Crossroads

by Jeanne C. Stein

  But how then did he manage to get out while I was sitting in the lobby?

  The answers are so simple, I want to thump myself in the head for letting him get away with it. Once he spotted me, he may have asked the receptionist if anyone had asked for him. There was no reason for her to lie. He probably had the hosts stay in the room while he and his bitch girlfriend slipped out. Told them to wait before leaving. Then he and Judith took the stairs and made their getaway out the back.

  I fell for it.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I don’t have a clue where to start looking for them. They’ve got to be close. Chael would not miss a chance to observe the suffering he’s wreaked upon my friend and the consequent pain he’s inflicted on me. Otherwise, what would be the point?

  I can’t think of a single thing to do now but to go back to the house. Frey is more familiar with the area than I am. If there’s another lodge or hotel around, he’ll know.

  On the way back to the Jeep, questions keep popping into my head.

  What if Sarah’s parents are still there?

  I won’t go in. At the sight of their car, I’ll park where I can keep an eye on the house.

  I worry at my lower lip. I wonder if Kayani spoke with George? That one still gives me a bad feeling. The sooner I tell Frey about George’s parting shot to me this morning, the better. I don’t expect Frey to change his mind about someone he’s known longer than me, but he’s got to respect my gut instinct.

  It’s gotten us out of some hairy situations before.

  What happened at the burial today? Frey must be a wreck. Not only because of John-John, but because he’s surrounded by people who are unlikely to show him much compassion. Even Kayani must be feeling resentment.

  The sky has begun to clear—clouds breaking over Monument Valley in a patchwork of bright blue and gray. With the clearing sky, the August heat comes roaring back, turning scattered pools of runoff into steaming cauldrons of bloodred mud. Vapor rises from the ground in streams like the delicate trains of ghostly gowns.

  Even I feel the abrupt temperature change—one moment rain-cooled sixties, the next blast-furnace heat sends people scurrying for icy drinks and sun hats. There’s a cavalcade of cars leaving the parking lot to resume day trips interrupted by the summer storm.

  I fold back the Jeep’s top, already dry by the time I get to the parking space, and tuck it into the boot. One of the advantages of a vampire constitution is the ability to tolerate—even enjoy—temperatures most humans find intolerable. Heat, for instance. The illusion that my body is warm comes only when ambient temperatures near 100—or when I’m feeding or having sex.

  I close my eyes, tilt my head back, wait for the first rush of cars out of lot.

  For a couple of minutes I take what pleasure I can.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE GPS STILL HAS RETURN COORDINATES PROGRAMMED, although when I crank over the engine, I get the “reprogramming route” message. I hate the tone of these things—it manages to be mechanical yet condescending at the same time. All systems have it. Some frustrated engineer’s idea of a joke, I suppose.

  The Jeep sloshes through mud and standing puddles as I make my way out of the parking lot. If it’s this bad on a paved surface, I can only imagine what I’m going to hit once I get off road.

  I find out soon enough.

  Once I’m directed to leave the road and head into private land, things get dicey. Hard dirt is now the consistency of taffy. Sticky fingers pull and suck at the tires, slowing the Jeep to a crawl. At this rate, I won’t make it back to the house until after dark.

  When I get tired of fighting a stubborn steering system intent on taking the path of least resistance instead of the direction I need to go, I pull off in the shade of a towering monolith. Waves of heat and gusts of dry desert air scorch the landscape. May as well wait for Mother Nature’s blow-dryer to turn the muck back into hardpan.

  From where I’ve parked the Jeep, I see a faint path that snakes around the base of the massive rock under which I’ve sought shelter. I’m not exactly wearing hiking shoes, but after a day of tedious couch sitting, a walk is a welcome distraction.

  I jump down from the Jeep into a puddle of mud, but I’ve stepped in worse. I shake off as much gunk as I can and glance at my watch. I’ll give myself fifteen minutes before getting back on the road.

  The path is barely worn but maybe because of the rain, now clearly visible. When I pulled up, I thought I was parked under a single block of towering stone, but I see now it’s not solid at all. The path soon takes me into a honeycomb of caves. It’s dark and cool inside and smells of freshly turned earth. Filtered light shines in from shafts that allow a glimpse of sky—like fireplace chimneys with open dampers. It’s weird and wonderful at the same time.

  And it’s dry.

  I trudge deeper into the catacombs. There is a feeling that I am the first person to have come this way, though I know how unlikely that is. Still, none of the detritus of civilization litters the ground. No broken bottles or soiled diapers. No fast-food containers or cigarette butts. Frey said the Navajo have a respect for the land. Perhaps they take the trouble to police their sacred lands or perhaps those who come here understand what a special place it is.

  I’ve reached a fork in the trail; two paths stretch in opposite directions. It’s darker at this point, but when natural light fades, vampire vision kicks in. I know I’ve already gone past the spelunking time I allotted myself, but curiosity tempts me to go on.

  The question is which way?

  I pick up a small, flat rock, scratch one side with a fingernail. Heads I go right, tails left. Flip it into the air, watch it bounce to a halt. The unmarked side seems to gaze back at me impassively.

  Left it is.

  The air is surprisingly fresh. I calculate I’ve traveled maybe a half mile into the mountain. The walls of the caves are smooth and warm to the touch. I imagine I hear a pulse beat, faint but distinct. I know I must imagine it because stone has no heart, a mountain no life or spiritual center. Still, a sound like a distant drumbeat echoes in my head.

  I put out a hand, touch the stone, as if seeking an anchor in the void. I look around, testing the air with my tongue, breathing in to detect the scent of any other living creature who might be responsible for the sound.

  I pick up nothing. Nothing animal, nothing human.

  Not even the briny smell of lichen from a dripping pool somewhere out of sight.

  Still, the beat is there.

  Part of me is unnerved by it, part of me drawn to discover the source. I keep one hand on the stone and move forward. The darkness is complete here, my eyes picking up only the faint glitter of a vein of quartz sparked by my own heightened optic nerves. I trace it with a finger, to mark my path forward. It goes on and on and finally, I stop and drop my hand.

  This is useless. The pulse is neither closer nor farther away. I’ll ask Frey when I get back. There’s bound to be a natural explanation.

  I turn, looking to the opposite wall.

  Drawings, carved into the sandstone. Animals with round bodies and long, pointed antlers. Others smaller, slimmer, with blunted antlers and cloven hooves. Some kind of bird, wings outstretched to catch the wind. And warriors. With mantles of fur and spears with arrowhead tips.

  My own heart jumps, my throat swells. The drawings are so primitive, so beautiful. How long have they been here? How many generations of Navajo come to pay homage to their ancestors in the confines of this sacred place?

  A rumble and a gust of cold wind hit simultaneously. The ground under my feet shifts, sending me back against the rocks. I land hard, fight to regain balance. A section of the cave wall straight ahead is opening. Wind whistles around stone, loose rock is kicked as footsteps rustle forward.

  I push myself back against the wall of the cave. Someone is coming. The path is too narrow for them not to see me when they pass. So I do what any good vampire would do. I scurry up the wall of the cave and look down
at them from the viewpoint of a lizard.

  Then they file under me, three men. Two younger, dressed in long buckskin robes, a third, ancient and wizened moving between them. He is dressed in a robe, too, adorned with embroidered symbols, and in his hand, he carries a slender rod.

  Suddenly, the old one stops.

  And looks up.

  Right at me.

  His eyes flash in the darkness of the cave. “You have come to seek my council, Anna Strong,” he says. “Come down. Join me.”

  He moves toward the opening in the cave wall, not waiting to see if I follow or not. The two others don’t even glance my way.

  How did he know where I was? How did he know who I was?

  I’m so startled, my slide down from the perch is far less graceful than my scramble up.

  CHAPTER 31

  AS SOON AS I ENTER THE CHAMBER, THE DRUMBEAT stops. The elder sits cross-legged on a blanket. The two younger men who preceded him have disappeared. The walls of the chamber look solid and yet the men are gone.

  The elder motions for me to sit. I take a place across from him and fold my legs under me. He studies me for a long moment as I do him. His face is bronzed and lined with age. His body is shriveled yet his back is straight, his posture erect.

  His eyes catch and hold my gaze. There is so much wisdom reflected in those great, dark eyes that I can’t look away—I don’t want to.

  At last, I find my voice. “You are Sani.”

  He nods.

  “How did you know you would find me here?”

  “You found me, did you not?” There is a hint of humor in the deep rumble of his voice. “You are the visitor.”

  “But I was told you wouldn’t see me. That the Navajo fear death above all else. I am the walking dead. I did not believe you would see me.”

  “I am here now.” Sani reaches out a hand and touches my cheek. “You have a question.”

  His touch sends warmth rushing through me. I want to press that hand against my cheek and hold it there. Instead, I force myself to remain still, hoping if I do, his gentle fingers will remain against my skin.

  After a moment, he drops his hand.

  The warmth remains, giving me the courage to speak. “I am vampire. I come to seek your counsel. I am told you can restore mortal life to the undead.”

  “And that is what you wish?”

  “Yes. No. I am conflicted. I have a family. A human family. When they are gone, I will be alone in this world. I fear loneliness.”

  “And yet you are conflicted.”

  “I am called the Chosen One. Destined to resist dark forces in the vampire community that seek to dominate mankind. If I relinquish that responsibility, I risk subjecting mankind to a terrible end. I don’t know why I was chosen to shoulder that burden. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle it. But as a vampire, I know I have a chance. As a human, I fear I have none.”

  Sani listens, his expressive eyes seem to penetrate through word and thought and reach into my soul. His face is beautiful in its serenity. I am breathless waiting for him to speak.

  “You have a good heart,” he says finally. “The heart of a warrior. It is why we meet here. You want to return to the life you knew before. And yet, you are more powerful as vampire and can prevent great evil.”

  He lifts my chin with gentle fingers to look into my eyes. “You fear the loneliness you will suffer when your family passes on and you are left behind. But is that not the fate of all who are chosen to lead? Perhaps loneliness is the price one must pay for the opportunity to do great deeds.”

  I am caught in the cadence of his speech, spellbound by the light in his eyes. Even the rhythm of my heartbeat seems to slow in anticipation of his next words.

  “Throughout the ages, there have been those given a higher calling. Brave men and women forced to face their fears, to sacrifice their happiness, to choose the greater good over personal desires. You are at a crossroads, Anna. If you choose to return to mortality, can you accept the consequences? Could you live with the consequences?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I know what he’s saying. Can I accept it? Still, there is something else, something darker I need to tell him. “There is another thing I fear. Vampire becomes stronger every day. She senses evil and seeks to destroy it. Sometimes I can control the impulse to kill, sometimes I don’t want to.” I let my voice drop, ashamed to admit the truth. “Killing has become too easy. Human or otherwise, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You are too critical of yourself,” Sani says, brushing the air with a hand. “You have a strong sense of what is right and what is wrong. Trust your instincts.” He bends his head closer. “What you must not do is make a hasty decision. You mustn’t let emotions overwhelm you.”

  He sits back, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “But there is something more to consider. There is a steep price to pay if you choose mortality. Your body went through changes when you became vampire. The stress on your organs by the reverse transformation is more severe. You could expect to live no longer than twenty years in a continual state of decline. You will not reach old age. Are you willing to bear that cost as well?”

  He gathers his robe around him. “I want you to think hard about what you ask of me. You have many things on your mind now. Your friend needs you. Deal with what you must. Later, when you have had time to reflect, look for the wolf. She will reunite us.”

  There is a sound behind me and the two robed Navajo who accompanied Sani into the chamber suddenly return. They help him to his feet.

  “Go in peace, Anna,” Sani says. “We will meet again.”

  Before I have risen to my feet, he is gone.

  I run back to the cave entrance, faster than most animals, a hundred times faster than men, and wait to say my farewell.

  I neither passed Sani and his companions on the path nor do they appear at the entrance. Did they take the opposite fork? How were they able to get out without my seeing?

  Could what happened have been an illusion?

  I stare up at the sky, now bluer than blue, and breathe in the sun-soaked air.

  No. I carry Sani’s words with me. I feel them like a warm glow in my heart.

  I have a decision to make.

  But not this minute.

  Sani is right.

  Frey’s face floats to the surface of my thoughts. He’s waiting for me at Sarah’s home. A friend in need of solace, a child in need of comfort.

  This time when I head out, the Jeep has a much easier time of it. The ground no longer feels the need to trap it but cooperates with the crunch of grit under tires that gradually lose their casing of mud.

  Sani’s work?

  Wind still sputters, raising dust devils that whip ahead then fall behind. This afternoon there are many sounds. Birds screeching, fluttering overhead. Predator and prey scurrying behind rocks. The lone bay of a dog.

  But there is something missing.

  I no longer hear the distant heartbeat of the mountain.

  CHAPTER 32

  AS DIFFICULT AS IT IS TO GET SANI’S WORDS OUT of my head, his face out of my mind, I focus on Frey as I near the house. I park a quarter of a mile away, beside scrub brush that hides the Jeep from prying eyes. Then I jog closer.

  No cars. Not the one I passed with the elderly couple, not Kayani’s police SUV. I don’t see the van George was driving yesterday, either, so it looks everyone has gone.

  Still, I approach cautiously, intending to peek into the window just to be sure the coast is clear.

  “I wondered when you’d come back.”

  Frey’s voice from the corner of the porch. In the dusk, I didn’t see him shrouded in shadow sitting on the chair Mary occupied when we had our talk. Seems a long time ago now.

  I take a seat beside him. His face is drawn, eyes downcast. I detect a whiff of sage and smoke emanating from his clothes. There’s a smudge of something dark—ashes maybe—on his right cheek.

  For a few moments neither of us speaks. The grief is
his and I won’t intrude. Nothing I have to say will do anything more than add to the ache he must be feeling.

  When at last he breaks the silence, his voice is thick, as if sadness has swelled his throat making speech difficult.

  “Kayani said he saw you at the lodge.”

  I nod.

  “He left to find you after—it was over. He called a while ago to say you were gone.”

  Should I tell him of meeting Sani? No. It is Frey’s time to talk. I smother the spark of anxiety that flares when I think of what Kayani wished to speak—or confront—me about. Letting only curiosity come through, I ask, “Did he say what he wanted?”

  Frey’s eyes flash, anger surfacing, the cat close. “Why would you tell him to watch me? To watch George? Why did you go to the lodge in the first place? Who were you looking for?”

  I close my eyes, breathe in, search for the strength to tell Frey what I suspect.

  When I start to speak, I feel Frey go still and quiet. His eyes bore into me, the concentration of a feline deciding whether the creature he’s studying is predator or prey.

  It makes the vampire, too, spring to alert. Still, I manage to keep my voice steady, human, and I tell him all. Who I suspect is responsible for the deaths of the sisters, why I believe it, that Chael is here in Monument Valley.

  I finish with my suspicions about George, the things he said to me this morning, his anger because I caused Sarah’s death. “He thinks she died because of what happened at the council. He wants you to put an end to me. His words. I believe he’s the one who shot me. He thinks I stand between you and staying here with John-John on the reservation.”

  Frey stands, moves abruptly to the porch railing; his hands grip the banister. “You told Kayani all this?”

  “Of course not. Seeing how Sarah and George reacted to my being vampire, do you think I’d risk it? If he and George talked, though, George may have.”