A/N: For anyone who wants to know: The title is based on a tantric deity described as the female embodiment of enlightened energy. Look it up on Wikipedia to learn more. If you have any better ideas for the title I might change it.
Chapter One: Funneral Voices
When the door bell rings at three am, it's never good news.
Alexandria "Alex" Rider woke up at the first chime. She didn't move for a moment as she stared up at her bare ceiling. She heard her housekeeper, Jack Starbright (who was, in fact, a woman despite being called Jack), walk down the hall and stairs. The floor creaked slightly under her weight. She heard the sound of the security chain being taken off the door.
Alex got up and walked to the window, her bare feet pressing down on the dark blue carpet lightly, creating soft indents that disappeared moments after she lifted them. Moonlight shined across her pale lavender night dress and gave her an ethereal look. She was fourteen, lithely muscled, like an athlete or a dancer. Her fair hair, cut to shoulder length, was layered, the shortest part being her bangs that swept across her forehead haphazardly. Her eyes were the color of melted Hershey's chocolate but held a seriousness that most teenagers didn't have.
For a short time she stood motionless, half hidden in shadow as she looked out the window. There was a police car parked outside. She could make out the ID number on the roof. Alex saw the porch light go on and the door being opened and eavesdropped on the conversation that followed.
"Mrs. Rider?" One of the cops asked.
"No. I'm the housekeeper. Why? What's happened?" She demanded.
"This is the home of Mr. Ian Rider?" The cop persisted.
"Yes."
"May we come in?" The other cop asked.
And Alex knew. She knew by the body language of the cops, how they stood stiff and unhappy, occasionally shifting their weight backwards, as if to back away, before making themselves stand straight again. But she also knew because of their voices. Funeral voices... that's what she would describe them as later. The kind of voice that they used to tell you someone close to you has died.
She quietly paced over to her door and opened it a bit so the voices from downstairs could float up but the door wasn't noticeably open from the hall.
"A car accident...called the ambulance...intensive care...nothing anyone could do...so sorry."
It was only hours later,sitting at the kitchen table, watching the gray light of morning fade as the sun came up, that she tried to make sense out of what had happened. Her uncle - Ian Rider - was dead. Driving home his car had been hit with a truck at Old Street roundabout and he had been killed almost instantly. The police said he hadn't been wearing his seat belt, that if he had, he might be alive.
But that was impossible. It didn't make any sense whatsoever. Ian was a firm believer in learning from one's mistakes, the only exception to this rule was seat belt safety. He stressed seat belt safety almost obsessively. It was impossible for him to have been killed from forgetting to wear one.
Alex thought about the man who was her only relative for as long as she could remember. She had never known her parents, they had died in a plane crash when she was only a few weeks old. She had been raised by her father's brother (never "uncle" - Ian Rider hated that term.) and had spent her life in that same terraced house in Chelsea, London, between King's Road and the river.
Except for the various vacations to various nations, of course. She had spent a year in Spain, France, and Germany, each. Six months in Italy, and another six months in Russia. And about three months in Japan. They hadn't just been relations, they had been friends. She remembered sky diving, scuba diving, skiing, and even white water kayaking. It was nearly impossible to comprehend that she would never again see her uncle, hear his laughter or twist his arm to get help with her science homework.
She took a deep shuddering breath, suddenly fighting back tears that she refused to let fall. What saddened her most though, was the sudden realization- too late now- that she didn't really know her uncle all that well.
He was a banker. People told her she looked slightly like him, same hair and facial structure. He was always traveling. He was a quiet, private man who liked good wine, classical music, and books. Who had never had a girlfriend as far as she knew, or any friends at all in fact. He had kept himself in shape, never drank, never smoked, and never took any unneeded substances. He had also dressed expensively. That wasn't much, a thumb nail sketch instead of a portrait.
"Alex? Are you alright?" Jack Starbright asked. She was a young woman, in her mid to late twenties. She had come to the UK for an education (from Washington D.C.) and stayed after getting a job as a housekeeper when Alex was 7. She had red hair and boyish face.
"Not really." She admitted. "What will happen now?" She asked turning to look at her closest female friend.
"What do you mean?" Jack asked taking a seat across from Alex.
"To us? To the house? Now that Ian's gone, I mean." She asked and explained at Jack's confused look.
"I'd imagined he left a will. You know how careful he was." Jack stated unnecessarily.
"Yeah. I don't believe that whole seat belt thing." Alex observed. "He wouldn't even drive me around the block if I didn't have mine on." Alex stated.
Jack nodded in understanding. "I know it's hard to believe. But why would the police lie about something like that?" She asked.
'Why indeed' Alex thought ruefully; police were human too, they could lie about as well as any other human.
Alex shrugged her shoulders and went about getting herself ready. People would be coming over soon. To arrange the funeral, to give consonances, and to just be generally annoying.
She took the stairs two at a time, unable to calm down enough to take them slowly. She dug through her drawers and grabbed undergarments, a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, and a scoop necked dark green t-shirt. Then she hurried across the hall to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror, seeing dark circles under her eyes from the sleepless night she had since she found out her uncle died. Her hair hung limply around her childish boy-like face.
Jack had once told her that if she cut her hair to a bob she could pass as a teenage boy. She shuddered at the thought. Her hair was the only girly thing about her, well besides her favorite sport. Alex was on the Chelsea All Girls Gymnastics team. She also did other sports, but they weren't all that girly. She was a black-belt in Karate, and she was also proficient in Judo. Her uncle had signed her up for those classes when she was six, "so my precious niece can take care of herself." were his exact words. She also ran track and played an odd game of football- or soccer, as Jack called it- with her best male friend Tom Harris.
Tom Harris was short for his age, about 4'11'' and was Alex's best friend. He had black hair and blue eyes which gave him an adorable-little-angel look when combined with his height. It also gave him a look of vulnerability, which was how he and Alex had become friends. Alex had found Tom wiping blood from his noise and picking up his tattered school books from the sidewalk one day. After inquiring about Tom's health she asked if it was Mike Cook, which it had been. She then said she would have a talk with him. Tom had thought it wouldn't work but two days later Mike Cook had transferred to a new school and his three best friends/cohorts never bothered anyone again.
Alex shook herself out of her thoughts as she quickly climbed into the shower. She stood under the warm spray for a few minutes, her eyes closed, basking in the warmth of the water. Then she quickly washed and conditioned her hair and gave her body a quick scrubbing. Then she rinsed thoroughly and climbed out.
She wiped the condensation of the mirror and stared at her reflection again. The girl staring back at her had hair that was clumped together in strands, looking brown with the moisture, and had a healthy looking flush from the warm water. The shadows under her eyes had even managed to diminish during her shower. Realizing she had wasted more time then she wanted staring at herself she quickly dressed and ran a brush through her hair several times just to make sure it didn't knot up as it air dried. Then she tossed all the dirty clothes into the hamper by the bathroom door on the way out.
She bounded downstairs to wait for people to show up with Jack. They sat and talked quietly in French to each other, practice for Jack who was still learning the language. Alex was fluent already. Jack already knew English and Spanish and was interested in Italian after she learned French. Jack joked that it opened up new possibilities for boyfriends if she knew more languages.
Alex just liked the fact that she wasn't limited to staying in places that spoke only English. She was currently fluent in Spanish, French, German, and Russian. She was decent in Italian and Japanese- enough to understand if not reply in the given language. Languages were Alex's hobby if she was honest with herself. She loved being able to be self-sufficient in foreign places and hated to rely on translators who could misquote things said instead of saying the exact wording.
Alex milled around most of the morning and afternoon. She let people tell her how sorry they were about her uncle's death, tell her how if she needed anything just ask, and give her casseroles to make her feel better (of course, she threw said casserole out after Mrs. Harpens left...). Around 4 o'clock someone from the bank came calling. His name was John Crawley. He had one of those bland forgettable faces, the one's you forget while you're looking straight at them. He wore the normal banker clothes. A charcoal gray three piece suit with a bland lighter gray tie. He was about 5'10'' tall, his hair was thinning and his eyes had a spark that confused Alex, it looked something like knowing.
He had promised to take care of everything and that Alex shouldn't worry herself over what was going to happen now that Ian was gone.
After Crawley left Alex milled around trying to distract herself. Eventually she took to practicing her karate kata in her room with her door shut firmly. She would've went downstairs and played snooker on her uncle's table but she just didn't have the patience to stay still long enough to aim. She had the jitters. She was nervous about something not even she knew. She ran through her katas until six o'clock when she was called down for supper.
She eventually asked Jack if they should look in Ian's study. Jack had told her not today and she let the subject drop. She had never been allowed in there, without Ian at least. When she was much younger she thought something spectacular must be there, a door to another world or a time machine.
The funeral was held on a warm Wednesday afternoon. Alex hadn't gotten much sleep, the whole week, the bags under her eyes were closer to the color of her mourning dress than anything else. She looked horrible. She felt even worse. She felt the tears rise to her eyes and she let a couple fall. She wouldn't all out cry in front of all of these people but she was a girl damn it and she could cry if she wanted to.
About thirty people had turned up, besides her and Jack, but she hardly recognized any of them. One she did recognize was Crawley, from personal, as he had introduced himself. Ian's grave had been dug close to the lane that ran through the cemetery, and as the service began a black Rolls-Royce drew up, the back door opened and a man got out. He walked forward and stopped and Alex couldn't suppress a shiver. There was something off about the man and it made her skin crawl. Yet, the man was ordinary to look at. Gray suit, gray hair, gray lips, and gray eyes. His face was blank and his eyes behind the square, gunmetal spectacles, was completely empty.
Maybe that was what disturbed Alex. Whoever he was he seemed to have less life than anyone at the cemetery, above or below ground. Alex nearly jumped when Crawley tapped her on the shoulder and whispered in her ear. "That's Mr. Blunt, he's the chairman of the bank."
Alex's eyes skimmed over Blunt again and locked onto the Rolls Royce. Two more men had come with Blunt one of them driving. They were wearing identical suits and although it wasn't a very sunny day, sunglasses. Frankly, they looked like people from the Men In Black movies. Both were watching the funerals with a grim expression. Alex's eyes darted from the men to the rest of the people at the funeral. Had they really known Ian Rider? Why hadn't she met them before? And why did she find it so hard to believe her uncle worked at a bank?
"...a good man, a patriotic man. He will be missed." The vicar had finished his graveside address.
Alex found his word choice odd. Patriotic? That meant one love their country. Ian was hardly in the country, if he loved it so much why did he spend so much time taking Alex on vacations in other countries? And he certainly wasn't one to wave the Union Jack around.
Alex looked around hoping to find Jack, but instead he saw Blunt heading her way, stepping carefully around the fresh grave.
"You must be Alexandria." The chairman was only a few inches taller than her. Up close his skin was strangely plastic looking, almost like he was made of wax. "My name is Alan Blunt. Your uncle spoke a great deal about you." He said.
"That's funny." Alex stated. "He never mentioned you."
The gray lips twitched briefly as if he was fighting a smile. "We will miss him. He was a good man."
"What was he good at?" She asked. "He never talked about work."
Suddenly Crawley was back. "Your uncle was overseas finance manager, Alex. He was responsible for our foreign branches. You must have known that." Crawley stated.
"I know he traveled a lot." Alex allowed. "And I know he was very careful, about things like seat belts." The second part had a light tone of accusation that even she was surprised to hear.
"Well, sadly, he wasn't careful enough." Blunt's eyes, behind thick lenses of his glasses stared into her own and she suddenly felt like she had been thrust on stage with no instructions and thousands of people hollering for her to do something.
"I hope we meet again." Blunt continued tapping the side of his nose knowingly with a single gray finger. "Yes." He turned and headed back towards his car.
That's when she saw it. As Blunt was climbing into the Rolls-Royce, the driver leaned over the center console to open the door for him. The driver's jacket fell open revealing a stark white shirt underneath which only highlighted the dark black shape pressed against it. The man had a holster with a black automatic pistol strapped inside. Realizing what had happened the man quickly sat up straight and pulled the jacket shut. Blunt had seen what happened too. He turned and looked at Alex, an indescribable emotion slithered across his face for a second but was gone much too fast for her to even guess at what it was. The he slipped into the car, shut the door, and the car was gone.
A gun at a funeral. Why? And what sort of bank managers carried guns anyway?
"Let's get out of here," Jack was suddenly there by her side. "Cemeteries give me the creeps."
"Yes. And quite a few creeps have turned up." Alex muttered under her breath as she followed Jack out of the cemetery.
The car that drove them to the funeral was still parked where they had gotten out of it, but they preferred the open air. The walk home took a little over fifteen minutes. Alex wasn't really used to wearing heels, she rarely had reason to, she was tall for her age. Hell she was tall for her gender, at 5'7'' it was hard for anyone to say she was short. As they turned the corner onto their street. Alex noticed the moving van parked in front of their house. It was marked STRYKER & SON.
"What's that doing...?" Alex started but as if the people in the van had heard her it accelerated rapidly and whipped around the corner out of sight.
Alex said nothing more as Jack unlocked the door and went into the kitchen to make tea, but she quickly looked around the house and noticed little changes. A letter that had been sitting on the hall table was now on the carpet. A door that was slightly opened was now closed. A book that had been on the couch was now on the table...She was almost positive someone had been in their house. She wasn't positive until she got to the third floor.
The third floor was devoted to Ian Rider's office.
Ian's office, which had once been stuffed full of papers, books, and folders was now startlingly bare. Whoever had been here had taken anything and everything relating to Ian's job. Which she was starting to believe wasn't really banking at all.
She looked in the room a few more moments but silently shut the door when Jack called her down for supper.
Someone hadn't wanted them to read what was in Ian Rider's office and she was going to find out why, even if it was the last thing she did.
A/N: Okay so I know a bunch of people have done these before but I really wanted to give it a shot. Drop me a review if you like. If you don't like, don't read. Simple as that. I accept constructive criticism. I do not accept flames or people insulting my writing.