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What a profound contribution she’ll make to Mount Olympus as their new goddess of agriculture.
As for Persephone, she’s like the onset of spring. Young, fresh, rife with promise. She reminds me so much of what Artemis must have been like at that age.
It pains me that I wasn’t able to give Artemis this opportunity back then, when she was young and naive like Persephone is now. If things had been different, she wouldn’t have had to waste her life in this ignoble wasteland. Like Persephone, she could have embarked on womanhood as a goddess, rather than battling her way through a mire of depraved mortals before arriving at her final destination.
I’ll make it up to her. Here at New Olympus, I am Delphi. It’s the perfect pseudonym. Delphi, Apollo’s sanctuary, a shrine ultimately dedicated to him, but before that, to Gaia. Once I soar to the real Mount Olympus, I’ll take my rightful place as Apollo himself. My first order of business will be to have an elaborate temple built for Artemis—one that far surpasses the Temple at Ephesus previously dedicated to her. Everyone will worship at her shrine, just as they’ll worship Gaia at Delphi.
And I’ll be joyful. Because no one could ever revere either of those two goddesses more than I.
Ascension is almost upon us.
New Olympus will be gone, having outlived its usefulness. Our souls will have long since separated from and risen above the vessels known as our bodies. Those vessels will have been consumed in a glorious funeral pyre, leaving nothing behind but ashes.
My temporary monument to the gods will be no more.
The dust—all that remains of each vessel—will be written up in law enforcement files, and, eventually, forgotten.
But the goddesses and I will live on throughout eternity.
Now all that’s left is for me to bring Artemis here so she can take her rightful place among us.
Our enemies are still out there. Like the serpent Python, they’re set on killing us, and preventing our passage into eternity.
They’re fools. Nothing they do will matter. Artemis trusts me. She’ll come willingly.
For now, we share our special connection in my dreams.
In mere days, we’ll share it forever.
John Jay College of Criminal Justice
Multipurpose Room
New York City
7:05 P.M.
The austere, cafeteria-like room at John Jay College had been transformed into a warm party room. Dusk was just filtering in through the windows, creating a social aura rather than an academic one. Strains of classical music drifted through the room, which was filled with festive decorations, bowls of punch, platters of hors d’oeuvres, and trays of hot dishes. The setting seemed more like a private dining room at an exclusive club than an all-purpose room at a city college.
Twenty or so people—mostly faculty members, law enforcement colleagues who taught workshops at John Jay, and a few of Lillian’s close friends—were milling around, chatting and helping themselves to the food.
“This is lovely,” Sloane murmured as she and Derek hovered in the doorway. The party was business casual, so Sloane was dressed in a bright aqua silk blouse and black silk pants. And Derek was wearing a blue striped dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and navy slacks.
“It certainly is.” He voiced his agreement with a nod. But his penetrating midnight gaze was already scrutinizing the room’s occupants. “The school did a great job. And this private room is very conducive to keeping a close eye on things.”
“Derek, our Unsub isn’t a moron,” Sloane muttered drily. “He’s not going to burst into a public place, club me over the head, and carry me off. So could you please stop looming in the doorway
like a mountain lion about to tear someone’s throat out?”
Derek relaxed, and his lips twitched at her analogy. “Point taken. I’ll leave the mountain lion at the door.” Another quick glance around, this time more relaxed and friendly. “Do you know everyone here?”
“Not even close.” Sloane shook her head. “A few casual acquaintances from my visits and workshops here.”
“There’s Elliot.” Derek tipped his chin in the direction of the buffet.
“Predictably standing next to the food,” Sloane noted, following Derek’s gaze. “The attractive redhead he’s talking to is Lucy Andrews. She’s a professor here in the sociology department, like Lillian. The two of them also coinstruct a Gender Studies course called Sex and Culture.” A pause, filled with sad realization. “I’m not sure if she’ll cancel the class now or run it alone.”
“She looks like a take-charge kind of woman. My guess is she’s perfectly capable of handling the course alone—if she chooses to.”
