Crossroads (22 page)
Authors: Jeanne C. Stein
Tags: #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #General, #Horror
I wonder if I should check in. I’ve only been gone two days. If David needed me, I’m sure he’d have called. And with Judith Williams here, he’s most likely staying out of trouble.
I’m circling back to resume my perch on the couch when a group of four urban-chic bikers arrive in the lobby and make their way to the elevator. They’re dressed in form-fitting leathers, talk quietly as if conscious not to attract too much attention, and all have scarves tied loosely around their necks. When one of them, a young woman with long blond hair, slips out of her jacket, her scarf falls to the floor.
She bends to retrieve it.
There are faint bruises just below her right ear, bite marks not quite healed.
I smile as she scrambles to cover them up, looking around to see if anyone noticed.
Oh yeah, chickie.
I noticed.
Chael and Judith sent for takeout.
I toss the magazine onto the stack in the middle of the coffee table and watch them into the elevator. There are only two floors in the lodge. I’m at the stairs and up to the second level before the elevator doors slide open.
The group makes their way down the long hallway. I hang back and watch. They knock at a door near the end. When they’ve been let inside, I walk down myself and check it out.
Room 230.
It’s quiet in the hallway, but too public to risk getting caught with my ear to the door. I move down a few doors and aim vampire hearing into the room. But Chael and Judith are being careful. Nothing comes through. All I get are the soft murmurs of their hosts’ voices and the vigorous creak of bedsprings as the people next door in 232 engage in energetic sex.
Well. At least I know where to find Chael. Bursting in now would accomplish nothing except to jeopardize the lives of the hosts.
I glance at my watch. I’ve been here almost four hours. Would it be safe to return to Sarah’s? How long would the burial ceremony last? I should have thought to ask Kayani. I dig my cell phone out of my jacket. I’ll call Frey. If he’s still with Sarah’s parents, I’m sure it will go straight to voice mail.
It does. He’s turned it off. I leave a very brief “call me when you can” message and end the call.
A whiff of coppery scent drifts up from beneath the door to 230. Faint but potent as a memory and easily distinguishable to a vampire.
Blood.
It produces a restless surge of adrenaline.
Chael and Judith have started to dine.
CHAPTER 29
T
HE BLOOD PULL IS TOO STRONG. I MAKE FOR THE stairway and retreat downstairs to the lobby. I’ll wait for the hosts to leave before confronting Chael and Judith.
HE BLOOD PULL IS TOO STRONG. I MAKE FOR THE stairway and retreat downstairs to the lobby. I’ll wait for the hosts to leave before confronting Chael and Judith.
My place on the couch is occupied by a family waiting for the rain to stop before venturing out. I get a cup of coffee from the coffee bar and find another seat—one with a partially obstructed view of the elevators but one that will have to do.
What will I say to Chael? There is no defense he can offer that would justify his senseless killing of Sarah and her sister. Especially if it was done just to keep me here.
I don’t know what will happen in the next few days. I suppose it will depend on what Frey decides is best for his son. He may even choose to stay on the reservation with John-John. After all, this is the only home the boy has ever known. The only thing I’m sure of is that he needs to be with John-John now.
A conclusion I’m sure he’s come to himself.
So where does that leave me?
A sense of weariness and despair darkens my thoughts. If I go back to San Diego alone, I go minus one of the constants in my life. Daniel Frey has been with me since the beginning. Besides Culebra, he is the only supernatural I consider a friend.
Worse, the trip will have been for nothing. I would have been the cause of two deaths without being given the opportunity to have my questions answered. Perhaps that’s my punishment for coming here with a selfish agenda. I didn’t want merely to ask for mortality back, I wanted the shaman to assure me it was the right decision. To answer the how and why of being chosen.
As if life ever grants assurances.
Coffee cup drained, I toss it in the nearest waste receptacle.
I hate this feeling of hopelessness. It’s not my nature. I’m much more comfortable with anger. Anger leads to action. Did I always feel that way? I was human much longer than I’ve been vampire, but the memories of how I felt as a human grow dimmer every day.
Is that a good thing?
The elevator pings open and the four urban-chic bikers step into the lobby. They’re a little paler, walk a little slower, leaving a scent of blood and sex in their wake. But they have satisfied smiles on their faces.
I glance at my watch. Two hours. A lot of sex. A lot of blood.
Still they’re luckier than many of Judith Williams’ hosts. She has a tendency to drain her hosts dry, leaving a disposal problem. Chael must have cautioned her to exercise restraint.
Or threatened to kill her if she didn’t.
I wait until they’ve left the lobby to retrace their steps to Room 230. There is a maid at the door, a housekeeping cart parked to the side. The maid knocks, announces herself, uses her passkey to let herself in when there’s no answer.
Curious, I wander down to stand beside the door. The maid is stripping the bed.
“Excuse me?” I point to the bed. “Where is the couple who occupied this room?”
The maid eyes me suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“We had a lunch date. They didn’t show. I was concerned something might be wrong.”
“Can’t help you,” she replies, approaching the door with an armful of sheets. “All I know is that a few minutes ago, I got a message that the occupants of this room have checked out.”
She dumps the sheets into the hamper and pushes the cart into the room, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click. I’m left in the hall staring at a stupid door and wondering how the hell Chael and Williams managed to get by me.
And where they’d go from here.
I can’t believe while I was feeling sorry for myself, Chael managed to slip past me. Had he seen me in the lodge? Maybe when I was having coffee with Kayani? Did he watch me leave with him? Think he was safe to take his time with the hosts?
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
T
HE 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.
HE 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.
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