Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

Frey starts the conversation. “Did you talk to Sarah?”

George nods. “She is not happy that you are here. She worries how it wil be for John-John when you leave again.

And she sees Anna’s presence as a threat.”

“I’m a threat?” Bristling with indignation, I lean forward on the seat. “I’m not a threat to anyone. I’m here for one purpose. Once I’ve accomplished that purpose, I’l leave.”

“It’s not that easy, Anna,” he says. His eyes regard me with frank appraisal. “You are vampire. By your nature you are a threat. There are many who would demand you leave our nation now. They wil fight to prevent you from meeting with Sani.”

“Sani?”

“That is the name we cal the shaman. He is a holy man and his identity is a closely guarded secret among the elders. They are sworn to protect him. Sarah is going to talk to them tonight at council. But you should be prepared for disappointment.”

I turn toward Frey. “Shouldn’t I be there when she speaks with them? Plead my case.”

George places a hand between Frey and me, his answer coming as quick as it is adamant. “No. In fact, Sarah wil not make it known that you are here. She wil address the council with the request from a friend who wil come only if permission is granted. Bringing a vampire to a gathering of the Dine’é is foolhardy and dangerous. Sarah could be held responsible if something goes wrong.”

“Goes wrong? What do you think? I’l go berserk and start attacking people?”

Frey tries to temper my rising indignation. “It’s not you specifical y,” he says. “Traditional y the Navajo are morbidly afraid of the dead. They have no concept of life after death nor are deeds done in this life rewarded or punished. Mortal life is al. Death at an early age is viewed with dismay. You are young. You are the walking dead.”

“But that’s the reason I’m here. To see if it can be reversed. Surely that has to carry some weight with the elders.”

Neither George nor Frey answers. I can see by their expressions, they do not expect I’l be granted an audience.

Wel, I’m not going to argue the point now. I’l wait and see what happens. Then I’l start arguing.

John-John skips over to us, the circle of yarn held between his two hands. “Look what I made.”

We climb out of the bus and I squat down so I’m eye level with John-John. “Is that a cat’s cradle?”

He giggles. “Watch.” He lets go of the bottom string and like magic, two patterns form and when he pul s his hands apart, the patterns move away from each other. “The gate is opening.”

I clap my hands. “That is wonderful, John-John. How long did it take you to come up with that?”

“Oh, I can make lots of things. Would you like to see more?”

But George lays a gentle hand on John-John’s shoulder.

“We have to go meet your mother now. You can show Anna more another time.” He looks at Frey. “I have food for you in the bus. And blankets. Wil the two of you be al right here tonight?”

We both nod, Frey more enthusiastical y than I. John-John is reluctant to leave. He shadows Frey to the front of the bus where George hands down a cooler and blankets. Frey leans over and whispers in John-John’s ear. He speaks in Navajo but whatever he tel s the boy, John-John seems appeased by it. He lifts his arms to his father for a hug and climbs up to sit beside George

Frey lifts a hand. “Hágoónee’. Hazhó’ó nídeiyínóhkááh.”

John-John waves. George nods to us both and steers the bus out of the lot.

“What did you say to him?” I ask, John-John’s little hand stil waving to us from the open window as the bus pul s away.

“I told him to be safe going home.”

We carry the food and blankets into the hogan. Frey busies himself setting out sandwiches and chips and settles cross-legged on the rug to eat.

“You look right at home.”

He smiles up at me. “Don’t know about that. But I do feel at peace. Being with John-John makes me realize how much I’ve missed him. I’m glad we made the trip.”

I sit, too, back against the wal of the hogan, legs outstretched. There is a sense of peace. Maybe because it’s so quiet. No city noises. No traffic. Not even a birdcal to shatter the stil ness.

Odd.

I tilt my head, listening.

Frey frowns, puts down his sandwich. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s too quiet. We should be hearing birds or coyotes or something moving around outside. Why aren’t we?”

I climb to my feet, take a step outside.

Movement in a clump of brush thirty feet from the hogan. It catches the corner of my eye and as I turn, something sharp pricks the skin of my forearm.

I jump and clap a hand over my arm. I scan the brush, then race toward it. Even with the speed of the vampire, whatever was there is gone. Not even a footprint or the echo of a footfal reaches my ears. I scan the distance. The only thing I see is a crow far off, solitary, silent, floating over the mesa.

Then it, too, is gone.

Frey is suddenly beside me. “What happened? Your arm is bleeding.”

We both look down and as we watch, a bump forms over something embedded just under the skin. Then the wound closes and the swel ing disappears.

I wipe away the spot of blood. There’s nothing left but a blush of red that fades as we watch.

“What the hel was that?” I ask. “Was I bitten by an insect?”

Frey’s eyes scan the distance. He grabs my arm and pul s me back toward the hogan. “We need to get inside.”

I feel the tension in his touch, let him lead me to the shelter of the hogan. “What’s going on?”

He pul s the leather thong free and the rawhide door fal s into place. Only then does he look at me. “I think it was a skinwalker. We need to get that charm out of your arm. Now.”

FREY PULLS A SMALL SWISS ARMY KNIFE FROM THE pocket of his jeans. He reaches for my arm.

I jerk it out of reach. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Frey isn’t deterred. He snatches my arm in a strong, solid grip. “I’l explain after I get the charm out of you. Believe me, Anna, you don’t want that thing inside you very long.”

I start to object, but he’s already pierced my skin with the very sharp point of a very smal knife.

I yelp. Vampires are indestructible, but we feel pain just like any mortal. I could free myself, but there’s something in Frey’s expression that stops me. Anxiety. Worry. He’s afraid for me.

He digs around under the skin for what seems a long time.

I bite my lower lip to keep from squirming. “Damn, Frey. That hurts.”

No answer. No apology. Final y, he switches the knife blade for tweezers — gotta love those army knives — digs around some more and pul s something smal and bloody out of my arm.

He holds it up. “Got it.”

The wound on my arm is already closing. “What is it?” I ask, wiping residual blood on my jeans. “And why did you have to remove it? You know there are very few things that can kil me.”

Frey mimics my action, wiping blood from the object until it’s clean. Then he holds something smal and round and white out to me.

He lays it on the palm of my hand. “It wouldn’t kil you, not right away. That’s a human bone bead dipped in bone dust.

Causes heart failure in humans. Paralysis in supernaturals.”

He lets a beat go by. “In the case of a vampire, permanent paralysis. It would take you a long time to die.”

The bead is tiny, white, seems harmless enough, though from what Frey just said, obviously isn’t. “How did it get in me? I didn’t hear a shot.”

“It didn’t come from a regular gun. It came from a blowgun.