The Divinities

CHAPTER ONE: A Pauper Amongst Royals

Death made a slow, stylish entrance.

Blood trickled from the slice of flesh on Adora's finger, and she cringed. She couldn't ignore the implication of the crimson stain. She knew it wasn't just blood. It was a sign––a bad omen.

She wrapped her lips around her index finger and sucked hard on the fresh injury. Blood settled in her mouth, mixing with her vodka-flavored saliva. She had been taking shots all night, trying to numb her senses. Unfortunately, despite the fourth serving of alcohol burning down her chest, she was still sober––still aware of everything, including the hints of paranoia that threatened her sanity.

She rinsed her saliva-coated finger in the sink. She didn't care that she washed her germs over the crystal goblets that would eventually serve champagne to the Hamptons' elite––that fact was utterly irrelevant. Tonight, she was unnerved. Already, she had broken a wineglass and had received two punishments––the first being the wound on her finger and the second, the major deduction in her paycheck.

She had worked as a server at parties and events since she was twenty. Now, at twenty-five, she was a pro. She knew how to manipulate a crowd rather well. She never dropped trays, guests never bumped into her, and she certainly never stumbled over the exaggerated trains of designer gowns––she was far too slick for that. However, tonight, fear made her less crafty. She grabbed a shot glass and took in the small portion of vodka. She didn't swallow; she swished the liquor in her mouth, trying to mask the bold taste of death.

"Your instincts are connected to your five senses," Adora's mother had once told her. "Your instincts can communicate through your ability to touch, smell, see, hear, and taste." It was absurd but true. Sometimes, rarely, Adora's instincts used her senses as a medium. For example, when she was sixteen, her instincts had communicated through taste, occupying her mouth with the rancid flavors of wet soil and decaying flesh. The foul tang had tormented Adora for a day, and in the late hours of night, she had come home to find her parents dead. To be precise, murdered.

Now, the distinct, familiar flavor was revisiting her, tormenting her, competing with the alcohol in her mouth, causing her past and her present to merge, severing the borders between sanity and insanity. In the past, when youth had permitted foolishness, Adora had disregarded the taste, not understanding its true significance. Now, however, she understood clearly. Someone would die tonight; she was certain of it. At that conclusion, tears settled at the corners of her eyes, and she pressed her eyes tight, forcing her sockets to swallow the salted liquid.

Abruptly, she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. It certainly wasn't a friend calling––she had none of those. It had to be Joey Black, her boss from her bartending gig, calling her in for a last-minute shift. She didn't reach for the phone. Instead, she reached for her neck and adjusted the tight bow tie that hindered the fluent flow of air.

Truly, the worst part of Adora's job was the uniform. The uptight getup––black dress pants, white oxford shirt, and a bow tie––made her appear prim and proper. Prim wasn't Adora's style and proper was far from it. She was a simple girl who usually sported jeans and a T-shirt. Although casual, her clothes never simplified her appearance. Adora was a beautiful young woman. At 5'6, her slender body was designed with curves that emphasized an hourglass figure. The mixture of black and white in her DNA added undertones of russet to her beige skin and a delicate kink to the loose, brown curls that twined past the length of her neck and hovered over her shoulders. Her slanted cheekbones heightened her slim, oval face, and her full lips puckered like the early spurt of a rose. At a young age, she had adopted the habit of biting the corners of her ruby lips, but they never swelled; their curves remained smooth and their color remained vibrant. Her round eyes were a complex and unique mixture of hazels and greens and above them, thick, dark brows arched. An old, thin scar split through the smooth hairs on her right brow, dividing it in half and stopping short of her eyelid. The puffy, flesh-colored scar was a signature of her past––a signature of a wicked past.