it.”
“Did I do okay back there?”
“You were perfect, my son.” Then Nyx, the Goddess of Night, opened her arms and enfolded Jack, and with her touch the last remnants of mortal pain and sadness and loss dissolved from his spirit, leaving love—only and always, love. And Jack knew perfect happiness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The moment before his father appeared the consistency of the air changed.
He’d known Father had returned from the Otherworld the instant it had happened. How could he not have known it? He’d been with Stevie Rae. She’d felt Zoey become whole again just as the knowledge of his father had come to him.
Stevie Rae … It had been less than a fortnight since he’d been in her presence, spoken with her, touched her, but it seemed that their time together had been an eternity ago.
If Rephaim lived for another century he would not forget what had happened between them just before Father had returned to this realm. The human boy in the fountain had been him. It hadn’t made rational sense, but that didn’t make it any less true. He’d touched Stevie Rae and imagined, for just a heartbeat in time, what could have been.
He could have loved her.
He could have protected her.
He could have chosen Light over Darkness.
But what could have been was not reality—was not to be.
He’d been born of hate and lust, pain and Darkness. He was a monster. Not human. Not immortal. Not beast.
Monster.
Monsters didn’t dream. Monsters didn’t desire anything except blood and destruction. Monsters didn’t— couldn’t—know love or happiness: they weren’t created with that ability.
How then was it possible that he missed her?
Why this terrible hollowness in his soul since Stevie Rae had been gone? Why did he feel only partially alive without her?
And why did he long to be better, stronger, wiser, and
Could he be going mad?
Rephaim paced back and forth across the rooftop balcony of the deserted Gilcrease mansion. It was past midnight and the museum grounds were quiet, but since the cleanup after the ice storm had begun in earnest, the place was becoming busier and busier during daylight hours.
Rephaim told himself it was simply that he hoped now that his father had returned to this realm, he would also return to Tulsa, and he was waiting here for him to come back—to give him a purpose and a direction. But in the deepest recesses of his heart he knew the truth. He didn’t want to leave this place because Stevie Rae was here, and even though he couldn’t allow himself to contact her, she was still near, reachable, if only he dared.
Then, in the middle of his pacing and his self-recriminations, the air around him became heavy, thick with an immortal power that Rephaim knew as well as his own name. Something tugged within him, as if the power that floated in the night had attached itself to him and was using him as an anchor to pull itself ever nearer.
Rephaim braced himself, physically and mentally, concentrated on the illusive immortal magick, and willingly accepted the connection, not minding that it was painful and draining and filled him with a suffocating wave of claustrophobia.
The night sky above him darkened. The wind increased, battering Rephaim.
The Raven Mocker stood his ground.
When the magnificent winged immortal, his father, Kalona, deposed Warrior of Nyx, swooped down from the heavens and landed before him, Rephaim automatically dropped to his knees, bowing in allegiance.
“I was surprised to feel that you remained here,” Kalona said without giving his son permission to rise. “Why did you not follow me to Italy?”
Head still bowed, Rephaim answered. “I was mortally wounded. I have only just recovered. I thought it wise to await you here.”
“Wounded? Yes, I recall. A gunshot and a fall from the sky. You may rise, Rephaim.”
“Thank you, Father.” Rephaim stood and faced his father, and then was glad his face didn’t betray emotions easily. Kalona looked as if he had been ill! His bronze skin had a sallow tint to it. His unusual amber eyes were shadowed by dark circles. He even looked thin. “Are you well, Father?”
“Of course I am well; I am an immortal!” the winged being snapped. Then he sighed and brushed a hand wearily across his face. “She held me within the earth. I was already wounded, and being trapped by that element made my recovery before my release impossible—and since then it has been slow.”
“So Neferet did entrap you.” Carefully, Rephaim kept his tone neutral.
“She did, but I could not have been so easily imprisoned had Zoey Redbird not attacked my spirit,” he said bitterly.
“Yet the fledgling lives,” Rephaim said.
“She does!” Kalona roared, towering over his son and causing the Raven Mocker to stumble backward. But just as quickly as his rage exploded, it fizzled, leaving the immortal looking tired again. He blew out a long breath, and in a more reasonable voice repeated, “Yes, Zoey does live, though I believe she will be forever changed by her Otherworld experience.” Kalona stared off into the night. “Everyone who spends time in Nyx’s realm is altered by it.”
“So Nyx did allow you to enter the Otherworld?” Rephaim couldn’t stop from asking. He steeled himself for his father’s reprimand, but when Kalona spoke, his voice was surprisingly introspective, almost gentle.
“She did. And I saw her. Once. Briefly. It was because of the Goddess’s intervention that that gods-be- damned Stark is still breathing and walking the earth.”
“Stark followed Zoey to the Otherworld, and he lives?”
“He lives, although he shouldn’t.” As Kalona spoke he absently rubbed a spot on his chest, over his heart. “I suspect those meddling bulls have something to do with his survival.”
“The black and white bulls? Darkness and Light?” Rephaim tasted the bile of fear at the back of his throat as he remembered the slick, eerie coat of the white bull, the unending evil in his eyes, and the white-hot pain the creature had caused him.
“What is it?” Kalona’s perceptive gaze skewered his son. “Why do you look thus?”
“They manifested here, in Tulsa, just over a week ago.”
“What brought them here?”
Rephaim hesitated, his heart beating painfully in his chest. What could he admit? What could he say?
“Rephaim, speak!”
“It was the Red One—the young High Priestess. She invoked the presence of the bulls. It was the white bull who gave her the knowledge that helped Stark find the way to the Otherworld.”
“How do you know this?” Kalona’s voice was like death.
“I witnessed part of the invocation. I was wounded so badly that I did not believe I would recover, that I would ever fly again. When the white bull manifested, it strengthened me and drew me to its circle. That was where I observed the Red One getting her information from it.”
“You were healed, but you didn’t capture the Red One? Didn’t stop her before she could return to the House of Night and aid Stark?”
