Forgotten

by P. C. Cast

  Lynette rose several hours before the vampyre—time enough for her to be sure that night’s feeder—or feeders (one night, Neferet wanted both a male and a female feeder at the same time)—were procured. She went through the daily news, focusing on what was happening in Tulsa so that she could update Neferet.

  Lynette had never been so glad she wasn’t in Tulsa. A cruder woman would call what was going on in T-Town a clusterfuck. When she’d read the Oklahoma news to Neferet, with all the details of the chaos that had been caused by what the media was calling the “rehumanization of the red vampyres,” the High Priestess commented, in a voice of ice, “Anarchy and chaos and a lack of the proper order of things. That is what happens when betrayers and men rule. Is the war still being won by vampyres?”

  “James Stark of the Tulsa House of Night is quoted as saying there is a truce—that vampyres and humans are attempting a treaty.”

  “James Stark! That traitor! Did they quote only a male vampyre? Males never speak for us.” Neferet scoffed. “Are they forcing the priestesses to be mute?”

  Lynette flipped through several news articles until she found a female name. “It says here that Anastasia and her mate, Dragon Lankford, have returned to their residence at the House of Night. Oh …” Lynette’s words trailed off as she quickly scanned the rest of the article.

  “What is it?” Neferet prodded.

  “My lady, it says that Anastasia has been named High Priestess of the Tulsa House of Night, and her mate has reclaimed his title of Sword Master.” Lynette held her breath as she waited for the explosion to follow.

  But Neferet had surprised her. She had laughed! Genuine laughter, and not a show of malicious glee.

  “They make it too easy for me! I defeated and banished those two simpletons once. I shall do it again, only this time I will not make the mistake of allowing them to live. And now I understand why a male is representing the House of Night. Anastasia is a weak, milquetoast version of a High Priestess. Of course she would allow a male to speak in her place. I will set it all to right, dear Lynette. All to right.”

  As the days passed and the news from Tulsa got no better, Neferet had Lynette make careful notes of every vampyre’s name that was mentioned. What they were quoted as saying, what they were doing as the Tulsa House of Night—and every House of Night in the US—was trying to rediscover its place in a world that both feared and loathed them now more than ever before. Each day the list of names became longer, but Neferet repeated it, slowly and solemnly, reminding Lynette of a vampyre version of Arya Stark.

  Once what Lynette thought of as the breakfast news was over, Neferet disappeared into her suite to shed her bathrobe and slippers for long, wool skirts of homespun Wallace plaid and comfortable cotton blouses. It seemed the vampyre also shed the stresses of Tulsa and the world in general. Wrapped in the muted colors of the ancient plaid, with her hair tied back and a shawl around her shoulders, Neferet youthened. Her beauty shifted from that of a carved statue—impossibly beautiful and completely unattainable—to that of a young, carefree girl. She was no less stunning but seemed more human.

  No matter the weather, and it was always wet and cold, every night Neferet would walk the bank of Loch Alsh, the body of water that separated their section of the mainland from the Isle of Skye.

  Lynette wasn’t entirely sure what the vampyre did during her walkabouts, but she always returned around midnight. Sometimes she would have collected smooth white pebbles of sea-worn Skye marble. Another day she found a whole handful of sea glass that time and waves had shaped into rough hearts. On yet another walkabout she brought back a piece of driftwood the size of her hand that looked exactly like a voluptuous naked woman.

  The found objects always filled one of the four offering bowls that Neferet set out to sea in the deep of each night. She changed what was in the other bowls nightly, explaining to Lynette that the sprites were easily bored, and that she was attempting to intrigue and woo them.

  And each night Neferet and her children took to the dark loch. The tendrils of Darkness carried the naked vampyre out onto the waters so that she could place her offerings on the surface. Each night something took the offerings—silently—and then disappeared.

  Though Neferet did not require it of them, the house staff, all three of them, stood witness to the vampyre’s nightly offering. They watched from the porch of Balmacara Mains and had even begun sending her off with whispered well-wishes. Goddess-like, Neferet would acknowledge each of them, nodding in appreciation of their devotion and even smiling kindly at the women. Lynette watched the staff change. They shifted from being terrified of the brollachan, which Lynette had researched and found out was basically a formless demon associated closely with the fey, kelpies, and water spirits in general. It can steal bodies and is particularly terrifying to children. By the end of the first full day at Balmacara, Neferet’s good humor, her youthening, and her regal bearing had the staff changing their minds about her—or at least deciding that Herself was their brollachan. Instead of treating her with fear, they showed the vampyre respect—and Mrs. Muir even began mothering her, insisting Neferet wear wellies and take a shawl on her walkabouts.

  Lynette waited for the vampyre to explode in random violence as she had in Tulsa, but it didn’t happen. What happened instead was that Lynette believed with her whole heart and soul that she was glimpsing the kind of goddess Neferet could become—wise, strict, ruthless when need be, but ever loyal to those faithful to her.

  Lynette was determined she would be her Goddess’s first and most loyal subject—and she was also determined she would reap the rewards such loyalty would earn.

  Lynette always joined her mistress, trekking across the damp, muddy bank and waiting there for her to return. Of course on subsequent nights she came prepared, carrying a towel to dry Neferet and a robe to wrap her in. On the third night, when nothing new happened except the same arm materialized from the depths to pull under the bowls which had been filled with fine chocolate, single malt scotch, fresh sliced apples, and seashells, Lynette could no longer remain silent.

  “My lady, you appear pleased to be here and content with what happens out there.” Lynette gestured at the black loch behind them as she and Neferet picked their way back across the rocky bank to the house. “But I don’t understand. It seems to be the same arm. It takes the offerings and then without saying a word goes away and nothing else happens. Are you waiting for something or someone?”

  Neferet studied her, and Lynette felt a shiver of the fear she’d pushed aside the past few days as she’d become more and more accustomed to the vampyre and her unusual ways. Now she held her breath, relived the terrible scene of Ed’s death, and hoped she hadn’t accidentally committed an unforgivable breach of etiquette by questioning Neferet.

  “Yes, my dear. I am waiting for something and someone. It is good that my handmaid understand what I am about.” Neferet’s tone was reasonable and she hooked her arm through Lynette’s as they made their careful way back across the rocky bank. “There are four major groups of elementals—sprites that are made of air, fire, water, and earth magick, which is why I always leave four different offerings and why each of them symbolizes one of the elements. My intuition tells me that the sprites will not appear to me until the fifth night—after each group has been satisfied. And on that night, I shall make a special sacrifice.”

  Lynette’s mouth felt dry. “Sacrifice?”

  “Yes, sacrifice—offering—gift—libation—prasad—oblation. Different words for what is basically the same thing, which is what I have been doing here nightly.”

  “Do you need me to get you a special sacrifice for the fifth night?” she asked in a voice that sounded as if she was inquiring whether Neferet would like her to find a different breakfast tea and not what most probably would be something much more gruesome.

  But Neferet smiled beatifically and shook her head. “No, dear Ly
nette. The special sacrifice must come from me, though you remind me that I will need a Sgian Dubh for the fifth night.”

  “A Sgian Dubh? I’m afraid you’ll have to spell that for me, my lady. It sounds Gaelic and that language is hopelessly difficult.”

  “No need to trouble yourself. Call wee Denise to me. She’ll procure the dagger.”

  “Dagger?” Lynette’s stomach churned.

  “Yes, a small ceremonial thing. Don’t give it a thought, dear Lynette. Now, I am famished! Let us hope both of my feeders are here. You know how I hate waiting.”

  The next day Lynette unexpectedly found a Twitter thread online that brought her up short. It hadn’t gained much traction. Seems few people back in Tulsa, neither humans nor vamps, were interested in pursuing a ghost story, and she would’ve hardly paid attention herself except that the posts kept disappearing.

  At first Lynette thought it was a fluke or that she was imagining things. But after she counted three tweets and five Instagram posts that had been completely deleted—gone—and all had included either pictures or comments about what they were calling the TU vamp ghost, Lynette took notice. She also took screenshots. She had no idea if she was making too much of too little, but she would rather apologize for bothering Neferet than face the consequences of keeping something of importance from her, which meant she needed to bring it to Neferet’s attention before the vampyre returned at midnight to begin preparing for her nightly ritual.

  Following Neferet’s lead, Lynette eschewed modern flashlights for the flame of a newer version of the lantern Mrs. Muir had given the vampyre on the first night. Unlike Neferet, she wasn’t impervious to the cold and wet, so she wrapped herself in a thick length of the plaid that Neferet had bought reams of—and she hadn’t needed to be nagged by Muir to wear wellies. As she was leaving Balmacara, she literally ran into wee Denise, who was setting out bowls of cream and honey.

  “Do cats like honey?” Lynette had asked.

  The shy girl bobbed her blond head and giggled. “Och no, missus. They dinnae. I’m leavin’ the offering for the gude fairies. From the Seelie Court—and hopin’ they be keeping out the wicked wichts from Unseelie. And as ye can see it works fine. It brought us Herself.”

  “Huh. Well done, you.” Lynette had no clue what else to say. Wee Denise tended to surprise her. She looked like a rather plain sixteen-year-old who was, as Mrs. Muir had first described her, not very smart. But something about her eyes said she knew things—older, darker things than a regular teenager knew. “Um, speaking of Herself—you didn’t happen to see which direction she went tonight, did you?”

  “Aye, missus. She went there—to the left. Good that yer goin’ after Herself. Tis a dreich day. She should be home warmin’ by the fire.”

  “Thanks, Denise. I tend to agree with you, but Neferet has a mind of her own. We’ll be back by midnight. Please be sure the feeder is clean and—”

  “Aye, get him—or her, blootered.”

  “If that means drunk, then yes, and thank you again.”

  Denise nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and went back into the house. Lynette wrapped the plaid shawl more closely around her shoulders and wished like hell for an umbrella as she headed down the bank and to the left.

  It didn’t take long to find Neferet. It was late, cold, dark, and the misting rain was almost freezing—Neferet’s lantern was the only light on the beach. She’d put the lantern down near the waterline and was standing with the hem of her long plaid skirt hiked up and tucked into her waistband. Her bare feet were in the frigid water—her discarded wellies waited beside the lantern—while she tossed rocks into the loch.

  Lynette approached her from behind, and Neferet didn’t notice her, so focused was she on her rock throwing. Lynette could hear the vampyre cursing softly every time a stone plopped into the water and sank below the black waves, and she had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. Neferet looked so young—so carefree—so completely approachable.

  Lynette cleared her throat, but Neferet didn’t acknowledge her.

  “My lady, I do not mean to interrupt.”

  “Oh, I know you’re there, Lynette. And you’re not interrupting much. It seems skipping stones is the one thing I fail at.”

  “Skipping stones?” Lynette joined her, glancing at the pile of rocks Neferet held in a length of her voluminous plaid. “The problem isn’t you, my lady.” Lynette smiled kindly at Neferet. “The problem is there.” She pointed to the pile of egg-shaped rocks. “They’re not good for skipping.”

  “You know how to skip stones?” Neferet dropped the rocks and turned with keen attention to Lynette.

  “Sure. Would you like me to teach you?”

  “Oh, that would be lovely!”

  “The most important thing is rock choice. It can’t be too big or too little—about the size of your palm is best, and it must be flat. The flatter the better so it can skip.” Lynette searched the beach, easily finding a suitable rock. “Like this one. See?”

  “I do. It is very flat.”

  “Yes, and now you need to hold it like this.” Lynette demonstrated holding it between her pointer finger and her thumb. “And then you throw it with a snap of your wrist—like this.” She flicked her wrist and threw the stone. It skipped, but only twice before a wave covered it.

  “Ooooh! You did it!”

  “Well, not really. Two skips isn’t great—four or five, that’s excellent. But you need calm water to really get a good skip going.”

  “Truly?”

  “Well, yes. It has to skip across the surface, and that’s pretty much impossible with waves.”

  Neferet stared at Lynette for a long moment before turning to face the water again. She strode out into it until her calves were covered. She smiled and in the voice of a joyous girl said, “It would be so nice if the water calmed—just for a moment—so that I might learn to skip stones.”

  For a few breaths nothing happened. Then the wind stilled and the waves quieted, quieted, and finally the surface of the loch became glass.

  Neferet clapped her hands joyfully and said, “Thank you!” before turning to Lynette. “Let’s find more rocks.”

  A fast learner, the fourth stone Neferet threw skipped across the smooth surface of the loch three, four, five, six times.

  “Six! Did you see, Lynette! Did you see! Oh, this is such fun!” Neferet laughed uninhibitedly.

  Lynette couldn’t help but stare. She found it difficult to speak past the knot in her throat. The vampyre seemed not even the same being as the creature who had entered the Tulsa hangar alone, defeated, and angry.

  “What is it, dear Lynette?” Neferet moved close to her side, studying her face.

  Lynette shook herself. “It’s just that this place has youthened you and when you laugh like that you look sixteen again.”

  Neferet’s joy damped instantly. “I did not laugh like that when I was sixteen. Ever.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lynette hesitated, and then touched Neferet’s shoulder gently. “I know what it’s like to have a terrible childhood.”

  “Do you? Do you truly?”

  Lynette took Neferet’s hand. “It started after my father left us when I was ten. My mother never recovered. Her entire identity was wrapped up in that man. Instead of learning to take care of herself, and of me, she clung to any man who would have her. Whenever one of them started making noises like he was going to leave, my mother, she used me to keep them interested. She told them that I was her property, so they could do whatever they wanted to me. Some raped me. Some did other things. When I begged her to protect me—to keep them from me—my mother told me I should thank her for preparing me for my future.”

  Even in the wan light of the flickering lanterns Lynette could see that Neferet’s face had lost all color so that her sapphire tattoos stood out as if they were lit from within. She squeezed Lynette’s
hand and covered it with both of hers.

  “Oh, dear Lynette. I understand. I was raped, though I haven’t spoken of it for more than a century. I don’t know how that child knew—the one pretending to be Zoey Redbird. But she was wrong about one thing. My father did not rape me. He had nothing to do with me after my mother died giving birth to the child he wanted—a son. He ignored me, keeping me a prisoner in my home until he could sell me to the highest bidder—which meant betrothing me to Arthur Simpton, heir to a very large family fortune. I was sixteen. Arthur raped me. The night of our betrothal—the night my father said to him what your mother said to the monsters who used you. She is your property now. Do with her as you will. And he did.”

  Lynette gripped Neferet’s hands like a lifeline as tears leaked silently down the vampyre’s pale cheeks. “What happened? How did you get away from him?”

  “I was Marked, my dear. That very day. The House of Night accepted me—bloodied, beaten, and used.” Neferet stared past Lynette out at the dark water to the hulking isle beyond. “I healed—strengthened—and then I stalked Arthur Simpton, trapped him, and killed him by using a strand of my mother’s pearls as a garrote.”

  “Good! I’m glad you did.”

  “We are very alike, Lynette.”

  “I’m flattered you think so, my lady. And you just reminded me of why I came out here to find you.” Lynette pulled her phone out of the folds of the plaid she’d wrapped around herself and tapped the surface to bring it alive. “First, the Tulsa House of Night has issued a notice that they are offering a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for your capture.”