’s
because you had a childhood devoid of birthdays.”

“That’s not true,” I say defensively. Laura
gives me a knowing look. “You’re right. But this time I really mean
it; this is the best birthday!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ll say that next year!
Now hurry up and change your dress. You should wear the pink Kate
Spade one that makes your breasts look fantastic.”

“Are you sure it’s not too revealing?”

“Again Ari, are you kidding me? It’s Kate
Spade. I don’t think her clothes exactly scream ‘slut.’ Now hurry
up, it’s almost midnight!”

I rush to my closet to change, but when I
open the door, the rows of shoes, shelves, and clothing are gone.
In fact, my whole closet is gone. Instead it’s a party. What the
hell? I step inside and make my way through the crowd. What
happened to my closet?

“Laur, can you come here?” No answer. I turn
around, but there is no door anymore. It’s just a posh room with a
sea of people. “Laura! Laura! Where are you?” People are staring. I
elbow my way past the elegantly dressed men and women and
blank-faced waiters. They are holding cocktails—all red cocktails.
“Laura?”

“Looking for someone?” I know that voice. I
turn around. It’s Charles.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“I came to see you, Ari. Happy birthday,
baby. I have a surprise for you.” His hand grips my wrist, and he
starts to pull me through the crowd. His fingers are cold and
clammy and too tight. I try to resist, but my new shoes slide on
the floor. The conversation around me grows louder; the murmurs are
overpowering my thoughts. The control I’ve worked so hard to
nurture and strengthen is slipping.

“I’m not your baby! Let go of me! Help! Stop
him!” I scream. No one hears a word I say as Charles keeps pulling
me. Why won’t these people help me? They are just standing there,
glassy eyed. We reach a side door he yanks open and pushes me
through. The door locks behind me and refuses to open despite my
efforts. I whirl around to see I’m now standing in a richly
decorated office with burgundy tones and dark walnut paneling. A
fire is blazing in the fireplace. I thought it was summer? The
carpet is a deep rich red, but there is something not right about
it. It’s making a squishy sound underfoot. I look down, and there
is red liquid seeping through my pink shoes. It’s blood.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I hear a man say. But
it’s not Charles. When I look up to face the voice, there is a man
in a black velvet smoking jacket leaning against a desk. He’s tall,
with pale white skin and thick dark hair that stops just above his
shoulders. He has a narrow face and high cheekbones; his nose is
slightly hooked. While not handsome by traditional standards, there
is something alluring and catlike about him.

His eyes are blue, but where Maximos’ eyes
are brilliant sapphires, this man’s are the color of dull, dark
ink. He stands up and walks toward me. That is when I see Laura in
the desk chair. Her head is cocked to the side, and blood is
pouring from two punctures in her neck. Her eyes and mouth are
open. She is dead. The man’s tapered fingers point to her. “Isn’t
it beautiful, Arianna?” he says.

That’s when I wake up with a start.

“Arianna, are you okay?” Maximos says,
tossing the book down he’s been reading in the chair pulled up next
to the bed. He stands by my side immediately and checks my
temperature with his hand.

“I think so, just a bad dream,” I say,
sitting up, slightly out of breath from the terror of the nightmare
that felt so vivid. But wait, my voice sounds different—it doesn’t
sound panicked; it’s soft and calm, with a singsong quality. It’s
alluring. Like the way Maximos always sounds to me. “My voice, it’s
different,” I whisper to Maximos as I touch my throat with my
fingers. To my relief, there are no puncture wounds.

“It’s the Turn. It’s complete. You are going
to feel slightly different,” Maximos says as his eyes seem to
survey every inch of me. Self-consciously I survey myself too.
That’s when I notice I’m wearing an oversized pinstripe nightshirt
and pajama bottoms. Judging by the size, they must be Maximos’. At
least I’m not naked.