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. Neferet 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.”
“I hope you know how nasty that sounds,” Aphrodite said said.
“Aphrodite, I’d chew poo and spit it down Stevie Rae’s throat if it would make her better,” I said.
“That won’t be necessary.” Thanatos’s voice had us turning toward the entrance to the infirmary. She’d opened the door. Kalona stepped inside. Rephaim was on his heels. Barefoot and pulling on his shirt, he sprinted past his father.
He went straight to Stevie Rae. We crowded around the door, watching and waiting.
“Stevie Rae, it’s time to wake up now.” Rephaim sat beside her on the hospital bed. Tears dripped down his cheeks, but his voice didn’t shake. He sounded calm and sure of himself. “I got here as soon as I could. I am sorry you had to be like this for so long, but you know the problem I have during the sunlight. I’m not really myself.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob instead. He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes, saying, “It’s not as bad as your problem with the sun, though.” He reached out like he meant to touch her cheek, but flinched at the rawness and blisters. Instead he rested his hand on her chest, over her heart. “Hey, I need you to wake up now,” he repeated, his tears falling faster and faster.
Kalona pushed past us to stand beside his son. “Rephaim, you must make her drink from you. You are bonded to her, and within your veins pulses the strength of immortals. Only you can heal her.”
Rephaim looked up at his dad. “She’s not conscious. She won’t wake up.”
“Then you must force her to drink.”
Rephaim nodded. He lifted the hand he’d been pressing over Stevie Rae’s heart and bit himself. Hard. Right on his wrist.
I didn’t need to see the blood seeping through the bite. I could smell it. It was super weird. In a way it was kinda stinky, like mold or newly dug-up dirt, but there was something else in it, too, that reminded me of dark chocolate and spices and a cool, moonlit breeze in the middle of a sweltering summer night.
“Wow, that’s bizarre smelling,” Stark murmured.
I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering. All I could do was watch in envy as Rephaim leaned forward and gently cradled Stevie Rae’s head while he pressed his bleeding wrist to her slack lips.
