It was still ornate, with Gothic arches and huge light fixtures. But this Philtower had clusters of expensively upholstered circular seating arrangements, and the fixtures bathed the Gothic carving with a soft, rose-tinted electric light.
Neferet’s Philtower had no seating arrangements. And she had replaced the electric lights with flickering gaslights.
Though the flesh on the back of his neck prickled with a sense of unease, Heff jogged to the door that opened to plain, industrial-looking stairs leading down to a basement that housed the tunnels. The thick double metal doors were the same, only they were closed and barred, though it was easy enough for Heff to open them.
He peered into the complete darkness of the tunnel. Heff left the door open as he hurried within; his glowing red eyes didn’t need the light.
The peeling green paint was the same. The arched tunnel was the same, except for the absence of cots.
And the door that should be open to the adjoining Philcade system was closed.
Heff ran his hand over the familiar rounded side of the tunnel. He held his breath until his fingers found the slight indentation he hoped was there.
It was. He could feel it ready to give under his palm. He let out a long sigh of relief. At least they wouldn’t be trapped. Then he jogged up the stairs and through the deserted lobby, opened the door and whistled sharply.
It was close enough to dawn that the fledglings were staggering badly, so he and his squad had to support them down the stairs and into the tunnel.
Heff shut the metal door behind them. Without speaking, the fledglings curled up on the floor in a tight nest and fell asleep instantly.
He ordered the adults to rest close to the entrance.
Kevin Heffer didn’t join them. Instead, he trudged to the rear of the tunnel, picking his way around already sleeping fledglings and sat, propped against the cold side of the tunnel near the rear door, and as sunrise pressed down on him, pulling him into a fitful semiconscious state, he thought about his sister.
Was she truly alive? Had he really seen her, or had that been just another trick of this strange world?
Heff thought he’d forgotten how to let himself hope, but as sunrise forced him into sleep, he surprised himself by discovering he still knew how—Kevin Heffer still knew how to hope.
If only … If only it was true, and Zoey was alive and safe and a High Priestess. Could she help him? More importantly, would she help him?
Zoey
“They split up. A group of red vampyres went inside the Atlas Building. Just minutes ago a second group—this one mostly made up of fledglings—went into the tunnels in this basement,” Marx reported to Stark, Shaunee, and me from the second-floor Philtower office that the TPD had commandeered.
“So, they’re really trapped?” I said.
Marx nodded grimly. “They are. We blocked all exits from the Atlas tunnel. They have to go out the way they came in. And we double-checked the door between the Philtower and Philcade. It’s been locked for years from the Philcade side, and it’s definitely still secure. That’s the only exit from the short Philtower tunnel system. Again, they have to go out the way they went in.”
“It’s sunrise,” Stark said, wiping a weary hand across his face and sitting in a chair as far away from the picture windows as possible.
“Close those blinds, please,” I said, squinting at the wall of windows.
“Sorry, Zoey. I wasn’t thinking.” Marx motioned for a uniformed officer to do so. “You okay, Stark?”
Stark nodded. “I’ll be fine. The cloud cover is thick enough that I can walk outside, with this over my head.” He tugged on his hoodie. “It’s just not comfortable.”
“How long are we going to wait before we move in?” I asked.
Marx spoke into the portable radio he pulled from his belt. “This is Marx. Ready to go at the Atlas?”
“Roger. Ready to go,” came the crackly response.
Marx glanced at the mixed group of TPD officers and House of Night Warriors. Several of the cops held dangerous-looking equipment that, given Shaunee’s obsessive staring, could only be flamethrowers. The rest had shotguns. Really big shotguns. The Warriors were armed with the ancient weapons we preferred—swords of different sizes and from different eras, as well as bows and long, evil looking lances.
“Ready to go?” he asked them.
As a group they nodded.
“Okay, briefly, we coordinate our attack with our people at the Atlas. We go to the tunnels at the same time. Give them an opportunity to surrender. If they don’t take it—we take them out,” Marx said. “Whatever happens, if you are human, do not let any of those creatures bite you.”
“You said the fledglings are all here in the Philtower tunnel?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’re pretty sure only full vampyres entered the Atlas. The fledglings were pretty easy to tell from the vampyres. They were staggering by the time they got inside.”
“That’s because they can’t stay conscious after sunrise,” I said.
“Stark and Darius already briefed us. We understand.” Marx eyed his men. “There will be a bunch of fledglings passed out inside the tunnel. They can’t wake while the sun’s out. They’re harmless. Ignore them while we deal with the vampyres. Then we can secure the fledglings.” He glanced at me. “You want them taken to the House of Night, correct?”
“I do.”
“All right. I talked to the chief. He’s fine with the House of Night locking up the fledglings, but they are part of that vampyre group that killed eighty-four humans. He’s going to need to know how they’re punished.”
“I understand,” I said with confidence I didn’t feel. How the hell were we going to punish fledglings that everyday were losing more and more of what is left of their humanity? I decided now was not the time to worry about that. Now was the time to get dangerous fledglings and vampyres off Tulsa’s streets. “And I’m ready.”
“All right, let’s do this.”
With military precision, the men moved out. We didn’t use the elevator. We made our way quietly down the two stories to the door that opened to the lobby. Then we moved across the gorgeous space to another side door that opened to a drastically different-looking Philtower, morphing from Gothic and ornate to industrial and rather boring in the space of just a few feet.
“Okay, this is where you wait,” Stark told me.
“Brownston, stay with the High Priestess,” Marx ordered one of the men holding a flamethrower. “Be sure nothing gets to her.”
“Will do, detective,” Brownston said.