Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

Chael’s face swims to the surface of my consciousness, chasing away such mundane musings and bringing me sharply back to the reason for this visit.

I walk up behind Frey and tap his shoulder. I should have made more noise. He is so startled he jumps to his feet, sending the chair flying and a stream of coffee sloshing over the sides of the mug and onto the desk. When he sees me, those serious dark eyes flash with anger.

“Jesus, Anna. Where did you come from?”

“So much for catlike reflexes.” I grab up a bunch of napkins piled beside the coffeemaker on his bookcase and use them to sop up the mess on the desk. “What were you working on with such concentration?”

He pushes my hand away and takes over clean up. “Final exam essays. One of which”—he holds up an inkblurred, coffee-stained page—“is ruined. Now what?”

“That lucky kid gets an A.”

Frey shoots me a look of exasperation, but the anger soon passes and a smile cracks the shel of irritation. He tosses the napkins into a trash can near the office door and comes around the desk.

“Wondered when you’d drop in.” He peers into my face.

“Are you al right?”

My back stiffens. Why does everyone keep asking me that?

Frey sees the reaction. “Got asked that a lot lately, huh?”

“Too damned many times.”

He leans back against the filing cabinet. “Wel, maybe if you didn’t shut yourself off from your friends, we wouldn’t have to ask.”

There is a sharp edge to his tone. I deserve it. He’s right.

Two months ago, he put his own life on hold to help me prepare to meet my destiny. Except for a brief phone cal to let him know I survived, we haven’t spoken since.

I try to make light of the situation. “I figured after being cloistered with me for three days, you’d be happy not to hear from me for awhile. I’m sure Layla was.”

Frey’s expression changes, aggravation to a look I recognize. I wince. “Uh-oh. What’s up? Trouble in paradise?”

His eyes slide away.

Guilt wiggles its niggling little fingers. “Because of me?”

Frey moves again, back to his chair behind his desk.

“We’re taking a break.”

“Because of me.” No question this time.

“Because of a lot of things.”

Vague. Shit.

“I’m sorry, Frey.”

He meets my eyes this time. “Nothing for you to be sorry about. We both did what needed to be done. If Layla can’t accept our friendship. .”

He leaves the sentence unfinished, words fading away like smoke in a breeze.

His eyes, though, are sad, and I know in spite of what he said, I am the reason for their breakup. I don’t know what to say or do. I never liked Layla, but he obviously did.

I wish I were more like my mother. She would know how to comfort him. I lack those instincts. A physical threat I know how to handle. An emotional hurt, my head swims with indecision. I can only stand here like a fucking idiot and stare.

“Wel,” I say in a stammering attempt to jump-start the conversation. “There is a reason I’m here. I have something I need to discuss with you.”

He glances behind me into the classroom and checks his watch. “The bel is going to ring in ten minutes. Can it wait until after class?”

For the first time I’m aware of shuffling feet outside the office door. Students are filing into the room. “Sure. I’l wait for you in the parking lot. We can go to the cottage.”

He picks up a pair of glasses from the desk and waggles them at me. “No need to wait. I’l meet you there. I drive now.”

The only carryover between Frey’s physical and metaphysical selves is the feline inability to distinguish a broad spectrum of colors. Made driving difficult. Layla (also a feline shape-shifter) came up with a special lens that corrects the defect.

I acknowledge the glasses with nod. At least he has something to show for the broken relationship. Something other than a broken heart.

FREY IS AT MY DOOR EXACTLY AN HOUR AND A HALF later. I have coffee brewing and a couple of hamburgers in the microwave. I picked them up on the way home. Panthers are, after al, carnivores.

I set them on the kitchen table.

Frey eyes the burger. “Thanks. I’m starved.”

I take the seat opposite him and watch as he eats. Makes my salivary glands jump into overdrive. I do miss a good burger. And chocolate.

But I’m stal ing.

Frey seems to know it. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at me over his coffee mug. “So. What’s up?”

Now that he’s here and asking, I’m not sure how to begin.

“It’s about your son.”

Frey lowers the mug, alarm tightening the lines around his mouth. “What about my son?”

“I thought no one knew of his existence.”

“No one does. Outside of this room.”

I push at his plate. “I meteone this morning who does.”

The alarm in Frey’s expression escalates. His hands crush the napkin into a bal. “Who?”

When I tel him of Chael, who he is and how he orchestrated the chal enge that resulted in Lance’s death, the alarm becomes fear. “Why would he talk to you about my son? Was he threatening him? Threatening you?”

“No. Not at al. In fact, he said he meant your son no harm.

He said the Keeper of the Secrets was a revered position in the supernatural community. I think he was sincere.” As sincere as Chael was capable of being anyway.

“So then why mention him?”

Here’s the tricky part. I tel Frey about our conversation.

About the shaman who could supposedly restore a vampire to mortal state. About how this miracle worker lived on the same reservation as Frey’s son.

When I finish, Frey is quiet. He’s slouched against the back of the chair, eyes downcast, as if trying to distance himself from me. I don’t blame him. I seem to bring nothing but trouble.

I let a moment pass and another and when his silence presses on, I break it with, “A shaman who can restore mortality. Is such a thing possible?”

He raises his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Truthful y, I’m not sure.”

Frey looks up. “Then what do you want to do?”

“I think we should go to the vil age. Check on your son.”

“I thought you said you believed that Chael meant him no harm?”

“I did. I do. Stil —”

“You don’t completely trust him, do you?”

“No.”

Icy resolve narrows Frey’s eyes. “And you want to check this shaman out.”

“Yes.”

“When do you want to go?”

“When can you go?”

“Today was the last day of summer school. I have two weeks before I have to prepare for fal classes. How about tomorrow morning?”

“I can have the jet ready to go anytime you are.”

He shakes his head. “We’l drive.”

He’s already risen from the table. I do, too. “Drive?”

“It’s a beautiful part of the country. Ever been there?”

I shake my head.

“No time like the present to appreciate it.”

“Do you want to drive or shal I?”

Frey slips the black-framed, amber-lensed glasses over his eyes. “I’l drive. See you in the morning.”

I SPEND A RESTLESS NIGHT. PLEASANT THOUGHTS

OF how my life would change if I became mortal again ricochet around in my head until I’m dizzy with it. Chief among them is the kind of life I could have with someone like Stephen. I could go with him on assignment and not risk someone noticing that I cast no reflection or don’t seem to eat anything. I could visit my parents anytime I want. Take Trisha shopping and not have to avoid mirrors. Simple things. Little things.

But the responsibility Irivd accepted as the Chosen One beats its own counterpoint. Chael would not offer a gift unless he was the one benefiting from it. And if he benefits from it, al those pleasant scenarios might become very short-lived. The world as we know it would cease to exist.