The Scent of Shadows Free with Bonus Material by Vicki Pettersson Page B

but other than the white marble adorning every surface, ceiling included, this looked just like the inside of a crypt.
    Xavier had jazzed it up a bit, of course. There was a glass case in the center of the room, spotlit from above, holding the first full English translation of a thirteen-hundred-year-old manuscript— The Tibetan Book of the Dead . Nice and cheery. There was also a dais at one end of the room, large enough for a throne, which was what Xavier eventually planned on putting there. Right now there was just a large gold-framed oil painting, featuring snowcapped mountains hovering over gently sloping grassland, and wildflowers combed over by gentle winds while mountain yaks grazed between them.
    Now, leading up to the dais things got a little less pastoral and a little more interesting. A phalanx of vertical prayer wheels sat aligned like wooden soldiers, though I’d never seen anyone spinning them and I didn’t know what they were for. What did an overbearing, self-centered, egotistical gaming mogul pray for anyway?
    But none of this was as weirdly perplexing as the masks. Xavier claimed they came from a Sherpa village, high up in the Himalayas, and while there was no reason to doubt him, I had no idea what connection Xavier Archer thought he had with the Himalayans. He was from the Bronx. Exotic in its own way, but slightly different.
    The first mask was made of copper, an elongated devil’s face that leered at us as we entered the room. That one never failed to make me shiver. Halfway into the room some round-faced god of corroded burlwood blew visitors a wispy kiss through pursed lips. Yet another god attended the office door, this one wearing a pointed crown, crimson mouth open in a silent painted scream. If these weren’t enough to ward off all ill intent, the security camera staring from the corner with its cycloptic red eye would certainly finish the job.
    A buzzer sounded next to the door. “Come in, ladies.” Then a clicking sound as the oak doors unlocked.
    Xavier’s office was more in line with what you might expect from a gaming mogul. Gone were the spiritual hoohahs and totems. This room was all dark wood, oversized furniture, and chocolate walls. The coffered ceiling soared with smoked mirrors and crown molding, and hand-painted cabinetry held an impressive collection of dusty hardbound books, spines uncracked. The man himself was no less grand and imposing.
    Xavier Archer has the sort of presence that rocks lesser humans back on their heels. He often waves his hand through the air like some European monarch, indicating that his subjects should sit. He did this with us, his daughters, and the only sign that this appointment was different from an acquisition merger or a meeting on quarterly earnings was his refusal to look up from the notes he was scribbling at his desk.
    We sat in a pair of uncomfortable mahogany chairs. He’d changed little in the months since I’d last seen him; still built like a field ox beneath his custom Armani. His jaw wassquarely defined, and he had one bushy brow that arched singularly across his forehead, which I knew he was sensitive about but refused to change. If you didn’t know any better you could mistake him for an aging linebacker. But everyone knew better. Xavier Archer made sure of that.
    “Hello, Daddy,” my sister said when he finally looked up.
    “Hello, Olivia darling.” A smile flashed as he set down his pen, then disappeared as he glanced at me. “Joanna.”
    “Xavier,” I replied. He stared at me with his muddy eyes. I focused on his brow.
    Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair. “You girls are probably wondering why I summoned you today.”
    “Not at all.”
    “First, Olivia,” he said, ignoring me. “I heard about your attempt to garner a position at Valhalla. How many times have I told you? I don’t want any daughter of mine working. What would people think?”
    “What do they think now?” I muttered. They both