The Legend of the Eight: The Gifted

1: Where the Wild Things Are

ONE: WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE
DECEMBER 27
WIL DIAMOND

SHE POKED ONE FOOT THROUGH the leg of her jeans and then quickly followed with the second. When she stood, she was careful not to jostle the bed for fear of waking the man sleeping in it. Then, she crept across the loft's hardwood floors to the couch where she found her sweater, but no bra. Where the hell did she put it last night? She didn't have time to look so she pulled her sweater over her mass of chestnut-colored curls and tried to ignore the way the knit scratched against her nipples.

For the record, that was probably the leastprincess-like thing Princess Wilmarie Diamond had done and the hangover pounding through her attested to it. She peeked back at the bed where last night's company slept, unbothered. Then she straightened the sweater on her torso and collected the last of her things—her leather jacket, Christian Louboutin booties, cell phone, and purse—before she inched towards the door. Then, she quietly undid the locks and slipped out.

Once she was in the hall, she padded down the carpet as quietly as possible. She set her sights on the elevator and slipped back into her jacket (as if it would disguise the fact that her b-cups were most definitely bouncing freely inside of her sweater).

When she reached the elevator, she jabbed a manicured-nail into the downbutton and waited impatiently.

She fidgeted with the leather bracelet on her wrist—the very one she'd been wearing since her dad gave it to her six years ago. It was his from when he was younger and she used to beg for it every day. In a palace of diamonds, emeralds and rubies, there was nothing she wanted to wear more than that worn strap of leather with three initials stamped into it—WGD. Walter Grant Diamondor, as it applied to its current owner, Wilmarie Grace Diamond.

The elevator let out a soft dingjust before the doors parted and she stepped inside it mindlessly. Rolling her head between her shoulders to relieve some of the tension, she pressed the button for the lobby and then shut her eyes.

"Long night, huh?" a voice from the back of the elevator asked and the princess's emerald green eyes popped open. Startled, she jumped when she saw a very familiar face.

She was a tiny girl—equal to the size of someone half her age. She emitted the coiled energy of a young puppy and had a bounce in her step even on a morning as early as that one. Faint freckles were dusted across her cheeks—which held a permanent blush from all the time she'd spent in the sun—and her hair was cropped just above her collarbones in a color that reminded Wil of a caramel-swirled ice cream cone. Her eyes were an unusual color—a shade similar to a violet or orchid—and though she was tiny, she was incredibly fit.

"Hey Wil," the girl said, smiling softly.

"Phoebe," said Wil as she attempted to catch her breath. Then her brows knit together with a heavy sense of confusion. "What are you doing here?"

Phoebe pushed a lock of her light brown hair out of her face and as she did, she revealed a singular highlight in a vibrant purple color which matched her eyes. Almost immediately, she proceeded to tie her waves up into a messy bun and as she did, Wil stared at the girl's stocking feet (not an uncommon sight as Phoebe often ran around in socks during warmer months).

"Heading out for my morning run," answered Phoebe when she was finished with her hair.

Wil stared at the girl—who, at one time, had been her best friend—and then cleared her throat awkwardly.

"I figured," she said because as a member of the Academy's championship-winning soccer team, Phoebe was also an avid runner. "I meant more like, what are you doing here?"