Crossroads

by Jeanne C. Stein

Frey shakes his head. “I don’t think they were alone together.” He turns to face me, crosses his arms across his chest. “Chael is here? You’re sure of it?”

  “Yes. Though no longer at the lodge. My mistake.” I fill in the details. “I underestimated him. Stupid. I thought maybe you’d know where they might go. Another hotel or lodge in the vicinity?”

  “There are a couple of possibilities. I’ll check them out tomorrow.”

  “You’ll check them out? You don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “But I do know what Judith Williams looks like.”

  “No, Frey.” I jump to his side. “She might recognize you. It’s too dangerous.”

  The pulse in Frey’s neck throbs as he clenches his jaw. “No. She won’t see me. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “At least let me go with you.”

  “No. You have to stay with John-John. He likes you. He needs to have a woman near him. It’s what he’s used to.”

  That’s not the reason he wants me to stay. At least not all of it. “I know what you’re thinking but you can’t take him on by yourself. He’s too old and too powerful. And with Judith on his side, it’s two to one. John-John can’t lose a father, too.”

  Frey’s anger explodes with a sound half animal, half human. A primal snarl from the panther. “He is responsible for Sarah’s death.”

  I grit my teeth, match his anger with my own. “I’m responsible for Sarah’s death.” The words linger on the quiet night air, a release of guilt and acknowledgment that’s been building inside since we first heard of the accident . “Me. I brought this nightmare to you. I won’t let you risk your life. I’ll stop you. You know I can.”

  Frey’s eyes—the panther’s eyes—glow yellow in the dark. “You could try. But I have more to lose than you do. Protecting one’s young is a powerful motivator. It makes one stronger, more determined, than simple anger. Or guilt.”

  He’s captured me by the fierceness of his gaze, holds me in a grip of determination and will. He’s done this before, when I was newly turned. I thought it was a mind trick. But we have no psychic connection now and I feel as powerless as I did then.

  Until I marshal my own strength and fling it back at him.

  “Stop it, Frey. Please.”

  His eyes lose their intenseness, his hold wavers, falls away. He looks ashamed, embarrassed.

  I touch his cheek. “I know what you are feeling. But you must let me help.”

  He shakes his head. “You are my friend, Anna. I respect you more than anyone I’ve ever known. But you are stubborn. You see your way as the only way. It’s your turn to trust me. If you value our friendship at all, you have to trust I know what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t know Chael.” I whisper the words.

  He passes a hand over his face. When he looks up at me, his eyes are human, full of acceptance and sadness. “Then you will prepare me—tell me all you know about him.”

  My heart is heavy. I sink back into the chair, collect my thoughts. I remember what happened the first time I met Chael. It was at the gathering that proclaimed me the Chosen One. Frey remains standing at the rail, calm, patient. Waiting for me to begin.

  I look into his eyes. “He is a coward,” I begin. “And that makes him very dangerous. He will not fight you. Not at first. It’s why he has Judith Williams with him. She is a rogue and foolhardy. You must kill her the moment you see her. It’s the only way. There may be others, too. If you give me time, I might—”

  An abrupt brush of the hand sweeps aside that notion. “Go on.”

  I don’t know what else to tell him. “He is old. He is powerful. He is arrogant. You must catch him unaware. Do not try to extract a confession or engage in a debate. He will choose a vulnerable moment and attack. And he will kill you.”

  A thought surfaces, an echo of something that came to mind this morning. “Do you know how to use a bow and arrow?”

  I do not have to explain; awareness blooms in Frey’s eyes. “Yes. Sarah has a crossbow.”

  “Then use it. Watch for Chael and shoot him the moment you see him. Do it from a safe distance. Aim carefully.”

  Frey straightens from his slouched position against the porch railing. “Thank you,” he says. “Now I think we should we get some sleep. John-John will be up early. I’ve taken Sarah’s room. I moved your things into Mary’s.”

  He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment but heads into the house, leaving me staring into the darkness.

  Did I tell him enough? Did I tell him too much?

  How do you prepare a friend to battle a monster?

  CHAPTER 33

  IF EITHER OF US GOT ANY SLEEP LAST NIGHT, I’M UNAWARE of it. I could hear Frey pacing in his room the same way I’m sure he heard me pacing in mine. I didn’t attempt to reach out to him. Everyone prepares for battle in his own way.

  And I had my own battle raging. Deep inside. Sani said if I chose mortality, I would have only twenty mortal years. If I were lucky enough to marry, have children, I would certainly not live to see my grandchildren.

  And would any of us survive a vampire uprising? Would I want to?

  It’s John-John’s sleepy voice and soft footfalls padding into the kitchen around dawn that draws us out. Frey and I open our doors at the same time, step into the hall. We’re both wearing the same clothes we had on yesterday. His still hold that strange aroma. It’s not unpleasant—like a combination of sage and sandalwood. He bobs his head at me, and I precede him into the kitchen.

  John-John has climbed up into his chair at the kitchen table. He looks at us with sad, serious eyes. He holds out his arms to his father and Frey lifts him from the chair, hugging him to his chest.

  “Can I fix you something to eat, John-John?” I ask.

  He buries his face in his father’s shoulder in response. Frey looks toward the refrigerator. “That would be nice, Anna. I think there’s a dish in the refrigerator. Sarah’s parents brought it for the communal meal last night.”

  It’s the first time he’s made reference to her parents or what went on after the burial. This doesn’t seem the time to ask for details, though. Instead, I open the refrigerator and withdraw a covered dish. When I peel back the foil, the smell of beans and meat wafts up.

  “Can I fix you some, too, Frey?”

  He starts to shake his head but I shoot him a warning look. “I’m sure John-John will eat more if you eat with him.”

  He concedes with a shrug of understanding. “Sure. Fix me a plate.”

  I spoon two portions onto plates, slip them into the microwave. It’s an older model, big and clunky, and it takes me a few minutes to figure out the controls. At last I have the food cooking away.

  I join the two at the table. “What would you men like to drink?”

  John-John blinks up at me. “You called me a man.”

  “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  He gives a shy smile. “Amá used to call me a man.”

  Frey looks at me over John-John’s head. “His mother.”

  “Well, she was right.”

  The microwave chimes and I bring the plates to the table. Frey puts John-John in his own chair and they both pick up forks.

  “Don’t you want to eat?” John-John asks me, all wide-eyed innocence.

  Was I ever that young?

  I sit down opposite him. “I’ve already eaten,” I tell him. No wide-eyed innocence here.

  John-John waits for Frey to take a first bite, then starts in slowly himself. Frey soon is doing nothing more than moving food around his plate, but John-John does manage to eat a fair amount of his. When John-John is finished, I take both plates away before he can notice his father barely touched his food.

  Frey leans closer to his son. “I have to run an errand this morning. Anna will stay with you. I won’t be gone too long. Will you be all right?”

  John-John lets no emotion show. “Can I go with you?”

  Frey touches his son’s shoulder. “Not this time, Shiye. I ha
ve business to attend to.”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  Frey sighs. “Not this time,” he says again. He looks over at me. “Anna will play games with you, if you’d like.”

  I don’t miss a beat. “You can show me how to do finger weaving.”

  A spark of interest. “I could show you how to make a butterfly.”

  “Deal.”

  Frey lifts John-John out of his chair. “Okay, then. Go brush your teeth and get dressed. I need to talk to Anna a minute.”

  John-John heads off for the bedroom. Frey motions me outside and we step onto the porch. Before he starts to speak, he taps the side of his head with a finger. A warning to keep my thoughts cloaked.

  “There are two hotels nearby. I’ll check them out. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this on your own? I’m scared for you, Frey.”

  “I have to do this on my own. You, of all people, should understand. My family has been attacked.”

  I do understand. It’s why I’m afraid. “Check in with me. Every hour. Promise?”

  John-John joins us and Frey bends down to say his good-bye. John-John has changed into jeans and a T-shirt and scuffed boots. His hair is slicked back.

  He’s is not projecting his thoughts, nor probing for ours that I can tell. Maybe he’s already forgotten that he can. He and his father exchange their good-byes in Navajo and he watches Frey head for the Jeep. I step closer and reach for his hand.

  He looks up at me and places his own small palm in my own.

  “Before we start the lesson,” I say, “we should feed the horses, shouldn’t we?”

  The Jeep rumbles out of sight. John-John sighs but tugs at my hand, leading me down the steps. I cast a last backward glance.

  Come back safely, Frey.

  CHAPTER 34

  THE HORSES GREET JOHN-JOHN MUCH MORE EAGERLY than they greeted me. He climbs into the corral, petting necks and rumps and getting gentle head bumps that make him smile. I remain outside, safely out of range of those big teeth and restless hooves. After a few minutes he rejoins me and we manage to get the horses fed and fill their water trough with an old-fashioned hand pump before starting back for the house.

  “Maybe we can go riding later,” John-John says.

  “I’d like that, though you’d have to go slow. I’ve never been on a horse.”

  His look is one of childish astonishment. “Never? But you’re old.”

  “City girl.”

  “Oh.” He nods with the solemnity of an old soul. “I’d put you on Cochise, then. He’s the gentlest.”

  We climb the porch steps and enter the living room. John-John pauses once in the doorway, looking around and I wonder if it’s his mother that he’s looking for. He recovers, squares his shoulders and walks right over to Sarah’s loom in the corner. He reaches into a basket beside it and pulls out a skein of yarn. He cuts a length, cuts two, and plops himself on the couch, patting the seat beside him.

  “Come on. I’ll teach you how to make a butterfly.”

  I join him, marveling at how composed he is. Even at four, if I’d lost my mother, I’d be an inconsolable mess.

  He begins by tying a knot, making the length a loop. He starts it like a cat’s cradle. His fingers dip back and forth on the middle string, then manipulate the top and bottom until I’m looking at a creation with the rounded body and wings of a butterfly. By opening his fingers back and forth, the damn wings seem to flutter.

  I clap my hands. “That’s wonderful. I don’t think I can do it, though, you go much too fast.”

  He hands me the second piece of yarn. “Follow me. I’ll go slow.”

  And we do. I don’t succeed the first try. But soon we’re fluttering our butterfly wings at each other and laughing.

  “How did you learn how to do this?”

  John-John pulls his string loose and quickly makes another design, this time a worm that seems to be crawling over and under the two parallel strings. “My mother taught me. But the Spider Woman taught us, the Dine’é.”

  Spider Woman? My thoughts turn immediately to a female cartoon character. “Who is she?”

  “Spider Woman taught the Navajo weaving. We learn right thinking and beauty through her gift. She teaches us to concentrate on a task. It is said that if you think well, you will never get into trouble or get lost.”

  His words belie his young age. Was this one of the lessons his mother taught him? A beautiful, simple fable marrying a child’s game with a life lesson? My admiration for Sarah grows.

  But suddenly, John-John stops, stares at the string in his hand. “It is also said string weaving should only be done in the winter when spiders hibernate. If you do it in the summer, you may be pulled into Spider Woman’s den and you will never get out.”

  He looks up at me, eyes wide, fingers tightening on the string. “Do you think that’s what happened to my mother and Aunt Mary? Do you think Spider Woman is punishing them for breaking her taboo? Will she punish me?”

  My rising anger is as powerful as his grief. I hug him, swallowing the fury back, keeping my thoughts and voice under careful restraint. “No, John-John. What happened was an accident. You had nothing to do with it. You have to believe that. Someone who taught you to make such beautiful patterns from string, who taught your mother to weave these incredible rugs is not vindictive. She is kind and good. She would be sad to think you believe otherwise.”

  John-John’s little body shakes against my chest. I reach for a comforter on the back of the couch and wrap it around him. Sorrow is responsible for some of the shaking, but being hugged by an icy undead vampire can’t be helping.

  He quiets after a while and his breathing becomes deep and regular. He’s asleep. I rest my own head against the back of the couch, let my thoughts tumble forth.

  I haven’t heard from Frey yet. I hate the idea of his hunting on his own. But it’s his right. It’s his family Chael attacked. I wish I could be there as backup. But I’d never leave John-John alone. Maybe if he doesn’t find him today, we can get someone else to watch John-John …

  My cell phone trills. Shit. I’d left it in the kitchen. I lift John-John carefully and lay him out on the couch. He settles deeper into the blanket, making a small sound like a mewling kitten, but doesn’t wake up.

  I snatch the phone from the table. “Frey. Where are you?”

  “How’s John-John?”

  Of course that would be his first thought. “He’s fine. He’s asleep.”

  “Good. He was restless last night.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Nothing yet. Went to the hotel that’s closest to the reservation. Asked for Chael and Williams at the front desk. Neither registered, though it was long shot that they’d use their real names now. No one seems to have seen a Middle Eastern man, either. I’ll hang around another hour or so, see if I pick up any supernatural activity. Then I’ll head out.”

  His voice is ragged with fatigue. “Why don’t you come back? Let me look for them.”

  “No. You stay with John-John.”

  No hesitation. “Where will you go next?”

  “There’s one hotel on the res. The View. Maybe I’ll have better luck there.”

  His tone indicates he’s ready to end the call. “Be careful,” I say after a moment of silence stretches to fill the void. “John-John needs his dad.”

  All I hear from the other end is a long, slowly released breath.

  JOHN-JOHN IS STILL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH. I TAKE A chair opposite him and watch his chest rise and fall. It’s remarkable how attached I’ve become to the kid. I haven’t felt like this about anyone since—Trish. My niece. She’s safe with my parents in France. Who will John-John be safe with? Frey is the logical choice. But that means uprooting him unless Frey decides to stay here.

  And then I will lose them both.

  I should be used to the feeling.

  I shake off the gloom. My feelings don’t count
in this situation.

  The sound of a car approaching brings me out of the chair and to the door. I step out onto the porch, closing the door softly behind me. Kayani’s police vehicle is winding its dusty way toward the house.

  He climbs the steps to meet me. His face still bears the marks of sorrow, grief pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

  “I’m sorry.” I can’t think of another thing to say.

  He bobs his head. Once. “John-John?”

  “Inside. Asleep. I don’t want to leave him alone too long.”

  “I thought I’d spend some time with him.”

  “I think it’s a good idea.”

  I hold open the door and we go inside, walking quietly into the kitchen. “Can I offer you some tea?”

  He shakes his head, the hint of a smile flickering for the instant it takes him to say, “I can’t stand the stuff. I tried to get Sarah to keep coffee around, but—”

  We stare at each other. Finally, I motion to the chairs around the table. “Want to sit?”

  He sinks into the chair as if his body weight is suddenly too heavy for his frame. He lays his car keys on the table. He’s in civilian clothes. Jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, boots.

  “Day off?”

  “Week off,” he replies. “I took personal time. In case I’m needed here.”

  “You will be.” Should I ask about yesterday? I don’t know anything about what happened. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But where were Sarah and Mary buried? Is there a Navajo cemetery? Frey mentioned a communal meal. Is that part of the ritual?”

  At first I think Kayani is not going to answer. His eyes grow dim and introspective. But he recovers. “There is a cemetery. But most don’t use it. The Navajo have a real fear of ghosts. If one does have relatives in the cemetery, he often doesn’t know exactly where they’re buried.”

  He speaks slowly, thoughtfully, as if translating his people’s beliefs from his native tongue to English as he goes.

  “Sarah and Mary were buried in a secret spot in the desert. They were buried in Navajo dress; one of Sarah’s blankets was placed in each coffin. They were buried with trinkets of their life. The purification rites were performed, then we, the parents and I, returned to the house each following a different path. So the dead could not follow.”