But how much comfort can a generator provide? It’s just after daybreak and the temperature is rising faster than the sun.
Which is another reason to break this stupid stalemate. I take a step toward the woman.
“Yá’át’ééh.”
She blinks and looks at me as if I’d just sprung fully formed from the earth.
“Yá’át’ééh,” I repeat. It’s the only Native American greeting I know. I heard it in the movie Midnight Run. The way she’s eyeing me makes me think maybe it doesn’t mean hello. Maybe it really means fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Martin Brest’s idea of a joke.
Finally the lock on that tight jaw breaks, and she relaxes enough to smile. She comes down the porch steps, extending her hand.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m Sarah. We don’t get many visitors out here.” She shoots Frey a pointed look. “Especially unannounced.”
Her hand is warm and rough. When she feels how cold mine is, she tries to hide her reaction, but I see it. She draws back just an inch, her breath catches. She wants to pull her hand free but composes herself not to. I let go first. Step away to increase her comfort zone.
I look over at Frey. I wish we still had the psychic connection because I could swear with that one moment of contact, Sarah recognized me for what I am.
Her next words confirm my suspicion.
She rounds on Frey. “You bring a vampire here? To your son’s home? Are you crazy?”
Frey’s face pales. “Anna is a friend. She means no harm.”
“Vampires always mean harm. It is their nature. They are predators like the wolf or the snake or—”
“The panther?”
The freeze descends once again. Was this what caused the breakup? Sarah found out what Frey was? I always thought Native Americans accepted that there were humans whose spirit transcended the normal. Maybe accepting and being bound to one of those spirits, though, are two entirely different things.
She must have found out the truth about Frey being a shape-shifter after becoming pregnant.
I’m glad I wasn’t around for that conversation.
“Daddy!”
The screen door bangs once again and a small child flies down the steps like a miniature whirlwind and into Frey’s arms. Frey scoops him up and dances around in a circle. They speak in Navajo, their pleasure at seeing each other so genuine, so unaffected, I almost join them just to be a part of it. If I didn’t feel Sarah’s eyes boring into my back, I might have. But her glare is as obvious a warning to Frey as it is to me. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her son. Mama bear has her claws out.
Frey either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He stops dancing long enough to bring the boy over to me. “John-John,” he says in English, “this is my friend, Anna.”
I still feel the heat of Sarah’s angry glower, but I smile anyway. “Very nice to meet you.”
He sticks out a chubby hand. “Nice to meet you, too.” His English is perfect. His round, cherub face aglow. He has his mother’s coloring, but he has Frey’s eyes and mouth.
I touch his fingers and give a nod. Before I can say anything else, Sarah has swooped down on us. She takes the boy from Frey and calls out to Mary. When Mary joins us, Sarah barks something in Navajo and puts the boy in her arms.
Mary responds, her tone and expression tells me she is arguing with Sarah, but she’s quickly cut off.
“Take him inside.” Sarah speaks in English this time. “Don’t argue.”
Frey’s face betrays his disappointment. He waits until Mary is back inside before bracing Sarah. “You have no right to keep my son from me.”
“And you have no right to show up and demand an audience. We agreed. I would bring John-John to you when the time was right.”
“We agreed?” Frey snaps back. “No. You agreed. If you think I’m going to wait until he’s nine or ten to forge a relationship with my own son, you’re crazy. He’ll have forgotten me by then or, worse, think I’ve abandoned him. Reservation kids have enough trouble without adding insecurity to the mix.”
Angry color floods Sarah’s face. “Don’t you dare criticize our life here. Our son is far better off with people who love and can protect him than he would be with you, exposed to things like that.”
She finishes by jabbing a thumb in my direction.
A thing? Until now, I’ve listened to their vitriolic exchange as an interested and intrigued voyeur. Even found it mildly humorous, being of a somewhat twisted nature. But now she’s dragging me into the fight. My backbone stiffens. I open my mouth to spew an angry rebuttal, but Frey cuts me off.
“You don’t know Anna. And you don’t know me. You ran away before giving me a chance to prove that I could take care of you—both. If I had to pick now between you and Anna to protect our son, Anna would win. No contest.”
He takes a step toward her, and I half expect him to thrust an angry finger into her chest to emphasize each word as he continues. Instead, he balls his hands into fists and presses them into his side, his voice shaking with rage. “She has the best heart of anyone I know. She’s risked her life more than once to save mine. She’s fighting even now to save your ass and you don’t even know it. So, yeah, I’d pick Anna over you any day. I just wish John-John was her son instead of yours.”
My stomach gives a jolt. I don’t know who is more shocked by Frey’s outburst, Frey, Sarah or I. Of course, the reason for being shocked is different for each of us. Sarah looks as if she’s been sucker punched. Frey looks as if he can’t believe what he just said. I’m so flabbergasted, my mouth falls open with an astonished gasp. The three of us stand still as statues each waiting for the other to speak first. I won’t be of any help. Frey’s last words twirl around in my head like sticky threads of cotton candy, completely confounding rational thought.
It’s Mary who breaks the stalemate.
She’s standing on the porch, glaring down at Sarah and Frey, her eyes blazing with fury. “Are you two crazy? Don’t you realize John-John can hear you? He’s in his room crying his eyes out because his mommy and daddy are fighting over him. What’s the matter with you?”
Sarah releases a breath, her shoulders slump. Her face reflects regret and bitterness. “I’ll go to him in a minute, Mary.”
“You should both go to him. Now.”
Sarah looks up at Frey, gives a small nod of capitulation. The two of them move into the house, each careful to keep their distance as if any physical contact might precipitate another verbal explosion.
Mary comes down the steps to join me. “Can you believe those two?”
I shake my head. I’m still a little thunderstruck by what transpired.
Mary motions toward the porch. “Let’s get out of the sun.”
I follow her up the steps and we plop our butts down on a couple of old canvas chairs set back in the shadows.
“Want anything to drink?”
I finally find my voice. “No. Thanks.”
She eyes me under a fringe of bangs. “So what are you to Frey?”
“What are you to Sarah?”
“Sister.”
“Friend.”
“Well, at least one of us is telling the truth.”
I sit up a little straighter. “I’m telling the truth, too. Frey and I are friends.”
“A friend that he wishes was the mother of his child.”
So she heard that. “He didn’t mean it.” Did he? Of course he didn’t. I’m vampire.
“Well, he said it.” Mary fixes me with a penetrating stare. “Are you really a vampire?”
She heard that, too. “Yes.”
“Cool.”
My turn to stare. “You’re not repulsed like Sarah?”
“Shit, no. Sarah is being overprotective.”
“Seems more like paranoid.”
Mary shrugs. “She has her reasons. But if Frey trusts you, I do, too.”
I look around. The area is beautiful, true, but it’s lonely. Too lonely
for the average—
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Nineteen.”
“And you live here?”
It comes out far more disparagingly than I mean it to. I backtrack quickly. “It’s just you are so young and—”
Mary laughs and brushes the air with a hand. “It’s okay. No. I don’t live here year round. I attend college in Phoenix. I’m here for the summer. Helping Sarah with John-John and as she likes to put it, reconnecting with my roots. I won’t stay here after I graduate, though. The atmosphere on the rez is too claustrophobic.”
“But it isn’t for Sarah?”
“Not since she had John-John. It’s like she feels safe here.”
“Safe? From what?”
For the first time, Mary’s expression becomes guarded. Her shoulders draw up a little, her posture stiffens. “You should ask her.”
I don’t want to risk Mary shutting down. I scour my brain for something to get us back on the friendly track we were before. A whiff of horse drifts up from the corral. “I noticed you have horses. You ride a lot?”
Mary’s shoulders relax. “Yes. It’s one of the reasons I don’t mind spending summers here. Do you ride?”
“Me?” I laugh. “No. Never been on a horse.”
“Well, we’ll have to remedy that. I’ll take you out this afternoon if you’d like.”
We’ll have to see what the horse says about that. The last time I was close to a horse, it shied away from me with a baring of teeth and flattening of ears. I think it sensed the beast. But I don’t want to call attention to that side of my nature, so I pause to compose a noncommittal reply. Before I come up with anything, the door opens behind us.
Sarah is back.
CHAPTER 19
SARAH DOESN’T LOOK PARTICULARLY HAPPY TO SEE me sitting on her porch, even less happy to see me chatting up her little sister like we’re a couple of school chums. But surprisingly, she doesn’t lash out. She has car keys in her hand. When she speaks it’s with a decidedly resigned air.
“Mary, you and I are going up to the lodge.”
Mary raises her eyebrows. “John-John?”
“He’s staying.” She has pointedly refrained from looking at me. Now she does. “Frey says I can trust you. He’d better be right.”
She doesn’t wait for me to spout reassurances. She tromps down the porch steps and heads for the truck. Mary gives me a thumbs-up and follows.
Sarah pulls away, her grim face pointed straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel. I half expect the truck to come roaring back and Sarah to wave a wreath of garlic and a stake at me so I wait until even the dust from their abrupt departure has dissipated before figuring it’s safe to go inside.
The house is cool and dark. The front door opens to a living area painted stark white. The walls are hung with blankets of intricate design woven in primary colors—red, blue, green, yellow. The furniture is leather, big, built more for comfort than style, kid scuffed. A couch and two overstuffed side chairs cluster around a rectangular table that looks homemade. It’s wood, juniper maybe, and polished to a high sheen. Coloring books and crayons and children’s games and books are scattered over its surface. In the corner, a loom with a half-finished blanket. The pattern is diamond shaped, strands of yarn trailing to the floor.
In my mind’s eye I picture Sarah weaving while John-John colors close by.
It’s an image that invokes a strange heaviness in my chest.
A lovely image.
A hint of sandalwood mingles with the aroma of freshly baked bread and the earthy smells of juniper and desert sage.
This is a house that is well loved—again I feel a pang—and it’s a house filled with people who love each other. Frey may be the kid’s father, but we are intruders.
Maybe I shouldn’t have brought Frey. I could have come alone. Made sure his son was safe and found the shaman on my own. Chael knew the location.
Why do I always drag Frey into things that threaten his well-being? I accuse Chael of not doing his homework—I should have done mine. Forced Frey to tell me the story of his son’s birth back when I first learned he had a son. But I was too consumed in my own drama, and now look …
Should have, could have, would have.
Makes no difference. The damage is done.
From down a short hall, I hear Frey’s quiet voice. He’s talking to John-John. I don’t know whether to join them or not. Guilt at being the cause of the kid’s sadness makes me want to flee.
Until I hear the giggle.
John-John’s giggle.
I tiptoe toward the sound. There are four doors, two on each side of the hall. The first on the left and right are bedrooms, probably Sarah’s and Mary’s judging from the vanities and flowered wallpapers. The third door leads to a bathroom. The last is John-John’s.
Frey is sitting on the edge of the bed, John-John on his lap. They are looking through a picture book. John-John points to a page and Frey recites in English followed by John-John in Navajo. When Frey attempts the Navajo translation, it sends John-John into squeals of laughter.
At that moment I know. It was selfishness on my part to want Frey with me on this journey, but it was selfishness on Sarah’s part to keep him from his son. I’m glad we’re here.
John-John looks up and sees me standing in the doorway. I start to duck away, but Frey calls me back.
“Come on in, Anna. John-John is helping me with my Navajo.”
“Are you sure I’m not intruding?”
John-John wiggles off Frey’s lap and comes to the door to grab my hand. “Would you like to learn Navajo?” he asks. “I could teach you.”
At first, I’m unsure whether to let him touch me. But John-John already has my hand in his little fist. He seems not to notice that my hand has no warmth. At least there’s no violent physical reaction the way there was with Sarah. I let him lead me to the bed and hoist him back on Frey’s lap, settling myself next to them. “No, no. I’ll just listen to you and your daddy. Will that be all right?”
He nods and picks up the book and the two of them take up where they left off, John-John’s head bent over the pages and Frey’s arms tight around his son.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a four-year-old. I’d forgotten how much warmth their little bodies exude or how they smell of clean earth and talcum powder. I snuggle closer just to share in some of that warmth and breathe more deeply of his scent.
Frey and John-John go back to their lesson. I look around John-John’s room—very much a boy’s room with racing cars and Legos and curtains patterned with galloping horses. A bookcase has three shelves of books and one of pictures. I see only one of Frey. John-John was still a babe in arms when it was taken. I recognize where it was taken, here on the front porch. Did Sarah leave Boston when she found out she was pregnant or right after the baby was born? Did Frey know she was returning to the reservation? Or did she leave without a word, forcing him to track them on his own?
What happened to make her take John-John away from Frey? He’s one of the most honorable men I know. And one of the most loving. I can’t think of any justification for Sarah’s actions. Not when it’s so obvious that Frey loves his son.
A child needs both his parents.
I listen to Frey and his son talk and laugh, feeling very much the outsider. This is a relationship that I’ll never have—the relationship of parent and child. It’s a relationship I never thought I wanted—even before becoming vampire. So why do I feel this sudden emptiness? What has changed?
John-John’s sweet laugh makes the answer clear.
Everything.
I hear Chael in my head, echoing my thoughts. All I have to do is choose to become human again and the possibility of having what Frey and his son have becomes real.
I misjudged Chael.
He dangled the right carrot. He’d done his homework after all, the tricky bastard.
CHAPTER 20
AFTER TEN MINUTES OR SO, JOHN-JOHN
YAWNS and rubs his eyes. Frey takes the book from his hand and lays him down on the bed.
John-John looks up at him with eyes suddenly wide with worry. “You’ll be here when I wake up, won’t you, Azhé’é?”
Frey brushes a fringe of raven hair back from John-John’s forehead. “I will, Shiye.”
John-John curls up and Frey pulls a blanket from the foot of the bed and snugs it around his little body. Within seconds, the kid is asleep.
I wish it was that easy for adults.
We tiptoe out and Frey closes the door behind us. I follow him through the living room to the kitchen. It looks like something from the fifties—turquoise refrigerator and stove, Formica table with a patterned top that looks like cracked ice, four upholstered leatherette chairs with chrome legs. The countertops are empty and spotless. The white lace curtains in the window are starched and ironed. Even the linoleum on the floor sparkles.
“Wow. Sarah is some housekeeper.”
Anal, is what I’m thinking. But Frey’s place is the same way, so I play nice.
He’s crossed to the refrigerator, opens it and withdraws a couple of bottles of water. He motions with the bottles to the table and I take a seat.
After we’ve both washed the dust out of our throats, I say, “He’s really cute.”
Frey smiles and nods.
“And smart, too.”
“Whew. Much smarter than I was at that age. Speaks and reads Navajo and English. At four.”
“Who teaches him?”
“Sarah, mostly. But when Mary isn’t here, he goes to a preschool on the rez while Sarah is at work.”
“Where does she work?”
“At Goulding’s Lodge. She’s a tour guide.”
That must be the lodge she spoke of when she took off with Mary. “How long do you think she’ll be gone?”
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