Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

I don’t trust Chael. It goes against every instinct to al ow him to get back on his feet.

Stil, it’s what I do. Roughly, jerking him up by the col ar of his shirt, teeth and fists ready, body poised to pounce again if I detect any aggression.

Why am I doing this? The little voice in the back of my head says it’s stupid. It has to be a trick. There is no way to go back. No way to become human again.

Is there?

It’s that tiny crumb of doubt that al ows Chael a reprieve.

I step away from him. He straightens his shirt, brushes invisible dirt from his slacks. My clothes are grubby but the jacket conceals the worst of the dirt and blood. This affectation is merely for show. As is his comment, I hope your sartorial taste was better as a mortal than it is now. You are filthy.

Sarcasm? You try my patience, Chael.

A snort. Is that irony? I imagine you try the patience of most who know you.

My fists clench, my jaw and shoulders tighten. Every nerve in my body cries out to bring this arrogant bastard to his knees.

My inner voice comes again. Patience, Anna. There wil be time. After he spins his fairy tale. Consequences be damned.

Speak.

He finishes his symbolic tidying by running both hands through jet-black hair, smoothing it behind his ears.

You’re ready to listen?

I’m ready to rip your head off your scrawny neck if you don’t get on with it.

He clucks his tongue. No wonder you are bereft of friends.

He resumes his place on the couch. He starts to put his feet back on the coffee table, but the snahat erupts from my throat stops him. He shakes his head and settles back against the cushions instead.

There is a shaman. He lives here in your American Southwest. He has the power to restore life. He can bring the dead back from the grave. He can restore mortality to the undead.

Impossible.

He stares at me, bemused. That is your reply?

Impossible? You have no questions for me? You are not curious why I would come here risking my well-being with a fabricated tale? What would I accomplish with such a foolish act?

Chael, I have no idea why you do what you do. I do know that you hate me. I can only guess you have prepared a trap. One you think I’ll be foolish enough to fall into. One you think will rid you of me once and for all. You are wrong on both counts.

He doesn’t react the way I expect — with vehement denial and heated recrimination. Rather he lifts his elegant shoulders. You are right. It would benefit me greatly if you no longer held the position of Chosen One. A position you neither deserve nor understand. But if I wished only to remove you, it could be done in a much more direct way. I could have you killed.

This is the Chael I recognize. The smile that I force to my lips is cold and menacing. You could try.

And I would succeed. You are strong. But you have not faced an army of determined vampires. We would lose some, maybe many, but eventually we would prevail. You are not invincible. If the Chosen One were invincible, there would have been only one down through the ages, would there not?

His bluntness strikes a chord. No one has yet been able to answer the questions I’ve asked myself since learning of my dubious distinction as the head of the Thirteen Vampire Tribes.

How and why was I chosen? What became of those before me?

My hesitation gives Chael the opportunity to push on. You have wondered about that yourself, haven’t you? Many of us have. His tone is bitter. If we could figure out the mystery, discover the source who predetermines our path, the master who makes us slaves to such as you, the fate of the world would be far different.

You mean you would move against this master and take over yourself?

I would not be averse to such a situation.

But you can’t do it alone, can you? That is what stops you. You don’t have the backing of the others.

Chael snaps his fingers, dismissing my question with a derisive laugh. Too many are bound up in the superstition.

Like mortals cling to their archaic religions, they cling to a ritual that is illogical and irrational and has no relevance today. But in the right circumstance—

The circumstance of my unseating, for instance?

His eyes flash. He actual y al ows the thought or your death to come through, but it is tempered by a smile.

A smile I don’t return.

So that is why you come to me with this story? You dare not kill me, but if I become mortal, the thorn from your paw is removed in a way that cannot reflect ill on you. You will have done me no harm. You cannot be held responsible for the deposing of a Chosen One who returns to human life.

His self-satisfied smile widens. This time I return the smile witha cold one of my own. Crossing the distance between us, I bend so close, he has to cringe back to look up at me.

Your hypothesis has one severe flaw, Chael. You can’t be sure you will be chosen to take my place. I’m assuming that is your goal if you wish to see the world remade in your twisted image.

My goal is of no concern to you. I am only here to offer you a gift. Not to debate what might happen if you choose to accept it.

I can’t believe Chael doesn’t see the irony in that statement. If I accepted this “gift,” and a new Chosen One is swayed by Chael’s vision, or even worse, Chael assumes the title himself, life as we know it for mortals is over. They become as cattle, relegated to gulags, existing only to serve their vampire masters.

Except for one smal detail. I know the plan. Even as a human, I might be able to fight it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. What he proposes is not possible; planning countermeasures, ridiculous.

Chael cannot read these thoughts. He watches my face, suspicious of a mind suddenly as impenetrable as the steel in my gaze.

I turn away from him, moving to the other side of the room, putting distance between us as if that wil help me sort conflicted emotions. To be human again. To be with my family. To love anyone I wish. To stop hiding what I am. To be free of the hunger.

It isn’t possible? Is it?

Feelings I’ve relegated to the past wel up, swamping my senses, radiating though the barrier between us and giving Chael the opening he seeks.

You are tempted. I feel it. You can’t hide the passion.

You want what once was. I will tell you what I know. Then it is up to you.

I face him. Shutting down the fierce longing that betrayed me takes such effort, my body shakes. But my thoughts are cold, clinical when I open my mind.

Tell me.

Chael now finds it difficult to control his own eagerness—

excitement that I am asking, anticipation of al that he hopes to come burns from his eyes. He can’t suppress his passion any more than I could.

He lives among the Navajo. A shaman.

And how do I find him?

Ah. That is easy. You ask your shape-shifter friend, Daniel Frey.

How would he know of this miracle worker?

He does not know him. But he knows where to find him.

With his son.

I remember wel the first time I learned that Daniel Frey had a son. Frey was preparing me for what I would face at the assembly of the Thirteen Tribes. He dropped the nugget that he had a son as casual y as one would shake a pebble from a shoe. After recovering from the shock of such a startling revelation, it took some wheedling to get any information at al about this unexpected and stunning news.

The little I got was sketchy at best.