Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(72)

He held his skull with his fists. What was he saying! Then he watched her wrap her arms around herself and begin crying so hard that all he could do was turn into the broken door and sob. That was when he knew he'd spend the rest of his life hunting down these demons. He'd devote his existence to wiping every one of them from the face of the planet. They'd taken the only thing from him that really mattered, and he was helpless to do anything for her but bring her to some old Indian medicine men in the hills. He pounded on the door and pushed away from it. He refused to give her up without a fight. This was war.

"Listen to me," he finally said, collecting himself. "If you rest by day, will you have enough strength to ride at night?"

She nodded and covered her face with her hands for a moment, then put them in her lap. "But only if I have blood." She gazed in his direction. "But it's not safe for you. My mother allowed me to drink from her when I first went into the fever. Then she and a small group went after these creatures, and…" Her voice trailed off. "She was killed. I can't have something like that on my conscience. I can't have it happen to you. You have to believe that you mean more to me than that."

Rider walked out of the bathroom and yanked on his jeans and his boots, then glanced at his pocketknife. She'd warned him; that was true. She could have ripped out his entire throat last night—he wouldn't have cared—and yet she never even broke his skin. Instead she'd gone to the one who had made her, rather than put him in harm's way.

Half of his brain told him to make a run for it. He paused, catching sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser. He saw the places where she'd bitten him but found no evidence of puncture wounds. He touched his throat, remembering the loving caresses she'd placed there, how she'd pulled away every time—unlike him. He hadn't been able to control himself nearly as well. Perhaps she'd been more responsible than him?

He picked up his knife and slowly walked back to the bathroom with it. He flicked it open with a quick flip of his wrist.

"What are you doing?" she asked, shivering.

"I'm feeding you," he told her, his voice quiet and strained as he made a fist.

She shook her head no and tried to stand. "If I take it right from your vein, I'll infect you, too. That's why I tried so hard not to all last night." Her voice had come close to hysteria. "Please. Don't."

"Then I'll bleed it into a plastic cup," he said without emotion, taking one off the sink and pumping his fist. "You'll sleep in here so the daylight doesn't hurt you. I'll stand watch at the door. I'll give you the blankets off the bed. But as soon as night falls, we ride."

He ignored her tears as he made the cut, and couldn't look at her as the slow oozing color trickled from his wrist and made almost too loud slats into the plastic cup. He wrapped a used towel around his wrist and put the cup into her shaking hands. He left the bathroom as she brought it to her lips. He couldn't see for the tears as he swept up the blankets and sheets and pillows. The smell of her and them and their lovemaking made him bury his face in the bed linens. If she didn't come back from this, he'd die for her, for sure. He couldn't even think about it. He simply went back into the bathroom, made a small pallet on the floor, and turned off the light as he shut the door.



For the remainder of the afternoon, he made bullets, then dozed with his gun on his lap. As soon as the sun set, he heard the shower go on, but didn't flinch. His mind and soul were so weary that he just glanced up at her slowly when she came out and put on her jeans.

They packed only what was necessary. She reminded him to bring his guitar. At first, he tensed when she wrapped her arms around him after climbing on the bike, then he relaxed. This was still Tara, the woman he loved, an innocent who had been infected.

He was committed to her for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. All he had to do was get her down Route 666 in New Mexico to where the Navajo knew what to do. That's what he kept telling himself as he crossed the border into North Texas. That's what he told himself as he found a place to hide her before dawn. That's what he told himself when he became very afraid.

But each day was worse than the one before. It took more blood to rouse her, more effort to wake her at sunset. She was always cold now, her complexion always gray. By the time he hit the edge of the reservation lands, she could barely hold on to him as they rode, she was so weakened.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the first house he saw, but he didn't speak the old men's language and they just shook their heads. Dogs backed away. The old men sighed, and an elderly woman walked down the dusty path speaking in urgent unintelligible phrases.

Rider looked into her dark, leathery face, searching her deep brown eyes.

"I don't speak Navajo," he said, his voice breaking, but he held Tara close with one arm and dug into his jeans pocket and produced the paper she'd once given him.

The old woman shook her head and called out. A young boy no more than five or six appeared. Rider looked from the child to the elderly woman, confused, but desperate enough to try to learn whatever he could.

"She says her grandma moved to higher ground. Arizona."

The old woman said more words that Rider couldn't decipher while the child listened intently to her. Then the boy looked up at Rider.