CHAPTER 89 LYRA
LYRA
L yra knew that Grayson was hurting, but in the hours since his brother had told them to go to hell, she wouldn’t have been able to tell it.
Grayson was a man on a mission, and Lyra was right there with him.
“Bold move.” Odette’s long gray hair, with its black tips, was swept up in an elegant twist and held in place with what looked to be an antique pin.
Her gaze was steady, and Lyra knew just by looking at Odette—the canny old woman’s eyes missed nothing.
“Holding a lawyer of my caliber against her will.”
“The exit is right there,” Grayson told Odette. The three of them were ensconced in a borrowed conference room in a luxury hotel. Lyra had half expected Grayson to try to leave her behind, but he hadn’t.
For better or worse, she was in this now.
“Avery is missing,” Grayson told Odette. He didn’t mince words, nor did he provide any verbal elaboration. Instead, all Grayson did was place a single calla lily on the table separating him from Odette Morales.
The old woman’s gaze lingered on the flower, but she said nothing. Lyra thought about everything Gigi had said, and she made the next move.
“What do you know about invitations ?” Lyra asked. “About a certain kind of ask .”
Odette stared at Lyra for a small eternity, and then, every inch the old Hollywood star, the old woman deigned to reply. “Less than I once wanted to and more than I should.”
Grayson withdrew two objects from his suit jacket pocket—poker chips, borrowed from the yacht, one red, one black, both priceless.
He set down the red chip first. “A woman in red…” The black chip was next. “A woman in black…”
Lyra reached out to lightly touch the first chip. “Calla Thorp.” She moved her hand to the black chip. “Alice Hawthorne.” Lyra paused. “But there are always three.”
Odette’s eyes and demeanor gave away nothing. Not a single tell. Then slowly, deliberately, the old woman reached back and withdrew the antique pin from her hair, freeing her long silvery tresses.
Odette laid the pin—silver, with pearls at the head—on the table, next to the poker chips. One by one, she lightly touched the three objects. “Red. Black. White.” Odette brought her hand back to the start and went through the sequence again. “The Lily.”
The red chip.
“The Omega.”
The black one.
“And the Monoceros.”
The white. The term was unfamiliar to Lyra, and the sound of it didn’t fit with the other two.
Across from her, Odette moved her hand back to the first chip. “The Watcher,” the old woman said, then moved her featherlight touch from red to black. “The Hand.” Finally, she touched the pearls at the head of her hairpin. “And the Judge.”
Watcher. Hand. Judge.
Lily. Omega. Monoceros.
“There are always three,” Lyra said quietly.
“Who are they?” Grayson demanded.
“Women, exclusively.” Odette appeared for a moment like she might leave it at that. “They answer to no one but themselves and a great many answer to them. If you know where to look, history tells the tale.”
“And what tale is that?” Grayson asked.
Seconds crept by. Lyra didn’t even blink.
“Men ruin things,” Odette said finally. “Not all of them. Not all the time. But often enough—and powerful men more than most. The group you’re after—all I can tell you is that they believe that some situations require a gently guiding hand and others a gilded blade.”
A blade. “Exactly how dangerous are they?” Lyra asked, so Grayson wouldn’t have to.
“Dangerous enough that I stopped looking for answers fourteen years ago,” Odette replied, “when I awoke in my own home to find a calla lily on my pillow. A warning.”
Lyra thought about the calla she’d found near the helipad, the one that Eve had insisted she did not send. She thought about hundreds of calla lilies, washing onto the shore. And then she thought about the one her father had given her.
She thought about her father’s blood—the feel of it on her feet, the smell of it.
Lyra leaned forward, her forearms on the conference table. “You called the Watcher the Lily . And the Omega is the Hand. What exactly does that second one mean?”
Odette said nothing, but Grayson filled in the blanks. “Omega,” he said, “is the end.”
The end. For the first time, Lyra wondered if her father had killed himself to prevent someone else from doing the job for him. A woman in black. The Omega. The end. The Hand.
A Hawthorne did this.
Lyra thought about a woman, calling her a poor thing. You should not be here. But who is to say that you were?
“What about the third?” Lyra said. “The Monoceros.” The Omega —the Hand—had been hiding her from someone, and Odette had already been clear: These women answered to no one.
Again, Lyra’s question received no reply, and again, Grayson filled in the blanks. “Monoceros,” he said. “It’s a mythical creature and a constellation and, it seems, the Judge.” He looked back down to the chips. “Calla Thorp. Alice Hawthorne. Who’s the third?”
“If I knew that,” Odette replied, “I suspect that I would not have received a warning all those years ago.”
“A warning,” Lyra repeated. “A calla lily.” She glanced at Grayson.
“What does it mean,” he said, “if there are hundreds of them? Calla lilies.”
This time, Odette’s silence was not measured in seconds. Neither Lyra nor Grayson moved. Neither said a word.
“It means…” Odette reached for her pin and used it to fix her long hair back once more. “That something very big is about to happen.”