Crossroads

by Jeanne C. Stein

  “She has a half-day tour lined up so it’ll be a while.”

  “How did you ever convince her to leave John-John with us?”

  “Wasn’t easy.” Frey shakes his head. “I had to promise not to leave you alone with him. And to tell her why you’ve come—to seek out the shaman who can restore human life.”

  “Does she know about him?”

  “All Navajo know of him. But she’s never seen him and she has no knowledge of anyone here ever seeking him out. She thinks he’s so reclusive, being granted an audience is next to impossible. If he isn’t dead.”

  “Dead? Great.” Still, why would Chael send me here if the shaman was dead?

  I look up to find Frey studying me. “What do we do next? How do we arrange to meet the tribal elders?”

  “Sarah will make the contact for us.”

  “Sarah? Why would she do that?”

  Frey snorts. “Easy. The quicker we meet with the elders, the quicker we get the hell out of here.”

  There’s a lull while Frey and I retreat into our own thoughts. There’s so much I want to know about Frey and Sarah and that cute little guy asleep in the bedroom. I’m not sure how to broach the subject, so I just ask bluntly, “Why did Sarah run away?”

  Frey looks at me with weary eyes, as if he’s been expecting the question. He pushes away from the table. “Let’s go outside. If John-John wakes up, I don’t want him to overhear. He’s had enough of that today.”

  We go to the front porch, Frey closing the front door carefully behind us, and take a seat on the porch steps.

  “Sarah was studying to be a teacher. She wanted to get her degree, come back to the reservation and teach at the Indian school. She was proud of her heritage, proud of her blood. When we met, at a party, we were attracted to each other right off. The Navajo say we were struck by the thunderbolt.” He grimaces and smiles as if it suddenly self-conscious. “I can’t believe I said that out loud. Go ahead. Laugh. I know how stupid and immature that sounds.”

  “Stupid? No. If anything, it sounds very romantic.” What I don’t add is that I think it happened to me, too. With Stephen.

  Frey pats my arm. “Be careful what you wish for. She told me her plans. She knew mine. I never had any illusion that I could be content on a reservation—I’d spent a couple of summers volunteering on a Chappiquiddic reservation—just as she could never imagine being content anywhere else. We came to the mutual agreement that we would enjoy our time for the two months she was in Boston. When the new semester started, we’d go our separate ways. When summer rolled around again, if I wanted to get in touch, I’d do it.”

  “But she got pregnant.”

  “She got pregnant. We’d taken precautions, but you know how that goes.” He pressed fingertips against his eyes. “At first she wanted to get rid of the baby. Frankly, I didn’t protest. But to the Navajo, life is sacred. When it came down to doing it, she couldn’t bring herself to have an abortion. That was when I knew I had to tell her the truth about me.”

  “The truth about being a shifter? Or the truth about being a Keeper?”

  “Both.”

  “I imagine she didn’t mind the Keeper part so much.”

  Frey’s short laugh is humorless and bitter. “No. The Navajo have their own traditions passed down from generation to generation. My position of Keeper of the Secrets is not so different from that of a medicine man or shaman. We are both responsible for the accumulated knowledge of our people. With the Navajo, the knowledge is passed on verbally. With us, the supernatural community, it’s passed on in written works. She understood that. Even admired it, I think.”

  “But as a Navajo, isn’t another of those traditions belief in shape-shifters? I don’t understand why she would have such a dramatic reaction.”

  Frey turns his face away, looks out over the yard and beyond. I follow his gaze. This is a landscape as foreign to a San Diegan as the dark side of the moon. Beautiful in its color and dramatic scope but lonely and unwelcoming to those who don’t belong. I understand how Frey knew he couldn’t spend his life here.

  He releases a long breath. “It’s different. I’m not Navajo. My ability to shift is not a gift from the gods, it’s a genetic trick of nature. Or at least that’s how Sarah sees it. And the possibility that I could pass that gene onto our child, that he might have no choice but to undergo a painful and dangerous transformation every month in order to survive was too much for her. She hated me for keeping such a huge secret.”

  “But you didn’t intend to have a child together. It was an accident.”

  “An accident that never would have happened had she known what I was. She’s made that very clear.”

  “Is John-John a shifter?”

  “There’s a fifty-fifty chance he will be. We won’t know until he reaches puberty.”

  “Ah. That’s what Sarah meant when she said she would bring him to you when the time was right.”

  Frey nods. “As if I’d wait that long. We’re going to have to work something out. I won’t be a stranger to my own kid.”

  My thoughts turn to John-John. When I became vampire, the life I knew as a mortal ceased to exist. I had to learn to control the animal side of me so I could cling to the human side. I wasn’t ready to give up my family and friends so it was a constant balancing act. I handled it because I was an adult. What happens to a child who learns at nine or ten that he’s not like everybody else? Those years are difficult enough. This isn’t just bad skin or raging hormones. This is learning you’re fucking supernatural. I can’t imagine the trauma.

  “I know this is none of my business, Frey. But don’t you think you should start preparing John-John? Just in case?”

  He shoots me one of those “duh” looks. “Any thoughts how we might do that? Should I start showing him picture books of animals and say, ‘Oh, by the way, you may turn into that bear one day. But don’t worry about it. It might not happen at all and if it does, it won’t happen for a few years yet.’ ”

  His sarcasm doesn’t faze me. I throw it right back at him. “So, smart-ass, is that how you learned you were a shape-shifter?”

  “It wasn’t the same. Both my parents were shifters. There was never any doubt that I’d be one, too. They prepared me because it was a part of our everyday life. It’s not a part of John-John’s.”

  “It’s not something you can ignore, either. Sarah must realize that.”

  “She doesn’t want to think about it. Which is why she’s hiding out here. If she doesn’t have to see me, she can pretend I don’t exist and John-John is just a normal kid who will someday inherit the mantle of Keeper. It’s all she can handle.”

  Another mystery solved—Mary’s comment about Sarah feeling safe here. Safe meaning away from Frey and the constant reminder that John-John may inherit more from his father than a title.

  I wish I could offer Frey some words of wisdom, but I’ve got nothing. I’m not sure how I’d handle the situation if I were in his place. The only thing I do know is I wouldn’t be a drop-in visitor in my kid’s life, no matter how much resistance I faced.

  After a moment, I ask, “So what do we do now?”

  Frey sweeps a hand to encompass the scenery. “When John-John wakes up from his nap, we’ll take a ride. Sarah made arrangements for us to stay overnight not far from here. We’ll drive out and drop our stuff off.”

  I didn’t think before now that we would need a place to stay. Stupid, considering Sarah’s small house and the animosity between her and Frey. Obviously, we couldn’t stay with them.

  I lean back against the porch step and drain the water bottle. Well, we’ve made it this far. Neither Frey nor I have answers to our respective questions, but being here is a start.

  John-John must have awakened from his nap. Through the closed door we hear him calling out to his father in a voice that borders on panic. Frey and I rush in to find him running from room to room. When he sees Frey, he tumbles into his arms with a whoop of relief. “I thought you
left.”

  Frey hugs him and rubs his back with a gentle hand. “I said I’d be here when you woke up. I wouldn’t break a promise to you. Not ever.”

  Frey scoops him up and we go into the kitchen to prepare his lunch. Sarah left instructions, and I take a seat beside John-John while Frey assembles apple slices and something that looks like blue pudding. I raise an eyebrow.

  “What’s that?”

  Frey spoons the stuff into a bowl. “Blue corn pudding—a Navajo specialty.” He takes a mouthful himself and rolls his eyes. “Heaven. A concoction of blue cornmeal, grape juice and yogurt.”

  “Sounds—ah—healthy.”

  He passes a bowl to John-John. “Your mom told me this is your favorite.”

  John-John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He’s already at work with his spoon, making quick work of the pudding.

  His enthusiasm makes me laugh, though eating something with the consistency of smooth tapioca would not have worked for me when I was his age. I was a Cocoa Puffs fan. A taste treat, I have no doubt, John-John has not experienced. I’d be willing to bet there are no packaged cereals in Sarah’s pristine cupboards.

  John-John polishes off his apple slices, gulps a glass of milk and squirms in his chair with the impatience of a kid on a mission. “I’m done. Can we go now?”

  Frey quirks quizzical eyebrows. “Go where?”

  “I heard you talking to Anna. We’re going for a ride, right?”

  Frey and I exchange startled looks. How could he have heard our conversation through the closed door?

  John-John points to his head. “I heard you here.”

  I close my eyes, afraid to look at Frey. If John-John can already pick up telepathic communication between vampires and shape-shifters, Frey does not have to wait years to confirm what just became obvious.

  His son is a shifter.

  CHAPTER 21

  FREY SENDS JOHN-JOHN OFF TO BRUSH HIS TEETH.

  He doesn’t speak first, so I do. “Could you read your folks’ minds at that age?”

  Frey’s shoulders wilt. “No. I don’t know what to make of this.”

  His expression, however, says he knows exactly what to make of it. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he heard us through the door.”

  Frey retreats into his own thoughts. As usual, I can only guess what he’s doing. He’s testing John-John’s powers.

  A little voice penetrates my head. Almost done.

  Yikes. I broke the connection with the father, but John-John comes through loud and clear.

  “We’d better be careful what we think,” I whisper to Frey in a monumental understatement.

  Frey rubs his hands over his face. Don’t need any psychic connection to read what’s behind that gesture. How the hell is he going to break this to Sarah?

  John-John races back to join us, and we scrub the shock from our expressions and our thoughts. Frey lifts John-John onto his shoulders, and we head for the Jeep. It becomes obvious that John-John isn’t aware that there’s anything special about being able to read our thoughts and makes no effort to reach out to us on his own. Maybe if we’re careful not to probe, he won’t, either.

  Frey turns the Jeep deeper into the valley. The Jeep fascinates John-John. He lifts his face and hands to the wind and squeals with delight. Each time we’re jostled by a bump, his laugh rings out like the sweet peel of a bell. Soon it becomes a game, Frey swerving to hit small furrows in the dirt and John-John and I exaggerating our reactions by bouncing in the seats and screeching our laughing protest.

  I can’t remember having so much fun.

  Finally, I manage to get John-John quieted down enough to ask, “Where are we going? I can’t imagine there’s a hotel all the way out here?”

  Frey’s eyes sparkle. “Who said we’re going to a hotel?”

  I get one of those uh-oh moments. What’s Frey up to now? “If we’re not staying in a hotel, where are we staying?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We’re headed into a flat basin surrounded on all sides by red sandstone cliffs. Off in the distance I can see a small encampment of some kind. A hogan and what looks from here like a couple of low-slung concrete buildings spring from the level plane of barren desert like flora in an alien garden.

  “Frey? That’s not a campsite, is it? Because you know I don’t sleep outside.”

  Frey chuckles. “Well, actually, I didn’t know. And yes, it is a campsite. But don’t worry. You won’t be sleeping outside.”

  Not very reassuring. “I’m not a camper. I like real beds and sheets and a shower in a bathroom of my very own.”

  No response, just a smile that looks suspiciously smug. As we get closer, more details come into focus. I imagine the temperature is about 95 degrees; heat shimmers from the desert floor in undulating waves. There are only a handful of cars parked in a roped off area and no one at all in sight. The hogan I saw from the distance is bigger than the one we passed earlier and in front, a loom much like the one I saw at Sarah’s sits deserted, a half-finished project baking under the August sun. The buildings are small, rectangular and marked with the familiar symbolic logos proclaiming them bathrooms.

  Bathrooms barely big enough for a toilet or two. Just a toilet or two. If there’s a shower in there, I’ll eat some of that blue corn pudding and the consequences be damned.

  “The place looks deserted.” My tone is hopeful, suggesting it’s time to turn around.

  Frey pulls the Jeep behind a clump of brush and glances at his watch. “We’re a little early. George will be here in a few minutes.” He turns to John-John. “Want to get out and stretch your legs?”

  Before I can follow up with any more questions, John-John has wiggled out of his seat belt and is holding out expectant arms to Frey. Frey jumps out of the Jeep, hefts his son to the ground and the kid is off.

  He studiously avoids looking in my direction.

  “Kid’s got a lot of energy.”

  I’m gritting my teeth so hard, my jaw aches. “Where exactly are we sleeping tonight?”

  Frey motions in a vague away. “There.”

  “There? Where? I’m telling you, I’m not going to sleep on the ground. I did that once on a rafting trip down the Grand Canyon with my folks. We were told to put our sleeping bags perpendicular to the river so the critters coming down at night to drink wouldn’t crawl into your bag. It was a nightmare.”

  One I’m not about to revisit.

  Another vague arm wave. “No river, see?”

  “Shit, Frey. I don’t care. There’s got to be a hotel around here. This is a major tourist attraction. What about the lodge where Sarah works? Why can’t we stay there?”

  Frey hesitates, directing his attention to his son, pretending John-John needs his attention when in reality, John-John is chasing a butterfly and oblivious to the two of us. Finally, he drags in a breath and blows out a reply. “Sarah doesn’t want anyone but the elders to know we’re here. She suggested we stay where we’re least likely to attract attention. Not many people camp out in the summer. It’s too hot.”

  “So what about the cars in the lot?”

  “They belong to people taking tours. They’ll be back soon and tonight, we’ll have the camp to ourselves.”

  Oh great.

  I plop down on the bumper of the Jeep, the acid of frustration and anger eating a hole in the pit of my stomach. I cast a look in John-John’s direction and lower my voice to a whisper. “Are you going to let Sarah dictate every fucking detail of this trip?”

  “Are you going to tell me that a hot-shit vampire is afraid to sleep in the dirt?” Frey is whispering, too.

  So not fair. “Did I say I was afraid? I said I don’t like it—not that I was afraid.”

  “Right.”

  John-John circles back toward us making me swallow the earthy response that had sprung to my lips. Having a kid around activates an internal censor I didn’t even know I had.

  He screeches to a stop in front of us. “Did you tell Anna
that you were sleeping in the hogan tonight?”

  Frey looks confused and then consternation furrows his brow.

  John-John picked that out of his father’s brain.

  “The hogan?” I glance behind me. “We’re sleeping in that?”

  Frey lifts his shoulders. “It’s not outside.”

  I tromp over for a closer look. The walls of the hogan rise about twelve feet from the desert floor. It looks like an igloo fashioned from red mud instead of ice. Its dome shape has only one door, a rectangular piece of heavy leather pulled back and secured with a rawhide cord. When I peek inside, I’m impressed in spite of not wanting to be. The walls and ceiling are interwoven branches of juniper. Beautiful in a primitive way. Then I look up. There’s an open, square hole in the top. Just the thing to let in all sorts of unwelcome creeping, slithering or flying guests. No furniture, just a couple of sleeping bags and mats rolled up against one side and a woven rug covering the dirt floor.

  No windows. No beds. No shower.

  Shit.

  When I turn around, Frey is right behind me. “What do you think?”

  He doesn’t want to know what I think. I cast a glance toward John-John, who doesn’t seem to be interested in our conversation but still, I keep my voice low and a lid on what I might project telepathically. “I think you’re nuts to want us to stay in a mud hut.”

  Frey bristles and gives me a little push inside. When we’re standing out of the sun, he says, “Look around, Anna. This is not a mud hut. The hogan is respected and cherished by the Navajo. In their creation stories, the first man and first woman built the original hogan to represent the universe and all things in it. It is more than a home. It is a sacred place to conduct ceremonies. It is built of and is harmonious with nature. It is eternal. You of all people should understand that.”

  His words carry the sting of reproach and for the first time, I see a spark in Frey I never saw before. “Do you have Navajo blood?”

  He gives his head an impatient shake. “No. Do you think one has to be Navajo to appreciate their culture? I don’t have vampire blood, either, and I get you pretty well. What’s wrong with you? I never thought you’d be so narrow-minded. It’s an honor to be invited to stay in a hogan. I even had the stupid notion you’d be excited to try something different. I never suspected a fucking shower was more important to you than the chance to connect with the earth and its people in a unique way.”