Stroke of Midnight (22 page)

"It wasn't," Rider said hoarsely. "Something bit her—that's the only way you can get what she had." He kept his back to the doctor as he drew away from her and just stared down at his heart—her.

Tears ran down his nose and splattered her face, and he kissed her so gently as he said a private goodbye in his mind. He branded her peace-filled expression into his memory, then stepped back, sucked in a ragged breath, and brushed past the people who wouldn't listen.

He rode hard and wild. The promised Texas rains did come and they also pelted New Mexico, but that didn't stop him. He found the Arizona door that had the number he was looking for in Sedona. He knocked hard and dragged on a cigarette and waited.

A striking woman with silver hair opened it. She could have been Tara's body double with wrinkles and an additional fifty pounds. He looked at her hard and cast away the smoldering butt with fury balled into his fists. The tears glittering in her eyes only made him angrier.

"I brought her to you!" Those were the first words out of his mouth. "But you moved and left her!" He thrust the medicine bag that had been around Tara's neck into the old woman's hands. "What about her destiny?"

The woman before him nodded and tucked the bag into her blue calico apron. The color of it nearly made him sob.

"She fulfilled her destiny," she murmured. "I didn't have the heart to tell the child what it was. Even my own daughter wouldn't listen, and tried to intervene… I lost her, too."

"What are you talking about?" he yelled, a sob catching in his throat as he opened his arms.

"The Ojibwa as far away as Wisconsin said the time is near when the rivers run with poison and the fish are no longer fit to eat. Each clan has their own version of the legend, all the ancient peoples know the truth. We Cherokee have a version. The stories are different, but the message is the same. The time is now. For fifty thousand years before the invaders came, there was harmony, and—"

"What the hell does that have to do with Tara and me!"

She continued to hold him in a calm, tender gaze. "Her destiny was to make you a warrior so that you can guard the Great Huntress. Every destiny is intertwined and woven together in the grand loom. Hers was to make you see your worth, your gift, and to show you the undead… and to make you understand how that beast functions so you can fight it one day for the Neteru as a part of that family… and yes, what I told her was true. She showed you the power of love, of hope, of faith in things unseen but known. Tara was your soul mate, but her destiny was to heal you and then leave you. Her purpose was to guide you to your destination, not to be your destination. Hers was an honorable sacrifice. She will be remembered as a guardian, too. Her body will never go to ash in the sun like the others. She was stolen. But I knew that by the time she got to New Mexico, it would already be too late. That's why we moved to higher ground to await you. Your purpose has just begun. Go to Los Angeles and play your guitar."

Tara's grandmother's calm acceptance of fate tore him to shreds on the porch.

"Don't you understand—
she
was my Neteru. She was my family. She was my breath. There is no other." He turned and walked away, headed down the steps. "She was my purpose, and the only one I'll ever guard," he said quietly. Right now, he couldn't even breathe.

"When she comes to you again, put her soul at peace. They gave her blood in the hospital and she died. They will never understand, but you must. She will come to you because she loves you so."

He looked over his shoulder as he walked off the last step, but stopped and turned around. He couldn't take another minute of this crazy talk. Tara was dead and had never transformed into the creatures he'd seen. He flung the admission paper from the hospital on the ground. "You can get her body and bury it in hallowed ground. They wouldn't let me have it. I never got a chance to do the honorable thing and marry her like I'd wanted to. I'm not her next of kin."

The old woman nodded but didn't go near the paper as it blew away. "Remember the young boy who gave you my address?"

"Yeah. So?"

"His name is José Ciponte. Remember it. His grandfather gave you a lift to the doctor's. There are no accidents, no coincidences." She sighed and wiped her eyes. "If you ever encounter… if you should wake up one morning and the sun hurts your eyes, come to me, or the boy—during the day."

She left him standing in her front yard and went into the house, but left the door open.

One day's ride, and he was already out of gas. What did it matter, anyway, at this point? His plan was simple: hustle up a few dollars doing odd jobs, twenty dollars here, ten dollars there, sit in the town library and read as much as he could about this thing called a vampire… find a little hallowed earth to ring him and sleep in the wilderness. He didn't need food, just a bottle of Jack a day. Maybe God would be merciful and let him die of alcohol poisoning before he got to L.A.

By the third night stuck in the same sleepy town, the only thing that kept him sane was refining that song that he couldn't get out of his head. He didn't even look up when he heard a twig snap. If it was the rest of his old gang coming to settle a score, so be it. He had questions he wanted to ask them, anyhow, before he died.

"You're still playing," a soft female voice said.

He looked up fast but set his guitar aside slowly. He was on his feet in seconds, but then noticed that she stayed just beyond the ring. Tears of recognition stung his eyes and he swallowed them thickly, then went to the ring and opened a small path in it with his boot. He took off the bag that he always wore and cast it near his guitar.

"Don't do that," she said quietly, her eyes glittering in the firelight. "I've crossed over."

He nodded. "I know. I don't care."

"You always said that… and I'd always tell you that in the morning, you would." She smiled at him and shook her head, the tears in her eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

He stared at her as she backed away and he came outside the ring. "I've missed you so much that at times I've stopped breathing."

She stood very, very still. "I've missed you, too. More than you'll ever know."

For a moment they said nothing, then she came to him and placed both hands on his chest, but wouldn't let him hug her. Old desire fused with new desire, but it was all so fragile they handled it like fine china—too delicate to grasp tight. So they set it down easy between them and waited.

"You feel warm," he said, but wouldn't ask how that could be. He knew the answer, and left it alone. They were beyond that. It didn't matter.

"You have to stop smoking," she murmured, then inhaled deeply, coughed and spat.

He could feel where she touched him burn and then go cool.

"The addiction is gone. I love you and want you to live a long time."

"Don't take all of my human shortcomings away," he said with a sad smile, and traced her cheek. She was still so beautiful and gentle, no matter what she'd become.

"I didn't," she said, smiling. "I left Jack Daniel's alone."

"And the other one?" he asked, moving closer to her.

"I don't have a cure for that… we share that addiction."

"Good." He lifted her hair off her shoulders and stared into her deep brown eyes. "I'm going to build that cabin just how you wanted it. Might take me years, but it will be there for you… hallowed earth in a horseshoe, the front door never closed to you. Even if you only come there once a year on that date we met, I could live with that… just knowing you would be there." He brought his face closer. "I love you, Tara."

"I have to go."

He shook his head no. "You once asked me to make it last forever, now I'm asking you to do the same thing." He held her gaze and swallowed away the building emotion. "Don't leave me, because I can't ever leave you."

"I've never turned anybody into what I am… and if I do that to an innocent—"

"First off, I'm not just anybody. Second, as you know, I'm not so innocent. My choice." He kissed her gently, then deepened it, and scored her throat to make her gasp. "Don't you miss this? It's only been three nights away from you, and I feel like I'm dying… I'm not even counting all those days you were sick." He murmured against her temple as his hands slid down her arms and found her waist. "Without you, I'm already the walking dead. Can't you tell?"

Her fingers trembled as they touched the thick stubble at his jaw. "You still have the address that's just one day's ride from here?" she asked, nuzzling his neck as she melted against him.

"Yeah… your grandmother left the door open for me. So let's not lie to ourselves, or make promises about pulling out… how about if we compromise and just make it last all night."

She sat on the porch with an old man her age and a young boy, all three of them looking down the road. She stood calmly with effort as she heard the motorcycle before she saw it. She squinted against the sun; today was a very good day. Her dear friend chuckled as he hoisted the child off his lap and chewed the end of his pipe. He craned his neck but held the child's hand tightly.

"Today," he said in English to the boy, "we will learn how to heal a broken heart, and take out undead poison."

They said nothing as a young man with a black vest brought his bike to a wobbling stop and fell bleeding in the front yard dust. The threesome looked at the puncture holes in his neck, unfazed.

"The lost guardian is back," the old woman said with a chuckle and proceeded down the steps to collect the wounded. "And so it begins."

EPILOGUE

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TWENTY-FOUR YEARS LATER… PRESENT DAY

He took his time lathering his face with the barber's brush, then brought the straight razor to his throat, willing away the erotic sensation that was always there. Some things just took time and patience, or a man could get himself nicked. He listened to the lather make hard plops against the porcelain sink, but kept his focus on the razor as he removed the last of the blond and gray stubble from his jawline, then watched it all go down the drain as he turned on the tap. He bent and splashed his face with water and stood slowly, his eyes meeting the mirror, searching for the ones behind him in the master bathroom that were never there. Force of habit. Some things a man could never forget.

Everything still reminded him of her.

He dried his face and went into the next room, and glanced at the jade cross on his bedroom dresser, then touched the long eagle feather and short hawk feathers on the leather cord that held it. Spring always had the same effect on him, made him want to rush. But not today. He would take his time.

Rider went over to the wall-length mirrored closet and stepped into the spacious mini-chamber as he slid back the door and found a collarless black silk shirt, his black suede jacket, and pulled down a pair of black boot-cut jeans along with the Indian braided leather belt he only wore once a year. His custom-made Navajo black cowboy boots had already been polished. It was near time to ride.

He could hear the others moving about in the compound as he dressed, preparing to go into the studios to rehearse. Not today. He picked up his shoulder holster that held his old .357 and put it on after he buttoned his shirt. This was a process. A state of mind that required his total concentration. Getting ready always was. This was something the average human couldn't understand.

Rider ran a natural-bristle brush through his short hair, appraised himself with one glance, and put on his jacket. Checkbook in hand with the letters, he headed for the kitchen. He walked down the long corridor trying to keep his hands from trembling.

Thankful that there was no one else in the room, he sat at the huge oak picnic-length table of the guardian compound and finished writing out three checks; one destined to go to his mother, another his annual anonymous five-digit tithe to Bible Tabernacle in Oklahoma, and one destined to go to the woman who'd saved his life—Tara's grandmother. He sealed the letters with the checks inside them, gently tucking them away in his jacket pocket, then put on his black aviator sunglasses and headed down the hall to the music studio within the paramilitary-like complex.

"I won't be at practice tonight, gang. See you all Monday," he said in a somber tone, not fully entering the room. "I need to make a run."

Six sets of eyes looked at him and slowly put down their instruments. The one person he knew would protest was instantly on her feet. He just smiled. She was young, and had yet to begin to fathom how deep life and death could be. She wasn't even twenty-one, wouldn't be till summer, and was going to try to boss him. He could smell the fight coming. And she wasn't but an itty-bitty thing, trying to put her chin up to make herself seem taller, dark brown eyes blazing with frustration, long brown locks dancing at her shoulders as her head bobbed from side to side with her around-the-way-girl, East Side L.A. style… Was fussing at him like the daughter she'd become to them all. He knew her protest stemmed from love and worry. So he waited, with strained patience, knowing he'd been like her once. Uninitiated.

"Jake Rider, I'm serious. You are not getting on that motorcycle, gone for an entire weekend, without a way for us to get in touch with you. We've got this new CD to cut, a U.S. tour… might even get to go to Europe soon, if we play our cards right. At least take one of the fortified Hummers. And none of us deals with the night alone to risk a possible vampire attack. Ever. House rules."

"I'll be all right," he said, "just wanted you to know I was leaving so you wouldn't panic." This wasn't up for a vote; he was out. No convoy. This was a solo mission. Group consensus still sucked, even after all these years.

She glanced around the group for support, but found none from the older members of the team. Big Mike saluted him, José just gave him a cool nod, J.L. got up and stretched, Shabazz simply pounded his fist and started tuning his bass. Marlene stared at him, her wise, older-seer eyes appearing amused by the power struggle.

"Okay, now you're making me pull rank, Rider. As the Neteru," she said, putting her hand on her hip, "it's my job to make sure that all guardians make it through the night. Going up into the hills to wherever, alone, is crazy."

"Yep," he said, walking away.

"Yo, Damali, he's cool," José said. "It's something our brother has to do, you feel me?"

She sat down on a studio stool, hard. "I'd just
feel better
if he took more than that old Smith and Wesson when he went. The man isn't even strapped with a Glock, and won't wear a cell phone to save his life!"

Rider chuckled as he left Damali fussing and walked out into the bright, late afternoon sun. Freedom. It was an inalienable right that defied the requirement to explain.

He got on his old bike, and stomped down hard. His antique black and silver girl was still beautiful after all these years. He took good care of her, like he'd always promised himself he would. One day the young kid he was guarding would really understand what something like this was all about… she'd learn how to stop time for a moment and would appreciate the gift that that was.

The sound of the chopper became one with his pulse. Damali might be this era's Neteru, but there had definitely been one before her, to his mind. Her name was Tara. Only she didn't get to blow up the music charts with their band, Warriors of Light, or become a part of the nightly vampire-hunting team. Was a damned shame, but that was life. There was a pair of eyes missing from the group. The old Cherokee woman and her Creek partner had said seven were supposed to guard the Neteru. It still hurt his soul that it wasn't Tara's beautiful brown eyes begging him not to leave the compound.

But he chucked all that aside. Fate was what it was. The Native Americans had taught him to finally accept that.

Total freedom claimed him as the wind caught his jacket and whipped his clean-shaven face, but the helmet felt like an unnecessary black and silver anvil on his head. Long gone was his ponytail. The gray at his temples made some things passé. That, too, was fate. Time stopped for no man, that's why it was to be revered. Respected.

Everything from his era had changed, too… all the laws, even the women, unprotected sex could now kill you… drugs were no good—he didn't mess around anymore. It was too dangerous, worse than vampire hunting. Some things were worse than dying. He remembered telling Crazy Pete that with change came progress. Maybe he was wrong about a few things. But hey, what could he do? Too late to admit that truth to the bastard.

Rider kept his eyes on the road, wondering if the Ojibwa and Cherokees had been mistaken. Would there be anything left for seven generations to inherit after the people of peace took it all back?

Congested highways gave way to side roads, then narrow one-lane paths. Springtime was beautiful in the hills. He loved the way the grasses smelled, and as the scent of wild lavender caught him he almost sighed out loud. Heaven on earth. He found his private entrance to his secret property and rode a while, then stopped and parked his bike by his favorite tree by the lake.

It was a twenty-four-year old Indian redwood sapling that he'd put in as soon as he'd acquired the land, something that would live for at least a hundred years or more, like her. He crossed the ring of hallowed earth and knelt by it to say a quiet prayer, and then rearranged the bits of silver and jade and turquoise stones that formed a horseshoe border of hallowed earth in the mulch around its base. Maybe one night he'd finally have it within him to scatter her ashes by the tree that stood proud between his porch and the lake… just let her go free on a breeze… But not tonight. Some things took time to accept.

So he also took his time going up the front path of his cabin, trying to quell the nervous anticipation that ran through him on this same date every year. His gaze roved over the wide pine porch that he'd laid down by hand, one plank at a time… a twenty-year labor of love… a shrine to a memory, a promise kept the moment his money got right—the sacred place that still housed his old acoustic guitar and every bittersweet memory of her. His assortment of new electric Fenders could never replace the original, any more than a slew of flashy women on the concert trail could replace her.

Dead leaves were on the steps, and those had to be swept away, lest they'd blow across the hallowed-earth horseshoe from the sides and back of the house. The front path had to stay clear. Always. That, too, had been his promise, his superstition. It would be hours before sunset, and he'd have enough time to build a fire, light some candles, and go find his old acoustic guitar and relax, if that were possible. He just wished his old girl were there, too. Yeah, some things just took time to accept… it was a process.

Everything else, however, was just as he'd left it. He opened the door and punched in the alarm code, disgusted that he even needed such contraptions. But this was the new millennium. Indeed, much had changed.

Hours passed as he sat in a handmade oak rocker outside, tuning his axe, listening to the fire crackle through the screen, no porch light on, the fireflies enough for him. The rose-orange sun lit the lake; wild lavender from the flower beds along the front of the house and burning wood from the fireplace inside had enveloped him deep in thought, just like the music his hands softly stroked had. He listened to the crickets and the frogs, remembering the beauty the night held.

Where are you
? he wondered. His hands coaxed her from his guitar, conjuring her from his memory using the one song that he'd never played for another living soul.

"You've gotten better each year," a soft voice said in the front path of the house.

He stopped playing and set his guitar down carefully, watching her materialize out of vapor as she walked toward him.

She signed his name as she came forward, her lush mouth practically breathing his name as she formed it with her graceful hands. "
Man with a good heart
. I missed you."

"I missed you last year, too," he said quietly and stood. "I thought something had happened to you." She'd worn a simple, elegant black sheath for him tonight. Each year as she matured she almost stole his breath. He signed the words as he spoke them in a soft rush. "I was
man with a broken heart
when you didn't visit." It was the bare truth, and he couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice when he said it. "Please don't do that to me again."

"We both live a dangerous life," she murmured, walking up the front steps. "There's a new master vampire in this region. I had to lay low, or become a part of his harem."

"Tell me where his lair is, and I'll deal with him like I dealt with that New Orleans problem you once had."

"I don't know where he keeps his main lair. I try to stay away from him, and don't even know his name. I'm low on the list; he has enough second- and third-generation females to keep him occupied before he senses me," she said quietly. "He hasn't called for me, yet." She let the last part of her statement hang in the air between them, trying to send him what that meant with her eyes; she hadn't violated their union. There was no one but him.

He knew it was irrational, but part of him was relieved and another part of him was offended. Tara was low on the list? And the word "yet" just jacked with his nerves.

"I'ma kill the bastard. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "But don't go after him alone."

"If he calls for you before I get to him, let me know. You might even make me get old-fashioned and pick up a crossbow for him, sugar."

"He's not a third- or fourth-generation like me, he's the real deal. Dracula era. Promise me you'll let this situation be. They say he is
literally
the fallen night."

Rider chuckled and cradled her face with his palm. "Remember, me and Mike did New Orleans during Mardi Gras, baby. Two-by-two detail; quick assassinations, then we were out. Don't worry. I'll be all right."

"I know, Rider, and thank you for everything. You didn't even have to do that. But to go after a master is something altogether different…"

"He made me miss my annual checkup," he said, grinning and warming to her stare. "The situation is personal now. The SOB has to go."

"Just be careful, honey. You're not as young as you used to be."

"Duly noted." Rider nodded and he could feel his smile fade as her hand touched the hair at his temple. Her gentle caress always had the amazing dual effect of relaxing him, yet also burning him. It was the same way with her eyes. "I am getting grayer every year, though. Thought that's why I didn't see you." He covered her hand and then kissed the center of her palm, turning into it, drawn to the irresistible softness of her skin.

"Your music gets better every year… I've been watching the magazines, you guys are hot." She chuckled and ran the ball of her thumb over his wiry eyebrow. "You can definitely shoot better… heard you're doing Glock nine millimeters with a clip when you guys go hunting these days. I'm impressed." She watched him remove his shoulder holster and drop his gun on the porch. "
Everything
you do has gotten better," she whispered, her voice becoming husky as he cast away the weapon that contained hallowed-earth shells. "Age brings refinement and finesse."

"But you were the first one who taught me how to load hollow-point shells," he said, closing the gap between them. "You're my first and only love. Time can't change that."

He coveted her smile and could tell that the honest admission meant a lot to her. "And twenty-four years have worn very well on you… you don't look a day over eighteen," he whispered, brushing her mouth and allowing his hands to slide down to her shoulders. "I also like what you've done with your hair," he added, filling his palms with her shorter, shoulder-length curls. He wondered what surprise she had for him under the black sheath. Two years ago she'd blown his mind with a white lace thong and garter combo. He never could tell what mysterious manifestation she'd gift him with.