Jack’s eyes flew to where Stark was fighting against the blowing snow. “General?”
I saw Stark’s startled reflection in the rearview mirror. “My name is Stark. Do you know me?”
“We all know you, General. You lead the Blue Army. But your Mark is wrong. Why is it red?” His gaze searched the SUV. “Where is the High Priestess?”
“Well, there are several of them in this car,” Stark neatly avoided Jack’s question about his Mark. “Which one are you looking for?”
“Neferet, of course,” he said.
“Fuck,” Aphrodite said. She turned all the way around in her seat so she could face Jack. “Do you mean High Priestess Neferet, or Goddess Neferet?”
Jack looked confused. “There is only one Neferet. She is our High Priestess. Our only High Priestess.”
“But you called me ‘High Priestess.’”
“No. I called you ‘Priestess,’” he said.
“Okay, so, Neferet isn’t an immortal?” I asked.
Jack stared at me. Then, very deliberately, he pressed his lips together and stopped speaking.
“Jack?” Damien spoke gently to him. “What’s wrong? Why don’t you answer Zoey?”
Jack refused to look at Damien. When he spoke his voice was flat—emotionless. “You are rebels.”
“We’re rebels? What kind of rebels?” Damien said.
Jack didn’t answer.
Damien tried again. “Talk to me, Jack. Please.”
Jack’s gaze lifted reluctantly to find Damien. I saw it again. Saw the shock of recognition flash through his red-tinged eyes. “You are dead,” he repeated stubbornly.
Damien’s throat moved spasmodically as he swallowed several times, obviously trying to collect himself. Finally, he said, “But I’m not. You see me. You hear me. I’m alive. And I love you.”
Jack shook his head. “Not enough to live.”
“What? I don’t understand,” Damien said.
“My Damien killed himself six months and two days ago. He didn’t love me enough to live for me. You aren’t my Damien.”
Damien gasped, his hand going to his throat. He opened and closed his mouth, though no words came out.
“We’re at the gate,” Stark said. “How about putting our, uh, guest in one of the basement rooms under the Field House? I could rig a lock on one of them pretty easily.”
“Gate? Field House?” Jack looked frantically out the window. “No! Not here. This is not where I belong. Take me to the tunnels. I belong in the tunnels.”
A terrible foreboding wrapped around my stomach and squeezed. “You mean the tunnels under the depot?”
When he didn’t speak, Stark shouted, “Answer her!”
“Yes. The depot tunnels. You all know it. It is where the Red Army lives.”
“Double fuck!” Aphrodite said. “That’s probably where the rest of those things took off to.”
“Ah, hell!” I said. “The restaurant!” I didn’t have to check the time. The Depot Restaurant, run by the House of Night, was open all night—every night. It was still several hours before dawn, which meant it was still open and still serving late-night Tulsa diners, along with any vampyre or fledgling who wanted to splurge on fine dining. I scrambled for my phone. “No service! Does anyone have service?”
Everyone frantically checked their phones—no one had service.
“It’s the snow. It probably knocked out the downtown cell tower about when it hit that transponder,” Damien said.
Stark slid to a stop beside the Field House entrance. “I’m getting to a landline and calling the restaurant. Darius, gather the Sons of Erebus. I’ll meet you in the basement.” I was out of the door and running through calf-deep snow before Stark shut off the SUV’s engine.
Please let me be in time … please let me be in time …
13
Skye
“Goddess, you’d think the crappy weather would’ve kept people home. But, no. Why are we so busy?” The young waitress’ etched silver name tag read Skye.
“Girl, you better not let Kramisha hear you talkin’ like that. All these folks are a good thing. Keeps us busy, and that’s a good thing, too. I don’t know ’bout you, but my mamma and daddy disowned me the second they saw this.” The young waitress pointed the center of her forehead, where the outline of a red crescent moon stood out against her pale skin. “The House of Night gives us room and board and such, but not a lot of spending money. Tips are good here. Check your attitude.”
Skye didn’t actually check her attitude, but rather checked the volume of her voice. “Sorry, Xena. I guess I just need a night off. I have a serious test tomorrow in Spells and Rituals, and I haven’t had one second to study.”
“Hey, I’ll finish up your last two tables, and take the rest of your shift. I have section D tonight,” Xena said.
Skye grimaced with understanding. “Worst section ever. Someone needs to talk to Kramisha about it. That big community table thing just doesn’t work in Tulsa.”
“Right?” Xena said. “Like we’re New York City, or something?”
“Hey, thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“No big deal. I have my eye on a designer bed for my Pita cat, so I appreciate the extra tips.”
“Thanks again. Um, your cat is cray. You know that, right?” Skye frowned as the phone began ringing.
“Your mom’s cray,” Xena shot over her shoulder as she headed into the kitchen to check on her orders. “And answer the damn phone.”
Still frowning, Skye picked up the phone that was a reproduction of a brass cradle rotary dial. It totally fit the rest of the Depot’s décor as the restaurant was decorated in 1920’s art deco classic club style—right down to their flapper waitress, and tuxedoed waiter uniforms. “Depot Restaurant, how may I help you?”
“This is Zoey Redbird. Who is this?”
“High Priestess!” Skye automatically stood straighter. “This is Skye Summers. Your table is open. Can we expect you—”
“Is Kramisha there?”
“Well, no ma’am. Or, yes, but she’s somewhere downstairs in the—”
“Listen carefully to me. Do exactly what I tell you. Go to the front doors. Lock them. NOW. Then get all of the guests downstairs and into the tunnels. Close and bar the entry behind you. Then have Kramisha call me.”