Crossroads (16 page)

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Authors: Jeanne C. Stein

Tags: #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #General, #Horror

BOOK: Crossroads
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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
 
F
REY 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.”
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

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