“Aphrodite was just bein’ polite. We heard that bed a thumpin’ so we thought we’d wait until you was done. Like Aphrodite said—it didn’t take long.” Kramisha shoved past Aphrodite, eyes narrowed at the bed that was totally catawampus, off-centered and rumpled. The Vampyre Poet Laureate shook her head, making her gold, waist-length Beyoncé braids swirl as she sent Stark a look. “Boy, you got you some excess energy.”
“I don’t know whether I should be impressed or squeed out.” Along with Kramisha, Aphrodite was staring at our displaced bed.
I felt my cheeks flush with heat. “No, no, no. First, you’re wrong. Second, we’re not having this conversation. Third, what are you two doing here?” Magnet-like, my gaze was pulled to the lavender notebook Kramisha clutched in her hands.
“Yeah. It’s what you think. A poem woke me up. First time in almost a year,” Kramisha said.
“And because misery loves company, she woke me up,” Aphrodite said. “Have I mentioned how much I hate poetry?”
“Not for about a year,” Stark said.
“Thank you, Bow Boy,” she said. “And, as per usual, I couldn’t figure out what the hell the stupid thing was saying—hence the fact we’re both here.”
“Poems ain’t stupid,” Kramisha said firmly.
“Why do we have to keep going over this? ‘Ain’t’ isn’t a word,” Aphrodite countered.
“How ’bout we go over this—I’m gonna kick your tight white ass if you keep disparaging poetry. Is that a word?” Kramisha said with mock sweetness.
“That’s a bunch of words.” Aphrodite flipped her hair back. “And I don’t think the vamp Poet Laureate is supposed to resort to violence.”
“If you had to read the awful poems them kids be writin’ in my class you’d know that we in a war. A literacy war.”
“But I think that war’s figurative—not literal.” Aphrodite paused, shrugging her smooth shoulders. “What do I know, though? I’m shitty at figurative language so, war away. Just not on me. It’s unattractive.”
“Stop. I can’t deal with bickering today,” I said, and the two of them turned to face me. Instantly their expressions changed.
“Something’s up,” Aphrodite said. “Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Double right,” Stark said.
“Yep. I knew it. That’s why I wrote this.” Kramisha thrust the purple pad at me, but before I could (reluctantly) take it, Aphrodite interrupted.
“What’s that?” She pointed at what I was still holding.
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.