The Seven Pentacles Prophecy: The Tarot Legacies, #4

By Victoria Belue

An ancient prophecy and a homicidal immortal clash sending Vesta and the trionfi on a worldwide quest. But can they stop the prophecy from coming true?

The fourth book in the Tarot Legacies brings Vesta face-to-face with deeply buried fears and new discoveries that test her as never before. New Orleans, Delphi and the Valley of the Kings are a few of the destinations in this fast-paced urban fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Belue
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223117834

Book preview

Chapter 1

Another full cycle was complete, taking Vesta by surprise. The portrait of a woman clothed only in high heels and long strands of beads faced her again when she looked up.

She’s beautiful, Jenny said. Do you know who she is?

Vesta shook her head. No idea. It’s a photograph hand-embroidered. The beads reference the history of the Jazz Era and Mardi Gras here.

She tucked her short blonde hair behind her ears as she eyed all seven wall hangings of artfully posed mostly naked women in the Carousel Bar.

They were famous Ziegfeld Follies stars, Vesta added.

They were really bold for their time.

Jenny’s light-brown eyebrows stretched above her gray-blue eyes as she spoke, body language Vesta recognized as the hope they would continue their conversation. This was Jenny’s first time in New Orleans. And even though they were there on Sybarite business researching cocktail tools for a new line of high-end barware, Vesta knew her young assistant wanted to understand more about the city. She set her Montblanc pen down on top of her Day-Timer and smiled.

This has been operating at the Monteleone Hotel since the 1930s. The merry-go-round bar that we’re sitting at was installed in 1949 to make this a unique place in the city. Hemingway and Tennessee Williams used to drink here.

Vesta looked down at their glasses of sparkling water sitting in front of them. Speaking of which, shall we order something a little stronger?

Sure! Jenny nodded, causing a mane of golden-blonde hair to bob on her shoulders, an easy smile filling with excitement. Vesta recalled that consistently positive attitude had been a big factor in her decision to hire Jenny three years earlier. Other applicants had been more qualified and had worked in the fashion and design industries before, but none possessed Jenny’s ebullient nature and her drive to learn. Plus, she turned out to be the most loyal employee Vesta had ever hired.

What would you like to drink? she asked, returning Jenny’s smile.

As her assistant glanced toward the rows of liquor bottles stacked neatly in tiers at the center of the glamorous carousel, Vesta watched a glazed expression slide over her face.

I have no idea, she said. I feel like I should probably get a drink that was created here, since we’re in such a famous place. But I don’t know what that would be.

May I recommend the Vieux Carre?

Vesta’s attention flicked from Jenny toward the voice. A man in his mid-thirties with light-brown hair groomed into a sleek ponytail leaned toward her. His clean-shaven face showcasing large, deep-set eyes, one blue, the other green sparkled at her. She noticed that his black Tom Ford jacket and Christian Lacroix black silk shirt were impeccably tailored, making the total package both peculiar and handsome.

My apologies, he said. I overheard your comment and thought I might help. He nodded to Vesta. The Vieux Carre is a well-loved cocktail that was invented here.

Oh, Jenny said as she glanced at Vesta.

It’s definitely what I would call a classic New Orleans cocktail. Vesta returned Jenny’s gaze. Whiskey, cognac, and Italian vermouth are the main ingredients. The wisp of a smile crossed her face. It’s potent, she said, raising an eyebrow.

Ah, I see you know your libations, the man spoke with no trace of an accent.

I’m familiar with it, Vesta said, feeling her third eye warm up underneath the skin on her forehead.

And I believe it’s only here that they use Dale DeGroff’s pimento aromatic bitters. A confident grin moved into place on the man’s face.

Who’s that? Jenny asked, clearly impressed by such knowledge.

He’s a world-famous bartender. James Beard Award winner. At the Rainbow Room, Vesta replied.

Are you visiting from New York? The man looked from Vesta toward Jenny.

She nodded.

Welcome to the Crescent City. The grin was now a permanent fixture.

Between her eyebrows, a prickling sensation began adding to the growing heat. Vesta knew she needed to pay attention.

Thanks, she said. What’s your name, so we will know who gave us such valuable advice.

Jon, he said, stretching out a hand with well-manicured fingernails.

Vesta hoped he would do that. She stretched out her own. As she touched his hand, an image popped into her mind of a coastal town. Deep, choppy, blue water lay on one side of it, nubby hills in the opposite direction. It wasn’t in the United States, some of the buildings looked too old. The mixture of stucco, brick, and stone with their tile roofs reminded her of houses in rural parts of France and Italy. She noted that his handshake was confident, like his smile, and his countenance open and friendly. Maybe his European markers were connecting to her recent thoughts of Peter in Chartres. She hadn’t tuned into him with her InSight in a couple of months because Sybarite had consumed her thoughts, but she would make time to check in soon. Logically, that must account for her third eye springing to life.

I’m Vesta, she replied, returning her focus to Jon. And this is Jenny.

Nice to meet you both. Jon shook Jenny’s hand, then nodded at a bartender who stepped toward them.

Good to see you again, Mr. Dalius. What can I get you and your friends?

The conditioned response to blurt out that she and Jenny weren’t his friends rushed to the tip of her tongue instinctively, but Vesta halted the words before they left her mouth. Jon looked toward Jenny.

I’ll try that drink you mentioned, she said, shrugging her shoulders. Since it was invented here.

Vesta watched their interaction carefully. Jenny was only twenty-seven, and even though she had lived in New York for three years, she still needed to thicken some of her social skin. Her friendly attitude made her inviting to many.

Excellent, Jon said. For you as well? He glanced at Vesta.

No, she said, looking at the bartender. Do you have Russian vodka?

Yes, ma’am.

I’ll have a martini with a twist. Thanks.

And two Vieux Carre, Tony. Thank you.

Dalius, Vesta said to Jon. That’s an interesting last name. Spelled just like it sounds?

He cocked his cock slightly and gave a single slow nod.

Is it Italian?

His lips curled up at the corners into a curious smile. That’s very astute. My heritage is from the region where Italy and France meet.

Vesta nodded. Her InSight had been correct, and chances were that he had visited there recently.

Are you here for some sightseeing? he asked, turning his attention back to Jenny.

No, business, she said.

Vesta tightened her lips with the slightest motion. Sharing information with strangers in a bar wasn’t how she operated, and something she would discuss with Jenny later.

How fortuitous that you’ve come to such an exciting city for business. What line of work are you in?

Consumer goods, Vesta answered quickly. And you, Mr. Dalius?

His glance slid toward hers. Restoration.

Like houses? Jenny asked.

He smiled. Among other things, but yes. I recently purchased the LaLaurie house on Royal here in the French Quarter. A Baroque beauty built in 1832.

Isn’t that place infamous for something barbaric? Vesta searched through her memory bank for random bits of archived information she had collected about the city’s history. Enslaved people being tortured, right?

Jon’s smile, like a wave swelling from a thousand feet deep, washed over her as a tingle raced up her spine. Was it an attraction or an alert?

I’m returning it to its former grandeur. The gleam in his green eye reached out for her.

It sounds like a big job, but worthwhile, Jenny said.

It is. You should come see it, he said. Both of you.

His lips settled into a calm repose with only the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth. An effect both appealing and alarming. Tension grew within her of not knowing whether she wanted to sleep with him or grab Jenny by the arm and run away.

Vesta cleared her throat as she wrenched her gaze away from him and was grateful to see the bartender delivering their cocktails. He placed a martini in front of her and a Vieux Carre for Jenny and Jon.

To being immortal in this city, Jon said as he raised his glass.

Vesta’s eyes flicked back toward Jon. Immortal?

His lips spread into a wide smile, exposing gleaming, white teeth perfectly aligned.

You know what I mean. He winked at her with the green eye. History comes alive here and lingers like the memory of a good friend.

His words shoved Vesta’s thoughts toward Grace Garcia. And the image of her body lying sprawled on the ground at the foot of the Tower of Saint Jacques in Paris. Five months had passed since her husband threw her off the roof. The scene would remain vivid in her memory forever, and so would the guilt.

That’s an interesting way to think about it, Jenny said as she picked up her glass. History does feel alive here. She touched it to his, then moved toward Vesta.

Vesta caught the gesture somewhere on the periphery of her awareness, shifted back to the present, picked up her martini and touched Jenny’s glass. To good friends, she said, her voice resonating with a hollow tone.

Jon took a sip of his cocktail, then set it on the bar. Tonight would be a perfect time to come see my house. I’m hosting a small gathering to introduce my latest concoction.

Oh, are you a chef? Jenny asked.

No. Far from it. His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. I fancy myself a mixologist creating unique alcoholic libations.

I guess this is a great place to do research, Jenny said.

It is. He removed his gaze from her momentarily to survey the room. In addition to the excellent spirits here, there is always an interesting blend of locals and visitors. He returned his focus to Jenny. Like yourself.

What is your latest concoction? she asked.

Jon’s green eye glittered. I call it Dead Tomb.

Jenny wrinkled her nose. That doesn’t sound very enticing.

Laughter full of rose petals danced from him, sweet and light. Dramatic names are popular these days, he said. I assure you it’s delightful.

What’s in it? Vesta asked.

Well, like the Necromancer, Jon nodded at Jenny, another noteworthy name, I use Tenneyson absinthe and Lilet Blanc. But unlike it, I squeeze fresh grapefruit juice into it and include a dash of Botanist gin.

Vesta glanced at Jenny. He’s right. Hangover remedies usually have names like that. The Corpse Reviver is another. It has blood orange liqueur and Hendrick’s Gin.

Growing up in a suburb of Dallas, we got over our hangovers by eating cheeseburgers and fries, Jenny said revealing a slight southern twang with the last drawn out word.

Whatever works, Jon replied as he slid his hand over his jacket sleeve and shirt cuff to reveal a Rolex Daytona 6265 wristwatch. One of the most expensive timepieces in the world and destined to become collectible.

I have guests arriving in an hour. My staff may have some questions before that, so I should go. He waved to the bartender for the check.

We will pay for our own, Vesta said as she nodded to the bartender.

Jon slid his smile into place. Why don’t you stop by? I’m sure some guests will be in costume since it’s the night before Halloween. It will be festive and I can give you a quick tour of the house.

I have dinner plans already, but thank you, Vesta said.

She and Jon looked at Jenny. Her sweet smile caused the light in her eyes to dance even more. Vesta could feel her assistant’s desire to accept the invitation. She had asked Jenny to join her in New Orleans to show her how to conduct proper research for a new Sybarite product, but she also wanted to reward her for being a valued employee. Vesta blinked as her train of thought continued.

Over the past two days a lot of ground was covered meeting respected leaders in the spirits industry, gaining knowledge about the tools they used and seeing them in action at venerable establishments like The Old Absinthe House, the Napoleon House, and the Sazerac Bar at the Roosevelt Hotel. Jenny had focused on her job, taking notes as well as asking insightful questions. On their last night in the city when a dinner with Amara and Jared Schultz was planned that didn’t include Jenny, it seemed almost heartless to deny her a peek into one of the historical private residences in the French Quarter.

If you want to go, I think you should, she said finally.

The smile widened on Jenny’s face. Are you sure? Cause I can transcribe my notes onto my laptop tonight and just have dinner in my room. That was what I was planning to do, anyway.

Vesta returned the smile. No. That’s not necessary.

She slid her attention over to Jon and watched him take a final sip of his cocktail and lay a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar. Refinement defined every movement. If she were alone with him and wasn’t on a business trip, she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better in a more intimate way. But Jenny seemed intrigued, and there were plenty of Jon Dalius types around to get to know.

Excellent, Jon said as he set his glass down. Around seven then. Alright? Eleven-forty Royal.

Jenny hesitated, then nodded. Alright. See you then.

Vesta, he said, standing up to his full height of an inch under six feet. It was a pleasure.

Best of luck with that Dead Tomb, she replied.

Oh, he said with a distinct twinkle from the green eye. It’s been an overwhelming success already.

He gave a quick wave to the bartender and walked off the revolving carousel of chairs toward the wide door of the hotel lobby.

After Vesta watched him leave, Jenny turned to her. Are you sure it’s okay to go? I mean, we’re here on Sybarite business. And I so appreciate you bringing me with you. I don’t want to treat this as a vacation or something.

Vesta placed her hand on Jenny’s. An image of a younger version of her assistant popped into her mind. She was walking beside a lake with a golden retriever close at her heels. In her left hand was a hefty stick, which she threw into the water. The dog ran after it with glee, grabbing it only a few seconds after it hit the lapping waves. He returned to her, dropped the stick, then shook large water droplets from his thick coat. She laughed and patted him. The vision faded.

You’ve done a marvelous job on this trip. You deserve to have some fun. Vesta picked up her martini. And the restored houses in the Quarter are worth seeing.

I have always been fascinated by that era of the eighteen-hundreds. Jenny wiggled with excitement in her chair. In fact, I’ve had some ideas about fashion from those times–you know, the fitted bodice with the full skirt–only shorter. Not a fifties look, but modern. I can’t wait to sketch them.

Why don’t you mention it to Geoffrey when you see him next? It might be something that inspires the summer collection. I like it.

Jenny beamed her gratitude. Thanks! She sipped her View Carre. Boy, this is strong. I don’t know if I should drink all of it before I go to the party. I don’t want to embarrass you or myself.

Don’t feel obliged to drink all of it. Liquid courage and wisdom are myths when alcohol is involved. Vesta looked down at her own cocktail. It also never cures loneliness or depression. Her gaze shifted back to Jenny, wondering if she had revealed too much. But since reconnecting as the High Priestess of the tarot, she had become less guarded about her personal flaws. She liked her assistant and felt protective of her. Sharing some hard-earned lessons might save Jenny at some point later on.

If she caught onto her confessions, Jenny didn’t show it as she continued her train of thought. Yeah, I want to be on top of my game. You never know who I’ll meet at this party. Maybe a future client or investor in Sybarite.

That’s true. Vesta took one last sip of her martini and nodded to the bartender for their check. I am going to change clothes before dinner. Do you want to ride back to the hotel with me, or stay here?

Since we’re leaving tomorrow, I think I’ll go to a couple of the shops I saw on Royal to see if I can find something for my mom. She always wanted to come to New Orleans. Then I’ll slowly make my way to Jon’s house.

Vesta pulled her company credit card from her little black Chanel handbag, put her Montblanc pen into it and snapped closed her Day-Timer.

Sounds like a good plan. She handed her card to the bartender. The French Quarter can be crazy on and before Halloween. I know you’re cautious and smart, but drunk tourists waving around Hurricanes from Pat O’Brien’s should be the least of your concerns. There are those who like to prey on the ones they perceive as easy targets.

The bartender placed her card and a check next to her cocktail. Vesta signed the check, dropped the card into her handbag and picked it up along with her Day-Timer.

Thanks for the warnings. And thanks for looking out for me. I hear you, and I will be careful. Jenny broke into a huge smile as she slid out of her chair. You’re the best boss. I’m so lucky to be here with you!

Chapter 2

When the heat, humidity, and crowds abate in New Orleans, a radical energy shift occurs. Vesta noticed it as she walked out of the Windsor Court Hotel. Located on the opposite side of Canal Street from the French Quarter, and tucked into a small pocket between it and the Warehouse District next to the Mississippi River, the Windsor Court offered solitude from the constant flow of tourists and alcohol in the Quarter.

The sidewalk and street were empty and a gentle river breeze tossed the top strands of her bleached-blonde pixie-cut hair as she waited for a taxi. Galatoire’s wasn’t a far walk, and she was accustomed to walking much farther in her Manolo Blahnik heels in New York City, but time was a factor. After returning to her room, Sandor called. He always seemed to have a location fix on her, even though she had perfected the ability to block anyone from reading her thoughts months earlier. But being the Magician in their little trionfi he possessed excellent timing as one of his gifts from the Elders.

Half of her appreciated and the other half resented the unstated fact that he watched over her. Because they had been married in previous lives and had an intimate relationship now, she guessed he maintained some residual protectiveness, and yes, even love, she had to admit. She understood; she felt protective of Jenny and watched out for her too.

Sandor mentioned seeing Phantom of the Opera at the Majestic the previous evening. He must have had a date because there was no way he would want to see that again without some ulterior motive. When they saw it together at the beginning of the year, he fell asleep during the second act.

A taxi pulled up in front of her at the hotel and she got in. They headed up Gravier Street toward Canal. Block by block the desolate street filled with cars and people until finally when they crossed over the streetcar tracks by the Quarter next to Bourbon Street it was cluttered with both. The taxi had to pull to the curb on Canal and let her out since barricades were in place for foot traffic only on the infamous Bourbon Street.

Galatoire’s was only a block off of Canal Street, but dressed in a black, spaghetti-strap, silk, Sybarite dress and wearing a platinum, gold necklace with a crescent moon dangling from it valued for more money than most of the businesses she walked past, Vesta knew every step she took was an exercise in awareness. New Orleans continued to be one of her favorite cities to visit, but it could be dangerous. Flashes of probable events to come flickered through her mind like a movie projector thanks to her InSight. Each one a look into where every person on the sidewalk was headed. People boarding airplanes or getting into cars to head home from vacation, people vomiting in the street, people having sex on weary mattresses, but nothing alerting her to imminent danger. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled open the door to the restaurant and mentally flipped her InSight off to stop the bombardment of images.

Jean Galatoire immigrated from a tiny French village to America, opening his restaurant in 1905. What evolved over the years became one of the most respected, festive restaurants in the city serving creole and French food. Popular with tourists and locals, Galatoire’s never disappointed. A stout man sporting shiny jet-black hair and a wide smile greeted her in his black jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie.

Good evening, ma’am. How ya doing this fine evenin’? he asked with an endearing Cajun drawl.

Fine. I believe the reservation is under Schultz.

He looked down at a notebook lying open on the podium in front of him. Yes, ma’am and the rest of ya party is already here. If you’ll follow me, please.

Vesta smiled as she followed him into the brightly lit, noisy dining room. It was exactly as she remembered from countless meals before. Panels of mirrors, like egocentric wainscoting for the admirers, soared six feet up the walls making the space seem larger than it was. Above the mirrors, forest-green wallpaper boasted a repeating pattern of golden fleur-de-lis stretching to the ceiling. A dozen lazy-moving electric fans hung from extended poles, bright bare bulbs clustered below each fan illuminating the scene. White tile flooring exacerbated the sound level, encouraging the excited energy to bounce off the walls as laughter filled up the space all the way to the ceiling.

Jackets were required attire for men. And while the coat check room did contain a selection of off-the-rack black jackets for those gentlemen who arrived sans proper attire, none of the men in the room that evening would require one. Instead, the assembled group of locals and tourists were quite well dressed. Vesta noticed several women displaying an array of custom millinery with their designer dresses. It wasn’t the cutting-edge fashion she would often see at fine dining restaurants in New York City because in the deep south of Louisiana, the well-dressed leaned more toward color, much less black, and more floral patterns. Their fine wide-brimmed chapeaux showcasing silk magnolia blooms, delicate netting, and soft ribbon reminded her of those worn by women in Renoir paintings.

In the center of the maelstrom of merriment sat Amara and Jared at a four-top covered in a pristine white table cloth. Next to them, a gentleman in an authentic white seersucker suit with blue pinstriping and a fresh white carnation tucked into his jacket lapel, was speaking to them in animated conversation. Amara looked toward her as they approached. An award-winning smile spread across her face, setting her pale blue eyes and aquiline nose into perfect symmetry. Waves of shimmering golden-blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders over a Carolina Herrera lavender beaded camisole and matching silk skirt. A simple strand of black cultured pearls lay against her lightly tanned skin.

Jared noticed Amara’s gesture and followed her gaze. He stood up when he saw her. At his full height, Jared was six feet two inches. His dark blond hair had its usual carefully composed, messy look happening. She had always imagined that it took a lot of time to achieve that effect. His skin was lightly tanned as well. Sun-kissed, some would call it, and was set off handsomely in his tan suit and white shirt. Underneath the tailored pants and jacket, she knew lay a body of sculpted muscles.

Hello, he said with his deep voice, his doe brown eyes taking in every inch of her without being obvious.

Good evening, Vesta replied.

Amara began the motion to stand up, and Vesta was sure she knew why. Don’t stand, she said. Let’s hug at the end of dinner.

A look of mild reprimand settled onto her face, but she obliged and stayed in her chair.

Vesta, Jared began. I would like for you to meet Joseph Boltman. Joseph, this is Amara’s sister, Vesta Beauvais.

"A pleasure to