Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(96)

Jack yanked me in front of him and pressed a gun to my temple. Clay, who had been reaching for me, too, let his hand fall to his side, where it rested atop his Ruger. The Beretta was already aimed in the general vicinity of Jack's head, which was, unfortunately behind mine.

Shadows fluttered past my face, seemed to touch my skin and whisper. There was more here than the living.

"Let Maya go."

"Can't do that." The old man's voice no longer wobbled and wheezed but had become deep, melodic, with an accent I couldn't quite place. "The red moon will rise, and I'm going to need her for the ceremony."

"You're the skinwalker?" Clay asked.

"Got it in one. I heard you were a bright boy."

I didn't understand. I'd seen the Navajo man turn into a wolf, so who was this guy?

"If you're a skinwalker, then tell me something," Clay continued. "How does a witch become a werewolf?"

"A chant in the language of the people, followed by the cry of the beast. Wear the skin and—"

"Poof," I murmured.

"Exactly."

"How do you change back?"

I wanted to tell Clay to save his questions for a different time, preferably one when I didn't have a gun to my head. But he slid his gaze to mine. I could read the intent in his eyes. He was trying to buy time.

"Changing back is the easy part," Jack explained. "Walk as a beast in the sun, walk as a man beneath the moon, and vice versa."

"The rising of the sun or the rising of the moon triggers it."

Jack's head was so close to mine I could feel him nod. "Now the red moon rises and the ultimate power will be mine. I will no longer be forced back into my body at the whim of the elements. The change will be mine to keep or discard."

"How?"

"Blood, death, sacrifice." His arm tightened across my chest in what would have been a hug, if he wasn't planning to kill me. "Of the one who is chosen."

"Why Maya?"

"She heard me whisper. Only the chosen can."

"What about the others? Why did you kill them?"

"The legend says the chosen one will have hair the shade of the moon."

I recalled the skin walker's victims—both silver-haired and blond. But what about me?

"I don't remember anything about this in the book I read," Clay said.

"Book?" Jack's voice was scornful. "You can't learn magic from words on a page. There is more to legends than what is written."

"Why were all the victims women?"

"To birth the power there must be yin and yang. Male and female. Harmony first. Chaos later."

He nuzzled my hair. "Your death, Maya, for my everlasting life."

"Well, as long as that's all."

I couldn't believe I was joking at a time like this. But it was better than crying. Maybe.

"I still don't understand why you hung around her place and watched her. The others you killed the instant you knew they couldn't hear the whisper of the beast."

"She hardly ever came outside. All she did was stare at her computer and listen to music with her earphones on."

My block had been good for something at least. It had given Clay time to arrive.

"You took a chance waiting around until she could hear you. You had to know I'd show up eventually."

"Once I saw the moon turn red, then I saw…" He shifted, taking a deep, loud sniff of my auburn hair. "I couldn't leave."

Voices came out of nowhere, swirling around me. I couldn't make out the words.

"What is that?" I asked.

"You hear them?" He rubbed the barrel of the gun along my temple like a caress. "I knew you were special the first time I looked at you. Those are the spirits of the dead, trapped in the canyon that carries their name. Only the Dineh, the Navajo, hear them. Only the Dineh and—"

"The one who is chosen," I muttered.

I'd never been psychic, though being a writer, hearing voices in my head, having stories spill out my fingertips, is a magic of sorts. However, the ghosts were new to me and not altogether pleasant—even without the promise of imminent death by sacrifice.

"If she's your chosen one," Clay asked, "why have you been trying to kill her?"

"I needed to get her to the Canon del Muerto. I didn't think she'd just stumble on it by herself."

"But—"

"Doesn't matter when she died, just that she died. Once her blood touches me beneath the moon, in this sacred place, I'll have what I desire. To become in truth what I must now wear a skin to achieve."

"A wolf?"

"Much, much more. Combine a witch with a werewolf, add the ceremony of the red moon rising, and I will become a chindi—a witch, a human wolf—greater than legend has ever foretold. I won't even need the skin, all I'll have to do is—" He snapped his fingers. "Can you imagine the power in that? Today I rule the beasts, tomorrow—"

"The world," Clay finished. "Why does everyone want to do that?"

"Not everyone," I said. "Only the crazy people."

"True." He shook his head. "You're no different than any other freak of nature I've ever met."