Wow. I’ve just been verbally spanked and adding to the humiliation is the realization that I deserve it. His passion robs me of any snarky comeback I might throw back at him even if I could come up with anything. Right now, my immediate response is the desire to crawl through that hole in the hogan’s ceiling and disappear.
I offer the only gesture of conciliation I can think of. An apology.
“I’m sorry. Really. I came off like a prima donna when you’re here to do me a favor. I have no right to denigrate Navajo heritage. I didn’t understand. It’s no excuse. I do have a great deal of respect for Native Americans. If this is where we’re to stay tonight, I’ll do it gladly.”
Frey’s dark irritation shifts into something that looks like dark skepticism. “Gladly? Don’t push it, Anna. But apology accepted. I might have come off a tad strongly. Since John-John, I’ve learned a lot about the Navajo and their belief system. I respect them enormously, but I can’t expect everyone to.”
I’m saved from further chastisement by the sound of a vehicle approaching the campsite. Frey and I step outside.
“Here comes our host,” Frey says.
In the distance, a plume of dust marks the return of a group of day-trippers. Frey calls John-John to his side, and we slip inside the cool interior of the hogan to wait out of sight.
I surreptitiously sneak another look around as we wait.
Okay. I can sleep in here. As long as there are no spiders hiding in the chinks of those log walls.
I really hate spiders.
CHAPTER 22
IT TAKES ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES FOR THE NAVAJO guide to answer a spate of last-minute questions, accept gratuities pressed on him by enthusiastic tourists and herd them to their cars and off. Frey and John-John and I wait in the hogan. Soon after we hear the echo of the last car heading back for civilization, soft footfalls approach our hiding place.
“Hxida’ish hoghan yii, sida?”
“Here, brother.” Frey steps out, John-John and I at his heels. Frey and the Navajo embrace, talking quietly in the language that sounds magical to my untrained ears. After a moment, Frey turns in my direction.
“Anna, I’d like you to meet my very good friend, George Long Whiskers.”
I take a step forward, hesitantly because I’m unsure of protocol. But I needn’t have worried. Before I can acknowledge the introduction, John-John has scooted around my legs and thrown himself into George’s arms.
George laughs, lifts John-John into the air and spins him around. He says something that sends John-John and his father into heartier gales of laughter. I hang back, feeling once more like the outsider I obviously am.
But it gives me a minute to size up George Long Whiskers. He’s the same height as Frey, thicker through the middle. He’s wearing a black leather vest over a long-sleeved white cotton shirt open at the neck but still warm weather attire for an August afternoon. He appears not to notice. No sweat beads his forehead, no telltale circles under his arm. He’s got on jeans and scuffed boots and a bright red baseball cap. His hair is not black but light brown, and when he puts John-John back on the ground next to Frey and turns to me, I’m startled to see blue eyes under the brim of that baseball cap.
My reaction makes him grin as he puts out his hand. “Hey, Anna. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Never seen an albino Indian before, huh? Folks around here call me the white sheep of the family.”
I’m not sure whether to take his hand or not, still leery of physical contact after Sarah’s reaction. But a glance at Frey, who gives a subtle go-ahead motion with his head, and I return the handshake.
His grip is firm and dry and he doesn’t yank away. He has a wide, warm smile and a face that makes it impossible to guess his age. Sculpted cheekbones, straight nose, complexion touched with color, but not as dark as Sarah’s. An interesting genetic mix.
And not a long whisker in sight.
He seems to be sizing me up, too. “I like this one, Daniel,” he says after a second.
“I like her, too,” Frey says.
“Me, too,” John-John pipes up.
“Glad it’s unanimous.” I reach down and muss John-John’s hair.
George goes over to the loom and cuts off a length of yarn with a pocketknife. “Hey, John-John, how about you play with this while your dad and Anna and I talk.”
A piece of yarn? I’m wondering what kind of reaction that suggestion is going to get when I’m surprised by the look of delight on the kid’s face. He grabs it and squats down with his back against the wall of the hogan, ties a knot in the yarn and soon immerses himself into some kind of finger weaving.
Most four-year-olds I know would demand a wide-screen TV and a dinosaur manga cartoon marathon to hold their attention like that.
George leads us over to his vehicle—a converted bus, open on the top and sides, six rows of bench seats under a striped awning. Perfect for sightseeing. He waves Frey and I into the bus and we take seats facing each other. George on one side, Frey and I on the other.
Frey starts the conversation. “Did you talk to Sarah?”
George nods. “She is not happy that you are here. She worries how it will be for John-John when you leave again. And she sees Anna’s presence as a threat.”
“I’m a threat?” Bristling with indignation, I lean forward on the seat. “I’m not a threat to anyone. I’m here for one purpose. Once I’ve accomplished that purpose, I’ll leave.”
“It’s not that easy, Anna,” he says. His eyes regard me with frank appraisal. “You are vampire. By your nature you are a threat. There are many who would demand you leave our nation now. They will fight to prevent you from meeting with Sani.”
“Sani?”
“That is the name we call the shaman. He is a holy man and his identity is a closely guarded secret among the elders. They are sworn to protect him. Sarah is going to talk to them tonight at council. But you should be prepared for disappointment.”
I turn toward Frey. “Shouldn’t I be there when she speaks with them? Plead my case.”
George places a hand between Frey and me, his answer coming as quick as it is adamant. “No. In fact, Sarah will not make it known that you are here. She will address the council with the request from a friend who will come only if permission is granted. Bringing a vampire to a gathering of the Dine’é is foolhardy and dangerous. Sarah could be held responsible if something goes wrong.”
“Goes wrong? What do you think? I’ll go berserk and start attacking people?”
Frey tries to temper my rising indignation. “It’s not you specifically,” he says. “Traditionally the Navajo are morbidly afraid of the dead. They have no concept of life after death nor are deeds done in this life rewarded or punished. Mortal life is all. Death at an early age is viewed with dismay. You are young. You are the walking dead.”
“But that’s the reason I’m here. To see if it can be reversed. Surely that has to carry some weight with the elders.”
Neither George nor Frey answers. I can see by their expressions, they do not expect I’ll be granted an audience. Well, I’m not going to argue the point now. I’ll wait and see what happens. Then I’ll start arguing.
John-John skips over to us, the circle of yarn held between his two hands. “Look what I made.”
We climb out of the bus and I squat down so I’m eye level with John-John. “Is that a cat’s cradle?”
He giggles. “Watch.” He lets go of the bottom string and like magic, two patterns form and when he pulls his hands apart, the patterns move away from each other. “The gate is opening.”
I clap my hands. “That is wonderful, John-John. How long did it take you to come up with that?”
“Oh, I can make lots of things. Would you like to see more?”
But George lays a gentle hand on John-John’s shoulder. “We have to go meet your mother now. You can show Anna more another time.” He looks at Frey. “I have food for you in the bus. And blankets. Will the two of you be all right here tonight?
”
We both nod, Frey more enthusiastically than I. John-John is reluctant to leave. He shadows Frey to the front of the bus where George hands down a cooler and blankets. Frey leans over and whispers in John-John’s ear. He speaks in Navajo but whatever he tells the boy, John-John seems appeased by it. He lifts his arms to his father for a hug and climbs up to sit beside George.
Frey lifts a hand. “Hágoónee’. Hazhó’ó nídeiyínóhkááh.”
John-John waves. George nods to us both and steers the bus out of the lot.
“What did you say to him?” I ask, John-John’s little hand still waving to us from the open window as the bus pulls away.
“I told him to be safe going home.”
We carry the food and blankets into the hogan. Frey busies himself setting out sandwiches and chips and settles cross-legged on the rug to eat.
“You look right at home.”
He smiles up at me. “Don’t know about that. But I do feel at peace. Being with John-John makes me realize how much I’ve missed him. I’m glad we made the trip.”
I sit, too, back against the wall of the hogan, legs outstretched. There is a sense of peace. Maybe because it’s so quiet. No city noises. No traffic. Not even a birdcall to shatter the stillness.
Odd.
I tilt my head, listening.
Frey frowns, puts down his sandwich. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s too quiet. We should be hearing birds or coyotes or something moving around outside. Why aren’t we?”
I climb to my feet, take a step outside.
Movement in a clump of brush thirty feet from the hogan. It catches the corner of my eye and as I turn, something sharp pricks the skin of my forearm.
I jump and clap a hand over my arm. I scan the brush, then race toward it. Even with the speed of the vampire, whatever was there is gone. Not even a footprint or the echo of a footfall reaches my ears. I scan the distance. The only thing I see is a crow far off, solitary, silent, floating over the mesa. Then it, too, is gone.
Frey is suddenly beside me. “What happened? Your arm is bleeding.”
We both look down and as we watch, a bump forms over something embedded just under the skin. Then the wound closes and the swelling disappears.
I wipe away the spot of blood. There’s nothing left but a blush of red that fades as we watch.
“What the hell was that?” I ask. “Was I bitten by an insect ?”
Frey’s eyes scan the distance. He grabs my arm and pulls me back toward the hogan. “We need to get inside.”
I feel the tension in his touch, let him lead me to the shelter of the hogan. “What’s going on?”
He pulls the leather thong free and the rawhide door falls into place. Only then does he look at me. “I think it was a skinwalker. We need to get that charm out of your arm. Now.”
CHAPTER 23
FREY PULLS A SMALL SWISS ARMY KNIFE FROM THE pocket of his jeans. He reaches for my arm.
I jerk it out of reach. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Frey isn’t deterred. He snatches my arm in a strong, solid grip. “I’ll explain after I get the charm out of you. Believe me, Anna, you don’t want that thing inside you very long.”
I start to object, but he’s already pierced my skin with the very sharp point of a very small knife.
I yelp. Vampires are indestructible, but we feel pain just like any mortal. I could free myself, but there’s something in Frey’s expression that stops me. Anxiety. Worry. He’s afraid for me.
He digs around under the skin for what seems a long time. I bite my lower lip to keep from squirming. “Damn, Frey. That hurts.”
No answer. No apology. Finally, he switches the knife blade for tweezers—gotta love those army knives—digs around some more and pulls something small and bloody out of my arm.
He holds it up. “Got it.”
The wound on my arm is already closing. “What is it?” I ask, wiping residual blood on my jeans. “And why did you have to remove it? You know there are very few things that can kill me.”
Frey mimics my action, wiping blood from the object until it’s clean. Then he holds something small and round and white out to me.
He lays it on the palm of my hand. “It wouldn’t kill you, not right away. That’s a human bone bead dipped in bone dust. Causes heart failure in humans. Paralysis in supernaturals.” He lets a beat go by. “In the case of a vampire, permanent paralysis. It would take you a long time to die.”
The bead is tiny, white, seems harmless enough, though from what Frey just said, obviously isn’t. “How did it get in me? I didn’t hear a shot.”
“It didn’t come from a regular gun. It came from a blowgun. Favorite weapon of the skinwalkers.”
And now for the next question burning my brain. “What the hell is a skinwalker?”
Frey resumes his seat on the floor of the hogan, motions at me to join him. When we’re both seated, he begins.
“The Navajo call them yee naaldooshii. It’s a Navajo witch who practices curse magic. They can travel in animal form. Wolf, coyote, owl …”
“How about crow?”
He nods. “You saw a crow?”
“In the distance.”
“Probably our culprit.”
“Why would it attack me?”
“Don’t know. I only know three people who know you’re here—Sarah, Mary and John-John.”
“And now, George.”
Frey shakes his head. “George wouldn’t say anything. He’s been a friend for a long time.”
“But you haven’t brought a vampire to his home before. He may feel like Sarah.”
Another adamant shake of the head. “George would never practice curse magic, let alone become a skinwalker. To do that, you have to desecrate the corpse of a loved one. I already told you how the Navajo fear the dead. I can’t see him being a party to such a powerful taboo.”
“But maybe his fear of me is even greater. Maybe this is his way of letting me know I’m not welcome on the reservation.”
“It’s not George.” Frey’s jaw is set, his mind made up.
I rub my hand over my arm. There’s nothing left to show of the wound. “Then who?”
“Maybe we can get some answers from Sarah,” Frey says. “We’ll drive over first thing in the morning.”
“Why not drive over right now? Wait for her to get back from the council.”
Frey looks around, uneasy. “Best not to travel at night out here. Not with skinwalkers around.”
I give him a do-you-hear-yourself look, complete with raised eyebrows and clucking tongue. “You are a shape-shifter. I’m a vampire. What’s going to attack us?”
“Didn’t you hear what I’ve been saying? Skinwalkers aren’t afraid of us. One already hit you with a bone charm. It’s just good luck that I recognized what it was and got it out of you in time.”
“But now we’re on to them. Nothing will get close enough to try again. We’ll be in a vehicle with windows up and doors locked. Don’t see how anything can possibly happen.”
Frey presses the palms of his hands together. “No. Even if I was stupid enough to risk it, I won’t risk drawing them to Sarah’s. I won’t put my son and his mother and aunt in danger.”
He picks up the half-eaten sandwich and snaps off a bite, as if punctuating the end of the conversation. His concern is real. I capitulate to it with a sigh and look around the hogan. “What are we going to do all night? Don’t even have a book to read.”
“How about sleep?” Frey replies. “Haven’t done much of that in the last few days.”
“Will we be safe? What if they come back?”
“I don’t think they will. They have no way of knowing I removed the charm. The logical thing would be for us to take off. To go for help. If we stay out of sight they should leave us alone.”
I suppose Frey’s thinking makes sense and he is right about one thing—we haven’t gotten much sleep in the last twenty-four hours. I push the sleep
ing bags and mats out to the middle of the floor, work around Frey eating his picnic lunch and set things up. The sleeping bags appear to be new, at least, and of good quality. I stretch out, a test run.
“Not bad. Now if we could just cover that hole in the ceiling.”
Frey looks up. “Why would you want to do that? You can see the stars.”
Along with bats or flying insects or anything else that might wander in. But I know if I say that to Frey, I’ll get another lecture about nature and being bigger and stronger than anything that could fit through that hole.
I roll over onto my side. Maybe if I don’t look, I won’t see. It’s worth a try.
“Good night, Frey.”
“Danootch’ííl, Anna.”
THE SOUND OF THE WIND AWAKENS ME.
It’s pitch-black in the hogan. If there’s a moon out, it’s doing nothing to penetrate the dark. Once my eyes have adjusted, I look at my watch.
Midnight.
I sit up to find Frey awake, too, staring hard at the door. The rawhide flap covering it moves to the wind gusts, billowing out and in as if blown by bellows fanning a fire.
I listen. The soft pad of bare feet approaching. I jump to my feet. Frey, startled, does, too.
“You heard it?” he whispers. “I thought it was my imagination.”
Not imagination. Someone is walking around outside … someone or something.
The vampire erupts, bursting the fragile shell of humanity instinctively at the threat. I touch Frey’s chest, growl, “Stay here.”
Then I’m sliding out of the door, sticking close to the walls of the hogan, a shadow among shadows, a beast among beasts.
I see him, working his way around the hogan, slowly, carefully. Not barefoot. Moccasins on his feet. His smell is familiar. I draw the vampire back enough to appear human before I confront him. His back is to me.
Crossroads Page 12
