Crossroads

What happens to a child who learns at nine or ten that he’s not like everybody else? Those years are difficult enough.

This isn’t just bad skin or raging hormones. This is learning you’re fucking supernatural. I can’t imagine the trauma.

“I know this is none of my business, Frey. But don’t you think you should start preparing John-John? Just in case?”

He shoots me one of those “duh” looks. “Any thoughts how we might do that? Should I start showing him picture books of animals and say, ‘Oh, by the way, you may turn into that bear one day. But don’t worry about it. It might not happen at al and if it does, it won’t happen for a few years yet.’ ”

His sarcasm doesn’t faze me. I throw it right back at him.

“So, smart-ass, is that how you learned you were a shape-shifter?”

“It wasn’t the same. Both my parents were shifters. There was never any doubt that I’d be one, too. They prepared me because it was a part of our everyday life. It’s not a part of John-John’s.”

“It’s not something you can ignore, either. Sarah must realize that.”

“She doesn’t want to think about it. Which is why she’s hiding out here. If she doesn’t have to see me, she can pretend I don’t exist and John-John is just a normal kid who wil someday inherit the mantle of Keeper. It’s al she can handle.”

Another mystery solved — Mary’s comment about Sarah feeling safe here. Safe meaning away from Frey and the constant reminder that John-John may inherit more from his father than a title.

I wish I could offer Frey some words of wisdom, but I’ve got nothing. I’m not sure how I’d handle the situation if I were in his place. The only thing I do know is I wouldn’t be a drop-in visitor in my kid’s life, no matter how much resistance I faced.

After a moment, I ask, “So what do we do now?”

Frey sweeps a hand to encompass the scenery. “When John-John wakes up from his nap, we’l take a ride. Sarah made arrangements for us to stay overnight not far from here. We’l drive out and drop our stuff off.”

I didn’t think before now that we would need a place to stay. Stupid, considering Sarah’s smal house and the animosity between her and Frey. Obviously, we couldn’t stay with them.

I lean back against the porch step and drain the water bottle. Wel, we’ve made it this far. Neither Frey nor I have answers to our respective questions, but being here is a start.

John-John must have awakened from his nap. Through the closed door we hear him cal ing out to his father in a voice that borders on panic. Frey and I rush in to find him running frm room to room. When he sees Frey, he tumbles into his arms with a whoop of relief. “I thought you left.”

Frey hugs him and rubs his back with a gentle hand. “I said I’d be here when you woke up. I wouldn’t break a promise to you. Not ever.”

Frey scoops him up and we go into the kitchen to prepare his lunch. Sarah left instructions, and I take a seat beside John-John while Frey assembles apple slices and something that looks like blue pudding. I raise an eyebrow.

“What’s that?”

Frey spoons the stuff into a bowl. “Blue corn pudding — a Navajo specialty.” He takes a mouthful himself and rol s his eyes. “Heaven. A concoction of blue cornmeal, grape juice and yogurt.”

“Sounds — ah — healthy.”

He passes a bowl to John-John. “Your mom told me this is your favorite.”

John-John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He’s already at work with his spoon, making quick work of the pudding.

His enthusiasm makes me laugh, though eating something with the consistency of smooth tapioca would not have worked for me when I was his age. I was a Cocoa Puffs fan.

A taste treat, I have no doubt, John-John has not experienced. I’d be wil ing to bet there are no packaged cereals in Sarah’s pristine cupboards.

John-John polishes off his apple slices, gulps a glass of milk and squirms in his chair with the impatience of a kid on a mission. “I’m done. Can we go now?”

Frey quirks quizzical eyebrows. “Go where?”

“I heard you talking to Anna. We’re going for a ride, right?”

Frey and I exchange startled looks. How could he have heard our conversation through the closed door?

John-John points to his head. “I heard you here.”

I close my eyes, afraid to look at Frey. If John-John can already pick up telepathic communication between vampires and shape-shifters, Frey does not have to wait years to confirm what just became obvious.

His son is a shifter.

CHAPTER 21

FREY SENDS JOHN-JOHN OFF TO BRUSH HIS TEETH.

He doesn’t speak first, so I do. “Could you read your folks’ minds at that age?”

Frey’s shoulders wilt. “No. I don’t know what to make of this.”

His expression, however, says he knows exactly what to make of it. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he heard us through the door.”

Frey retreats into his own thoughts. As usual, I can only guess what he’s doing. He’s testing John-John’s powers.

A little voice penetrates my head. Almost done.

Yikes. I broke the connection with the father, but John-John comes through loud and clear.

“We’d better be careful what we think,” I whisper to Frey in a monumental understatement.

Frey rubs his hands over his face. Don’t need any psychic connection to read what’s behind that gesture. How the hel is he going to break this to Sarah?

John-John races back to join us, and we sc.”

Frey turns the Jeep deeper into the val ey. The Jeep fascinates John-John. He lifts his face and hands to the wind and squeals with delight. Each time we’re jostled by a bump, his laugh rings out like the sweet peel of a bel. Soon it becomes a game, Frey swerving to hit smal furrows in the dirt and John-John and I exaggerating our reactions by bouncing in the seats and screeching our laughing protest.

I can’t remember having so much fun.

Final y, I manage to get John-John quieted down enough to ask, “Where are we going? I can’t imagine there’s a hotel al the way out here?”

Frey’s eyes sparkle. “Who said we’re going to a hotel?”

I get one of those uh-oh moments. What’s Frey up to now?

“If we’re not staying in a hotel, where are we staying?”

“You’l see.”

We’re headed into a flat basin surrounded on al sides by red sandstone cliffs. Off in the distance I can see a smal encampment of some kind. A hogan and what looks from here like a couple of low-slung concrete buildings spring from the level plane of barren desert like flora in an alien garden.

“Frey? That’s not a campsite, is it? Because you know I don’t sleep outside.”

Frey chuckles. “Wel, actual y, I didn’t know. And yes, it is a campsite. But don’t worry. You won’t be sleeping outside.”

Not very reassuring. “I’m not a camper. I like real beds and sheets and a shower in a bathroom of my very own.”

No response, just a smile that looks suspiciously smug. As we get closer, more details come into focus. I imagine the temperature is about 95 degrees; heat shimmers from the desert floor in undulating waves. There are only a handful of cars parked in a roped off area and no one at al in sight. The hogan I saw from the distance is bigger than the one we passed earlier and in front, a loom much like the one I saw at Sarah’s sits deserted, a half-