I drew a deep breath and then spoke quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “It’s Neferet’s journal from when she was young. Kalona showed up in my dream last night. He told me where to find it. He said I need to read it because he felt like trouble was on its way. Again.”
“Neferet? Oh, Goddess, no …” Kramisha’s voice was a strained whisper.
“Oh, for shit’s sake. Not again!” Aphrodite said.
3
Zoey
The professors’ dining hall was nowhere near the students’ cafeteria—something I didn’t fully appreciate until I wasn’t a student any longer. Here’s the thing about becoming a teacher—at any age. You find out real fast that students are equal parts awesome and awful, often at the same time. It is universally acknowledged by teachers that in order to save what’s left of our sanity, we have to have a place at school to escape to that’s off-limits to students. Hence the creation of that shabby yet magical place called the teachers’ lounge. Here at the House of Night, everything is at least several steps up from a “normal” high school—including our escape from the students’ area. Oh, we have a teachers’ lounge, but instead of it being a dingy, windowless closet with an overripe refrigerator, our Professors’ Sanctuary (yep, that’s really its name—it’s on a gold plaque and everything) is a smaller, more comfortable version of the New York Public Library’s Rose Main Reading Room, complete with a ceiling mural of puffy clouds.
Our dining hall is equally as awesome. Ever been to the Palm Court at the Plaza in New York City? Well, no need. I could save you a trip if you were allowed in the professors’ dining hall in T-Town. Sadly for you (and happily for us), no one except House of Night professors, Sons of Erebus Warriors, and High Priestesses are allowed.
Oh, and since I became the new Council’s High Priestess, every Tuesday is officially Spaghetti Madness. Just sayin’—it’s good to be Queen. Um, or High Priestess.
The four of us went directly to my booth—a huge, soft, leather thing that circled around a linen-draped booth already set for ten people. It was super early, meaning the sun had barely set, and we had the room all to ourselves.
“Your usual, High Priestess?” asked the slender young priestess-in-training whose turn it was to rotate through the dining hall this semester.
“Call me Zoey,” I said automatically, like I did every day. And, like every day, she smiled shyly, nodded, and then never called me Zoey. “And, yep. Make my brown pop a double.”
“So a glass of pop and a glass of ice?”
“Yep and yep,” I said.
“Just bring me coffee and a breakfast bagel,” Stark said.
“I want one of them chai lattes. Extra whip cream,” Kramisha said, then added, “Please.”
“And I’ll take my usual,” Aphrodite said.
“Mimosa—hold the orange juice,” parroted the priestess.
“Actually, today bring me a small orange juice on the side. Emphasis on small,” Aphrodite said. The priestess nodded, bowed respectfully, and walked away, leaving us staring at Aphrodite. “What? I told Darius I’d eat healthy, but you know I can’t abide polluting my champagne with—” she paused and shuddered delicately, “juice. But—and you’ll probably only hear me say this once in this lifetime—enough about me. Let’s see the death journal.”
I’d filled the two of them in on Kalona’s dream visit on our way to the dining hall, and I could feel a terrible prickly sensation in the air between us—a sensation I hadn’t felt in almost one full year—a sensation I hadn’t missed for one speck of an instant. It was fear and dread mixed with a healthy dose of WTF.
I handled the journal carefully. It was pretty well preserved, but the pages were fragile and the ink faded, though still pretty much legible. I took a deep breath as we stared at the title, Neferet’s Curse.
“That’s not creepy at all,” Aphrodite said softly.
“And yet I have a feeling the title is totally going to fit,” I said. “Okay, here goes.” Gently, I opened the journal and read aloud:
January 15th, 1893, Emily Wheiler’s Journal. Entry: the first. This is not a diary. I loathe the very thought of compiling my thoughts and actions in a locked book, secreted away as if they were precious jewels. I know my thoughts are not precious jewels. I have begun to suspect my thoughts are quite mad.
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Correct answer,” Aphrodite said.
“Damn, 1893. That shit’s old,” Kramisha said. “And she been crazy since then. That’s a lotta crazy. Keep reading.”
So, I did. And as Emily Wheiler’s sad, scary, abusive life unfolded, I was surprised by the sense of pity I began to feel for Neferet.
“Oh for shit’s sake,” Aphrodite interrupted as she sipped her third glass of champagne (her orange juice remained untouched). “Did she just describe a statue of a giant White Bull in her garden?”
My stomach clenched. “Yeah, that’s exactly what she just described.”
“And it’s the only place she felt safe or comfortable.” Stark shook his head in disgust. “That damn bull was stalking her all the way back then.”
“Makes me feel sorry for her,” Kramisha said before I could.
“Don’t.” Stark’s voice was sharp. “No matter what happened to her—Emily Wheiler, and then Neferet, had a choice in how she would react. No amount of awful, abusive father excuses what she became—what she did.”
“And yet Kalona thinks it’s important that we understand what happened to her. It makes me think there might be a point to pitying her,” I said.
“Don’t let her suck you in.” Stark’s eyes were as hard and sharp as his voice. “That girl—that sixteen-year-old Emily Wheiler—she stopped existing more than one hundred years ago. Remember that while you keep reading.”
A chill skittered down my spine. “I will. We will.”
“Here, I’ll take a turn reading,” Aphrodite said. “You’re eating. I’m drinking my breakfast. It’s easier to drink and read than eat and read. Plus, I like to do the voices.”
“The voices? You mean like the ones in your head?” Stark asked, eyes widened in mock innocence.
“My cat will eat your cat,” was all Aphrodite said before she turned to a new page of the journal and kept reading. “April 27th, 1893 …”
I chewed my Count Chocula while I listened to Emily’s tragedy unfold. My eyes looked from Aphrodite to Stark and Kramisha. The journal had definitely captured their attention. Except for an occasional, “Ah, shit, that’s bad,” or other sounds of shock, no one spoke.
The journal wasn’t long. The ornate clock on the wall chimed seven bells as Aphrodite turned to the final entry, made on May 8, 1893, that described how a newly Marked Emily had been rescued from her father’s brutalization and rape by the Tracker, and how she’d had a choice. She could have turned her back on the human world, making a new life at the Chicago House of Night—or she could have allowed what her father had done to her to poison her new life.
We all know what choice she made. After Emily had healed from the rape, she’d returned to her father’s house as Neferet and killed him—strangling him with her dead mother’s pearls. I understand exactly why. Emily had spelled it out for us.