Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(77)
"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.