by P. C. Cast
Neferet would have discarded him soon after his arrival, as she had all of her previous lovers, had it not been for the kitten.
Alexander had, of course, heard the tale of Chloe’s death and the great “gift” Neferet had been granted by Nyx that night. So after he arrived at Tower Grove, he took to his knee, bowed reverently before her, and reached into a knapsack slung over his back to pull forth a mewing black kitten who batted at his hand with sharp little claws that glinted from all twelve of her toes.
Neferet reached for the kitten. “A polydactyl! Wherever did you find her?”
“From the wharf on the Manhattan bank of the East River. The sailors prize six-toed cats. They swear they kill twice the rats as normal-toed cats. When I found her, I knew you should belong to her—just as I knew you should belong to me.”
Entranced by the kitten’s mischievous gaze, Neferet had not discarded Alexander.
He was a powerful Warrior. Alexander’s talent with the sword almost matched Neferet’s talent to heal. Neferet liked the irony in his loving her. He could cut men down. Neferet could heal them—even if that healing was no more than a touch that soothed their way to the Otherworld.
Of course Alexander did not cut men down—not unless he or the House of Night was threatened, and in 1899 there were few who would dare threaten the powerful and wealthy Tower Hill House of Night.
Bored, Neferet began ignoring Alexander. She had little Claire—another loving, mischievous cat as her own. She had her duties at the House of Night. And, most important, she had powers that were growing almost daily. Each of those things was more interesting than honorable, dependable, boring Alexander. She hadn’t even needed to use her skills as an empath to predict his declarations of eternal love. She had needed to use her skills in diplomacy not to yawn her way through them.
Early in the year of 1900 Neferet received an unusual invitation. She was the youngest High Priestess to be invited to the Gathering at San Clemente Island during which the High Council would lead a discussion on the direction vampyre society should take in this new century, wherein they believed inventions, science, and technology would advance at an unheard-of rate.
Alexander begged Neferet to allow him to accompany her. She had adamantly refused. She had no intention of tolerating his constant, cloying attention when there would be so many new Warriors from whom to choose. After all, the most decorated and powerful and experienced Warriors were always chosen to protect the Vampyre High Council and the San Clemente Island House of Night.
She did allow him to drive the carriage that would take her to the Mississippi River and the House of Night-owned steamboat that would transport her in the style of a queen—no, better yet, a goddess—to the port at New Orleans. There she would join many other High Priestesses for the Atlantic Crossing.
They had just arrived at the riverboat wharf when the thieves attacked. Mistaking the House of Night’s rich mahogany carriage for that of a wealthy gambler, the six humans, enticed by only one driver and no additional guards for such an opulent carriage, descended upon Alexander. In the darkness they did not see the elaborate tattoos that Marked him forever as vampyre. Too late they did see his sword.
Neferet watched from the window of the carriage, spellbound as Alexander killed all six of the attackers—quickly and brutally. Neferet had thought the sound his sword made as it sliced the air must be like the singing of the mythic Valkyries as they hovered over a Norse battlefield, waiting to choose the dead warriors they would take to Valhalla.
Dripping in gore, he strode to the carriage door, and wrenched it open. Breathing heavily he said, “My Priestess! Thank the Goddess you are unharmed.”
“I shall thank you instead.” She had taken him there, covered with blood, still carrying the sweet stench of battle, his blood and hers burning hot from killing.
Afterward he had fallen to his knees before her and bowed, saying:
“High Priestess Neferet, love of my life, I pledge myself to you as your Warrior, body, heart, mind, and soul. Please accept me!”
“I accept your Oath,” Neferet had heard herself saying while her body still pulsed from his touch. “From here on you shall be my Warrior.”
It took exactly one full day and night for her to regret accepting Alexander’s Oath. Thankfully, Neferet’s empathic gifts enabled her to dam the emotional tide that usually flowed between a bonded Warrior and his Priestess. Alexander bemoaned the fact that he could not sense her needs or hear her emotions. He fretted aloud that should she be in danger, he would not know it as would any other Oath Bound Warrior.
Neferet had only shrugged and said it was an irony that her empathic abilities had somehow negated the Warrior-Priestess psychic sharing. He had been such a fool to believe her. How could he not have seen that it was she who controlled their bond? Had she cared more, Neferet would have explained to him that he should be grateful he couldn’t know her real thoughts and emotions. By the time they reached Venice, Neferet had thought about casting him over the side of the ocean liner a total of three hundred and sixty-one times, though he sailed on, blissfully unaware of the truth.
Neferet had been right about the San Clemente Warriors. They were spectacular. And outshining them all was Artus, the High Council’s Sword Master.
Artus carried himself like a god. He was aloof and untouchable. His word was law with the Sons of Erebus. He answered only to Duantia, Leader of the High Council.
Most important, he loved battle. He was merciless, only ending a training session after he had drawn blood at least thrice from each opponent and making each of them yield formally to him.
Artus was not handsome—he was glorious. He was tall. His muscles were long and lean. His skin was black as a raven’s wing. Unlike Alexander, whose muscular young body was smooth and free of scars, Artus was covered with evidence that illustrated a life of violence.
But it wasn’t simply his appearance that attracted Neferet. It was what simmered beneath. She used her gift and probed his mind, read his desires, knew his needs. Artus thrived on pain. It was why he pushed his Warriors so hard. It was why he had become the leading Sword Master of the old century, and had remained so for the new one. It was also why he hadn’t bonded with any High Priestess. He hadn’t wanted any of them to know his true self—to discover his true needs. Instead of taking a vampyre lover, Artus chose human prostitutes to sate his desires. Surprisingly, Neferet heard little gossip about Artus’s choice in bed partners. The other High Priestesses found him off-putting. He was too aloof, too serious. He did his job and did it better than any other Warrior in the world—that was all that concerned the San Clemente vampyres. That was all the others understood about him. But Artus could not hide himself from Neferet. To her he was a scroll, written in blood, easily read, easily enjoyed. Neferet desired him more than she had ever desired anyone. She set about having him.
Seducing Artus was more difficult than Neferet had expected. Even among the unworldly beauty of the most powerful and important High Priestesses of their time, Neferet outshined them all. But Artus seemed impervious to Neferet’s beauty.
His aloofness had served only to flame her desire for him.
She had studied him. She learned his habits. Neferet took to wearing the traditional ceremonial garb of Italy’s ancient High Priestesses, which left her breasts bared, her hair adorned with flowers and ivy, and her lush hips draped in transparent fabric the color of a maiden’s blush. Then she made certain she led the casting of the circle that daily asked for Nyx’s blessing on the Sons of Erebus Warriors.
She could feel Artus’s eyes on her body, but when she tried to meet his gaze and draw his attention more fully to her, he always looked quickly away.
Unfortunately, Alexander did not look away from her. Ever. Her Warrior mistook the reason she was lavishing so much time and attention on the Warriors and at the field house as devotion to him. He strutted about, enjoying the envious glances of his new Warrior friends. He boasted that Neferet’s power w
as as great as her beauty. He fulfilled her every whim like a lap dog. Alexander baffled her as much as he irritated her. How could he not see that he was only an afterthought to her? She probed the Warrior’s mind for subterfuge, and found none. His feelings were true. He was completely enamored with her and utterly deluded into believing that she felt the same for him.
Alexander could not have been more wrong.
Neferet yearned for something darker, more sensual, more fulfilling. She yearned for Artus. The next time she led the Warrior Prayer and Artus’s eyes grazed her body, Neferet had focused the full force of her gift and delved deep within his mind. She was richly rewarded. She had discovered exactly how to seduce the aloof Warrior.
Neferet had set the stage carefully. She waited until it was just after dawn. She knew Artus would be finished drilling the Warriors. He would be in his quarters in the rear of the field house, preparing to rest for six hours. Then he would take the most uncomfortable guard shift, during the time the sun was brightest in the sky.
The High Priestesses assumed Artus took that shift because of his devotion to them. Neferet knew the truth behind that convenient belief. Artus thrived on the physical pain that uncomfortable shift and the sun caused him. Neferet had kept that delicious secret close to her as she plotted and planned his seduction.
First, she got rid of the fledgling Warrior who served as Artus’s aide. That was the simplest step. She allowed the fledgling to caress her—she pretended to desire his youth and his perfect body—she made him believe she would send a fledgling in his place that dawn to serve Artus, if the boy would rendezvous with her at a discreet inn on nearby Torcella Island.
Of course she would deny trying to seduce him. Actually, it had amused her to consider the punishment Artus would mete out to him after he discovered why the boy had shirked his duties.
Next, she slipped away from Alexander. She thought of sending him into Venice to find her a perfect piece of silk in an impossible color, but she hadn’t wasted the energy on fabricating a fool’s mission. Instead she’d waited until his attention was elsewhere, and called fog and mist, shadows and darkness to her so that she faded away from him before he’d even known he needed to look for her. And look for her he would, she was quite sure. He always looked for her. She’d curled her lip in distaste. Why had she let blood and lust shackle her to such a predictable bore? Neferet shrugged off the unpleasant thought of Alexander and his devotion. She wouldn’t think about him at all—she didn’t want to taint the pleasure of what she was certain would come.
Flushed with excitement, Neferet made her way invisibly to the field house. She entered through the rear door—the one nearest Artus’s quarters. Then she waited.
Neferet hadn’t had to wait long. As she already had learned, Artus was a vampyre of habit. When his fledgling didn’t appear at exactly thirty minutes past dawn, he opened the door to his quarters and gruffly called, “Salvatore! Boy! Where are you?”
“Salvatore is not here. No one is here except for me and you,” she’d said.
He was frowning when he emerged from his quarters, hair wet, chest bared, with only a towel wrapped loose and low around his slim hips. “Priestess, have you misplaced your Warrior?”
Neferet had lifted her chin and made her voice flint. “Warrior, have you misplaced your respect? I am a High Priestess. I expect to be greeted as such.”
Artus had lifted one dark brow, but he had complied, fisting his hand over his heart and bowing to her. “What can I do for you, Neferet?”
“Ah, you do know my name.”
“Everyone on San Clemente Island knows your name. What can I do for you, Neferet?” he’d repeated.
“I am here for a lesson,” she’d said.
“Your Warrior is a talented Sword Master. Why not take a lesson from him?”
Her full lips had curled up and her voice had purred, “Oh, but you misunderstand me. I am not here to take a lesson. I am here to give one.”
His dark eyes widened as she pulled a leather strap from the folds of her dress and lifted the dagger she had been hiding behind her. Then she tugged at the tie at her shoulder, and her gown slithered down her body. Naked, she walked to him, not speaking until she was within reaching distance. “Hold your hands before you and put your wrists together.”
“Neferet, what are—”
“I didn’t say you could speak! Do as I command!” When he just stood there, statue-like, she raised the dagger and touched it to his chest.
His intake of breath was sharp, but he didn’t move, didn’t look away from her.
Neferet had smiled, though she’d made her voice sharp, cruel. “Obey me!”
“Yes, High Priestess.” His voice had gone deep. He raised his hands, pressing his wrists together.
Neferet wrapped the leather strap around them, tightening it until she could see that it was uncomfortable. Artus’s breath was coming fast. Sweat began to bead across his ebony body.
“Good, but you didn’t obey me quickly enough. I must punish you, but only if you beg me to.”
Their eyes met. In his she saw shock and then understanding and desire. “Please, Neferet, punish me,” he begged.
She had been happy to comply.
In her den, Neferet’s body warmed in remembrance at how she had punished him. She had been mounting Artus, imagining herself as an ancient goddess mounting a sacrificial bull, when Alexander had found them. He’d cried out her name, sounding like a heartsick schoolboy. Utterly in the throes of ecstasy and pain, she’d whirled from Artus to face Alexander, and dropped the barriers she’d fashioned between them.
“See who I really am! See what I really think of you!”
Her emotions had battered Alexander. She remembered how colorless his face had been when he’d sobbed and fled the field house.
Almost as colorless as it had been when he’d been found the next day after he’d fallen on his sword, ending his miserable, boring life.
She had had to pretend public heartbreak, of course, though not for the first, nor last time in her life. She fabricated a story that portrayed Alexander as a disturbed young Warrior. She’d sobbed and said she had accepted his oath because she’d believed in her ability to heal him. Her concern for his unstable emotions was why she had been spending so much time at the field house—why she had insisted she lead the Warrior Prayers.
The High Council had responded with compassion, praising her for her attempt to heal one who had been so obviously broken. That hadn’t been a surprise. Neferet was adept at manipulating High Priestesses. Artus’s response to Alexander’s suicide had been a surprise.
She’d gone to him the next dawn, cloaking herself in darkness and sneaking into his chamber. He had utterly rejected her. His words had been respectful, but she had seen within him. He had been disgusted by her.
Neferet had cut through his subterfuge as cleanly as she had his skin.
“Tell anyone why Alexander really killed himself, and I will explain in detail to the High Council about your need for punishment. You know what they would do. That’s why you hide your desires with human prostitutes, paying for their silence. Should they discover you, the High Council would, correctly, believe your need affects you as a Warrior and dismiss you from your post.”
“You are utterly devoid of compassion.” Neferet never forgot the loathing in his voice.
“We each wear our masks, don’t we? Keep my secret and I will keep yours.”
Neferet had left San Clemente Island the next day, immediately after lighting Alexander’s pyre. The High Council had been understanding and compassionate. Of course she should return to her House of Night immediately. The loss of an Oath Bound Warrior was life altering for a High Priestess!
Artus had remained silent.
One year later Neferet heard how shocked the High Council had been when his body had been found floating in the Grand Canal. There had been no sign of violence on his body, only his many scars. Apparently, he had drowned himself. Nefe
ret had smiled at the news.
Alone on the return voyage Neferet had fallen into despair. She’d begun to believe that there would be no male, human or vampyre, who could possibly be her equal. Her despair had grown greater as she drew nearer the end of her voyage. With the ocean, waves of Neferet’s emotions had surged before her, washing against the shoreline, penetrating the ground and soaking across the land.
That was when the dreams had begun. She had dreamed she’d been wrapped in power, folded into greatness, cherished beyond pain and pleasure.
“No mortal male could be your equal because you deserve to be mated to a god!” his beautiful voice had whispered, and Neferet had begun listening.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Zoey
“Ah, shit. She looks worse than I expected.” Aphrodite said.
“Yeah, she does.” My voice sounded shaky as my friends and I looked through the big window into the ICU cubicle of our infirmary. Shaunee had gotten Stark, me, Aphrodite, and Darius. On the way to the infirmary she’d quickly filled us in on what Dallas had done. I’d told myself I wouldn’t cry—that I’d be a strong, mature High Priestess and set a good example, but one look at Stevie Rae had totally scared the crap out of me and made me want to burst into tears. She’d had her oversized Kenny Chesney concert T-shirt on, but everywhere the shirt hadn’t protected—her face, arms, and legs—were bright red and covered with angry-looking blisters that oozed blood. Margareta, the vampyre in charge of the infirmary, said that she hadn’t completely gained consciousness yet, and that wasn’t good because Stevie Rae needed to drink blood, or else she wouldn’t even begin to heal.
“Can’t they give her a transfusion or something?” Aphrodite said.
“I already asked that,” Shaunee said while I wiped my eyes and sniffed. Stark handed me a Kleenex. “Vampyres aren’t like humans. An infusion won’t work. We have to absorb blood through our mouths, and throats, and well, you know—everything—for it to heal us.”
