Neferet had decided she would set up her offering room in the main ballroom. It was surrounded by marble columns with a lovely high ceiling, ornate art deco chandeliers, and a wide double staircase with a curved wrought-iron banister that had a landing between the ground floor—where her supplicants would stand—and the upper-level promenade, where only her closest worshippers, or those tending to her needs, would be allowed. The others would be confined either to their rooms or to the basement holding area, which Kylee had been so kind as to show her. Or if they were too much of a nuisance, and she didn’t care to waste a tendril to possess them, they would become food for her children.
Neferet would, of course, only feed from those supplicants who captured her interest.
Kylee had been tasked with finding a chair that would have to suffice as a throne until she could have a proper one commissioned to be carved.
“You’ll need to find a master craftsman to create exactly what I require. The wood must be stained the deep red of bull’s blood,” she spoke as she chose the setting carefully. “And with none of those wretchedly cold, hard seats that the crones on the High Council prefer. Pillows of golden velvet—that is what I will sit upon.”
Neferet allowed two of the most attractive housekeepers to wrap her in a luxurious dressing gown of royal purple, and had just decided that she would not wear any shoes—she would be barefoot, as should befit a newly born Goddess, when she returned to her living room to refill her wine goblet—annoyed that there was no eager human waiting on her. She was already waiting, impatiently, for the guests and residents to be rounded up by her obedient staff so that she could make her entrance to the ballroom.
“Even for a Goddess, it is so difficult to find good help. But I shall let this mistake pass. There are only twenty of them. They must be quite busy herding the humans into my offering room. Though I shall only let it pass this one time.” She was sipping the rich red liquid, enjoying the taste of the blood the handsome bellman had so graciously volunteered to slice open his flesh to flavor her wine with, when the television caught her peripheral vision. There was a breaking news feed going across the bottom of the screen, MURDERS IN TULSA, and the anchor, Chera Kimiko, was speaking with a somber expression.
Delighted, Neferet hit the mute button, expecting to relive the delicious details of her feast. But instead of the Boston Avenue Church, the screen filled with a picture of Woodward Park, in a terrible state of burned-out unattractiveness. Then the camera shifted and Neferet’s brows lifted as they focused on the rock wall beside the grotto that had so recently been her sanctuary. She tapped impatiently at the volume in time to hear Kimiko, sounding oh-so-serious.
“This is the site of the gruesome murders of the two men, whose bodies were discovered by firefighters yesterday morning. As we reported earlier, the violent thunderstorm that created winds in excess of seventy miles per hour also carried with it deadly lightning. Lightning strikes in the Tulsa area have accounted for five deaths today, with ten more people still hospitalized in serious condition. But the death of these two men was, apparently, unrelated to the storm. Adam Paluka is live with Detective Kevin Marx, and we go to him for the details. Adam?”
The scene changed from the storm-ravaged park to a detective sitting behind a desk in a mundane-looking office. Neferet recognized him as the officer who had, annoyingly, seemed sympathetic to Zoey Redbird in the past. She scowled as she watched the brief interview.
“Detective Marx, could you please explain about the two additional deaths at Woodward Park, and have you truly ruled out storm-related causes?”
“The bodies of two men, both in their mid-forties, were discovered early yesterday. The cause of death was the same for both men—blunt force trauma and loss of blood.”
Neferet smiled, deciding this was an excellent preshow rehearsal for the carnage they would soon discover.
“And is it true that you have taken into custody someone who confessed to the killings?”
Neferet’s brows lifted. “Confessed to the killings? In custody? That is quite impossible.”
“Yes, I am sad to report that a young fledgling, one I know personally, came forward of her own volition and confessed that she killed the two men.”
“A fledgling!” Neferet exploded off the chaise, shouting at the television screen.
“May we have the name of this fledgling?”
“Zoey Redbird.”
Neferet shrieked, picked up one of the electric lamps she had unplugged, and hurled it at the screen.
“That simpering, feeble child believes she killed those two men? I found them, barely stunned, mere feet from my sanctuary, and their blood served to feed me so that I could make my way to the grand feast at the Boston Avenue Church. Zoey Redbird kill two grown men? What utter nonsense! She doesn’t have the will to kill anyone! And she actually confessed to their murder? That girl is a bigger idiot than even I could have imagined.” Neferet threw back her head and mocking laughter filled the penthouse.
Neferet had taken her position in the middle of the graceful double staircase of the main ballroom of the Mayo Hotel. She loved the irony that she was standing in the very spot where so many deluded human couples had spoken their wedding vows.
“Boxed pasta lasts longer than most human marriages. Did you know that?” She smiled at the crowd assembled on the gleaming black and white marble floor. She had ordered that the chandeliers be dimmed and that large candelabrums be set and lit to the left and right of her on the landing. She knew her beauty was divine and complemented by the way her gown shimmered with the candlelight’s caress.
She had commanded that half of her twenty supplicants surround her, though without actually entering her landing. The other ten possessed humans were stationed at the entrance to her Temple. She had given them one command: no one is allowed to enter or exit.
Her Dark children writhed around her, invisible to the gaping humans but comforting to her with their familiar eagerness.
“Ah, you are correct not to respond. That question really wasn’t worthy of a Goddess’s first address to her chosen people. Let me begin anew.”
Neferet positioned herself in front of her throne, spread her arms wide, and said, “Behold! I am Neferet, Goddess of Darkness, Queen Tsi Sgili. I have made this hotel my Temple Dark, and you—you fortunate few—shall be my loyal supplicants, my Chosen Ones. I, in turn, shall reward your worship by removing the cares of the mundane world from you. You need no longer toil at your meaningless jobs. You need not return to tedious marriages and unappreciative children. From today until your deaths, your only purpose is to worship me. Rejoice, humans!”
Her speech was followed by a long moment of absolute silence, and then the crowd began to rustle nervously with whispers.
Neferet waited for what she knew would come, and that knowledge kept the beatific smile on her face. She did so enjoy teaching humans life lessons.
As expected, Neferet didn’t have to wait long. A woman stepped forward. She was tall and brunette—probably late middle-aged, though she had the well-preserved, well-exercised look of a woman who worked diligently to maintain what was left of her youth. She was wearing a tasteful, meticulously cut dress that was a beautiful shade of emerald green.
“Wherever did you get that lovely dress?” Neferet asked the human before she could speak.
The woman blinked in obvious surprise at the question but answered, “It’s a Halston. I bought it at Miss Jackson’s.”
“Kylee,” Neferet called down to where the girl stood, looking serenely robotic, at the bottom of the stairs. “Make a note. I’m going to need you to go to Miss Jackson’s and choose a variety of dresses for me. Be sure to include a Halston design.”