3
Zoey
The professors’ dining hall was nowhere near the students’ cafeteria—something I didn’t fully appreciate until I wasn’t a student any longer. Here’s the thing about becoming a teacher—at any age. You find out real fast that students are equal parts awesome and awful, often at the same time. It is universally acknowledged by teachers that in order to save what’s left of our sanity, we have to have a place at school to escape to that’s off-limits to students. Hence the creation of that shabby yet magical place called the teachers’ lounge. Here at the House of Night, everything is at least several steps up from a “normal” high school—including our escape from the students’ area. Oh, we have a teachers’ lounge, but instead of it being a dingy, windowless closet with an overripe refrigerator, our Professors’ Sanctuary (yep, that’s really its name—it’s on a gold plaque and everything) is a smaller, more comfortable version of the New York Public Library’s Rose Main Reading Room, complete with a ceiling mural of puffy clouds.
Our dining hall is equally as awesome. Ever been to the Palm Court at the Plaza in New York City? Well, no need. I could save you a trip if you were allowed in the professors’ dining hall in T-Town. Sadly for you (and happily for us), no one except House of Night professors, Sons of Erebus Warriors, and High Priestesses are allowed.
Oh, and since I became the new Council’s High Priestess, every Tuesday is officially Spaghetti Madness. Just sayin’—it’s good to be Queen. Um, or High Priestess.
The four of us went directly to my booth—a huge, soft, leather thing that circled around a linen-draped booth already set for ten people. It was super early, meaning the sun had barely set, and we had the room all to ourselves.
“Your usual, High Priestess?” asked the slender young priestess-in-training whose turn it was to rotate through the dining hall this semester.
“Call me Zoey,” I said automatically, like I did every day. And, like every day, she smiled shyly, nodded, and then never called me Zoey. “And, yep. Make my brown pop a double.”
“So a glass of pop and a glass of ice?”
“Yep and yep,” I said.
“Just bring me coffee and a breakfast bagel,” Stark said.
“I want one of them chai lattes. Extra whip cream,” Kramisha said, then added, “Please.”
“And I’ll take my usual,” Aphrodite said.
“Mimosa—hold the orange juice,” parroted the priestess.
“Actually, today bring me a small orange juice on the side. Emphasis on small,” Aphrodite said. The priestess nodded, bowed respectfully, and walked away, leaving us staring at Aphrodite. “What? I told Darius I’d eat healthy, but you know I can’t abide polluting my champagne with—” she paused and shuddered delicately, “juice. But—and you’ll probably only hear me say this once in this lifetime—enough about me. Let’s see the death journal.”
I’d filled the two of them in on Kalona’s dream visit on our way to the dining hall, and I could feel a terrible prickly sensation in the air between us—a sensation I hadn’t felt in almost one full year—a sensation I hadn’t missed for one speck of an instant. It was fear and dread mixed with a healthy dose of WTF.
I handled the journal carefully. It was pretty well preserved, but the pages were fragile and the ink faded, though still pretty much legible. I took a deep breath as we stared at the title, Neferet’s Curse.
“That’s not creepy at all,” Aphrodite said softly.
“And yet I have a feeling the title is totally going to fit,” I said. “Okay, here goes.” Gently, I opened the journal and read aloud:
January 15th, 1893, Emily Wheiler’s Journal. Entry: the first. This is not a diary. I loathe the very thought of compiling my thoughts and actions in a locked book, secreted away as if they were precious jewels. I know my thoughts are not precious jewels. I have begun to suspect my thoughts are quite mad.
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Correct answer,” Aphrodite said.
“Damn, 1893. That shit’s old,” Kramisha said. “And she been crazy since then. That’s a lotta crazy. Keep reading.”
So, I did. And as Emily Wheiler’s sad, scary, abusive life unfolded, I was surprised by the sense of pity I began to feel for Neferet.
“Oh for shit’s sake,” Aphrodite interrupted as she sipped her third glass of champagne (her orange juice remained untouched). “Did she just describe a statue of a giant White Bull in her garden?”
My stomach clenched. “Yeah, that’s exactly what she just described.”
“And it’s the only place she felt safe or comfortable.” Stark shook his head in disgust. “That damn bull was stalking her all the way back then.”
“Makes me feel sorry for her,” Kramisha said before I could.
“Don’t.” Stark’s voice was sharp. “No matter what happened to her—Emily Wheiler, and then Neferet, had a choice in how she would react. No amount of awful, abusive father excuses what she became—what she did.”
“And yet Kalona thinks it’s important that we understand what happened to her. It makes me think there might be a point to pitying her,” I said.
“Don’t let her suck you in.” Stark’s eyes were as hard and sharp as his voice. “That girl—that sixteen-year-old Emily Wheiler—she stopped existing more than one hundred years ago. Remember that while you keep reading.”
A chill skittered down my spine. “I will. We will.”
“Here, I’ll take a turn reading,” Aphrodite said. “You’re eating. I’m drinking my breakfast. It’s easier to drink and read than eat and read. Plus, I like to do the voices.”
“The voices? You mean like the ones in your head?” Stark asked, eyes widened in mock innocence.
“My cat will eat your cat,” was all Aphrodite said before she turned to a new page of the journal and kept reading. “April 27th, 1893 …”
I chewed my Count Chocula while I listened to Emily’s tragedy unfold. My eyes looked from Aphrodite to Stark and Kramisha. The journal had definitely captured their attention. Except for an occasional, “Ah, shit, that’s bad,” or other sounds of shock, no one spoke.
The journal wasn’t long. The ornate clock on the wall chimed seven bells as Aphrodite turned to the final entry, made on May 8, 1893, that described how a newly Marked Emily had been rescued from her father’s brutalization and rape by the Tracker, and how she’d had a choice. She could have turned her back on the human world, making a new life at the Chicago House of Night—or she could have allowed what her father had done to her to poison her new life.
We all know what choice she made. After Emily had healed from the rape, she’d returned to her father’s house as Neferet and killed him—strangling him with her dead mother’s pearls. I understand exactly why. Emily had spelled it out for us.
I am not mad.
The horrible events that befell me happened because, as a young human girl, I had no control over my own life. Envious women condemned me. A weak man rejected me. A monster abused me. All because I lacked the power to affect my own fate …
… No one will ever harm me without suffering equal or more in return …
… No one will ever know my secrets for they will be entombed in the land, safely hidden, silent as death. I regret none of my actions and if that curses me, then my final prayer is to let that curse be entombed with this journal, to be imprisoned eternally in sacred ground.
So ends Emily Wheiler’s sad story and so begins the magickal life of Neferet … Queen of the Night!
After Aphrodite read Neferet’s final words, the silence at our table was thick. I felt shell-shocked and unaccountably sad for Emily. Not for Neferet. Like Stark had pointed out—Neferet had a choice. She chose Darkness, violence, and selfish hatred. But Emily Wheiler hadn’t had any choice. And I couldn’t help but pity her.
“Damn. That was bad,” Kramisha said.
“Well, at least now we understand why she hates men so much. Especially human men,” Stark said.
“And why she was such a control freak,” Aphrodite said.
“I understand her anger now,” I said. They gawked at me, and I held up my hand, stopping Stark before he could add his two cents. “I didn’t say I agreed with it. And I also don’t think I would have made the same choices she did, or at least I hope I wouldn’t have. But I understand her, and I have a feeling that was Kalona’s point.”
“In case she somehow gets out of the grotto, you mean,” Aphrodite said.
“Yes.” I turned to Kramisha. “Okay, your turn.” She tore a page from her lavender notebook and handed it to me. Kramisha’s handwriting was pretty—something that I hadn’t taken time to realize a year ago when she’d started writing prophetic poetry, which we’d used to save the world. More than once. But in the year since, our Poet Laureate had been teaching at the Tulsa House of Night, and I’d sat in on several of her classes. She had a raw, honest, irreverent teaching style that totally worked with students. She also had one of the most unusual adult vampyre tattoos I’d ever seen. From a distance, Kramisha’s elaborate sapphire tattoo stretched on either side of the crescent moon resting in the center of her forehead—the same crescent that Marked us all, whether in sapphire or scarlet—looking like an indecipherable script of indistinguishable letters. But when you got closer and really studied it, you could make out words hidden within the script. Words like create, imagine, inspire. And I swear the words change because I can never seem to find the same one again in the exact same place. It was weird and cool, a lot like Kramisha.
“Are you gonna take it, or am I readin’ it to ya?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I mentally shook myself. I took the purple paper, holding it almost as carefully as I’d held the ancient journal, cleared my throat, and read aloud:
Snowflakes—each unique
yet while falling from
one existence to another
they might touch
come together
and in this Joining
find themselves again.
But only if each
agree
to sacrifice
who they were to be formed
anew.
Sometimes it
just
needs
to
snow.
“So? Anything? Anything at all?” Aphrodite asked.
I sighed. “Doesn’t mean anything to me—or at least nothing that hits me right away.” I glanced at Stark. “You?”
“I got nothing.” His eyes found Kramisha. “What about you?”
“No clue.”
Aphrodite snorted. “No clue at all? Are you or are you not a prophetess?”
Kramisha narrowed her eyes at Aphrodite. “I got to gets to class, so I don’t have time to take you out back and smack that smug champagne smile off your thin lips. So, I’ll just say this—do you understand your visions? All your visions?” She made a disturbing hissing noise when Aphrodite tried to speak. “No. They’s rhetorical. Don’t speak ’cause you is suddenly reminding me why we used to call you a hag from hell.” Kramisha stood and bowed formally to me. “Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again, High Priestess. Text if you be needing me.” Braids swaying in time with her slinky walk, Kramisha exited the room.
“Damn, she’s touchy. She should drink more.” Aphrodite glanced at her fingernails. “And I need a manicure. So, let’s hurry up this next part.”
“Next part?” I asked stupidly.
Aphrodite raised one perfectly plucked blond brow at me. “Seriously? Like you’re not heading to Woodward Park to check on Neferet’s grotto jail?”
“Oh, that next part. Yeah, I am.”
“We are,” Stark corrected.
“What he said.”
“Okay, hang on just a sec.” Aphrodite’s fingers tapped over her phone. Then she sighed, smiled, and delicately fluttered her fingers at the waitress. “Another champagne,” she said. Then, grimly, she picked up the untouched glass of orange juice, and—like it was a shot—gulped it down. Shuddering, she dabbed her mouth.
“Aphrodite, what in the hell are you doing? Like you said, we’re going to Woodward Park,” I said.
“Yeah, and like Stark said, you’re not going alone. I texted Darius. I just have time to suck down another glass of my morning grapes before he shows up. And please make note that I drank that orange stuff.” She shuddered delicately. “It was completely naked and not mixed with the salvation of alcohol.”
“You are such a piece of work,” Stark said.
Aphrodite’s grin was Cheshire. “Thank you, Bow Boy.”