Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(78)

So he also took his time going up the front path of his cabin, trying to quell the nervous anticipation that ran through him on this same date every year. His gaze roved over the wide pine porch that he'd laid down by hand, one plank at a time… a twenty-year labor of love… a shrine to a memory, a promise kept the moment his money got right—the sacred place that still housed his old acoustic guitar and every bittersweet memory of her. His assortment of new electric Fenders could never replace the original, any more than a slew of flashy women on the concert trail could replace her.

Dead leaves were on the steps, and those had to be swept away, lest they'd blow across the hallowed-earth horseshoe from the sides and back of the house. The front path had to stay clear. Always. That, too, had been his promise, his superstition. It would be hours before sunset, and he'd have enough time to build a fire, light some candles, and go find his old acoustic guitar and relax, if that were possible. He just wished his old girl were there, too. Yeah, some things just took time to accept… it was a process.

Everything else, however, was just as he'd left it. He opened the door and punched in the alarm code, disgusted that he even needed such contraptions. But this was the new millennium. Indeed, much had changed.

Hours passed as he sat in a handmade oak rocker outside, tuning his axe, listening to the fire crackle through the screen, no porch light on, the fireflies enough for him. The rose-orange sun lit the lake; wild lavender from the flower beds along the front of the house and burning wood from the fireplace inside had enveloped him deep in thought, just like the music his hands softly stroked had. He listened to the crickets and the frogs, remembering the beauty the night held.

Where are you? he wondered. His hands coaxed her from his guitar, conjuring her from his memory using the one song that he'd never played for another living soul.

"You've gotten better each year," a soft voice said in the front path of the house.

He stopped playing and set his guitar down carefully, watching her materialize out of vapor as she walked toward him.

She signed his name as she came forward, her lush mouth practically breathing his name as she formed it with her graceful hands. "Man with a good heart. I missed you."

"I missed you last year, too," he said quietly and stood. "I thought something had happened to you." She'd worn a simple, elegant black sheath for him tonight. Each year as she matured she almost stole his breath. He signed the words as he spoke them in a soft rush. "I was man with a broken heart when you didn't visit." It was the bare truth, and he couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice when he said it. "Please don't do that to me again."

"We both live a dangerous life," she murmured, walking up the front steps. "There's a new master vampire in this region. I had to lay low, or become a part of his harem."

"Tell me where his lair is, and I'll deal with him like I dealt with that New Orleans problem you once had."

"I don't know where he keeps his main lair. I try to stay away from him, and don't even know his name. I'm low on the list; he has enough second-and third-generation females to keep him occupied before he senses me," she said quietly. "He hasn't called for me, yet." She let the last part of her statement hang in the air between them, trying to send him what that meant with her eyes; she hadn't violated their union. There was no one but him.

He knew it was irrational, but part of him was relieved and another part of him was offended. Tara was low on the list? And the word "yet" just jacked with his nerves.

"I'ma kill the bastard. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "But don't go after him alone."

"If he calls for you before I get to him, let me know. You might even make me get old-fashioned and pick up a crossbow for him, sugar."

"He's not a third-or fourth-generation like me, he's the real deal. Dracula era. Promise me you'll let this situation be. They say he is literally the fallen night."

Rider chuckled and cradled her face with his palm. "Remember, me and Mike did New Orleans during Mardi Gras, baby. Two-by-two detail; quick assassinations, then we were out. Don't worry. I'll be all right."

"I know, Rider, and thank you for everything. You didn't even have to do that. But to go after a master is something altogether different…"

"He made me miss my annual checkup," he said, grinning and warming to her stare. "The situation is personal now. The SOB has to go."

"Just be careful, honey. You're not as young as you used to be."

"Duly noted." Rider nodded and he could feel his smile fade as her hand touched the hair at his temple. Her gentle caress always had the amazing dual effect of relaxing him, yet also burning him. It was the same way with her eyes. "I am getting grayer every year, though. Thought that's why I didn't see you." He covered her hand and then kissed the center of her palm, turning into it, drawn to the irresistible softness of her skin.

"Your music gets better every year… I've been watching the magazines, you guys are hot." She chuckled and ran the ball of her thumb over his wiry eyebrow. "You can definitely shoot better… heard you're doing Glock nine millimeters with a clip when you guys go hunting these days. I'm impressed." She watched him remove his shoulder holster and drop his gun on the porch. "Everything you do has gotten better," she whispered, her voice becoming husky as he cast away the weapon that contained hallowed-earth shells. "Age brings refinement and finesse."