Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(57)
The old men used to talk about this in quiet tones. Their wise murmurs had also spoken of soul mates among the newest Neteru inner circle. All she had to do was wait, but she'd been so deceived when she had been so close. They had told her she'd know by the depth of a man's eyes, but had also told her not to look into every pair of eyes she'd encounter.
Their messages were cryptic, and she'd been impatient to taste a slice of life denied her. It wasn't fair, and the Great Spirit could not forsake her… she'd prayed so hard and so vigilantly, and the moment she saw the right pair of eyes, she'd understood—a flicker of familiarity in a pair of unlikely but kind hazel eyes that weren't dark, seductive, or intense… they were eyes that didn't change into horrible glowing orbs. Jack Rider's mouth would issue a caress, and never bear fangs. If only she'd waited… but how did one stare at something like she had and not be seduced?
She almost wept as she listened to life all around her. Music of the night, the cicadas, the crickets, the owls, a mournful coyote's wail. She could already hear things she shouldn't have been able to hear with normal human senses, regardless of her gift. She could tell things about this wild, but honorable man that should have been blocked to her mind. It had only been one bite. It took three to completely turn a human. She hadn't even been bitten by the master of the line, but by a lower-level lieutenant. Shame filled her. Just one fateful, unfair bite, during an encounter that should never have happened. Even her sensuality was starting to change… a touch on her throat had scorched her. She'd wanted Jake Rider to make love to her so badly, she'd almost cried out. And that made no sense. She needed time; he needed time—they didn't even know each other, and her system had to be purged.
Tara wrapped her arms around herself. "My mother came to me in a dream and she gave me an address—said to go to my grandmother, and meet up with the Creeks that had been through this before in New Orleans. There's a small group of them tucked away in the Navajo nation in New Mexico." She reached into her bra with two fingers and produced a small slip of paper.
He looked at her as she offered it to him, accepting it with caution.
"If something happens to me," she said quietly, "or if something happens to you… go to this man. He has a young son, José Ciponte. His mother never married his father, because she was afraid, too… she feared her son's destiny and had hoped she could keep him from it by staying away from his father, who would teach him. But she finally sent the boy there to learn and he saw the things that we did. They have different last names, but his father is a renowned Creek guide; his mother is Latina. You're going to Arizona, past New Mexico, right?"
He only nodded, stunned, because he'd never told her where he was going. Just like he'd never told her his name or about his ability to always smell things better than the average person.
"We should stay together, as long as possible. Those things in the tavern always try to separate the herd, get one off by themselves—unless they come in numbers, like they did there. Maybe we'll get to my grandmother in time." Her expression was sad as she glanced away. "You're a sharpshooter, too?"
He couldn't speak. How in God's name did she know that he'd spent nearly every afternoon of his life popping bottles at distances to the point where it was a local gambling diversion? He could hit a bottle at a hundred yards, dead drunk. "Yeah," he said slowly, his eyes searching hers for understanding.
"Pack your bullets with the earth I gave you… please do it for me. Humor me, even if you don't believe me, and don't go out alone, even for a pack of cigarettes, without it."
From a very remote place in his mind, everything she was saying, even the way the moon lit the side of her face, sounded and seemed too frighteningly familiar. He tucked the small slip of paper into his jeans pocket, knowing somehow that his adventure had only begun.
"Nothing's gonna happen to you—or me," he said, trying to convince himself. "What happened back there… was… there's a logical explanation." He pushed himself up and stood and began pacing, but was careful to stay within the hallowed-earth ring.
"My crew probably got restless. One of them probably rushed the bartender for a free bottle or his register, or he got jumpy and pulled a gun. The old dude may have had some hired help in the back, or something… yeah. And, uh, it got nuts—crazy. A couple of the guys riding with us did what was sensible, got out of Dodge." He stopped walking and looked at her for confirmation that never came.
"Tara, listen, honey, that's what makes sense. See, bikers get a bad rap. People always think we're just animals. And if the authorities came, we had illegal stuff on us, drugs, unregistered weapons—because the road is dangerous, we carry a lot of money, see. They would have pinned robberies across the state on us just to close the books so they'd have less paperwork. I mean, I've been temporarily locked up before for bar fights that I wasn't even involved in. But I had a Harley, so I went in overnight with the whole kit and caboodle. And, okay, Crazy Pete was crazy. Probably got his throat cut in the brawl. I'm sure the bartender had a knife or something, or one of his boys did."
Rider could feel his pulse quicken as he whipped himself up and raked his mind for a rational thought. He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, hoping that would invoke logic. "And it made sense for the bus driver to put you off the bus, because maybe he was just prejudiced—you were the only different one on there—and he probably thought 'cause you were being nice to me, and everything, that he didn't want you with him… uh, yeah, because you'd tell the truth about what you saw, or didn't see, which would muddy up his open-and-shut version." He added, rubbing his jaw, "So the SOB was just gonna leave you with us."