Hidden (House of Night Novels)

strength and his love.
    “Promise me you won’t freak out on me and become some cold, distant stranger,” I said softly to him.
    “I promise. No matter what,” he said with no hesitation. “Now, clear your mind of everything except the fact that I’m going to force you to try a different pizza tonight.”
    “No Santino? But we love that pizza!”
    “Trust me, Z. Damien told me about the Athenian pizza. He said it’s the ambrosia of pizzas. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I’m thinking it’s better than good, so we’re going for it.”
    I smiled, relaxed beside him and pretended, for the short ride from the House of Night to the depot, that my biggest problem was choosing to expand my pizza horizons.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Grandma Redbird
    Sylvia greeted the sun with joy and thanksgiving and a heart that felt lighter than it had for years—lighter even than it had the morning before when she’d faced Aurox and chosen love and forgiveness over anger and hatred.
    Her daughter was dead, and though she would feel Linda’s loss for the rest of this lifetime, Sylvia knew that she was finally free of the wasteland her daughter’s life had become. Linda rested in the Otherworld with Nyx, content and pain-free. The knowledge made the old woman smile.
    Sitting at her crafting desk in the workroom of her cottage, she hummed an ancient Cherokee lullaby as she chose from the various herbs and stones, crystals and threads, picking a long, thin blade of sweet grass to wrap around a bundle of dried lavender. This dawn she would sing to the sun while the cleansing smoke of sweet grass and the soothing scent of lavender mixed and bathed her along with the sunlight. As she created the smudge stick Sylvia’s thoughts turned from her biological daughter to Zoey, the daughter of her spirit.
    “Ah, u-we-tsi-a-ge-ya, I do miss you so,” she said softly. “I will call you today when the sun sets. Your voice will be good to hear.” Her granddaughter was young, but she had been specially gifted by her Goddess, and even though that meant Zoey had unusual responsibilities to bear, it also meant she had the talent to rise to meet the challenges that came with those added responsibilities.
    And that had Sylvia’s mind turning to Aurox—the boy who was a beast. “Or is he a beast who is a boy?” While her hands worked, the old woman shook her head. “No, I will believe the best of him. I name him tsu-ka-nv-s-di-na . Bull instead of beast. I have met him, looked into his eyes, watched him weep with regret and loneliness. He has a spirit—a soul—and therefore a choice. I will believe that Aurox will choose Light, even if Darkness resides within him. None of us is entirely good. Or evil.” Sylvia closed her eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of grass and herbs. “Great Earth Mother, strengthen the good within the boy and allow tsu-ka-nv-s-di-na to be tamed.”
    Sylvia began humming again as she finished fashioning the smudge stick. It was only when she’d completed the weaving of grass and lavender that she realized the song she hummed had changed from lullaby to a much different tune: “Song for a Woman Who Was Brave in War .” Even though she still sat, Sylvia’s feet had begun to move, beating out the strong rhythm to accompany the rise and fall of her voice.
    When she realized what she was doing, Sylvia went utterly still. She looked down at her hands. Woven within the sweet grass and lavender was a blue thread that was strung and knotted with raw turquoise. With a jolt of clarity, Sylvia understood.
    “A Goddess Bundle.” Sylvia spoke the words reverently. “Thank you, Earth Mother, for this warning. My spirit heard you, and my body obeys.” Slowly, solemnly, the old woman stood. She walked to her bedroom and took off her sleep shirt. Opening the armoire that rested against the raw pine walls, Sylvia took out her most sacred regalia—the cape and the wrap skirt she had made when she first learned she was pregnant with Linda. The deerskin was old and a little loose on her slight body, but still smooth and soft. The green that Sylvia had spent so much time mixing and then dyeing had remained the color of moss, even after three decades. Not one of the shells or beads was loose.
    As Sylvia began to braid her silver hair in one long, thick rope, she began to sing the “Song for a Woman Who Was Brave in War ” aloud.
    She looped silver and turquoise earings through each earlobe.
    Her voice lifted and