Unfortunately, he ducked it . . . then laughed. Laughed!
Unable to stand his mockery, she rushed to her car, hoping she didn't give into the urge she had to run them both down.
Julian turned a wide-eyed stare at Ash. "Damn, Atlantean, what did you do?"
"I apparently made a new friend."
Laughing nervously, Julian shook his head. "I made a friend like that once. The bastard almost gutted me."
"Yeah." Ash felt a wave of guilt that he'd hurt her so badly. But it was nothing compared to what would be done to him if she'd succeeded in her quest. "Guess I'll get back to my roof."
Julian inclined his head to the street. "I have to go and find her so I can return this."
Ash went cold as he saw the small square package in Julian's hand. "Return what?"
"It's a journal she found on some dig in Greece."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure." Julian pulled it out and handed it to him.
Ash's hand shook as he made himself betray no emotions. But inside . . . inside he was raw with grief. He opened the cover and saw the handwriting he knew so well.
Today is the eighteenth anniversary of my birth. Father woke me up with a new necklace and Mother and I spent the morning in our garden. Father was always kind enough to let her visit for the anniversary of my birth.
Ash clenched his teeth as he pictured the garden that Ryssa had kept so meticulously groomed. He'd never known that she'd shared it with her mother.
"You can read it, can't you?"
Ash nodded. "It's an old dialect. Provincial."
"Well, I'd say it would make her happy to know that, but after her reaction to you, I'm not so sure."
Neither was he. Then again, he deserved her anger. "Mind if I hang on to this?"
Julian hedged. "It's not really mine. However, I trust you to do what's right with it."
"Believe me, I will."
Julian inclined his head to him, then turned to leave.
Ash stood there, holding his sister's journal. He couldn't believe it'd survived so well. It'd been buried under the sea since the day he'd sunk Didymos. But unlike his mother, he'd made sure that all the living people were gone before he'd obliterated it.
Now he had a piece of his past returned to him like a haunting ghost. The question was what was he going to do with it?
CHAPTER THREE
Three days later as she walked across campus, toward her office, Tory was mad enough to spit out iron nails. How dare Dr. Alexander give her journal to that . . . that . . .
One day she was going to think of a word that would adequately describe Acheron's particular breed of low, gutter, nasty, vile . . . ness.
"Dr. Kafieri?"
She turned to see Kyle Peltier, one of her students, running up to her. He was a typical junior, with blond hair and a sweet face. He'd just transferred from another school this semester and was one of her better students. "Yes?"
"A friend of mine asked me to give you this." He held out a box wrapped in kraft paper.
She stared at the unexpected gift. "I don't understand."
"Me either, but when he asks for a favor, you do the favor without asking why."
Tory frowned at his cryptic words as she took the box. Kyle immediately rushed off before she could ask him anything more. "Well that was interesting." The box was heavy. She shook it, but couldn't figure out what it might contain.
Her current luck, a bomb.
Pushing the thought aside, she made her way to her small office, grabbed a cup of coffee and then set about opening it which was easier said than done. It was like the giver had hermetically sealed it shut with tape. "I hate when people do this!"
Finally, after no less than five minutes, she was able to detach the lid from the box and pull it free. Opening it up, she froze. It contained a hammer, a handful of olive leaves, a note attached to a single red rose, and a leather pouch the same size as a small book. Her heart pounding, she picked up the brown leather pouch and opened it to find her journal.
A smile curled her lips. So the little monster had done the right thing. Now she was able to laugh about the hammer and the olive "branches" he'd put inside. She picked up his note and opened it to find a beautiful masculine script.
I'm really not the asshole you think I am. The journal's from a young woman in an isolated part of Greece and documents her life for about eighteen months. It's pretty much boring reading, but if you want more details, call me. 555-602-1938.
Eirini,
Ash
Eirini—Greek for peace. Tory shook her head. Not the asshole she thought, yeah right. But it was kind of a sweet gesture and he had returned her journal.
With a rose.