Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(95)
"Ancient white guy," he told me.
"Sounds like a new rock group."
His lips twitched. I liked it that he found me funny. I liked it that he'd found me at all. Just my luck he'd sworn off women along with his life.
Clay tore down the covering with a sweep of one hand and crawled into the daylight. I followed, standing stiffly at his side. We'd slept longer than I thought. The brush over the entry had shaded the rising sun amazingly well. From its position in the sky the day was well past noon.
My first sight of our visitor made the word "ghost" whisper through my head, and not because he was pale. His skin was as sun-bronzed as Clay's and showed the wear of countless years. His hair was long and white, his clothes had seen better days. Perhaps in the year 1895.
He looked like the poster boy for a gold rush—grizzled prospector complete with six-guns and a mule. His pack animal pulled for all it was worm—which couldn't be much considering the gnarled forelocks and swayed back—at the very end of its tether.
"Stop that, Cissy." The old man yanked on the rope. "We'll be off in a bit."
He grinned at us, several black gaps appearing where teeth should be. "I'm Jack."
"Clay Philips. Maya Alexander. We could use a little help, Mr.—"
"Just Jack, boy. No need to 'mister' me."
"Jack, then. How close are we to a town?"
"Depends what kind of town yer lookin' fer. Ghost towns all over the place. Real town?" He shrugged. "Fifty miles 'r more."
"How about a phone?"
"That I got. Back at my place."
"Could we borrow it?"
"Sure. Follow me."
The old man headed toward the slowly descending sun. As he passed Cissy she brayed and skittered backward. Jack pulled on her lead, but she couldn't be budged. He scratched his head, squinted at the animal.
"I don't know what's gotten into 'er." He tethered Cissy to a juniper and lifted the saddlebags from her back. "I'll just let her think on things a while. Fetch her later."
Slinging the pack over his own shoulders, he strode off. Clay and I fell in behind.
"Why do we need a phone?" I whispered.
"I'm going to have one of my colleagues pick you up and take you somewhere safe. Then I'll go after the skinwalker."
I didn't like the idea of a babysitter. I liked the idea of Clay facing the skinwalker alone even less, and I told him so.
"I've done this a hundred times before, Maya."
"You've killed a hundred skinwalkers?"
He scowled. "You know I haven't, but someone has to handle the situation."
I'd heard the same explanation from my father and each one of my brothers. Why are you a cop? Someone has to be. I didn't like the rationalization any better from Clay than I had from them.
"You don't know what you're facing."
"I know my job. I'll do a better one if I'm not worrying about you."
"Will I ever see you again?"
He didn't answer, which was answer enough.
We continued to walk. Jack was ahead of us by quite a few yards. The old guy could really make some time. Clay brought up the rear, watching the horizon with suspicious eyes.
"Aren't wolves nocturnal?" I asked.
"Doesn't mean they can't come out in the sunlight. They aren't vampires."
"What about werewolves?"
"Most can't change until dusk."
"Then what are you nervous about now?"
"A skinwalker is a special type of werewolf. One that can pad around anytime it puts on the skin."
Suddenly I was watching the horizon, too.
We'd been walking for over an hour when Clay asked, "How far away do you live, sir?"
"Not far now. Keep your pants on, sonny."
"I wish I had," Clay muttered.
I flashed him a dirty look, which he ignored. We continued to walk for another three-quarters of an hour.
I wasn't sure if it was the heat of the sun, the lack of water, the absence of food—but I started to see things. Shadows at the edge of my vision that disappeared when I glanced their way. Moisture hovering above the desert sand. A mountain where there hadn't been one before.
Skinwalker.
I stopped as the wind whispered, except there wasn't any wind.
"Maya?" Clay stared at me with a worried expression.
"Did you hear anything?"
He tilted his head. "No."
I shrugged and kept walking.
Canon del Muerto.
My Spanish was as nonexistent as my next book. I ignored the voice I didn't understand.
Maya.
Hell. The wind that wasn't now whispered my name.
Jack disappeared around an outcropping of rock. I followed, then halted so fast Clay slammed into me from behind.
"What the—"
A huge canyon opened in front of us. Towering walls, rocky ledges, buttes the shade of the sun and the sturgeon moon.
"Welcome to Canon del Muerto," Jack said in a low voice that was no longer his own. "The Canyon of the Dead."
CHAPTER 8
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