Night Walker (6 page)

“Oh.” She nodded, accepting his mental suggestion as fact. “I thought you looked familiar.”

When she offered her hand, he placed a polite kiss on the back.

The scent of her blood enticed his heightened senses, tempting him.

Hunger gnawed at him. He wouldn’t be able to stay much longer.

He straightened, releasing her hand as he spoke. “My name is Calisto, and you are?”

“Gina,” she answered.

Flirtation filled her gaze as she wet her lips, but he wasn’t interested in a lover. He indulged in human pleasures of the flesh a few times over the centuries, but sex left him feeling more alone and isolated.

Without love, it was an empty act, and eventually he lost interest.

He didn’t want her body. He wanted her memories. Encouraging idle conversation, he studied her mind, searching.

His interest was piqued when he saw the sanctuary of the mission in her mind. “You speak Spanish, yes?” She nodded. “My family is from Mexico. Why?”

“There was a priest at the Mission from Spain—”

“Father Tomas! I met him, too.”

“This world is indeed a small one, no?” He smiled, letting his eyes hold hers. He saw the monk’s face in her mind and gathered all of the information he needed from her. His gaze burned into hers, mesmerizing her until he could reshape her memories. It drained him mentally, but trivial, non-traumatic memories could be altered. He erased his face from her mind as a teacher might erase a chalkboard.

And then he was gone.

Gina had indeed met Father Tomas. Moreover, her family offered to house him during his stay in America, but the priest declined. He told them he had church business to attend to in Point Loma.

Father Tomas already made it plain that he knew where Calisto lived. Point Loma was nowhere near his home. Odd...

So what
business
did Father Tomas have in Point Loma?

40 LISA KESSLER

§

1775

Buried alive.

Clawing in a panicked frenzy, Gregorio shot up from the earth with a strength he’d never possessed before. When he broke free of the soil, he gasped deep breaths driven by fear rather than need. He turned back to see the shallow grave he escaped. What had the Old One done to him?

His body reeked, and he was sickened to realize he was covered by dirt, blood, vomit, and excrement. And he was thirsty.

Dear God, he had never been so thirsty in all his life.

“You must wash.”

Gregorio spun around to find the Old One placing a large Spanish barrel full of fresh water on the ground before him. A barrel much too large for any man to carry alone.

“You buried me alive,” Gregorio shouted.

“You first must die in order to live as I do.” The old man dipped his hands in the water, rinsing them.

Gregorio frowned. “You speak in riddles.”

“Wash,” the Old One said. “We will speak at the fire, and then you must feed.”

Gregorio nodded, although he still didn’t understand. Had the old man tried to kill him? The Old One walked away, but something about the way he moved confused Gregorio, and he rubbed his eyes.

The farther the old man walked down the beach, the more difficult it became to see him clearly. His body appeared to mutate, shifting into a bird. No, not a bird. A white-headed eagle.

And without a sound, he took flight.

Flight? Gregorio’s jaw went slack. Impossible. Unable to believe what he’d just witnessed, he stared out at the troubled ocean.

Although darkness surrounded him, he saw the landscape as if it were daylight.

Then he noticed the night alive all around him. Tiny crabs burrowed under the sand, escaping from the tide that sought to wash them away. Each tiny leg scuttled against the grains of sand.

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And he could hear—everything.

The soft beat of a nearby owl’s wings, the song of the crickets in the sagebrush, and the warning rattle of a snake combined into a twilight symphony. How was this possible? What had the Old One done to him?

Pain and need jolted through him, silencing the night. Thirst overpowered his senses. He stumbled toward the barrel and leaned far inside, drinking huge gulps of water. The moment it slid down his parched throat, his body rejected it. He coughed violently until he purged the water from his body. Moaning, he fell to his knees, still aching. And still thirsty.

Gregorio knelt on the sand, catching his breath. He needed answers. But first he needed to rid himself of the stench of death.

He stripped off his soiled clothes and washed himself. The rough sponge and cool water soothed his skin.

Behind the barrel, draped over a fallen tree, he found a leather loincloth similar to the ones worn by the native warriors. Accustomed to having his entire body covered by the robes of a priest, the loincloth left him feeling exposed to the night, but he had nothing else.

He walked down the beach, searching the night for the Old One.

He caught the scent of rabbits and even heard the disembodied voices of men in the distance. Impossible, like a strange dream, and yet he was awake.

Walking farther down the shoreline, he looked up at the cliffs, searching for the cave he entered the night before. Finally, he saw the opening in the rocks and climbed up the sandy cliff, surprised at how simple the task seemed now. His body felt stronger and more agile, like one of the native bobcats of the area.

He reached the opening to the Old One’s cave in half the time it took him the previous night, and he made the climb tonight without any abrasions to his hands or feet in spite of scaling the cliff face without sandals.

He moved to the back of the cave, and his head filled with questions for the Old One. What had happened to him? He felt 42 LISA KESSLER

changed, but how?

Before he could ask anything, the Old One stood in front of him.

“Come. You are a Night Walker now, and you must feed.” Without waiting for a reply, the Old One passed him, walking toward the mouth of the cave. When they reached a clearing, the old man whispered, “Listen to the night, and call the deer to us.” He looked at the Old One with a questioning stare. “I do not—”

“No questions. Use your mind.”

Gregorio closed his eyes and listened, soon hearing the soft calls of a doe. Envisioning the deer in his mind, he found he could connect with the animal and see the night through the animal’s eyes.

Gradually, he guided her into the clearing, and when he opened his eyes the deer stood before them.

Chanting low and steady, the Old One approached the animal and beckoned Gregorio forward. He tilted the doe’s head back, exposing its soft throat.

“Drink.”

“What?” Gregorio frowned. “I cannot. Not while the beast lives.”

“You must. Come.”

His disgust grew, as did his thirst, with each step he took. The doe’s heartbeat called to him, a temptation too strong to resist.

The Old One drew a small dagger from his belt, piercing the doe’s throat, and the scent of blood made Gregorio’s hands tremble with the ache of hunger.

“Drink, young one. Do as your new body commands.” Unable to fight his thirst any longer, he knelt at the animal’s throat, moaning with a mixture of revulsion and rapture. He drank voraciously, enjoying the taste of the warm blood that filled his mouth. When the animal’s veins emptied and the doe collapsed, what remained of the man inside of him was repulsed.

Yet the monster yearned for more.

The Old One picked up the doe and started back toward the cave. Gregorio fell to his knees and stared up at the sky. He wanted to scream, to cry to God to save his soul, but he had no tears left. He was numb and empty.

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“Why do you despair?”

Gregorio turned, surprised to see the Old One staring at him.

“Because I am cursed.”

“No,” the Old One said with a crooked smile. “You are blessed.

I have chosen you as my descendant. You will be a great healer and lead these people against the Spanish outsiders. Come, you have much to learn.”

And learn he did.

For the following month, he acted as an apprentice to the Old One, learning the ancient healing secrets of the Night Walkers.

Gradually mastering his powers, he became one with the night around him and found a new purpose for his existence.

He was a healer, a Night Walker.

The Kumeyaay tribes called him
Kuseyaay
, and he became their most respected Shaman and protector. With his help, they would regain their freedom from the mission. For that purpose, the Old One chose him to receive his power.

Then one night, the cave sat empty, the cinders within the inner chamber cold, the walls free of their designs.

The Old One was gone.

§

Just after three in the morning, Calisto reached Point Loma. With so few people awake and on the streets, he opened his mind without a mental overload from the humans around him.

He could not court Kate with the specter of the Fraternidad haunting him. The monks needed to remember whom they were dealing with. Hunger gnawed at his veins, reminding him that he hadn’t fed. He needed blood to keep his strength from waning.

Hoping to find sustenance, he walked toward a well-lit corner in the distance. When he reached the convenience store, he lowered his mental shields, listening to the humans around him. Before he sorted through the entire fog of information, he found something interesting.

An ancient Latin chant.

His brow furrowed as he quietly walked through the parking lot, his mind fully focused on the chant, letting his Night Walker instincts 44 LISA KESSLER

draw him closer to his prey. When he reached the shadowed corner of the lot, he saw the face he’d searched for. Calisto smiled.

Father Tomas sat behind the wheel of a silver sedan. The chant he repeated shielded his thoughts, keeping Calisto locked out of his mind. Calisto clenched his fists and sucked in a deep breath.

Apparently the Fraternidad knew more about his kind than he realized.

How long had they blocked his mental probes?

He burst into the passenger seat of the car, taking pleasure in the terrified gasp of the driver.

“Father Tomas De Cardina, I presume?”

The monk recovered from his shock and quickly thrust the cross that hung around his neck into Calisto’s face. “Stay back, creature of Satan.”

Calisto laughed. “Is that what you think I am?” He reached out to clasp the crucifix, and with a jerk of his wrist, snapped the gold chain from the monk’s neck. “If you know so much about me, then surely you know the church helped to make me what I am.” He shook his head. “Lies! You sold your soul to Satan himself, and now you are his apprentice. You are an abomination before God.” Calisto smirked. He heard the blood coursing through Father Tomas’ veins at an alarming rate, tempting him, calling to him.

“What you believe is of no consequence to me. I will not be threatened, least of all by the Fraternidad, and never at my own home.”

Surprise filled the monk’s gaze, and his mental chant faltered.

“I have not forgotten the signet of the Fraternidad.” He held up his left hand, showing his own ring. His personal signet bore the holy fire of the Fraternidad, but it also included a finely carved bird soaring across the top. Lifetimes ago, it symbolized the dove of peace, but now Calisto considered it a raven, his Night Walker spirit animal.

A bead of sweat made its way down Father Tomas’ forehead. “We know what you are, and we will do what we must in the name of God to insure that you make no others.”

Calisto frowned at the unexpected answer. “Why would I make
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another?”

Father Tomas kept silent, staring at the crucifix in Calisto’s hand.

Again Calisto attempted to reach the monk’s mind, only to find the same repeated chant shielding the monk’s true thoughts.

He grabbed Tomas’ robe and yanked him closer. “Answer me!” Frustration burned through Calisto. He felt his eyes glow crimson with rage.

“Santa Maria!” Father Tomas gasped and jammed a knife into Calisto’s abdomen, stabbing up underneath his ribcage.

Calisto’s eyes widened as pain seared through his chest. Blood spilled from the gaping wound, but his body tingled, healing from the inside out. He let go of the monk with one hand and plucked the knife from his torso, wrenching it free from the fanatic’s clutched hand.

Father Tomas struggled like a wild animal in the presence of a predator. Calisto dropped the knife to the floor of the car and clutched the monk with both hands. He drew Father Tomas closer.

His fangs grazed the monk’s skin just below his ear. The priest fought to break away, but Calisto’s grip was inescapable. The more the monk struggled, the stronger his pulse became. The scent of blood combined with fear intoxicated Calisto. His thirst clawed to the surface, threatening to seize control.

“Let me go! In the name of God, let me go!” Calisto’s voice was no more than a cold whisper. “I have no God.

Not anymore.”

He sank his fangs into the monk’s neck and drank. The man’s life flashed through his mind, visions of Spain and the monastery where he trained centuries ago. He lost himself in the images, so modern and yet still the home he remembered.

His lips pulled at the monk’s throat, drawing more blood. But then one of the visions made his heart stutter, an image he never expected, and one that changed everything. Calisto jerked back, but the monk’s eyes were vacant.

“No!”

It was too late. Father Tomas was dead.

Calisto released him, growling in disgust at his lack of control. He 46 LISA KESSLER

was left with more questions than answers.

Kate’s face loomed in Father Tomas’ mind. The Fraternidad knew she lived again.

And they watched her, too.

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Chapter Five

Kate stretched as sunlight poured through the window into the living room. Heading into the kitchen, she made a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and shook her head in disbelief at the beautiful November day. Back in Reno the days had already cooled as winter moved in, but here in San Diego, she could wear shorts into December. Though the climate here was familiar, she still found it amazing.