The Immortal Transcripts #1
Quiver
Lisa Borne Graves
Authors 4 Authors Publishing
Mukilteo, WA, USA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
©2020 Lisa Borne Graves
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher, except for use in brief quotations as permitted by United States copyright law.
Published by Authors 4 Authors Publishing
11700 Mukilteo Speedway Ste 201 PM 1044
Mukilteo, WA 98275
www.authors4authorspublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020930098
E-book ISBN: 978-1-64477-048-1
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64477-047-4
Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-64477-046-7
Edited by Rebecca Mikkelson and B. C. Marine
Cover illustration ©2020 Matthew Graves. All rights reserved.
Cover and interior design and layout by B. C. Marine
Authors 4 Authors Content Rating
This title has been rated 17+, appropriate for older teens and adults, and contains:
Frequent intense kissing
Intense implied sex
Graphic violence
Moderate language
Moderate alcohol use
Mild positive fantasy drug use
Mild negative illicit drug use
Discussions of incest
For more information on our rating system, please, visit our Content Guide.
Dedication
For Ann Reed, who got me interested in my Greek ancestry; Katie Grant for reading six pages and insisting I had to be an author; and Cameron Scott Wright for all his editing work. Cameron, I wish you got to see this in print. RIP, my friend.
Table of Contents
Quiver
Copyright
Authors 4 Authors Content Rating
Dedication
Note to Reader
Chapter 1: Lucien
Chapter 2: Callie
Chapter 3: Archer
Chapter 4: Callie
Chapter 5: Archer
Chapter 6: Aroha
Chapter 7: Lucien
Chapter 8: Callie
Chapter 9: Archer
Chapter 10: Aroha
Chapter 11: Lucien
Chapter 12: Callie
Chapter 13: Archer
Chapter 14: Lucien
Chapter 15: Callie
Chapter 16: Archer
Chapter 17: Aroha
Chapter 18: Lucien
Chapter 19: Callie
Chapter 20: Archer
Chapter 21: Lucien
Chapter 22: Callie
Chapter 23: Archer
Olympian Pantheon
Family Tree
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Authors 4 Authors
Note to Reader
The following is a faithful transcript for the use of the newly formed International Republic of Immortality (IRI) in its inquiry behind the altercations involved in the Olympian sector. As far as the signed witnesses state, everything was recorded with complete honesty, arranged chronologically, and written separately so as to not influence one another’s accounts. The IRI reserves the rights to this manuscript, and it is by no means to be reproduced nor shown to any creature mortal. Mortals who read may be subject to permanent silence.
In case we are executed for our “crimes,” I pass this on to you, mortal, in hopes to continue our memories into the future. Welcome to our world.
Chapter 1Lucien
I found myself adrift in a sea of fog, so I knew it was one of my repetitive dreams. Trouble for me always starts with dreams—and women—but women in dreams is the worst combination. As soon as I saw those gates appear out of nowhere, I recognized that this was a compounded problem involving both. They were gilded wrought iron gates that reached from the ground full up into the sky, far beyond where the eyes could see, where they disappeared in a delicate layer of bright clouds. On both sides of the gates were ancient stone walls that appeared to be meticulously built by hand and extended so high that one wondered how on Mother Gaia they could stand without toppling over. The gates, on squealing hinges, creaked open enough for my body to slip through. I wasted no time but entered quickly as I always did in these dreams, finding myself in a field of barley that rippled beautifully in the wind. The sun shone brightly, the fog not penetrating this oasis. In the distance, I could see specks on the horizon of what appeared to be poplars and an appealing grove of shade. On the wind, I could hear a trickling of a stream in the distance.
I felt at peace until the apparition appeared in front of me, only a few yards away. She was as beautiful as ever with her hair in thin chestnut braids hanging down her back and her dark eyes glistening in the bright sun. She was full-bodied, perfect in the supple areas of a woman with round breasts and thicker hips, but by no means overweight. She had that classical beauty of antiquity and the bronze tan to match. Every time, I had an insatiable desire to take her in my arms and kiss her, but I refrained because in the past dreams, she’d run from me if I tried. Each dream, I got closer, though. “Patience,” I told myself.
She greedily ate away at a pomegranate—seeds and all—which reinforced the idea of where I really was. But I was not dead, and no one could answer what Elysium looked like; those who arrived there never returned. Yet, here I was in my sleep, a place I often found myself. Something I’ve never told anyone. Ever.
She spotted me and eyed me demurely.
“You again.” She smirked. “Don’t you ever learn?”
“Learn? It is you who brings me here, my oracle.”
“Oh.” She gasped. She was clearly frightened. This was different. Usually, she just flirted and teased me.
I took full advantage of her sudden hesitation and crossed to her and took her into my arms.
“Yours?” She gave me a smug smile that told me I was being foolish.
“Ah.” I realized my folly. If she wasn’t my oracle, then… “Before my time?”
“Shh,” she hissed, pushing me away and scanning the horizon in anticipation. “I am not supposed to speak to you.” She spun around wildly. The wind changed course suddenly, whipping at us, and I heard the baying of dogs in the distance. The barley rippled eerily around us like the wind was going in every direction.
“Show me,” I insisted, searching for the oncoming threat. “You brought me here for a prophecy; now, do it!” My heart beat with anxiety as I heard the dogs getting closer.
She gazed at me, her eyes ablaze with something that wasn’t exactly passion or fear, but a combination of both. She pulled me to her again and then kissed me deeply. Images were thrust into me with a jarring pain, robbing me of the pleasure I should get from such a kiss. I tried to focus, but it was futile. The images would be embedded into my brain and would drive me mad until I puzzled them out. Certain images swirled around slow enough to discern them: my father cowering, lightning striking, my friend Archer screaming, fire, and a girl—a beautiful girl I had never seen before—war, death, chaos. The rest I couldn’t discern.
The oracle thrust me away and shouted, “Run, foolish boy, run!”
I sprinted for the entrance—desperately attempting to find the fiends that were barking—but all I saw were black shadows zipping and curling through the barley. They were ghosts made of nothingness, just thick black air, like smoke in the breeze. She called after me loudly as I ran, but I could hardly make out the words over the barkin
g and growling.
I raced toward the gates, afraid to turn around, although I heard the creatures on my heels. I wasn’t going to make it. The shadow dogs went in for the kill.
I shot awake in bed in my room, sheets tangled and soaked with sweat. The phone was ringing, scaring my already rapidly beating heart, and I instantly picked it up. “Hello?”
A familiar female voice began to speak; it was the current oracle, an alive one, her voice raspy with old age. “Everything as we know it will change forever.”
“How?” I could think of nothing else to ask, my mind muddled between the fright of my dream and the grogginess from just waking.
“Love.”
Then the line went dead.
Chapter 2Callie
I was in complete hell, emotionally and psychologically speaking. I, Callista Syches, had just moved to a new city at seventeen to start my senior year in a new school, and to make things worse, the school year had already started weeks ago. It wasn’t just any old city, but New York City; it wasn’t just any old school, but the prestigious Royal Prescot Academy, which Dad had said I was lucky to get into.
To bitch about the big move wasn’t an option. It was ridiculous and selfish to complain. Dad was terminally ill with a disease that had a really long and difficult-to-say name and no cure, but the big-wig physicians in NYC promised him time through a complicated plan involving therapy, diuretics, and some miracle trial drug. I would’ve put my foot down and refused to move until I graduated, but that was as bad as wanting my father dead. I wished he could live forever, but as Dad liked to remind me, memento mori—remember that we all die one day. We’re mortal, and to dream of such things as immortality here on earth is a child’s game. And I had to act like an adult, forced to be more mature than any other seventeen-year-old I knew because I had to stare into death’s face every day.
Like today, when Dad shuffled out of his room, moving like a man twice his age, most likely drawn out by the smell of the bacon I was frying up. I had cooked us a full breakfast to stave off my first-day jitters. I had hardly slept, dreading the first day of school.
“My, my, Callista darling, I think you have settled in already. Raphael will be pleased to see he has nothing to do,” Dad said, a smile on his face and a pep in his voice. He looked better than he had in days, and his optimism was showing. Raphael was his personal assistant who acted as servant, editor, driver, and nurse to my father, since Dad was limited these days. His face was flushed again, though, and he missed picking up his fork twice, so his vision must have been blurred. He was only acting better, not feeling better, and the symptoms were all still apparent.
“Trying my best.” I matched his brightness. It felt tiresome to pretend I was fine, to act like he was fine, but it made him happy to think I was well adjusted.
“I know this move was hard on you, Callista—” he began gravely.
“No Dad, we’ve gone over this a million times. It’s for the best. It’s what you need and what I want. I’d go through worse to have more time with you.”
He met my gaze, his eyes watering, patted my hand, and focused on his breakfast. He could say no more, and I didn’t want him to. Talking about the future with Dad was too painful. He wanted me to talk about my dreams and aspirations, but I didn’t want to think about a world that excluded him. I had no idea what I would do when he was gone.
I cleaned up the dishes while Dad got ready.
“I’ve got the car coming back for you after Raphael drops me off.”
“Dad,” I whined. “I don’t want to show up in a Rolls Royce with my chauffeur on the first day. What would the other kids think?”
“That you’re like them? Callista, this is not like Somerset. You live and go to school in the Upper East Side now. Kids at this school have much more money than you are used to. They will all show up in the same.”
Dad referred to the small town where I grew up in Minnesota. There, we were considered the rich oddballs because most people there were middle-class. Oh yeah, my father definitely had money, which was how we found ourselves in a penthouse apartment in the Upper East Side. My dad was a historian and an archeologist, among other things. He’d discovered many different artifacts, but he was best known for finding the Aegis, the legendary shield that the Greek goddess Athena used. Of course, no one believed a goddess actually used it (except Dad), but the fact it was made of pure gold, with golden threaded tassels, had an engraving of Medusa’s head, and dated back to the Bronze Age made it almost priceless. Dad had sold it to the British Museum. That is where a lot of the money came from.
“Great,” I sighed in disbelief. Now I was even more nervous. I was used to hiding the fact we had money, but what would these kids be like? Hell. This would be like hell, like one of those movies where the popular girls end up being psychos and bully someone to death: me. Stop it. I took a deep breath to hide my anxiety from my father. He didn’t need to worry about me, just his health.
After Dad left for the doctor’s office, I showered, wrapped myself up in my fluffy purple bathrobe, and dug through my boxes of clothes in search of the perfect first-day outfit. Everything I owned was wrong. One outfit would have them judge me as a broke charity project; another would show off too much, like I was challenging their worth. I almost regretted telling my father my only stipulation about my new school was sans uniform (almost being the key word). I decided on a simple outfit: jeans and a fitted T-shirt, but of designer labels. It seemed safe, average but still spoke money. I grabbed a light jacket, just in case, although the weather was actually pleasant.
One last satisfied look in the mirror, and I was as ready as I’d ever be to face the political arena one calls high school. A glance at the clock told me I’d better hurry.
I hustled out the door and down the hall, when I came across a guy waiting by the elevator. I slowed down, not wanting to draw attention to myself, not wanting to socialize. There’d be enough strangers to make small talk with at school today.
His back was to me, so all I could see was a tall frame, leaning toward the lanky side but not without definition. His hair was blond, cropped short, the tips sun-kissed. If he grew it out, I imagined it’d be curly. Yes, I was totally staring and obsessively observing him, but he didn’t know that. And now, without even seeing his face, I was keen on socializing.
He turned, and our gazes met, his eyes piercingly blue, poignant, and wise-looking—like he must be mature beyond his years. Maybe he was losing someone he loved too. Doubtful, as that was just my unfortunate lot.
His face was beautiful—there was no other word for it—with slender, chiseled, and astonishingly perfect features, like Michelangelo had sculpted him from marble. He had a little upturn to his nose, a cute little pug to it—not snobbish, but refined like those noble guys from period pieces I wished were real. Prince Charming came to mind.
Besides his Prince-Charmingness, he had a strong and defined jawline, a muted cleft in his chin, and adorably kissable lips. His skin was slightly pale yet with a soft glow and rosy cheeks, as if he’d just walked in from the sunshine. In short, he was ridiculously gorgeous and not at all your run-of-the-mill all-American boy—he had a foreign air to him, one I couldn’t quite place. Wherever he was from might be where I would move next (it was only a fleeting, pathetic thought).
“Going down?” he asked in a mild, friendly tone. His voice was like a complicated and beautiful Beethoven symphony, full of every emotion possible but restrained. If so, I wondered if I could even stand hearing it at full throttle. I felt his pain, his sorrow, his happiness, his hope—I shut out the thoughts. I had to stop reading too much into people.
“Yes, please,” I answered. My voice, sadly, sounded quite mousy. I cleared my throat in hopes of sounding better the next time I spoke.
The elevator doors opened, and he motioned with his hand for me to enter first. I walked in, noticing for the first time the angled mirrors and how they multiplied my reflection throughout the elevator, a million
of me down a long tunnel. I was unexpectedly self-conscious, wishing I had worn that sexy new low-cut shirt I had that contrasted well with my olive skin tone, the one my dad insisted I wear a tank top under.
When the marble statue walked in, he was multiplied next to me as well. I liked the look of him next to me; I liked it too much. I risked another glance at the beautiful specter on the elevator doors after they closed to find him already staring at me through the mirror. His pink cheeks flared up to a brighter hue, his lips suppressed a smile, and his gaze dropped to the floor. Was my ogling that bad? Or did I just witness him checking me out as well? The latter would be preferable, obviously, but I really didn’t have time for boys. I had to spend as much time as possible with my father since there was so little of it left.
The elevator ride seemed endless. The silence felt stiflingly awkward.
He cleared his throat and said, “Did you recently move here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” He spoke in a polite cadence without any hint of an accent, just like a movie star. (He was cute enough to be one.) Usually, my intuition was dead on, but I was wrong for once—he wasn’t foreign as I had first supposed.
I judged people very well off first appearances. It was a trait I’d picked up from my dad, knowing people from merely glancing at them. Dad called it a “telepathic anomaly.” I called it good intuition. Him and his harebrained ideas.
“Yeah. Just arrived last night,” I told this adonis, trying to overcome the timidity that squeezed out in my voice. I sounded like a childish dork, which was not like me. Something about his nobleman–movie-star face numbed my brains.
“I’m Archer. Apartment 3004.”
“Callie, 3001.” I swallowed my insecurities and, with more nerve, said, “Archer? First or last name?”
“First.” He laughed. “Unique, I know. Last name is Ambrose.”
“Callista Syches, officially,” I explained, pronouncing it correctly as in “Sikes.” Most people butchered our name when they said it.
Quiver Page 1
