“Do not ever call them refrigerators.” I shared a look with Aphrodite, knowing she’d take over from there. There’s nothing quite like the righteous indignation of someone who has made mistakes and learned from them.
“They’re students, people, and they take classes here,” Aphrodite said. “We never call them refrigerators.”
“And we don’t ever let fledglings or vampyres—no matter what color—feed from ’em. That crap ended when Z took charge,” Stevie Rae said.
“Yeah, grow some compassion and get a clue, Other Jack,” Aphrodite finished.
Other Jack was blinking in disbelief at the mixed group of fledglings and human teenagers rolling snowballs to make a giant something that might be a dragon—or a dog. Or possibly a big-snouted cat.
“Human teenagers can take classes at the Tulsa House of Night,” I explained. “We’re mostly working with the art departments at Tulsa Public, BA, Union, and Jenks. It’s only been in place for a semester, but the classes are already full for next year and Bixby and Coweta have shown interest in joining the program.”
“And we’re expandin’ our human transfer program nationwide,” Stevie Rae continued. “It makes for great PR. I mean, prejudice feeds on ignorance and fear. If the only interaction humans have with vamps is on the big screen, or when they buy a piece of our art—well, that doesn’t make for much give and take, or understanding, right?”
Jack had gone from gawking at the kids outside to staring at Stevie Rae. “You’re telling me humans are free here?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you, but I don’t know why I need to tell ya that. It’s just normal stuff. Sheesh,” she said. “Tell him, Rephaim.”
“I’ve never even heard the word refrigerator used for a human,” Rephaim said. “That’s just wrong.”
“Who are you?” Jack said.
“He’s Rephaim. He and our Jack were friends,” Stevie Rae said.
“He used to be a Raven Mocker. He still turns into a bird from sunrise to sunset,” Aphrodite said. At Jack’s startled expression, she just grinned. “Exactly my reaction to Bird Boy.”
“None of this is normal,” Jack said.
“All of it is,” Damien said softly, and I wondered how such a sweet, sad voice could cut so deeply. “You’re the one who isn’t normal, Other Jack.”
Jack shook his head slightly and closed his mouth.
“Ready to continue?” I asked.
He nodded. We continued down the hallway, and Jack continued to shoot bemused glances out at the kids playing together in the snow. My mind raced as I thought about what he’d revealed. Humans weren’t free wherever he came from. And Neferet controlled two armies. None of that sounded good.
The hallway emptied into the entrance to the main House of Night building with the administrative offices on one side and multiple entrances to the auditorium on the other.
“Hang on.” I opened the door to the admin offices and stuck my head in, calling to Nicole and Shaylin. “Did anyone answer yet?”
“No, sorry,” Shaylin said.
“Keep trying.” I rejoined my group. “Okay, let’s go in the auditorium.” I opened the door and stepped to one side. “After you and Stark.”
Jack marched into the auditorium like he knew exactly what to expect—and stopped like he’d run into a brick wall. He stared—with an even more shocked expression than he’d had when he gawked at the human kids. Damien started to step forward, but I silently raised my hand, staying him. Jack needed to figure out the truth on his own. It was the only way we’d have a shot at getting the information we needed from him.
Finally, Jack turned to face me. “Those portraits. Where did they come from?”
I glanced into the dimly lit auditorium. I knew what he was asking about. Lining the walls were huge original oil portraits of famous vampyre actresses, actors, and singers who were from Oklahoma, like Brad Pitt, Alfre Woodard, Blake Shelton, Megan Mullally, and Kristin Chenoweth—just to name a few. You see, people don’t really get that Oklahoma seems to breed talent. Sure, a bunch of it leaves. But still. Talent. It’s a serious mistake to underestimate any Okie.
“They’re commissioned by the school. They’re not from one artist. The star gets to choose his or her favorite artist. Don’t tell Erik, but if he wins the Golden Globe he’s nominated for, the Council is going to vote that he be the subject of the next portrait.”
“I’m going in there.” Jack walked straight up to the closest portrait. It was an older one of Blake Shelton, commissioned in 2011 after his album Red River Blue went platinum. (I only know that because the dates are on each of the plaques—I’m not the country music expert. That’s Stevie Rae’s thing.)
I was standing there, thinking about how much I heart one of Blake’s classics, “Honey Bee,” even though I’m more of a Zayn kind of girl, when Jack lifted his tied hands, grabbed the bottom of the ornate gold frame and tried to tug it off the wall.
“Hey! He’s tryin’ to mess up Blake’s picture!” Stevie Rae shouted.
Stark shoved Jack away from the painting saying, “What the hell?”
“They’re bolted to the wall,” Jack said.
“Uh, yeah. Just like they’ve always been,” Stevie Rae said as she marched to the portrait and studied it to be sure he hadn’t damaged it.
“And those museum-light things are bolted above them, too, in case you want to get a ladder and check them out,” I said.
“But your luck on ladders isn’t good,” Aphrodite said. “I’d skip that part, if I were you.”
“Aphrodite!” Damien gasped.
“What? It’s the truth. And, anyway, it wasn’t this Jack that fell off the ladder. This is Other Jack, not Jack Jack. You really need to keep them straight, Damien.”
Other Jack walked slowly back to the rest of us, still hanging out in the doorway. He was thinking so hard I could practically see the little gerbils scurrying around inside his head.
“Those portraits can’t just be taken down and put back up in a few hours,” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “This is how the auditorium—our auditorium—looks. I’m assuming it’s different than the one you were in just a few hours ago?”
Jack opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He was staring over my shoulder, open-mouthed. His already pale face had lost every bit of color it had almost had.