Jeanne Stein - Haunted

Shit.

I stare at the broken strands.

Max can still push my buttons.

I toss the lights into the trash.

At least he took my mind off Culebra.

THE OFFICE LOOKS PRETTY GOOD. LAST HOUR I STORED the decorations, did some filing that had piled up, straightened the desk, even swept the floor. A little physical activity is always a good way to clear the mental decks.

It’s late afternoon. The sun is low on the horizon, and I step outside. Clouds are boiling up from the south, which means more rain. The air is heavy with it. Time to get home and settle in with a nice glass of Merlot.

You know the feeling you get when someone is watching you? The itch just out of reach under your skin? I have that feeling now and it stops me cold. My senses spring into hyperdrive. I tilt my face up to sniff the air.

And I catch it.

At first I think I must be imagining it. The scent of fresh washed hair and sunshine. I know who it is before I see that the office door is open and spy the two figures standing there.

For the second time in a week, I get a surprise.

A FOUR-YEAR-OLD DARK-HAIRED DERVISH WHIRLS into the room with a whoop and runs into my arms. I scoop him up, twirl him around and hug him until he squeals. His father watches, grinning from the doorway.

“Frey! What are you two doing here?”

John-John, his son, answers before he can. “We’re visiting. I’m going to see Daddy’s home. And we want you to come with us. You will, won’t you?”

I set him down and crouch so we’re eye level. “When did you get here?”

“Just now.” John-John is dancing with excitement. “We came right from the airport. Daddy saw your car so we knew you were here.”

Frey brushes a shock of hair off his son’s forehead. “Easy, Shiye . Give Anna a chance to catch her breath.”

I don’t need to catch my breath. Or at least I wouldn’t need to catch my breath even if I had breath to catch. I’m so happy to see Frey and his son, I jump up, snatch my keys and bag and look past them to the open door. “Do you have a car?”

“We came in a cab,” John-John says. “A yellow one. The driver didn’t look so happy when we made him stop here.”

I nod. The office is only about a five-minute drive from the airport on Pacific Highway. “I’ll bet. Well, I’m glad you stopped. Have you seen the ocean yet?”

He shakes his head. “Only through the plane window. Not close up. Will you show me?”

“I will. We’ll take a ride up the coast before we go home if it’s all right with your dad.”

“Azhé’é?” John-John turns those expressive dark eyes to his father, using his native Navajo.

Frey nods. “Let’s go.”

He holds out his arms to John-John and me and we each take a hand. It’s amazing how natural it feels, the three of us together like this.

Frey’s luggage is piled by the door, a car seat balanced on top. He and John-John grab their suitcases and I take the car seat. We jabber all the way to the parking lot, then John-John and I watch as Frey fumbles the car seat into the back. Finally, we get John-John safely buckled in, Frey takes the passenger seat beside me and we’re off.

I follow Pacific Coast Highway up through the beach communities until it becomes too dark for John-John to see the ocean, and then I turn back toward San Diego, promising more trips during the daytime when we can play near the water. I remember the toys in John-John’s bedroom on the reservation and promise a trip to Legoland, too. John-John fills me in on all he’s done in the last months since I left him and Frey at their home on the reservation in Monument Valley. School, riding with Kayani, hiking with his father.

He seems well-adjusted, happy even though I detect an undercurrent of sadness under the exuberance. He lost his mother while I was there. It was a traumatic time, and it was my fault. I can’t believe they’ve both forgiven me.

While John-John and I chatter all the way to Frey’s condo, Frey is strangely quiet.

Maybe I’ve overestimated Frey’s ability to forgive.

Once at the condo, we get John-John settled in. Frey and I make up a bed for him in the guest room while John-John explores the library. This is Frey’s legacy as a Keeper. John-John will someday inherit his father’s vast treasure trove of books that explore every aspect of the supernatural world. He inherited his father’s ability as a shape-shifter, too, though that won’t manifest itself physically until he’s in puberty.

At least that’s what Frey hopes. John-John already possesses the ability to link psychically with vampires and other shape-shifters. He is years ahead of Frey in developing his abilities, a sense of both pride and concern for Frey.

Frey orders groceries from a nearby store and while we wait for them to be delivered, John-John appears from the bedroom with a small wrapped box. He’s squirming with excitement as he presents it to me.

“Open it, Anna,” he says.

I tear open the paper to find a ring box. I glance at Frey, an eyebrow raised.

A ring?

John-John plops himself down beside me. “Go on. Go on. Open the box.”

I link an arm around his shoulders and hug him close as I flip open the top.

It is a ring. A beautiful ring.

A band about a half-inch wide of carved turquoise and silver.

John-John takes it out of the box and slips it on my left ring finger.

“This is for protection,” he says. “Turquoise is sacred to the Dine’é . It will keep you safe from curse magic.”

My throat is suddenly dry and tight with emotion. I have to clear it to be able to say, “Did you pick it out?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a gift from another friend.”

“Another friend?” Besides the people in this room, the only other person I know on the reservation is Kayani, an officer in the Navajo Police and a close friend of John-John’s deceased mother. I hardly think he’d be sending me a gift. “Who is this friend?”

“Sani. He told me to bring it to you. To help you remember.”

My eyes snap to Frey at the mention of Sani, the Navajo shaman. I hadn’t mentioned what happened last summer between Sani and me to either of them. Frey meets my startled gaze with a smile of mild amusement and nods toward his son.

John-John catches the question in my head. “Oh, we are friends, Sani and me. Since I was little.”

Little? He’s four. The answer makes me smile.

Frey’s looking at me with more exasperation, though, then amusement. “I guess you forgot to tell me that you met the shaman, right?” he asks. “Because I know you would have wanted to tell me something as important as that.”

JOHN-JOHN IS ASLEEP. FREY AND I ARE SITTING ON opposite ends of his couch, glasses of wine in our hands, faces toward the flames of a flickering fire. Outside, the rain has finally blown in, gusting against the windows, making the crystal wind chimes on his deck twirl and dance.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost midnight. I should leave.

I don’t want to.

I take a sip of the wine. From the corner of my eye, I catch Frey watching me. I turn my body slightly, toward him. “John-John seems good.”

He doesn’t need elaboration. “He is a remarkable kid. He has bad days, sure, but he takes care of me more than I take care of him.”

Frey lets a long minute stretch between us before he adds, “He really was excited about bringing you that gift from Sani.”

I look down at the ring on my hand. In the firelight, the silver catches and reflects light like tiny rays of sunshine in a mirror. “It’s a beautiful ring.”

“Do you want to tell me how you met Sani? What he said to you?”