5
Aphrodite
Aphrodite walked away from the reporters and the cameras and the gawking people. Fast. She kept her head high and a purposefully blank but beautiful expression on her face—ironically, it was the expression her mother had schooled into her with stinging slaps and cutting insults. But it had worked. Even now. Even when her heart ached with every beat and her embarrassment was monumental—the cool, aloof, untouchable expression remained.
She could hear Z and Stark and Darius pushing through the crowd trying to catch up with her, but the reporters had realized there were “real vamps” in their midst, and then suddenly Chera recognized Zoey and the media circus went into full swing, closing a circle of mics and cameras around the three of them.
Aphrodite slowed a little. Darius would be frantic, but probably not willing to shove aside a bunch of human reporters to display his superhuman strength, especially not when there were cameras pointed in his direction. If she stayed within view, he wouldn’t freak.
She could hear Zoey saying, “No, the House of Night doesn’t have a comment on next year’s mayoral elections—especially because it’s not next year yet.”
She was sorry she left Z to clean up her mess. Well, more precisely, her mother’s mess, but she had to get away from all those watching eyes before they saw through her thin facade—before they saw her hurt.
If they saw it they would film it. And then her mother would see it.
A normal mother seeing her daughter’s pain and embarrassment would feel sorrow, remorse even—and would probably try to make things right. Or at least that’s what Aphrodite supposed normal mothers would do—should do. She wouldn’t know. She’d never had a normal mother.
Her mother—the ice queen socialite—would use her daughter’s pain. She’d figure out some way to exploit her. Again.
“She’d try to. I’m not a scared kid anymore who wants her mommy’s love and approval.” She spoke slowly, emphatically, tasting each word. “She might still be able to hurt me, but she can’t use me.”
Aphrodite had come to the corner of Twenty-First and Peoria. She paused, unwilling to turn left toward the Tulsa Rose Gardens and step out of Darius’ view. She looked back. The group was dispersing. Darius was striding so fast down the sidewalk to her that Z and Stark almost had to jog to keep up.
Aphrodite drew several deep breaths—in for four counts—out for four counts. She willed herself to relax. Darius was her Warrior. They shared a bond through which he could feel her emotions, and the last thing she wanted was for him to feel how badly her mother could still hurt her.
Aphrodite refused to give Frances LaFont that much power.
Darius rushed up to her. He said nothing. He simply pulled her into his arms and held her close. Aphrodite allowed herself to cling to him—to inhale his warmth and his scent—to be immersed in his unconditional love.
“Are you okay?” Z was panting as she hurried to Aphrodite, gently touching her shoulder and brushing back her hair.
“I’d forgotten what an awful bitch your mother is,” Stark said, not unkindly. “That musta sucked for you.”
Aphrodite tilted her head, her chin resting against Darius’ chest. “It did. But, not surprisingly, it’s far from the worst thing my mother has done to me.”
“You stood up to her,” Z said. “You were totally adulting. I’m so proud of you.”
“We’re all proud of you,” Darius said.
“You sounded super smart, too. Damien couldn’t have done better,” Stark said.
That made Aphrodite’s lips lift in the beginnings of a smile. “Promise me you’ll tell him that.”
“Oh, I won’t have to,” Stark said. “Between the cameras and the cell phones that recorded every second of that, everyone is going to see you putting that ice bitch in her place—over and over again.”
“Hey, want to make a fake Facebook account? We could pretend to be a good ol’ Republican Okie named Billy Bob Johnson. His profile pic will, of course, sport the stars and bars. Every time someone posts a video from tonight we’ll share it with your mom. It’ll drive her crazy,” Z said.
“That does sound like fun. We could also share cute cat memes with her. She hates cats.” Aphrodite’s smile became real.
“That’s it. She officially has no soul,” Z said.
“Oh, that was official a long time ago.” Aphrodite tiptoed to kiss Darius before stepping out of his arms. “Okay. I’m better now.”
“Sure?” Z asked.
“Sure.” Aphrodite glanced behind them. “What’s taking them so long to leave?”
“Did you see all those cameras?” Z shook her head. “I don’t get how your mom’s ridiculously early announcement could pull that much press. And why did she stage it in the park? I mean, she wasn’t even far from Neferet’s …” Z’s voice trailed off.
“Do you get it now?” Aphrodite asked.
“I do not. Please explain,” Darius said.
“She’s coming after the House of Night. Her comment about revoking our lease wasn’t prompted by me. She’s running on a platform of fear.”
“And the best way to create fear is to give it a target, and then make up a bunch of bullpoopie and put it out there on the Internet.”
“Not a good time for Neferet to be stirring,” Stark said.
“Like there’s ever a good time for that?” Aphrodite said.
“Well, yeah. A good time would be several hundred years from now after Z and I have peacefully died curled up together in our sleep and are frolicking in Nyx’s Grove in the Other World,” Stark said.
“So, you mean when she’s someone else’s problem,” Z said.
Stark kissed her on her forehead, smack in the middle of her crescent moon. “Yep. Exactly.”
“Can’t say I disagree with that,” Darius said.
“I hear ya, handsome.” Aphrodite took Darius’ calloused hand in hers as they turned and began down the sidewalk that framed Peoria Street. “But first, let’s stop and smell the roses.”
“Hey, I meant that rose comment to be metaphoric. I admit I’m crappy at figurative language, but not this crappy.” Aphrodite was staring, dumbfounded, at what should have been deserted, winter-sparse gardens with rose bushes all tucked in mulch for a frigid sleep.
Instead, old people (OP)—obviously members of the Tulsa Garden Center—were milling around the bushes that stretched along the side of the gardens that bordered Woodward Park, muttering and staring at flowers that were in full bloom.
“This is really weird,” Z said. “We’ve had a hard freeze already. The roses shouldn’t be blooming.”
“Huh?” Stark said.
“Roses don’t bloom after a freeze. They go dormant. Like the koi in the water features. I know because I used to help Grandma prune her roses and then wrap them up for the winter. We always did it after the first hard freeze. But it looks like those roses are blooming.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Stark said.
“Stay here. I’m going to go ask one of those OP what’s going on,” Aphrodite said. When Darius started to go with her, she touched his shoulder gently, saying, “No, you stay here, too, handsome. You’re a big, scary vampyre Warrior, remember? Things are better between vamps and humans right now, but there will be a lot less gawking and question asking if I’m not being escorted by you.”
Darius nodded tightly. “I’ll be watching from here. I’ll know if you need me.”
Aphrodite winked and hummed Sting’s “Every Breath You Take” as she headed for the closest old man.
“Excuse me, sir.” Aphrodite put on her sweetest girly-girl smile.
The retiree should have smiled. Men always smiled when she turned her charm on them, but this OP barely glanced in her direction as he mumbled, “Garden shop’s closed.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, but I don’t want to shop. Well, not at this moment I don’t,” she added automatically. “I was just wondering what’s going on with the roses. Isn’t it weird that they’re blooming right now?”
“It is, young lady. But it’s weirder even than that. Apparently we are the victims of a rose thief.”
“Rose thief? I don’t understand.” I didn’t even know there could be such a thing, she added silently.
He did look at her then, and his annoyed expression lightened. “We don’t understand either. But someone stole all of the roses from the beds bordering Woodward Park, and replaced them with these. They’re not even a true rose.” He pointed with disgust at a bush not far from them. Aphrodite followed his finger, and felt a jolt of shock when she realized what she was seeing.
All of the rose bushes that framed this side of Woodward Park were in full bloom, even though their leaves were shriveled and their stalks twisted and spindly.
Each rose was completely black.
These roses had an almost liquid look that made them glisten in the wan streetlight.
Aphrodite felt a sharp spear of fear. “When did this happen?”
“That’s the strangest part of all of this. It had to have happened this afternoon—only a few hours ago. But no one saw anything until it was too late.”
“What did you mean when you said they aren’t even true roses?”
“There is no such thing as a true black rose. A rose doesn’t have the correct genes for the color black.”
While the old man talked, Aphrodite moved closer to the rose bushes, really looking at them. She put out a tentative finger, barely brushing one of the blooms.
And jerked her hand back fast.
Aphrodite stared at the roses. The blossoms were all wrong—they felt slick and cold—like no rose she’d ever known, but it was the bushes themselves that caused her breath to catch in fear. The stalks of the bushes—every one of the bushes—weren’t actually twisted like they’d looked from a distance. Closer up it was obvious that they were bent, curling sinuously toward the ground in a snakelike fashion, giving the appearance of tendrils made of darkness and thorns …
“So, though they can be manipulated—watered with ink, sprayed with paint, etcetera, a black rose is genetically impossible to create at this time,” finished the old gardener.
“Were these watered with ink or sprayed?” Aphrodite asked, the sickness in her gut already answering her question.
“Neither. We’re completely befuddled about what’s gone on here, but we are sure a crime has been committed.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you find your rose thief.” She hastily turned away, hurrying back to her friends.
“Well? What’s going on?” Z asked.
“It’s bad. Come on, let’s get into the park away from all these Garden Center people. They do not need to overhear this.”
Aphrodite led the way up the wedding cake–tiered Rose Garden levels to the pebbled path that emptied into Woodward Park. Vintage-looking street lights illuminated soft yellow bubbles that the four of them passed quickly through, moving into the heart of the park that used to be filled with old-growth oaks and huge mazes of azaleas.
Last year’s fire in the park had destroyed much of that, but the city—with the financial backing of Zoey Redbird’s new North American High Council—had replanted vigorously all during the past year. Now the park had a fresh-faced look, even in the winter.
“Hey, no one’s around. Tell us what was going on back there,” Z said.
“Not yet. We’re not there yet.” Aphrodite kept walking. She had to. She was compelled to. As soon as she understood that she was being led, her palms started to get sweaty and her stomach roiled as her headache began to build. I don’t want it to happen out here in the middle of the park! Her mind shrieked, but Aphrodite didn’t give voice to her internal misery. She was used to it.
It was all part of being a Prophetess of Nyx.
Finally, they came to the stony ridge that looked down on the pool and grotto where Aurox’s sacrifice had entombed Nyx.
Everything appeared deceptively normal.
The wall had been finished in the middle of the summer. Made of the same rock as the ridge and the grotto, it looked more like a natural formation than a barricade to keep out stupid humans who thought leaving tokens and lighting candles around the sealed cave was a good idea.
Good idea?
Just the thought of anyone worshipping Neferet made Aphrodite sick.
If Neferet ever managed to escape, those same humans—the ones who considered it romantic and tragic what had happened to the “Goddess of Tulsa,” which is what a cult following on the Internet had dubbed Neferet—those worshippers would be the first to be eaten by the Tsi Sgili and her tendrils of Darkness. Morons and idiots, the lot of them.
So, with the help of the House of Night, a wall had been built around the grotto. It began at one end of the rocky ridge, grew to a height of ten feet, and formed a sinuous half-moon shape, which curved back toward the ridge, attaching beside the stone stairway.
The landscape architect had added a pergola topping it, and covered it with fast-growing, tenacious wisteria. Now, even in the winter, the vines, interspersed with thick cedar planks, almost completely obscured the view of the sealed grotto. In another year or so, it would be impossible to glimpse the tomb that rested silently beneath it.
Aphrodite looked around for the iron bench she remembered, and went to it. She sat and then gazed up at her confused friends.
“First, the roses. The OP at the garden believe someone ripped off their normal rose bushes and traded them for super weird, twisted roses that are in full bloom right now. In the middle of winter. Um, and the thief did all of that this afternoon at roughly the same time Z was being warned by Kalona that something bad was in the works. But no one saw a thing.”
“Wait, they think someone ripped off a bunch of rose bushes? This afternoon? Why would anyone do that?” Z asked.
“Anyone didn’t. If the OP actually thought about it they’d realize that it’s impossible for someone to dig up hundreds of rose bushes, in daylight, and replace them with crazy roses—all without being seen. But they’re distracted because of the color of the blooms—a color that is genetically impossible for a rose to produce.”
“What color? It was hard to tell from a distance,” Z said.
“Black. Each bloom was completely black.”
“Magick. Someone has to be using magick,” Stark said. “But why?”
“Sadly, I think I know why. The roses aren’t just black. They’re slick and cold. I touched one. It was like you’d imagine touching a snake would be—except snakes aren’t cold and wet and disgusting.”
“I don’t like where this is heading,” Z said, looking as pale as Aphrodite felt.
“I hear you, and that’s not the worst of it. The bushes themselves are awful. Their stalks are all misshapen so that they curl and bend toward the ground, looking exactly like dark, thorn-filled tendrils.”
“Oh, Goddess,” Zoey gasped. “Neferet’s children! The tendrils of Darkness.”
“Did you get a sense of sentience from them?” Darius asked quickly. “Did you see or feel them move at all?”
“No. But you saw how long I stayed.” She searched for and then met Zoey’s gaze, speaking formally. “High Priestess, I believe Kalona was right to warn you.”
“That is bad,” Stark said.
“It is, but as Nyx’s prophetess reminds us, this time we have been forewarned,” Darius said. Then his eyes narrowed on Aphrodite. “My beauty? You look ill.”
“I’m not sick.” With a trembling hand, Aphrodite wiped at the sweat beading her brow, automatically flinching from the pain spearing through her temples. “I’ll be okay. Just get me back to the House of Night as soon as possible. Call a black car Lyft. I can’t bear to think about riding in another Prius or Corolla. It’s just barbaric. And keep in mind that I don’t think it’s a problem to mix Xanax and wine.” Two months, she told herself. In two months it would have been a year since my last vision. Nyx, I don’t mean to complain, but sometimes—most of the time—visions suck ass and—
Aphrodite collapsed, covering her pain-seared eyes with her hands and pressing her palms into them, trying to keep them from exploding as the vision took her and pulled her under, submerging her in dark currents of semiconsciousness.
Then Aphrodite was no longer in her pain-wracked body. There was a terrible ripping sound, like a giant had torn a house-sized piece of cloth apart. She opened her eyes and was immediately overwhelmed with feelings of terror, despair, and loss.
And all around her, blood bubbled from an enormous tear in the ground, and with the geyser of blood figures emerged—swimming up—hooking hands with long, clawlike fingers into the earth and pulling themselves out of what looked like a bloody pit in the ground.
The feet of the body she inhabited began to stumble back.
Focus! She ordered herself. You’re not part of what’s happening. You’re just an observer.
She blinked, trying to clear her eyes of the tears cascading down her face. She knew her shoulders shook with sobs, and she was making a strange keening sound.
But it’s not me! Snap out of it, girl! Get your shit together and figure out what’s going on!
This time when she blinked she also rubbed at her eyes, and she noticed the body she inhabited dropped something.
Aphrodite forced her gaze down. There was a yellow candle at her feet.
Yellow candle? Air. With a start, she realized who she must be inhabiting. Damien!
She tried to maintain control over the vision, and over the terror that was drowning Damien, but because she was experiencing the events with him, his fear was debilitating. And that single fact was the biggest problem with Aphrodite’s visions. Because she didn’t just see them, but actually experienced whatever was happening in them—which usually included a horrible death—the emotions her host felt tended to screw up the fact-gathering she tried desperately to do.
Just let me look around and see where the hell we are, and what the hell is happening!
For a moment—just a sliver of a breath—Aphrodite controlled Damien’s body. She made it stand still and she looked around, trying to decipher where he was.
The place was familiar. Rocks, winter brown grass, more rocks—but everything was covered by the expanding torrent of blood, turning it alien and nightmarish.
“Get out of there! RUN!”
Z’s voice! Aphrodite tried to make Damien turn his head so she could look at Zoey, but his gaze was trapped by the things emerging from the scarlet geyser.
Oh, my Goddess! They’re red vampyres! But they weren’t like any red vampyres or fledglings Aphrodite had ever seen. These creatures seemed barely human. They moved with a feral, hunched stride, growling and hissing softly at one another. As she watched through Damien’s eyes, the creatures turned their heads to face him. Like a hunter who had just caught sign of his prey, their red eyes seared into Damien and they began to stalk toward him.
“RUN!” Zoey’s voice again.
Yes, Damien, for shit’s sake, RUN! Aphrodite agreed. But then the truth hit her as one more figure emerged from the tear in the ground. This circle hasn’t been closed. If Damien runs, that disgusting blood fountain is going to keep vomiting those zombie vamps!
Just then Damien was, indeed, unfreezing and scrambling backwards, rushing blindly for the stone stairway behind him. Aphrodite blinked frantically along with Damien, trying to clear his vision. And it worked. Damien’s vision cleared—just in time to see a terrible familiarity in that last emerging figure. The creature stood and his head swiveled, beast-like, to focus on Damien.
“Jack!” Aphrodite thought the name at the exact moment as the body she was in shouted it.
Then Damien ignored Zoey’s screaming to run, and Aphrodite’s mental screaming to stay and close the damn circle. He ignored his own terror. He knew only one thing, and Aphrodite knew it with him—Jack was standing before him.
With a movement that was definitely more predator than lover, Jack rushed at Damien, weeping tears of blood.
As soon as Jack was close, Aphrodite was hit by the stench of him. It was sweetly sickening and disgustingly familiar. Inside Damien’s mind Aphrodite was shrieking, Never mind with the circle closing—run, run, RUN! But her body didn’t move. Shock froze her in place.
Until Jack tilted his head back as if to gaze lovingly into Damien’s eyes and claim their reunion kiss. Instead of the kiss, Jack opened his mouth impossibly wide, exposing bizarrely sharp teeth, and with a feral growl, Jack Twist tore huge hunks of flesh from his lover’s face and neck.
Like a rocket, Aphrodite’s roving spirit shot up and out of the body as it collapsed. Awash in terror, hovering above the city, she gazed down at Tulsa as the red tide of bizarre vampyres spread, and the shrieks and death wails of the doomed echoed all around her.
Aphrodite knew what those things were—and they were so, so much more than normal red fledglings or vampyres.
“No! Oh, my goddess! No, Damien!”
“Aphrodite! It’s okay. You’re back. You’re safe.” Zoey’s voice came to Aphrodite, finding its way through her panicked gasps and pain-filled sobs.
Keeping her eyes pressed tightly closed, Aphrodite reached out, searching. Darius was there. Darius would always be there. He grabbed her hands, holding them tightly in his.
“You’re safe, my beauty. All is well. The vision is over.” Darius spoke softly, soothingly. “I have called the black car. It is five minutes out.”
“What was it? What did you see?” Stark’s voice intruded.
Aphrodite didn’t need to see Darius’ reaction. She could feel it. He stiffened and turned, putting himself between Aphrodite and Stark, as if to protect her from his questions.
But Aphrodite was a Prophetess of Nyx. She didn’t need protection. She needed to do her job.
“Zombies. I saw zombies. I saw them set loose on Tulsa, infecting everyone—killing everyone.” Into the shocked silence that followed her announcement, Aphrodite felt heavy, wet flakes begin to fall on her hair, face, and body. Unbidden, she heard herself speak the last words of Kramisha’s poem.
“Sometimes it
just
needs
to
snow.”