I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I STAY IN THAT POSITION, back against the fence, eyes on the sky. Partially it's because I'm still numb with what's happened, partially because I hear George's words repeat in my brain.
All this was for nothing.
He's right. Worse, what happened to Sarah and Mary is my fault. If I hadn't persuaded Frey to come, if I hadn't been so curious about a shaman I won't be allowed to meet, if I hadn't once more drawn Frey into my own private battle, John-John would still have a mom and an aunt.
How can Frey ever forgive me?
Movement from the house breaks through the pall of despair shrouding my thoughts and look I over to see Frey coming toward me.
He's alone.
"John-John?"
"Cried himself to sleep. He's on the couch. I don't want to be gone long in case he wakes up, but I wanted to check on you." He looks around. "George left?"
Couldn't leave fast enough. I glance toward the sky then nod.
"Did he feed the horses?"
"No. I did."
"You did? Wouldn't have thought a city girl like you knew the business end of a pitchfork from a branding iron."
"Like you're the expert. How much time have you spent on the range, cowboy?"
He lets a tiny smile touch the corners of his mouth. "Touche." The smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans back against the fence, resting a foot on the lower rail. Once again we're side by side, silent, weighed down by sadness that pulls at us the moment we let an unguarded thought slip through.
The sky should be light by now, the sun casting shadows across the burnished landscape. Instead, the clouds crowd thicker and lower until a light mist begins to fall.
I put a hand on Frey's arm, afraid if I don't say it now, I'll lose courage. "Frey, I'm sorry."
He straightens up, not meeting my eyes, pretending, I think, not to hear. "We'd better get inside."
We trudge back to the house. John-John is still asleep on the couch. I give Frey a gentle push toward his son. "Go. Be with him. I'll make coffee."
Frey settles himself on the couch, gently lifting John-John's head to rest on his lap. The boy stirs but doesn't waken. Frey rests his own head back against the cushions and closes his eyes, too. I leave them and head for the kitchen.
It shouldn't surprise me that Sarah has no coffee in the house. Only various kinds of loose tea in glass canisters. I pick one up, feeling a tingle of irritation until I catch myself.
The woman is dead. I'm criticizing her because she doesn't have coffee in her own home.
She's dead because of me. She's dead because I let Chael influence me. She's dead because I didn't have the backbone to do what I should have the moment I saw him in my house.
And I'm irritated because she drinks tea.
My fingers tighten convulsively around the glass canister and with a crack that shatters the quiet, the canister breaks, sending shards of glass and tea as fragrant as sage across the kitchen floor. I glance down at my hand. Only the metal ring lock is left. It glistens with blood from the gash across my palm.
There's no pain and as I watch, the cut starts to heal. Skin tingles as it reknits over the gash, blood soaking down through the skin until it's reabsorbed. Soon there's nothing to show but a faint flush and then that's gone, too.
Why can't I perform that same magic on Sarah and Mary? What good is power if I can't use it on others?
I let the metal ring drop and look around for a broom. There's a closet beside the back door and in it, I find what I need. I sweep up the debris and deposit it into a trash can under the sink. I do it without thinking. I dont want to think. I want to turn the clock back and start over from Tuesday morning. I want to walk in on Chael and snap his neck before he has a chance to say a word. I am the Chosen One and I let myself be drawn in with his tale like a stupid child.
Why is this happening?
I close the closet door and sink into a kitchen chair. I'm not prone to tears. Even as a child, crying seemed a sign of weakness. My brother never cried. I'd be damned if I would. But becoming vampire while making me stronger in so many ways pushes some emotions closer to the surface. There's a little boy in the next room who has no mother.
Because of me.
I feel the sting of tears. Swallow hard to fight them back, press fingertips against my eyes until the pain drives away the bitter urge to break down. It's a sign of weakness I don't deserve to indulge. I need to figure how to make things right.
Restless, I push myself from the table, cross to the sink, let my gaze fix on the view from the back window. Rain is falling in soft sheets, turning the landscape into an impressionistic blur of red and brown. The sound as it hits the tile roof beats a counterpoint to my efforts to sort through tangled emotions.
None of this makes sense. How could Sarah have had an accident traveling a road she traveled every day for years? What could possibly have happened at the council to throw her into such a tizzy she lost control of an old truck she must have driven for years? I know my own car so well, I can't imagine such a thing. Especially on familiar terrain. Was she distracted by something?
Jesus.
Could she have been distracted by something?
Frey didn't want to travel at night because of the skinwalkers.
But they have it in for me. Not for Sarah.
Right?
I must be crazy. No one would want Sarah dead just because she made a request of the council. What sense would that make? Once Sarah came back and told me the request was turned down, it would be logical to assume I'd soon be gone. And probably Frey, too.
No one had anything to gain by killing Sarah and her sister.
Did they?
I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before this minute.
There is someone who would not want me to leave quite so soon. Someone who is capable of killing to ensure I'd stick around and pursue the shaman on my own. Someone who doesn't want me to give up the idea of becoming mortal again.
Chael.
