Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(76)
"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.