Movement from the house breaks through the pall of despair shrouding my thoughts and look I over to see Frey coming toward me.
He’s alone.
“John-John?”
“Cried himself to sleep. He’s on the couch. I don’t want to be gone long in case he wakes up, but I wanted to check on you.” He looks around. “George left?”
Couldn’t leave fast enough. I glance toward the sky then nod.
“Did he feed the horses?”
“No. I did.”
“You did? Wouldn’t have thought a city girl like you knew the business end of a pitchfork from a branding iron.”
“Like you’re the expert. How much time have you spent on the range, cowboy?”
He lets a tiny smile touch the corners of his mouth. “Touché.” The smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans back against the fence, resting a foot on the lower rail. Once again we’re side by side, silent, weighed down by sadness that pulls at us the moment we let an unguarded thought slip through.
The sky should be light by now, the sun casting shadows across the burnished landscape. Instead, the clouds crowd thicker and lower until a light mist begins to fall.
I put a hand on Frey’s arm, afraid if I don’t say it now, I’ll lose courage. “Frey, I’m sorry.”
He straightens up, not meeting my eyes, pretending, I think, not to hear. “We’d better get inside.”
We trudge back to the house. John-John is still asleep on the couch. I give Frey a gentle push toward his son. “Go. Be with him. I’ll make coffee.”
Frey settles himself on the couch, gently lifting John-John’s head to rest on his lap. The boy stirs but doesn’t waken. Frey rests his own head back against the cushions and closes his eyes, too. I leave them and head for the kitchen.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Sarah has no coffee in the house. Only various kinds of loose tea in glass canisters. I pick one up, feeling a tingle of irritation until I catch myself.
The woman is dead. I’m criticizing her because she doesn’t have coffee in her own home.
She’s dead because of me. She’s dead because I let Chael influence me. She’s dead because I didn’t have the backbone to do what I should have the moment I saw him in my house.
And I’m irritated because she drinks tea.
My fingers tighten convulsively around the glass canister and with a crack that shatters the quiet, the canister breaks, sending shards of glass and tea as fragrant as sage across the kitchen floor. I glance down at my hand. Only the metal ring lock is left. It glistens with blood from the gash across my palm.
There’s no pain and as I watch, the cut starts to heal. Skin tingles as it reknits over the gash, blood soaking down through the skin until it’s reabsorbed. Soon there’s nothing to show but a faint flush and then that’s gone, too.
Why can’t I perform that same magic on Sarah and Mary? What good is power if I can’t use it on others?
I let the metal ring drop and look around for a broom. There’s a closet beside the back door and in it, I find what I need. I sweep up the debris and deposit it into a trash can under the sink. I do it without thinking. I don’t want to think. I want to turn the clock back and start over from Tuesday morning. I want to walk in on Chael and snap his neck before he has a chance to say a word. I am the Chosen One and I let myself be drawn in with his tale like a stupid child.
Why is this happening?
I close the closet door and sink into a kitchen chair. I’m not prone to tears. Even as a child, crying seemed a sign of weakness. My brother never cried. I’d be damned if I would. But becoming vampire while making me stronger in so many ways pushes some emotions closer to the surface. There’s a little boy in the next room who has no mother.
Because of me.
I feel the sting of tears. Swallow hard to fight them back, press fingertips against my eyes until the pain drives away the bitter urge to break down. It’s a sign of weakness I don’t deserve to indulge. I need to figure how to make things right.
Restless, I push myself from the table, cross to the sink, let my gaze fix on the view from the back window. Rain is falling in soft sheets, turning the landscape into an impressionistic blur of red and brown. The sound as it hits the tile roof beats a counterpoint to my efforts to sort through tangled emotions.
None of this makes sense. How could Sarah have had an accident traveling a road she traveled every day for years? What could possibly have happened at the council to throw her into such a tizzy she lost control of an old truck she must have driven for years? I know my own car so well, I can’t imagine such a thing. Especially on familiar terrain. Was she distracted by something?
Jesus.
Could she have been distracted by something?
Frey didn’t want to travel at night because of the skinwalkers.
But they have it in for me. Not for Sarah.
Right?
I must be crazy. No one would want Sarah dead just because she made a request of the council. What sense would that make? Once Sarah came back and told me the request was turned down, it would be logical to assume I’d soon be gone. And probably Frey, too.
No one had anything to gain by killing Sarah and her sister.
Did they?
I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before this minute.
There is someone who would not want me to leave quite so soon. Someone who is capable of killing to ensure I’d stick around and pursue the shaman on my own. Someone who doesn’t want me to give up the idea of becoming mortal again.
Chael.
CHAPTER 26
AS SOON AS THE PIECES FALL INTO PLACE, I BANG my hand against the counter hard enough to make the set of canisters dance.
Chael is here. I’d be willing to bet on it. And I’d also be willing to bet he has forged some kind of alliance with the skinwalkers. He might already have known I wouldn’t be granted an audience with the shaman. Getting rid of me with the bone charm would have served his purpose just as well. When that didn’t work, he had to fall back on the original plan. Keep me around and hope I’d try to make contact on my own.
He’d know I wouldn’t leave a grieving Frey.
Did he arrange the accident? Or did he cause it? It would be easy for him to appear in the path of a speeding car. To startle Sarah into swerving off the road. Without seat belts, the two would have been helpless in the rolling truck.
Did he watch it happen?
Rage rises like bile, harsh and sour in my throat. Something else for Chael to answer for the next time we meet.
But how do I find him? I have no allies here except Frey. George made his feelings about me clear.
Unless Kayani would be willing to help.
I remember the dark intensity of his gaze. I have the feeling he would want to avenge Sarah’s death almost as much as I do. But how do I get in touch with him?
And do I tell Frey what I suspect?
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. Telling Frey confirms that the blame for Sarah’s death rests squarely with me. Do I have the courage to do that? I tried in a very lame way when we were at the corral, but I admit I was relieved when he changed the subject and instead suggested we go inside. Now that I suspect Chael is behind the accident, there’s no dancing around the truth.
There’s a murmur of soft voices from the living room followed by Frey’s appearance at the kitchen. John-John is in his arms, his head resting on Frey’s shoulder.
“I think John-John should have something to eat. Will you check the refrigerator?”
I do, afraid to open my mouth for fear of breaking down. There is such a look of sadness on that little boy’s face, I can hardly bear it. Wordlessly, I extract the container of pudding I recognized from yesterday and spoon a portion into a bowl I find in a cupboard over the stove. I take it to the table and Frey seats himself, still holding John-John, and tries to coax the boy into taking a few bites.
John-John buries his head in Frey’s shoulder, pushin
g the spoon away. He mumbles something in Navajo and Frey lowers the spoon, his arms tightening around his son.
I’ve poured a small glass of milk and hold it out to Frey. At least John-John accepts a few sips of milk before once more turning his face away.
Maybe if I left them alone?
I touch Frey’s arm and motion toward the other room. He nods and I take my leave.
I start pacing. I wish now I’d taken a card from Kayani or asked how to contact him. If Chael is staying in the area, especially if he’s staying on the reservation, there are not too many places that offer lodging. Chael with his dark Middle Eastern look would not have to worry about keeping a low profile. He’d blend in with the hundreds of tourists who flock to Monument Valley every summer. Perfect camouflage for a vampire intent on keeping an eye on me.
I wander from one end of the living room to another, absently taking in the pictures on the book case, the bits of rocks and feathers scattered here and there on end tables, John-John’s toy horses and cars clustered under the coffee table. Touches that make a house a home.
Touches that made this house Sarah’s home.
I return to the bookcase. Now I recognize some of the faces in the photos. Kayani with John-John on horseback. An older couple in full Native American garb. Sarah’s parents ? George with Sarah and Mary standing in front of a Jeep with the name of a tour company on the side.
Maybe that’s where I should start.
I look around for an address book or a computer. There is neither in the living room. Should I ask Frey if it would be all right to look in Sarah’s bedroom?
It’s so quiet in the kitchen, I don’t want to interrupt whatever is going on between father and son. I’ll take my chances and if Frey gets angry with me for snooping, I’ll take my lumps.
Sarah’s bedroom is neat—bed made up, closet doors closed, very little on the vanity except what one might expect—brush, comb, a few items of makeup. There is no desk. No computer in sight. I peek in the closet. Boots and shoes lined up against the back, clothes hung, shelves with carefully folded sweaters and scarves along one wall. The only thing out of place is a wicked-looking crossbow leaning against the back corner. A quiver holds both metal and wooden bolts.
I take a deep breath, close the door, and start opening drawers. Three in the dresser—underwear, jeans, jewelry. I try the nightstand. A Tony Hillerman paperback, a flashlight, a pad of paper and a pen and … condoms.
I shut the drawer quickly. That answers one question. Maybe Sarah wasn’t in love with Kayani, but she was having sex with him.
No address book. No computer.
I shut the door to Sarah’s room quietly behind me. I’m facing Mary’s room. That door is open. There is a desk in this room. And a laptop computer. But is it Mary’s or Sarah’s?
My bet is on Mary. She’s home from college … I catch myself with a grimace—was home from college—and would have wanted to keep in touch with her friends. When I take a closer look, I see it has a mobile web browser. But when I try to connect, there is no service. Too far away from cable or satellite access I guess. Mary must have taken the laptop with her to the lodge when she wanted to go online.
Are her friends wondering why they haven’t heard from her? Are they concerned? No. It’s too soon for concern. Most likely they assume she’s enjoying her summer the way they’re enjoying theirs. Who will be the one to break the news that Mary is gone?
I power the laptop down and leave it on the desk.
I open the top middle drawer. The usual array of home-office items. The drawers to the right are a file drawer and one other. It’s in that one that I spy a small leather-bound address book.
I carry it with me to the living room and take a seat on the sofa.
Kayani’s number is there, as is a number to the lodge. No addresses. I call Kayani’s number first. Get an answering machine that has the ubiquitous generic message to leave a number after the beep. Obviously a home rather than work number since no reference is made to the Navajo police. I don’t leave a message. When I call the lodge, I’m connected with an operator. I ask for the address and directions to the lodge, which are cheerfully given.
I sort them away in my head.
It looks like I’ll be going after Chael first.
It’s still quiet in the kitchen. I have Frey’s keys but don’t want to leave without letting him know. I swap the address book for a piece of paper and pen from the desk and scribble a hasty note. When I tiptoe into the kitchen, I find Frey and John-John both asleep at the table. I leave the note, kiss the top of Frey’s head and tiptoe back out.
Frey’s Jeep has everything, including a GPS system. The operator was kind enough to provide latitude and longitude and I plug it in: N 37 00 39 W 110 12.116.
I have no clue what it means, but the Jeep does. In less than a minute, I’m on my way.
I haven’t gone more than a couple of miles before I pass another vehicle headed toward Sarah’s. Through the driver’s side window, I see gray hair and a pinched, hollowcheeked profile. It’s just a quick glance and the driver doesn’t look over at me even though we’re the only two cars on a deserted stretch of desert. But I’m pretty sure I recognize him from one of the pictures on Sarah’s bookcase.
Sarah and Mary’s father.
For a moment I wonder if I should go back. Then reason takes over. If he recognized what I was, it would be that much harder on Frey. Better to let them have this time alone.
Finding Chael and getting him out of our lives is more important than anything else.
My jaws ache with anticipation. I will take great pleasure in killing him.
CHAPTER 27
GOULDING’S LODGE IS LOCATED ABOUT TWENTY miles from U.S. 163. Not built exactly the way I would have imagined—nothing rustic here though its modern sand-colored stucco and red-tile roof do blend in against the backdrop of steep red cliffs. It’s only eight and already the parking lot is full of cars, RVs and campers. Now that I’m here, I wonder how I’ll find Chael. I doubt he’s registered under his name.
There is one way.
A light mist is still falling, but it doesn’t seem to be discouraging visitors from flocking to the lodge. I make my way past a motel, museum and gift shop to follow the crowd to the lobby. I find an out of the way corner and close my eyes.
I cloak my own thoughts while opening the conduit that will permit me to pick up on the unguarded thoughts of other supernaturals.
At first, I don’t sense anything. The drone of mortal voices makes it hard to concentrate. I try harder, filtering out ambient noise and the high-pitched wail of an unhappy baby. Then I get a psychic hit.
A voice from the far corner of the lobby. Then another. I make my way over, stand a few feet away and watch.
But it’s not Chael. It’s a family of shape-shifters. Two adults and a petulant teenage daughter. From Minnesota. They’re arguing because the girl wants to call her boyfriend and her mother tells her there isn’t time before the tour.
You’re just saying that because you don’t like Jack, the girl whines.
You’re right, her mother snaps back. I don’t. He’s a werewolf and can’t be trusted.
Shit. I tune out. Retreat back a few steps and try again. Chael has to be here. There aren’t that many places to stay on the reservation. He would want to be close enough to enjoy the havoc he’s created, to taste the pain.
“Anna Strong? What are you doing?”
The voice makes me jump—not only because it comes right at my elbow but because I was concentrating so hard on picking things out of the air, I didn’t sense the physical approach of this very real human.
“Officer Kayani. You startled me.”
He narrows his eyes. “What were you doing?”
How do I explain? “Just—people watching.”
“With your eyes closed?”
Now would be a good time to change the subject. “You’re in civilian clothes. Off duty?”
“Just. Stopped
by for a cup of coffee before heading home. Care to join me?”
I nod and he motions me toward glass doors at the back of the lobby. I let him lead the way, still keeping the vampire radar on alert for a ping of recognition. All I get though is another nasal round of squabbling from the shape-shifters.
I give up with a sigh and turn my attention to Kayani. He’s changed into tan chinos and a long-sleeved black shirt, untucked, and on his feet he’s wearing leather sandals. He asks what I’d like. I order coffee, black, and when he’s been handed the cups, he leads the way once again to a long deck spanning the length of the lodge.
It’s not very crowded; the rain keeps most of the tourists inside. But the view from the deck is astounding. It’s a panorama of ragged rock formations stretching unbroken for miles. Once again I feel the tug of immortality, a sense that I belong here. I cross the deck to stand by the railing, drawn by a force I don’t understand.
Kayani joins me. “Wouldn’t you rather sit in the back? Out of the rain.”
Reluctantly, I nod and pull myself away. There is a sheltered area with a dozen café tables and chairs and Kayani picks one. We sit, but my eyes keep drifting back to the view.
“First time here?”
“Is it that obvious?”
Kayani smiles. “There is no place like this on earth. It has been inhabited by indigenous people since the beginning of time. A holy place. At least until silver was discovered in the 1800s. Then we Navajo were rounded up and driven out. It wasn’t until the mid-1800s that we were allowed to return and 1884 before it was declared officially the Navajo’s. This is our land by right, and we will never be driven out again.”
He speaks as if I might be planning to make an attempt at it. “Those days are over.”
He gives me a look that might be put into the “are you really that naive?” classification—brows lowered, lips drawn back into a frown.
Is he this touchy with all the tourists? Or is it because of my connection to Frey.
Regardless, I don’t jump to the bait. Instead I sip coffee and let my gaze linger on the countryside, all the while deciding how best to broach the subject I intended to when I set out this morning. I don’t know any way to do it but to speak directly. He’ll respond one way or the other—be receptive and stay or get angry and leave.
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