Haunted

CHAPTER 8

JOHN-JOHN IS ASLEEP. FREY AND I ARE SITTING ON opposite ends of his couch, glasses of wine in our hands, faces toward the flames of a flickering fire. Outside, the rain has finally blown in, gusting against the windows, making the crystal wind chimes on his deck twirl and dance.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost midnight. I should leave.

I don’t want to.

I take a sip of the wine. From the corner of my eye, I catch Frey watching me. I turn my body slightly, toward him. “John-John seems good.”

He doesn’t need elaboration. “He is a remarkable kid. He has bad days, sure, but he takes care of me more than I take care of him.”

Frey lets a long minute stretch between us before he adds, “He really was excited about bringing you that gift from Sani.”

I look down at the ring on my hand. In the firelight, the silver catches and reflects light like tiny rays of sunshine in a mirror. “It’s a beautiful ring.”

“Do you want to tell me how you met Sani? What he said to you?”

“First, let me ask you. Have you met Sani?”

He shakes his head.

“Then how does John-John know of him? When do they meet?”

Frey releases a breath. “My son is remarkable in many ways. He and Sani have forged a friendship and I can’t even tell you how. There are some older boys on the reservation that he rides with. Three times he’s come back from those rides with stories about the shaman. I thought he was recounting tales learned from his friends, but when he came back with that ring, I started to suspect something more. The older boys won’t say much about it—just that Sani appears sometimes and talks to them.”

A feeling of warmth spreads over me. John-John couldn’t have a better teacher or protector than Sani. He is watching over him just as he promised.

Frey quirks an eyebrow. “Now it’s your turn. How did you meet him? When did you meet him?”

I settle my head on the back of the couch and stretch my legs. In my head I relive my meetings with the most holy of the Navajo shamans: Sani, who has the power to restore life to the dead. It’s the reason Frey and I traveled to Monument Valley. I wanted to see if he could restore my mortality.

Carefully, I compose my thoughts.

“Sani,” I tell Frey, “helped me see the truth. I am destined to be a protector and my power lies in the melding of two natures—that of human for morality and integrity and that of vampire for strength and cunning. Even when I asked that John-John’s mother be brought back and was willing to trade my life for hers, he refused. Sani told me that I am a warrior, a leader, and my path is set, just as John-John’s mother’s was set. It was her time. It wasn’t mine. Not yet.” I glance self-consciously at Frey. I realize what I said sounded melodramatic and egotistical. “Sani’s words. Not mine.”

A wry smile tips the corners of his mouth. “I do believe Culebra and I have been telling you the same thing for a year and a half. You accept a stranger’s word but not ours. I should be hurt.”

“You’re right. I should have listened to you. I admit it.”

“You say that now,” he says. “But will you remember the next time I give you advice?”

“Probably not.”

Frey laughs. “At least you’re being honest.” Then he sobers. “Thank you for what you tried to do—bring John-John’s mother back.”

We lapse into a comfortable silence. The crackling of the fire, the heartbeat of rain on the windows, the tinkling of the wind chimes, all lull me into a cozy warm cocoon, and before I realize it, my eyes have closed. I feel Frey lean over, take the glass from my hand. His lips brush my forehead and as if from far away, a whisper.

“I’ve missed you, Anna.”

From the warm, soft bubble of twilight sleep, I feel my lips curl into a smile. “I missed you, too, Frey.”

Then I let go and fall into full night.

SOMETHING CUDDLY AS A PUPPY HAS CRAWLED UP ON the couch and is snuggling down beside me. When I open my eyes, the top of John-John’s head rests just under my chin. I don’t let him know I’m awake. I wait. Then, I pounce, tickling his tummy until he’s laughing so hard, we both tumble off the couch in a tangle of waving arms and legs.

When I look up, Frey is standing over us, hands on hips. “What’s going on?”

He’s dressed and when I glance at the clock on the mantel, I’m shocked to see it’s already eight.

I hoist John-John and slide back onto the couch. In unison, John-John and I say, “Nothing.”

He shakes his head. “Ready for some coffee?”

“Me, too?” From John-John.

“No,” Frey answers in a parental tone. “It’s milk for you.”

John-John and I follow Frey into the kitchen where the table has already been set for breakfast. I can tell which is my place. There’s only a mug on the placemat. But for once, I’m not self-conscious. John-John knows and accepts what I am. Something his mother certainly didn’t.

That thought brings a wave of shame. How can I fault her when I’m the reason she’s dead.

You’re not, you know. A small, childish voice penetrates my thoughts. Sani explained it all to me.

John-John’s voice in my head surprises me. I can’t believe I’d forgotten. Frey and I have no psychic link. I broke it through a stupid act of impulsiveness. But John-John can hone in on my thoughts. And he has. Color floods my face, hot with humiliation.

Frey, who caught his son’s message to me, comes to stand beside my chair. “John-John is right. What happened to Sarah was tragic. But it was not your fault.”

He’s holding a bowl of oatmeal and a pitcher of milk. He sets the bowl in front of John-John, passing a hand gently over the top of his son’s head. “We know she’s at peace. John-John is safe.”

With the resiliency of childhood, John-John’s thoughts brighten and he starts to work on the oatmeal. Frey brings a coffeepot to the table and pours us each a cup.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says after a moment. “How about the three of us take that trip to Legoland today?”

John-John’s high-spirited whoop is matched decibel for decibel by my own.