Hunted

was to it.
    The fact that in my nightmare Kalona had insisted I was A-ya was just crazy. It wasn’t true. Sure, I’d felt drawn to him, but so had practically everyone else. Plus, I was me, and A-ya had been, well, dirt until the Ghigua women had breathed life and special gifts into her. I must look like her, weird as that is, I told myself. Or maybe he’d called me A-ya just to mess with my head. That seemed more than possible, especially if Neferet had told him stuff about me.
    Nala had settled back down on the pillow beside Stevie Rae and was purring again with her eyes shut. Obviously there were no nightmare monsters lurking about because Nala would have been freaked. Glad at least of that, I gave her head and Stevie Rae’s a little pat—neither opened her eyes—and then ducked through the blanket door and into the hallway.
    The tunnels were absolutely silent. I was glad that the oil lanterns were still lit; darkness and I weren’t exactly on good terms right then. I’ll also admit that, even though I kept a wary eye on the shadows between lights for bats and whatnot, it did feel reassuring to be snuggly underground and not anywhere near open, moonlit meadows or trees with ghostly shadows perched in them. I shivered. No. Don’t think about it.
    On the way to the kitchen I paused by Kramisha’s doorway and peeked quietly in. I could just make out her head in the middle of her bed under mounds of purple comforter and pink pillows. The Twins were zonked out on sleeping bags with their hateful cat, Beelzebub, curled up on the floor between them.
    I closed the blanket flap quietly, not wanting to wake up the Twins before it was their turn to be on watch. Actually, I should grab my brown pop and relieve Damien and Jack and let the Twins sleep. I definitely wouldn’t be doing any more sleeping for a while—like years. Okay, just kidding. Sort of.
    No one was in the kitchen. The only sound was the small, homelike hum of the refrigerators. The first one I opened caused me to take a little step back in shock. The entire fridge was filled with sealed baggies full of blood. Seriously. And, of course, my mouth started to water.
    I slammed the door shut.
    And then reconsidered and opened it again. Resolutely, I grabbed a baggie. I’d had next to no sleep. I was under major stress. A stupid immortal fallen angel bad guy was after me and calling me some dead dirt girl’s name. Let’s face it, I needed a lot more than brown pop to get through the day.
    I found the scissors in the top drawer of the butcher block island and, before I could guilt or gross myself out of it, snipped open the bag and upended it.
    I know, I know. My slurping down blood like it was from a collapsible juice box sounds completely nasty, but it was delicious. It didn’t taste like blood, or at least not that coppery, salty way blood used to taste to me before I was Marked. It was delicious and electrifying, like drinking rare gourmet honey mixed with wine (if you like wine) mixed with Red Bull (but better tasting). I could feel it spreading through my body, giving me a jolt of energy that chased away the lingering terror of my nightmare.
    I crumpled up the empty baggie and tossed it in the big garbage can in the corner of the room. Then I grabbed a bottle of brown pop and a bag of nacho cheese Doritos. I mean, my breath already smelled gross from the blood. Might as well have Doritos for breakfast.
    Then I realized: one, I didn’t know where Damien and Jack were, and two, I really needed to call Sister Mary Angela and find out how Grandma was doing.
    Yeah, I know it sounds weird that I was calling a nun. It sounds even weirder that I trusted said nun with my grandma’s life. Literally. But all the weirdness stopped the moment I met Sister Mary Angela, prioress of the Benedictine nuns of Tulsa. Besides doing nun stuff (praying and whatnot), Sister Mary Angela and the nuns from the abbey run Tulsa Street Cats, which is how I met her. I’d decided that House of Night fledglings needed to get more active in the community. I mean, the House of Night had been in Tulsa for upward of five years, but it was like we were a little island of our own. Everyone with any sense knows isolation and ignorance equal prejudice—hello, I read Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter From Birmingham Jail” the beginning of my sophomore year. Anyway, what with two vampyre professors being nastily murdered, Shekinah had agreed with my idea of helping a community