Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(75)

"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.