[Phoebe Pope 01.0] The Year of Four

by Nya Jade

  THE

  YEAR OF FOUR

  A PHOEBE POPE NOVEL • BOOK 1

  NYA JADE

  DREAMWELL PUBLISHING

  THE YEAR OF FOUR

  Copyright © 2012 by Nya Jade

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed and transmitted, in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America. Request for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at www.dreamwellpublishing.com/contact.

  www.dreamwellpublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Damonza

  Illustrations © 2012 by Coby L. Cyr

  www.PhoebePope.com

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  CONTENTS

  Dedication • Epigraph

  One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven • Eight • Nine • Ten • Eleven • Twelve • Thirteen • Fourteen • Fifteen • Sixteen • Seventeen • Eighteen • Nineteen • Twenty • Twenty-One • Twenty-Two • Twenty-Three • Twenty-Four • Twenty-Five • Twenty-Six • Twenty-Seven • Twenty-Eight • Twenty-Nine • Thirty • Thirty-One • Thirty-Two • Thirty-Three

  Thank you for reading THE YEAR OF FOUR • Preview: THE BLOOD OF KINGS • Acknowledgments

  Illustrations

  Illustration 1 • Illustration 2 • Illustration 3 • Illustration 4

  For Al, my love.

  “It is entirely possible that behind the perception of our senses worlds are hidden of which we are unaware.”

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  ONE

  Phoebe was too far away to sense whether the boy had one heart or two. Through the maze of trees with clattering leaves, she could see him moving with purposeful speed. He was headed toward her destination—a brownstone chapel perched at the top of a small hill. Not knowing the boy’s nature made Phoebe hesitate. Then came the sound of tower bells. Eight o’clock. There was no time to think of an alternate route. She was officially late for the Conversion.

  A loud, echoing crack quickened Phoebe’s pace as lightning slashed the indigo sky above her. She had barely reached the base of the hill when rain began pounding down. Clutching the camera that hung from the strap around her neck, she sprinted the final stretch, arriving breathless.

  Phoebe wiped the rain from her face, and then entered the chapel. Inside, light from moon-facing windows cast a misty glow across the sanctuary, the air redolent with the smoke of a blazing fireplace. She glanced around the heart of the nondenominational Green Lane Academy. It seemed so ordinary, so quiet, even peaceful. Rows of pews with velvet cushions ran the width of the room. She moved between them, taking care to remain in the shadows. An irregular shape in a dark corner caught her eye and Phoebe could just barely make out the outline of the boy. He knelt with his head between his hands, his body huddled against a pew. Praying.

  Phoebe paused several feet away and waited. After a moment she felt energy seeping from the boy’s skin, raising the hairs on hers. Cold and electric, it meant one thing: the boy had only one heart. She couldn’t risk him seeing what she had come there to do. That meant waiting. Just then, something stirred behind her.

  With her hearts thudding, Phoebe spun around to face a girl who appeared to be around her age: sixteen, maybe seventeen. Her eyes stared expectantly at Phoebe from behind a severe pair of black-rimmed glasses.

  “Thank God I’m not the only delinquent who’s late,” the girl said. “Christ, did I scare you?” she asked, clearly baffled as she took a hesitant step backward.

  “No,” Phoebe lied and lowered her fists.

  The girl looked unconvinced. “Well, I didn’t mean to. I figured you were aware of me.”

  “It’s all good . . .” Warmth crept over Phoebe’s skin. She blushed, embarrassed that she was only now sensing the physical energy of a fellow Shaper.

  “I’m Hayley.”

  “Hi. I’m Phoebe.”

  As they shook hands, the boy grunted and shifted to the end of his pew.

  “Come on, let’s get warm,” Hayley said.

  Hayley moved toward the fireplace with short, graceful steps. Phoebe followed, feeling awkward in her limbs by comparison. At nearly six feet tall, she towered over her petite companion. They slid into a fireside pew. Flames crackled toward a portrait of the Virgin Mary hanging high on the wall above it. Phoebe gazed at the oil painting briefly, and then turned sideways, facing Hayley, who had already removed her coat and spread it out next to her.

  “So,” she said. “Where’s the entrance?”

  Hayley gave a lazy shrug. “Dunno. My search got interrupted.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe glanced quickly at the human boy. “Why’d you miss the escort?”

  “Major hair crisis.”

  Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “A girl’s gotta look good—just kidding,” Hayley said, laughing. “My kid brothers stuck gum in my ponytail. I don’t smell like peanut butter, do I?” She swept strands of her light-brown hair under her nose.

  Phoebe shook her head. “Why? Another brotherly prank?”

  “No. It’s my mom’s remedy for removing gum,” Hayley said, examining the ends of her hair. “It takes forever, but it beats the hell outta chopping it out. So . . . why are you late?”

  Phoebe absently ran her camera strap between her fingers. She was going to tell Hayley that she got distracted photographing the old farmhouses-turned-dorms dotting the campus, but she didn’t get the opportunity. A sudden sound of footsteps on the creaking floor cut through the air and both girls snapped their heads to the right. The boy had risen to his feet. He crossed himself, shot them a look of silent fury, turned on his heel, and left the chapel.

  “What was that about?” Phoebe muttered. Hayley rolled her eyes and shrugged as they both stared at the door the boy had closed behind him.

  “Some prefer the sanctity of silence when in prayer.” The room resonated with a man’s reproach. Phoebe flinched. She looked to the front of the chapel where a hooded figure stepped out from the shadows of the altar.

  A wrinkled hand rose from inside a burgundy cloak and beckoned them. “Well, what are you waiting for?” the man said. “Come.”

  Phoebe sprang to her feet. Suddenly conscious of her own hair, remembering what the rain had done to it, she tugged in vain at the knots. She scurried down the aisle, Hayley close at her heels, mumbling, “Forgive us Father—”

  “I’m not a priest, lass,” the man said, his eyes reflecting moonlight as he watched them mount the steps to the altar. “I’m Gabe, the custodian for this narthyx point.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gabe. I’m—”

  “Phoebe.”

  “How’d you know?” Phoebe’s eyes widened.

  “I knew your father during his time here. I see you’ve inherited his incurable tardiness in addition to that famous hair of his,” he said, softening his tone.

  As a reflex, Phoebe ran a hand through the white streak in the front of her copper-colored locks. She had a sudden urge to cry, but she shoved it down. The pain of losing her father still remained fresh, no matter how many months rolled by. Hayley took one look at Phoebe’s face and had the good grace to feign sudden interest in the racks of unlit candles behind them.

  “You do him proud being here,” Gabe said warmly.

&nbs
p; “Thank you,” Phoebe said quietly. “How do we find the ceremony?”

  “Follow the moons to the Great Hall.” Phoebe waited for some elaboration but none came. Gabe simply raised his chin toward the pulpit and chided, “Come, now, before you miss the whole thing.”

  The girls gathered behind the gently hunched man as he pushed against the pulpit. A reverberating series of clicks echoed from within the stone structure, and a moment later, it slid to the side, revealing a dark, square opening with a stairway leading down.

  “Careful of your step,” he said.

  After thanking Gabe, Hayley slipped agilely by him and Phoebe into the passageway, disappearing into the blackness. Phoebe began to step cautiously into the stairwell when the sleeve of her sweater caught. She glanced up and saw that Gabe held her cuff between forefinger and thumb.

  “If you need anything, lass,” he said, dropping her arm, “anything at all, you know where to find me.” Phoebe considered his narrow, lined face and saw the sincerity etched into his features. It seemed her father had meant something to this old man. She nodded. A guarded smile appeared on Gabe’s face as he slid the base of the pulpit over the entrance.

  Darkness swallowed Phoebe. The sound of Hayley’s footsteps echoed around her. She pressed a finger to her temple and blinked rapidly. Soon her eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see Hayley’s moving form. Phoebe followed her, careful to keep a steadying hand on the cold stone walls as they made several sharp turns. Having no sense of the depth of their descent unnerved her as the stairs continued to slope downwards into utter blackness. Just when she thought it would never end, Phoebe heard the merciful sound of Hayley opening a door.

  Inches behind Hayley, Phoebe passed through the doorway and stopped short. The smooth walls of a circular room were inlaid with at least thirty black doors spaced five or so feet apart. Plaques in the center of each one told where each door led, as Phoebe saw ABOVE DINING HALL, ABOVE LIBRARY, and ABOVE CHAPEL on the door they’d just come through.

  “The narthyx chamber,” Hayley said reverently, running her fingers over the words, “That which is Below is like that which is Above—H. Trismegistus,” written in gold letters on the wall. She looked around, an expression of awe spreading across her glowing face.

  “So cool to finally see it,” Phoebe said.

  “Mm hmm,” Hayley agreed, distractedly.

  Phoebe couldn’t help but grin as she continued reading the plaques. These were the secret passageways that connected the Campus Above with the Campus Below. The human students roamed their austere halls unaware that below their manicured grounds existed a prestigious school of an entirely different kind.

  TWO

  They stepped through the door marked BELOW COURTYARD and entered a gleaming white marble quadrangle. Phoebe turned in a slow circle. She felt entranced by the splendor of stone arches all around them, rising to meet upper corridors with balconies overlooking a large, central fountain and garden.

  “This way!” Hayley called, pointing across the courtyard to an archway lined with golden images of the moon in its four major phases. They set off at a run and followed a trail of moons down hallways and around corners. Anticipation rattled Phoebe’s chest. Her father had run down these very halls.

  Moments later, at the trail’s end, they came upon a tall muscled guard positioned outside a pair of mahogany doors. He watched their approach with narrowed eyes. Phoebe parted her lips to apologize for their lateness, but before she could speak, the guard grunted and released the iron bar lock. The massive doors swung inward and he waved them in with a flick of his wrist.

  The instant Phoebe stepped into the Great Hall, the scent of sweet spices wafted into her nostrils. She stood still, trying to absorb the scene before her. A large, two-story dome glistened at the center of the cavernous room—a glass structure embellished with several golden images of a lion’s head. Countless ornamental glass bottles ablaze with firelight formed a circle around the base of the dome, washing the room in warm light. Inside, long tables, garnished with white moon flowers, had been arranged in three rows in front of a wide stage. The festive tables were packed with hundreds of students whose backs faced Phoebe and Hayley.

  Phoebe elbowed Hayley. “Amazing, huh?”

  “Unreal,” Hayley gushed. “Now what?”

  “Over there.” Phoebe nodded toward the only two empty seats at the last row of tables near the dome’s entrance.

  Hayley charged forward, pulling Phoebe along with her.

  “Don’t look,” Hayley whispered, “but we’re getting the evil eye.”

  “Crap.” Phoebe cringed at the disapproving glare she got from some faculty members. Great first impression, she thought.

  “Next,” a commanding male baritone bellowed, as Phoebe and Hayley settled into their seats. “I call before you Xavier Reno.”

  Phoebe’s eyes followed an elaborate marble staircase, one of a pair that spiraled upward to a balcony that was situated under the dome’s ceiling and to the right side of the stage. There, a middle-aged man with a prominent aquiline nose and deep sunken eyes stood peering down at the crowd. He wore a purple toga that swathed him in silken waves. From her father’s description, Phoebe knew at once that this man must be Professor Yori, Headmaster of the Campus Below.

  Phoebe turned her attention to the stage where a male student draped in an ivory toga rose from a bench. After a nervous glance at a blond, heavyset girl next to him, also in a toga, who gave an encouraging smile, the boy moved forward, tugging up fistfuls of cloth to prevent tripping as he walked. He arrived at center stage, and cautiously picked up a luminous object from a round, gilded table.

  Hayley gasped, shifting in her seat for a better view. “Utaviium,” she said, faster than Phoebe could think it. And it was. Thin and cylindrical, Utaviium was a pale blue crystal enchanted to capture and hold a single bolt of lightning. It was beautiful to look at; both of the girls sat transfixed, focused on the frenetic light within the crystal.

  “Xavier, show yourself!” Professor Yori declared.

  In the moment of those words’ utterance, several things happened at once. The boy’s toga slipped to the floor. He smashed the Utaviium at his feet. A massive wave of energy rippled through the dome, and for an instant, Phoebe was blinded by the intensity of its accompanying light. When her vision recovered, a giant, red falcon stood where the boy had been.

  Spreading his bejeweled fingers across the balcony’s railing, Professor Yori spoke down to the majestic bird, “Son of Osiah, rise!” Phoebe watched a pair of iridescent wings unfold sleekly, wings that from tip to tip spanned the width of the stage. The falcon lifted and lowered them slowly. The students erupted with applause as he took silent flight, faltered for a moment, then shot upward to a long perch suspended from the dome’s ceiling by gold chains. All heads peered up as, beating his wings inward to steady himself, the falcon took his place on the perch next to a silver eagle and a black hawk.

  Phoebe glanced to her side. She saw Hayley’s eyes ablaze with her own excitement. Never before had she seen the mind-thrilling spectacle of a first time Conversion. Goosebumps waltzed up her arms.

  Professor Yori cleared his throat, reclaiming the crowd’s attention.

  “I now call Leslie Davis.”

  The blond girl who had been sitting next to Xavier strolled to center stage, grabbed another Utaviium, and bobbed a hasty curtsy.

  “Show yourself,” Professor Yori said again, with an equal measure of intensity. The girl shattered the Utaviium like Xavier had done, and Phoebe bit back a gasp as a jaguar with silver spotted gold fur appeared in her place and began to stalk the stage, tail whipping in the air.

  “We welcome a daughter of Gavya!” the headmaster said. When thunderous applause filled the air, the massive cat exploded off the stage, joining a white leopard Phoebe hadn’t noticed sitting on the floor between the stage and the crowd. She found the regal assurance of both animals spellbinding. And, although she wouldn’t find out until
the first full moon after her seventeenth birthday, Phoebe could not help longing to know what alternate Shape her second heart belonged to.

  As Phoebe’s mind wandered, so did her gaze, and she noticed for the first time the purple banners that hung the length of the Great Hall’s back walls. Gold words embroidered into the center of each one read: VESUVIUS AD 79. Old and faded, the banners were a reminder of Pompeii, the ancient Roman city and ancestral homeland of Shapers that had once thrived before the eruption of Mount Vesuvius buried it under volcanic ash. The human world viewed the demise of Pompeii as a catastrophic act of nature. But every Shaper knew that Mount Vesuvius had been triggered by an act of war.

  A collective movement of chairs scraping back pulled Phoebe’s gaze away from the banners as the entire congregation rose to its feet. Moving slowly, a slight limp in his stride, Professor Yori descended one of the staircases. He removed a laurel wreath from his bald head and passed a hand over the interlocking branches and leaves. When he reached the bottommost stair, he was met by a couple of older students who assisted him with disrobing in a swift but careful manner. The voluminous toga unraveled, revealing that the headmaster wore a stately black suit underneath.

  Once the two students had removed his rings, folded the toga between them and left the stage, Professor Yori said, “We have come to the conclusion of this full moon’s Conversion. I congratulate all the newly converted on this important rite of passage. This includes those of you who Converted over the summer in the presence of your community leaders, family, and friends. Reaching the day your second Shape is awakened is a momentous event to celebrate so”—he raised the wreath in a sort of benediction—“blessings of Osiah and Gavya.”

  The students moved their right hands to their lips in unison, and then crossed both arms in an X over their chests—one fist placed over each heart.