by Lisa Kessler
And without a sound, he took flight.
Flight? Gregorio’s jaw went slack. Impossible. Unable to believe what he’d just witnessed, he stared out at the troubled ocean. Although darkness surrounded him, he saw the landscape as if it were daylight.
Then he noticed the night alive all around him. Tiny crabs burrowed under the sand, escaping from the tide that sought to wash them away. Each tiny leg scuttled against the grains of sand.
And he could hear—everything.
The soft beat of a nearby owl’s wings, the song of the crickets in the sagebrush, and the warning rattle of a snake combined into a twilight symphony. How was this possible? What had the Old One done to him?
Pain and need jolted through him, silencing the night. Thirst overpowered his senses. He stumbled toward the barrel and leaned far inside, drinking huge gulps of water. The moment it slid down his parched throat, his body rejected it. He coughed violently until he purged the water from his body. Moaning, he fell to his knees, still aching. And still thirsty.
Gregorio knelt on the sand, catching his breath. He needed answers. But first he needed to rid himself of the stench of death.
He stripped off his soiled clothes and washed himself. The rough sponge and cool water soothed his skin.
Behind the barrel, draped over a fallen tree, he found a leather loincloth similar to the ones worn by the native warriors. Accustomed to having his entire body covered by the robes of a priest, the loincloth left him feeling exposed to the night, but he had nothing else.
He walked down the beach, searching the night for the Old One. He caught the scent of rabbits and even heard the disembodied voices of men in the distance. Impossible, like a strange dream, and yet he was awake.
Walking farther down the shoreline, he looked up at the cliffs, searching for the cave he entered the night before. Finally, he saw the opening in the rocks and climbed up the sandy cliff, surprised at how simple the task seemed now. His body felt stronger and more agile, like one of the native bobcats of the area.
He reached the opening to the Old One’s cave in half the time it took him the previous night, and he made the climb tonight without any abrasions to his hands or feet in spite of scaling the cliff face without sandals.
He moved to the back of the cave, and his head filled with questions for the Old One. What had happened to him? He felt changed, but how?
Before he could ask anything, the Old One stood in front of him. “Come. You are a Night Walker now, and you must feed.”
Without waiting for a reply, the Old One passed him, walking toward the mouth of the cave. When they reached a clearing, the old man whispered, “Listen to the night, and call the deer to us.”
He looked at the Old One with a questioning stare. “I do not—”
“No questions. Use your mind.”
Gregorio closed his eyes and listened, soon hearing the soft calls of a doe. Envisioning the deer in his mind, he found he could connect with the animal and see the night through the animal’s eyes. Gradually, he guided her into the clearing, and when he opened his eyes the deer stood before them.
Chanting low and steady, the Old One approached the animal and beckoned Gregorio forward. He tilted the doe’s head back, exposing its soft throat.
“Drink.”
“What?” Gregorio frowned. “I cannot. Not while the beast lives.”
“You must. Come.”
His disgust grew, as did his thirst, with each step he took. The doe’s heartbeat called to him, a temptation too strong to resist.
The Old One drew a small dagger from his belt, piercing the doe’s throat, and the scent of blood made Gregorio’s hands tremble with the ache of hunger.
“Drink, young one. Do as your new body commands.”
Unable to fight his thirst any longer, he knelt at the animal’s throat, moaning with a mixture of revulsion and rapture. He drank voraciously, enjoying the taste of the warm blood that filled his mouth. When the animal’s veins emptied and the doe collapsed, what remained of the man inside of him was repulsed.
Yet the monster yearned for more.
The Old One picked up the doe and started back toward the cave. Gregorio fell to his knees and stared up at the sky. He wanted to scream, to cry to God to save his soul, but he had no tears left. He was numb and empty.
“Why do you despair?”
Gregorio turned, surprised to see the Old One staring at him.
“Because I am cursed.”
“No,” the Old One said with a crooked smile. “You are blessed. I have chosen you as my descendant. You will be a great healer and lead these people against the Spanish outsiders. Come, you have much to learn.”
And learn he did.
For the following month, he acted as an apprentice to the Old One, learning the ancient healing secrets of the Night Walkers. Gradually mastering his powers, he became one with the night around him and found a new purpose for his existence.
He was a healer, a Night Walker.
The Kumeyaay tribes called him Kuseyaay, and he became their most respected Shaman and protector. With his help, they would regain their freedom from the mission. For that purpose, the Old One chose him to receive his power.
Then one night, the cave sat empty, the cinders within the inner chamber cold, the walls free of their designs.
The Old One was gone.
…
Just after three in the morning, Calisto reached Point Loma. With so few people awake and on the streets, he opened his mind without a mental overload from the humans around him.
He could not court Kate with the specter of the Fraternidad haunting him. The monks needed to remember whom they were dealing with. Hunger gnawed at his veins, reminding him that he hadn’t fed. He needed blood to keep his strength from waning. Hoping to find sustenance, he walked toward a well-lit corner in the distance. When he reached the convenience store, he lowered his mental shields, listening to the humans around him. Before he sorted through the entire fog of information, he found something interesting.
An ancient Latin chant.
His brow furrowed as he quietly walked through the parking lot, his mind fully focused on the chant, letting his Night Walker instincts draw him closer to his prey. When he reached the shadowed corner of the lot, he saw the face he’d searched for. Calisto smiled.
Father Tomas sat behind the wheel of a silver sedan. The chant he repeated shielded his thoughts, keeping Calisto locked out of his mind. Calisto clenched his fists and sucked in a deep breath. Apparently the Fraternidad knew more about his kind than he realized.
How long had they blocked his mental probes?
He burst into the passenger seat of the car, taking pleasure in the terrified gasp of the driver.
“Father Tomas De Cardina, I presume?”
The monk recovered from his shock and quickly thrust the cross that hung around his neck into Calisto’s face. “Stay back, creature of Satan.”
Calisto laughed. “Is that what you think I am?” He reached out to clasp the crucifix, and with a jerk of his wrist, snapped the gold chain from the monk’s neck. “If you know so much about me, then surely you know the church helped to make me what I am.”
He shook his head. “Lies! You sold your soul to Satan himself, and now you are his apprentice. You are an abomination before God.”
Calisto smirked. He heard the blood coursing through Father Tomas’ veins at an alarming rate, tempting him, calling to him.
“What you believe is of no consequence to me. I will not be threatened, least of all by the Fraternidad, and never at my own home.”
Surprise filled the monk’s gaze, and his mental chant faltered.
“I have not forgotten the signet of the Fraternidad.” He held up his left hand, showing his own ring. His personal signet bore the holy fire of the Fraternidad, but it also included a finely carved bird soaring across the top. Lifetimes ago, it symbolized the dove of peace, but now Calisto considered it a raven, his Night Walker spirit animal
.
A bead of sweat made its way down Father Tomas’ forehead. “We know what you are, and we will do what we must in the name of God to insure that you make no others.”
Calisto frowned at the unexpected answer. “Why would I make another?”
Father Tomas kept silent, staring at the crucifix in Calisto’s hand. Again Calisto attempted to reach the monk’s mind, only to find the same repeated chant shielding the monk’s true thoughts.
He grabbed Tomas’ robe and yanked him closer. “Answer me!”
Frustration burned through Calisto. He felt his eyes glow crimson with rage.
“Santa Maria!” Father Tomas gasped and jammed a knife into Calisto’s abdomen, stabbing up underneath his ribcage.
Calisto’s eyes widened as pain seared through his chest. Blood spilled from the gaping wound, but his body tingled, healing from the inside out. He let go of the monk with one hand and plucked the knife from his torso, wrenching it free from the fanatic’s clutched hand.
Father Tomas struggled like a wild animal in the presence of a predator. Calisto dropped the knife to the floor of the car and clutched the monk with both hands. He drew Father Tomas closer. His fangs grazed the monk’s skin just below his ear. The priest fought to break away, but Calisto’s grip was inescapable. The more the monk struggled, the stronger his pulse became. The scent of blood combined with fear intoxicated Calisto. His thirst clawed to the surface, threatening to seize control.
“Let me go! In the name of God, let me go!”
Calisto’s voice was no more than a cold whisper. “I have no God. Not anymore.”
He sank his fangs into the monk’s neck and drank. The man’s life flashed through his mind, visions of Spain and the monastery where he trained centuries ago. He lost himself in the images, so modern and yet still the home he remembered.
His lips pulled at the monk’s throat, drawing more blood. But then one of the visions made his heart stutter, an image he never expected, and one that changed everything. Calisto jerked back, but the monk’s eyes were vacant.
“No!”
It was too late. Father Tomas was dead.
Calisto released him, growling in disgust at his lack of control. He was left with more questions than answers.
Kate’s face loomed in Father Tomas’ mind. The Fraternidad knew she lived again.
And they watched her, too.
Chapter Five
Kate stretched as sunlight poured through the window into the living room. Heading into the kitchen, she made a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and shook her head in disbelief at the beautiful November day. Back in Reno the days had already cooled as winter moved in, but here in San Diego, she could wear shorts into December. Though the climate here was familiar, she still found it amazing.
She popped open her laptop and glanced over the top local news stories on her homepage. Years ago, her father read the newspaper at this same countertop every morning. The memory brought a smile to her lips.
Settled in with her breakfast, she scanned headlines. One caught her eye: Spanish monk slain, body dumped at the doors of the Mission de Alcala.
Kate frowned. The priest, Father Tomas De Cardina, was visiting from a remote monastery in Spain. The police didn’t have a motive for the killing, and they hadn’t yet released the cause of death.
What kind of person would murder a monk? Kate sipped her coffee and considered what would drive a person to then treat the monk’s body with such disrespect.
Shaking her head, she finished her toast and set her laptop aside. The last thing she wanted to read about was bad news. She grabbed her Macy’s bags and poked through her wardrobe purchases.
Before her appointment at The Fish Market, she had lunch plans at Horton Plaza with Edie, so she headed upstairs to clean up and get ready to go. Kate looked forward to spending a little more time with Edie. Being back with her friends again definitely helped lift her spirits. Except when they hovered and lectured. She hoped to show them she didn’t need their mothering anymore. She would be strong. She would be confident. She would find her way.
After a quick shower, Kate dressed, grabbed her purse, and headed into the sunshine.
…
Betty rushed into her office, dropping the mail on her desk in an effort to save her coffee before it slipped completely out of the crook of her arm. Yes, she could’ve made two trips, but she hated going all the way back to her car for one item. It was an inefficient use of her time.
She set her coffee on the coaster and moved around her desk to settle in her executive chair. She loved the feel of the cool leather soaking through her linen suit. It made her feel powerful, all business. As a girl, she dreamed of being an attorney, but not because she longed to fight for justice or truth. A lawyer commanded respect. They were women that even rich, influential men feared.
Of course, she never became an attorney. College wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. In the end, she didn’t need a diploma to hang on the wall. She possessed an abundant amount of determination and organizational skills that college graduates would kill for.
And it was finally paying off.
Sipping her coffee, she quickly sorted the envelopes into stacks. Betty opened the drawer, retrieving her gold-plated letter opener. She started out as a personal assistant by accident. Three years ago she answered an ad for a receptionist at a talent agency in Los Angeles. While she waited in the lobby for her interview, she struck up a conversation with a guitarist from some rock band she had never heard of. Before she knew it, she had a job working for him.
Even though she was the best personal assistant her employer ever had, the job hadn’t lasted long. On a trip to San Diego to represent him at a dinner party, she met Calisto Terana, founder of a charity that raised money for performing arts in schools and colleges as well as promoting the arts to rural schools on the reservations.
After an enjoyable evening of small talk and cocktails, he asked her to move to San Diego and work for the foundation. She never looked back. Calisto offered her a six-figure salary and an office in La Jolla with a view of the ocean. Not to mention he was one of the most reclusive and sexy eligible bachelors in Southern California. She’d be nuts to refuse.
But she’d soon discovered reclusive was putting it mildly—more like virtually nonexistent most of the time. He rarely came into the office, and when he did, it was usually after hours and at the tail end of another trip. Although she’d hoped for more interaction with him, she grew to love the independence of running the office herself. For the most part, he let her have complete control of the foundation’s operations, as long as she kept him up-to-date on her activities, and Betty enjoyed every minute of it. Within a year, Calisto named her director.
The title suited her just fine.
Betty had the mail opened and sorted in no time. She glanced at her calendar and smiled when she saw her meeting with Calisto tonight. Her steel-gray business suit was tailored for a perfect fit, but she decided she’d have to run back to her condo before the meeting to change into something less… uptight. Calisto kept a very professional distance with her, but deep down she wished he would open up so they could get to know each other better.
He represented everything she wanted in a man: tall, dark, handsome, intelligent, cultured, and extremely wealthy. Her pulse raced just thinking about him, and every evening meeting with him offered another potential opportunity to expand their relationship.
Betty prided herself on not allowing opportunities slip by.
Although she’d worked for him for a few years now, she really didn’t know anything about his past, except that he was originally from Spain. Calisto didn’t like to talk about himself and even when she asked direct questions, usually he found some way to get around them.
She discovered he was an accomplished pianist purely by chance one evening when she walked in on him playing after work. Her employer remained a mystery to her, but that made him even more desirable in her mind. Betty loved a good
mystery, especially when it came wrapped in a six-foot-two-inch chiseled body with dark eyes that could melt you where you stood.
She worked quickly to get their donor list updated. If she worked through lunch, she could leave with plenty of time to change and let her hair down.
If tonight went according to plan, Calisto would be the one melting. She could hardly wait.
…
1775
The Old One was gone.
Gregorio struggled to grow into his new role within the tribe. He settled disputes, reading each party’s thoughts to discover the truth, and healed the injured, closing their wounds with his own blood. The local tribes admired his abilities and judgment. They treated him with honor and awed reverence, but deep inside, his soul still burned with rage and hungered for revenge.
Tonight, he would hunger no more. The Kumeyaay people were not neophytes, as the priests so often labeled them. They were a proud people, rich with tradition, but the Church sought to change that, to change them, by whatever means necessary.
The Spanish, his own people, would pay for taking Tala from him and enslaving the Kumeyaay tribes. The priests would not go unpunished.
The moon shone brightly above them, casting light on the silent mission as the tribes banded together to fight for their freedom. Over 600 warriors silently surrounded the structure. The Spanish would call this the day of the Alcala Massacre, but for Gregorio, the Night Walker, it marked the night of judgment for a man he once called friend.
He had prepared the warriors for this fight, drawing pictures of the muskets and explaining how they were used. Warriors gathered from many tribes, each sharing a common fear of the white men who sought to steal their identity and way of life.
Tala’s death at the hand of a Spaniard provided further proof the white men were a threat to all of the tribes. Even their women and children were not safe.
With the warriors in place, a single battle cry broke the evening’s stillness. In seconds, the wooden planks of the mission’s roof blazed. At the same time, another band of warriors smashed the clay flumes that brought fresh water into the mission, making it impossible to extinguish the fire.
