Chapter 21 Diantha #5
“Clearly there’s more to the story there.
” Leo shakes his head. “Anyway, you’ll have to complete the sacrifice ritual in the catacombs, on the death altar, and this makes it a lot fucking easier.
” He brings the pencil back to the convergence of the tangled lines north of the cathedral.
I notice now, very faintly, what looks like a skull imprinted into the paper.
“I’m not even sure how I’m getting into the party at this point. Am I just supposed to step forward in the middle of this event and be like: Hark, I’m here to dethrone your king?”
“We need to figure that piece out,” Misha says on a sigh. “Do we want her to attend the party or do we want to send her in through Hades House?”
“Or I can get in through the library, since I work there,” I offer. “There might be cameras, but I can just…look like I’m going to study or something.”
“Well, there we go,” she announces, grinning. “You enter the tunnels through the library, resurface at the party. We triangulate inside, corner Alfo, force him to give chase into the tunnels…”
Leo nods along, like this is nothing. Like we’re strategizing for a friendly game of capture the flag. “We’ll have demons constricting his path as Diantha forces him toward the altar.”
“And my coterie can handle her security.”
“Guys, I don’t even know how to fucking vanquish a demon! I can’t give chase. I can’t fucking do anything!”
“Yes, Diantha. You can,” Orfeo says, resting his hands on my shoulders.
He gives me a firm squeeze, his thumb stroking the tender wounds on my neck.
The sensation isn’t erotic or arousing; it’s pure comfort.
I feel like a kitten being scratched behind the ears.
“Let’s go through it all again. From the beginning. The party begins at…?”
Leo pulls another piece of paper from his interior pocket. It’s an invitation. “Midnight.”
We take a break—and not because they need one. Orfeo, Misha, and Leo are supremely nonplussed by all of the information, all of the planning, and all of the risk.
Also, they don’t seem to need to pee the way I do.
I’m the issue. Their “leader,” the only half-goddess in the room. And I’m the one who can’t fucking get a grip.
Alone in the bathroom, I splash water on my face and use one of Orfeo’s plush white washcloths to cool off my neck.
For a brief moment, I consider decoupling back to the Dream Place in hopes I’ll find my mother or Hecate there, waiting for me with gentle words of encouragement.
But I know I can’t—I have to stop relying on this concept of my mother, on her apparition.
Because if I do everything right, tomorrow night she’ll be free to go to her final resting place.
My reflection stares back at me with a ferocious look I barely recognize. My hair frizzes violently, the tighter curls around my face like tangled vines, coiled snakes chasing each other. How do I access him? How do I pull those pieces of my gods-forsaken father forward?
Back around the table, Leo folds the map up and slips it back into his jacket. Then, we run through the plan one last time.
“Orfeo, you’ll be bartending the party. Alfo’s going to tell you tonight so…you know, look surprised. Meesh, you’ll be working security in the ballroom.”
She nods. “Of course.”
“And I’ll be by Alfo’s side, moving him closer to you, Diantha.”
Orfeo slides an espresso in front of me while I massage my hairline. The fact I’m the only diurnal being is already proving to be a major logistical issue. “How many people are working with us?”
“Many. You’ll need to spend some time remembering these faces.
” Leo pulls out his phone, sets it on the island between us, and begins quickly scrolling through a series of photos.
It suddenly clicks for me that we’ve moved on to part two of preparations.
This is a briefing; I’m the President of the United States and we’re headed into a UN summit with a bunch of dickheads.
“This is Meesh’s coven. Note the facial tattoos.”
I nod, trying to absorb the beautiful women flashing past me. Septum piercing, goddess braids. A smattering of star tattoos around a set of piercing green eyes. A pair of full, lush lips with an Ashley piercing. “Got it. Can you send me these?”
“Sure. Next, we have a handful of demons who Alfo has fucked over. They’re all out for blood, so we’ll use them to hold the perimeter once Alfo makes a run for it.”
These faces are harder to commit to my memory.
Honestly, they look like every thuggish white boy I used to see on the Brooklyn trains.
Harsh fades, too-white teeth, bad hand and neck tattoos already blown out.
Some of them have facial scars from where they’ve clearly had surgery to hide their flat, harsh, demonic features.
“Can I get some names?”
“Uhhh…”
Orfeo and Misha laugh. “Who remembers a demon’s name?” Orfeo teases, wrapping an arm around my chest, pulling me back against him. “Amore, they are like Kleenex. Disposable.”
“All right, fine. Sorry.” I throw back my espresso shot. “Who else?”
Leo opens another picture app on his phone. “We have a bunch of strigoi from Canada who want Alfo’s head on a pike.” The next set of photos Leo scrolls through are…barely photos. I see the ghoulish blue impression of faces, the distant black pits of nostrils, and red-glowing eyes.
“Let me guess, strigoi don’t show up in pictures?”
“Hah, no. They don’t, but we captured them on the club’s infrared cameras.” He opens a different file and hits play on a video. It’s a green-black grainy security video taken from above Hades House’s front door.
A pack of strigoi, tall and lean with rangy arms and big feet, approach the door.
They’re dressed like they just got off a bus from the hottest club in Berlin—long PVC trench coats, skin-tight jeans, heavy combat boots.
Their fangs are long, catching the light in a way that they basically shine on camera.
Their facial features are impossible to decipher, but their physicality is so unique, I know I won’t forget them.
“Got it. They’ll help me hunt Alfo?”
“Strigoi are extremely fast and strong, the strongest of all the vampires. We’ll put one at each tunnel that leads in and out of the altar room in the catacombs—except for the main way. You’ll cover that.”
I blow out a breath. “Got it.”
“Don’t worry about all the little pieces,” Orfeo says in a kind voice. He lays his hand over mine, giving me another reassuring squeeze. “You know what you need to do.”
“We’ll handle the rest,” Misha adds. “Believe me, we’re good on our feet. If something goes wrong, we’ll recover—everyone involved has been wanting to destroy this motherfucker for a long time. If we need to freestyle, we’ll freestyle.”
“Brava.” Orfeo smirks. “Misha, as usual, is exactly right.”