Love At First Bite

This story belongs to my Street Team… those folks who have embraced the Vampire Huntress Legends series and who ride it like the night wind. THANK YOU! The whole concept of doing backstories for each of the series Guardians within anthology shorts came from your fantastic, avid support. Feel the love coming right back atcha…

BIG PHILLY HUG,

Leslie!

Chapter One

After the fall of the dark angel, after man and woman were deceived and ousted from Paradise, the legions of evil beset humanity with all manner of strife and hardship to sway their choice. Earth became the Gray Zone of choice, where free will could manifest for good or evil, and a soul could be compromised in this fragile environment that cast shadows of darkness amid the light.

The angels on High wept as they watched the fate of humankind in their struggle against demonic forces, mere flesh and bones and the hope of earthbound spirits crushed by plagues, pestilence, famines, disasters, violence… no mercy. The cry for help that went up to heaven from the peoples of the earth was heard.

From the twelve scattered tribes, twelve Guardian Councils were mission-anointed and made up of honorable, courageous men and women of all positive faiths and all races, working as a united front, quietly moving behind the scenes, each battling evil in their own corner of the globe. The balance could not be easily tipped; their fight was vigilant. But just as the forces of evil had human helpers to reinforce the negative spheres of soul-killing influence, the forces of good had the Guardians… those who held the line no matter what challenges befell them. They would not allow the Light to be extinguished.

And from those twelve armies came the Covenant—one from each Guardian Council, twelve members in all, the bravest of the brave, the wisest of the wise, the keepers of the faith and the knowledge between worlds.

Only the Covenant could foretell the coming of the Neteru, although they would never know whether this mortal superbeing would come as male or female. All they could do was prepare a special Neteru Guardian Team as they searched for the prophesied being.

Anointed with the Divine mission to protect the Neteru, this elite category of spiritual warriors was chosen to surround their charge with heightened extrasensory awareness, superior physical and inner strength, unmatched courage, keen battle strategy, and unparalleled skill. These strengths not only protect but also reinforce the Neteru's learning curve and developmental life preparation for his/her own perilous mission.

Each Guardian's mastery was a lone, hard-won trial by fire and a baptism of struggles until their faith was made impervious to doubt. They come from the ranks of the unwashed, huddled masses, the tired, the poor, the downtrodden, the nameless, the faceless, the obscure—but they are mighty… for in the last days "… the first shall be last and the last shall be first."

EAST LOS ANGELES, 1990

He was having the same dream again. Could smell the sulfur, see the swirling, billowing, horrible clouds of smoke. The angry mass almost seemed like it was alive as it wrapped around him and the finest woman he'd ever been with in his life. The thick smoke covered her face, but there was always the strange sense that he knew her. She reached out, calling to him for protection.

As frightening as the dream was, that was always the best part… the part where they'd escape from the cloud, riding on the back of his bike to safety—then get naked. Oddly, her face was always obscured then, too. Shadows, half moonlight—he couldn't see her face, but her body was undeniably awesome. He tried to will the dream to skip to that part.

Por dios, she was fine. He'd only copped some tail a few times in high school, since he wasn't one of the serious bailers who got all the females. If you weren't an athlete or dealer, forget about it. Now that he was out of school, broke, and didn't have a fly ride—just a motorcycle—female company found at the clubs was a costly habit that he couldn't afford… so he snuggled down deeper into the pillows, not even afraid of the hellish scene playing out in his dreams.

His body was ready to fast-forward to the soft skin… the breathless panting, gorgeous, firm breasts with toffee-colored nipples. Jesus… wonderful, tight ass and long legs wrapped around his waist out in the middle of the desert. His name a cry on the wind. Silky dark brown hair in his hands. Screw the demons in his dreams; he'd ride through smoke and hellfire to get to all of that. He shifted uncomfortably in his sleep, the pulsing erection a killer. C'mon, where was the girl, this time?

"Jose!"

Wrong voice. Reality jerked him awake like a splash of cold water. Jose could smell the hotel cleaning products wafting off his mother's skin from the doorway of his bedroom before he even opened his eyes. Oh, shit… Maybe if he pretended he was still asleep, she would just go away, por favor.

The fight would be the same. It always was. He finally opened his eyes and simply stared at the woman. The dream had flitted away, just like his arousal. If he could have died from embarrassment he would have. His mother glared at him, her angry gaze raking his body with a disgusted click of her tongue. How did time manage to make a once beautiful thirty-seven-year-old woman seem like an old crone so fast? he wondered, bracing for the inevitable.

"Jose, this has got to stop!" his mother said, folding her arms over her chest, crushing her maid's uniform. "It is nearly six o'clock at night! What have you been doing all day, huh? Are you taking those drugs, or smoking those funny cigarettes? You're almost twenty-two years old and still living here like a bum. Well, not under my roof! I can't support a grown son who won't get a job. It was bad enough that your father left me, then died. Now, you sleep all day and then go out with those gangs at night—and when I come home, not a dish is washed, nothing around the house is done. I'm tired of this!"

Jose sat up slowly, scratching his head, searching for words. "Momma, listen—"

"No, you listen, Jose! You listen to me for once! You've been out of high school now for three years already, and what do you have to show for your life? Where's your ambition?"

He let out a weary breath. "I bring home money every week to help the household and—"

"I don't want drug money!" she shrieked, coming into the room to stand over him.

He was on his feet. "It's not drug money!" he shouted, wishing he could just make her understand. "I draw for them, paint their jackets, and detail their cars! They pay me to do my art, Momma."

"Art," she snapped, disbelieving, "is for the rich. Like all that foolishness about one day playing in some stupid band. Instruments, motorcycles from drug money, no doubt, are all over this place. Besides, you don't need to be doing gang emblems. It's all such a ridiculous waste of time."

He stood facing her, not knowing where to begin. Her eyes traveled over him as though she wanted to spit in his face for merely existing. There was no arguing at this point; her mind had already been made up and was closed. He watched his mother fold her arms tighter against her chest and scan his room with her nose turned up.

"I'm not a bum, Momma," he whispered. "One day, I'm gonna move us both—"

"Oh, stop dreaming," she said with a wave of her hand. "How, with no job, Jose?"

"I have a job. Drawing."

"Don't speak to me," she snapped. "You must be high." She began fussing around his room, inspecting, each step a brittle, agitated, jerky motion.

He could only look at her as she walked through his room snatching up clothes from the floor and flinging them onto the chair, violating his haven. High? Him? The smell of weed, or anything else for that matter, made him sick as a dog… his boyz always teased him about that. How could she have given birth to him and still not know him at all?

If she would have listened, he would have told her that drawing for the hombres was better than having to run drugs, go to prison, or die. Being the local artist was like being their mascot. It was a way to live between worlds in a place where few options existed. He swallowed thickly, holding back the pain her angry eyes caused. She didn't understand. All through high school, nobody picked on him, nobody tried him, and nobody forced him to prove his manhood or gang loyalty by dropping a body—all because he could design the baddest logos… could turn a leather jacket or beat-up car into a prize with his custom work.

It had put food in the house when her small checks couldn't stretch. His so-called foolishness had even helped pay rent from time to time. Didn't she know how many storefronts had his signature on them? Bodegas and other small shops went graffiti-free because his one-of-a-kind designs marked them as off-limits. Auto-body joints called for him by name. He was not a bum! He was not a bad son.

But as he looked as his mother's exhausted expression, he couldn't remind her of all of that, because to do so would be a slap in her face. Tears of frustration glittered in her eyes, and he knew in his soul they came from much more than his messy room.

Who stole her laughter, her beauty, her soft side, her hugs? Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and wrapped in a black fishnet. Her brown eyes were dull and lifeless, just like her skin. Her figure was gathering rolls from disuse in the middle, and she was still so young. No one came to take her anywhere nice. No one had come to her since his father. No, as her son, he was both the man of the house as well as the enemy species. By now, he was used to the tirades.

So a reminder of what he'd done to support himself for as long as he could remember would be a stab in her heart. As the only man who still loved her, he couldn't say those vicious things to her, no matter what. He was her son. She was his mother. Madonna in a dirty housekeeper's uniform. The brutal truth would be just like saying she was a bad mother—a young girl who had had him too soon, had to endure a shotgun wedding, a woman-child who had made bad choices, and that's why her life had turned out the way it did, from her own decisions. Then she would have the right to beat him and cry and tell him that if he'd been aborted, her life would have been different and so much better. Maybe it would have. That was the part that tortured him the most.

"I'm trying to get my money together to go to art school, Momma," he finally said in a quiet voice while beginning to gather up the mess in his room so she could calm down. "Maybe once I graduate and get a good job, you can retire from cleaning rooms, and I'll be able to support us both so you can rest. I—"

Her attention jerked up from the floor as she slowly straightened her spine and balled up a dirty towel in her fists. "Art school? Art school! You need to get a real job, take up a trade, a vocational-tech program that makes sense, and stop dreaming… just like your father. I cannot deal with this."

"I got a mural job, Momma. I was waiting till you came home to tell you." Pure defeat claimed him. How could he ever get her to understand that he'd go nuts in a factory, where his soul would shrivel up and die? He didn't want to work the hotels or landscape the lawns of the wealthy. Something so much greater was calling him, but at the moment, he couldn't name it for her approval.

"Two choices," she said, her tone a low warning. "You enroll in a vo-tech program tomorrow, or you pack your bags and go live on the reservation in Arizona with your grandfather. Maybe your father's family will have you, and allow you to be an artist there."

They both stared at each other, mother and son locked in a quiet, urgent straggle. There was no way in hell he was going out to Arizona to live with some old, superstitious Creek Indian shaman and his Navajo wife. Been there, done that, when he was a little kid. His mother had left him there once, when she and his papi were breaking up. Now she was threatening to send him back there again? To the crazy people? The only one he'd really connected with was the wild biker who had passed through… a guitar player. If Jack Rider was there, cool. Jose remembered it like it was yesterday. Each summer when his momma was insistent about getting him off the streets while school was out, he and Rider had some really wild times out there together. But who knew where Jack Rider was now? The guy was like the wind… something he wanted to be. Free.

"So, what is it going to be, Jose?" His mother's gaze had narrowed, the ultimatum a thick wall between them.

"I'm gonna go paint the mural, get enough money to enroll in the first semester of art classes at Santa Monica College, and—"

"Walk out of my door tonight, young man, and your bags will be packed at the door when you get back."

He passed his mother without saying a word and headed toward the bathroom in their tiny apartment. If he had to sleep on the streets to follow his dream, so be it! He was not a bad son.

Jose stared up at the vacant apartment building by the 405 Expressway. It was the most beautiful canvas he'd ever seen in his life. A city program had pulled him off the most-wanted-graffiti-artist list and had given him a jewel, instead of a record. God bless America!

He quickly parked his gleaming silver and black Harley chopper and yanked off his helmet so he could see the building better. Breathing in deeply, he allowed the night air to enter his lungs and fill his spirit. Adrenaline rushed through his system as he braced the helmet under his arm and stared up. The scaffolding was already erected in his honor. They'd given him brashes and said they'd make paint available, but he preferred spray cans. It was all about sensing the pressure of the color release, the texture of the building that would be anointed.

A can of white, to begin the outlines, whispered to him from his motorcycle saddlebags. The city program wanted an anti-drug message… or something positive and community-reinforcing to be splashed on the walls. Hombres from the neighborhood who had heard about his good fortune wanted him to make sure their gang territorial markers and names of their dead soldiers were emblazoned on the side of the building that faced the highway—while he was up there. But he had this image in his mind that he couldn't shake. It was a part of the recurring dream.

She was gorgeous… all curves… wide brown eyes haunted with fear… if he could only get the rest of her face to come forward through the smoke. Monsters and demons were all around her. A Thunderbird totem loomed in the background as she ran toward it. Native American shamans war-danced while ghostly Chicano ancestors drew dead Conquistador blades and rode horrifying phantom horses toward the flying demons.

Jose closed his eyes, seeing the mural come to life in his mind. A young man stood with a gleaming revolver pointed at the monsters, splattering gook with the ancestor spirits. Yeah. That was the ticket. He could tell the city program it was his artistic interpretation of how youths were being lost and hunted by the demonic forces of drugs and violence in the streets and how the spiritual past of the people was their hope. He smiled. Total bull, but it might work.

Then he could tell the gang brothers that the guy with the gun was one of them—all he had to do was tie the right color bandana around the hombre's head in the mural to play it off. He'd then kick some game about how all the demons and whatnot were the man and how the girl was running toward the hype brother with the stoopid gun because she was fine, like the women they all had. Yeah… he'd make that gun real big to keep down the static. Jose chuckled quietly to himself. Being an artist with skills had certain privileges, the greatest being that everyone expected you to be crazy and didn't challenge your artistic interpretations.

Inspired, he slung his helmet onto his motorcycle seat and quickly pulled two cans of white spray paint out of the bike gear carrier. Tucking them into the pockets of his gray hoodie, he rushed over to the scaffolding and began to climb.

The night was his. He loved it as though it were a woman. It was daring and free and passionate and dark… the sounds it contained were so different, just like the scents changed as the sun went down. As chaotic as the neighborhood was, the darkness provided a certain peace that stilled his soul.

Jose hoisted himself up to the top platform three stories higher and stood before his beloved blank canvas, suddenly king of the world. The scent of bricks and mortar made him reach his palms out flat and lightly touch the surface of the building with a caress, studying where to begin.

Shadowy motion passed by a darkened, broken window and gave him a start. But given how long this building had sat abandoned, cats, rats, crack addicts, the homeless, anyone or anything, probably inhabited the joint. Jose had to focus and was not about to allow some stray cat to chase him away. He blew out a nervous breath and ran his fingers through his hair, determined.

Once he laid the foundation of the drawing, then cool. People could stop and stare; the hombres could smoke reefer below and holler up at him with music blaring from cars. That was the only thing he didn't like about doing outside, mural work. It wasn't private. An artist needed a studio, a place to intimately commune with his work without commentary from a street peanut gallery. So, a piece of the night stolen while the brothers were drag racing, clubbing, or getting booty was the time to think out the wall until he had the image perfected.

A spray can tumbled into his hand as he dug into his pocket, his sole focus on the wall, his eyes unseeing, only envisioning the image that would grace it. Then, he began to work. Before long, his back and chest and armpits were damp. The cool night stung his scalp through his wet hair. Glorious images careened through his mind, sparked impassioned motions through his outstretched arm, his body bending and swaying in a choreographed union with his art. Soon blue and red lights dappled the walls. The familiar whoop of a police siren stopped the dance, broke the divine meditation, and made him stand up straight, hands in the air.

"Get off the scaffolding!" an angry voice yelled through a loudspeaker.

Jose turned slowly. "I'm an artist that's been—"

"Down. Now, buddy!"

Two officers exited their patrol car.

"We are sick of you little bastards destroying property!" one officer shouted. "An artist my ass!"

Jose closed his eyes, keeping his arms outstretched. "Man, I've got a letter from the city in my pocket that says—"

He heard gun holsters unsnap. He opened his eyes quickly and remained as still as possible. "I need my hands to climb down, man!"

"Where are you going?" Juanita's mother blocked the door and looked at her hard.

"Only out with my brother, Momma. He has a friend he wanted me to meet, and there's a party—"

Her mother made the sign of the crucifix over her chest. "Your older brother breaks my heart with his friends. They're all dope dealers and—"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Momma," Juanita pleaded. "I stayed home after I went to work and watched—"

"That's right, you should stay home and watch your little brother after work! What else more important do you have to do? I work sixteen hours a day to keep you all fed. Now I should feel guilty for wanting my daughter to be here, to stay away from the streets that have taken my eldest son?"

"I'm almost twenty, Momma. You act like—"

"I act like what? Who is this friend?"

Juanita measured her words. What could she tell her mother when she was in a state like this? The woman wasn't rational. There were young girls in the neighborhood who were sixteen and had more freedom than her. After her father died she'd done her best to stand by her mother's side, to help her out as much as she could. But it seemed as if her life was not her own!

"Juan's friend is a cousin of the Riveras and just a little older, plus he's—"

"Madre d'Dios! Men from that family have been spawned by the devil himself. Lucifer! How many young women have fallen to their lusts?" Her mother's gaze roved over her. "Look at you, dressed like a tramp! Red halter. Jeans. Fancy little sandals and hair all over your head, with makeup like a whore. And you want me to believe this. Rivera person or whoever, cousin of Satan, is some sort of saint—"

"He's Juan's friend!" Juanita shrieked. "Because of you, Momma, and Juan threatening to shoot anyone who would come near me, nobody has ever asked me to a dance! No one has ever dared set foot in this house to come see me! No one! This is the first real chance any of his friends took notice! I don't want to be like you!" She turned away from her mother, tears brimming to fall and smear mascara. Her mother spun her around with a hard yank and slapped her hard enough for her to see stars.

"Never do you speak to your momma with such disrespect! Who fed you? Who clothed you? Who kept a roof over your head! Who kept you clean, kept you from being pregnant and thrown away like all your girlfriends? Me! Your mother who loved you and deserves respect!" She smoothed her hands down her floral-print housecoat. "So, now, because I'm fat, and old, and my hair isn't pretty… because my face has wrinkles from worry over my children, I know nothing of the world? I don't deserve your ear to hear me?"

Guilt and shame collided with hurt until Juanita couldn't breathe. She just wanted to be normal, have fun, and not waste being young cooped up in a house with her praying momma and aging grandmother to become some old maid.

Looking at her mother through teary eyes, Juanita held the side of her face. "You said 'loved,' not 'loves,'" Juanita whispered.

Her mother's angry gaze narrowed. "Who could love a daughter who is so ungrateful? I swore that if my own treated me that way, she would be dead to me." Her mother turned away, sniffed hard, wiped her eyes, and strode into the kitchen. "Take off that harlot's outfit and go wash your face!" she yelled over her shoulder.

Juanita remained rooted to the floor where she stood. Her own mother had said such things and meant it? Her own momma? Covering her mouth, Juanita stifled a sob. How could she? Hadn't she graduated from high school, gotten a job, and gone to work at the corner pharmacy, never once complaining that the dream to go to college to study business was a dream deferred, because no provisions had been made for her education? She was a good daughter, who understood why no one had thought about the future when she was conceived. Until now, she'd accepted that no one cared that she had been the babysitter, the maid, the cook, the one to run a household while her mother worked herself to death night and day.

Her brother Juan was supposed to be the man of the house but was destroying the house. Yet, even for all her vicious words about Juan, her Momma still doted on him, even knowing where his money came from. He never had to lift a finger around the house because he was a so-called man. Didn't Momma know she was the stable one, the one who could be counted on? Of course she didn't have babies early; she'd seen what taking care of an infant was from constantly watching her younger brother—work. She knew what running a full household was—work. She was the maid! Her middle name was Work, her last name was Duty hyphenated with Commitment… and for the offense of wanting to go out with a handsome friend of her brother's, she'd been struck?

That was it. The battles were over. No matter how much she tried to get her mother to see, the woman was still blind. A whore? A harlot? She had never even been with a man yet, at her age, and her mother had called her those terrible things?

Pure heartbreak made Juanita's legs move her toward the door. Alienation and defeat helped her quietly slip out of the house. She wouldn't wait for Juan to come home to pick her up. She didn't want to meet this fine friend of his who had a street hustle. She didn't want to be called a whore while still a virgin. She no longer wanted to carry the weight of her mother's fury or frustration or bitterness. She couldn't take all the superstition and omens about demons in her mother's shrieking dreams. No more. She couldn't stand by and watch another year go by, hoping, wanting, her nose pressed to the glass of approval for change.

The double standard propelled her quickly down to the end of the block. Her brother could be a male whore, drink, sell drugs, and do whatever, but she had been struck for thinking about a party… for hoping that this friend of Juan's might dance with her, flirt with her… might even kiss her one day. Bitter tears fell as she began to run blindly into the night, avoiding neighbors' waves, cars, and pedestrians she didn't know.

Following the bus route, she hurried down blocks, unafraid. She'd never go back home, would never cross that threshold again. She was grown! She was a good daughter! She had a job and would get her own place, somehow.

A bus rolled by and slowed at the corner. Juanita got on and fumbled for change and bills, dropping coins in her distress. Numb, blank stares greeted her as she pushed her way to the back of the lumbering vehicle, and she clasped a pole for support with her eyes closed.

God, just take me away from here. Anywhere but her mother's house. Take her away from the hurts and insults, the verbal lashings, the constant suspicion and accusations. There had to be a place out there somewhere where beauty replaced the ugliness within human souls… where the air was clear and clean, where the stink of city garbage didn't exist. A place where there were flowers and trees and quiet beauty… a place where someone loved her for who she was, not who he thought she was. She missed Papi, his warm bear hugs and the way he called her princess and made her feel like she was just that—his baby doll.

Her father was the only one who didn't think her dreams were foolish and who calmed the night terrors when she dreamed of monsters… her mother thought she was possessed when she saw those things. Her momma said her visions were coming from the evil resident within her.

Blessed Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on her and send her into arms that would protect her from the cold, dead night.

Chapter Two

Spread-eagled on the hood of the police cruiser, Jose gritted his teeth as his legs were kicked open and his body frisked for a weapon. His letter from the city might as well have been toilet paper, for all the good it did him. Anger fused with spray paint, engine fumes, gasoline, and the cops' dank sweat plus a hint of sulfur made him want to hurl. But he knew better than to argue with LA cops down in the barrios. Going to lockup was the least of his worries; getting shot and beat down was a high probability.

But the scent of something was raising the hair on the back of his neck in the darkened street. A shadow flitted past his peripheral vision, and in reflex he jerked his head up, only to have it slammed down again.

"You resisting arrest, punk?" one burly officer said.

"Naw, man," Jose said between clenched teeth. "I saw something outta the corner of my eye."

The two officers glanced at each other.

"Better check it out," the tall, lean one said. "Might be more of 'em out here with this one. They always work in packs."

"Call for backup," the thick officer with a barrel chest warned.

"Gimme a minute. You stay here with this punk. I'll just do a quick recognizance; then we can haul his ass in."

Jose was yanked back by his shirt.

"Get in the car."

The officer who was still with him had opened the door, taken the safety off his revolver, and begun to shove him into the vehicle when they all saw it. The building came alive, blackness pouring over the edges of the windows, sliding out from under the bolted doors. The two officers backed up, and the three men stood paralyzed for a second by terror.

It seemed like the ooze had created a yawning blackness that was darker than the night, and then within the fragile seconds it took for natural human reaction, the surreal darkness separated, took flight, and hundreds of bats fanned out in the air.

"Oh, shit!" the burly officer yelled as tiny beasts swarmed him in a billowing funnel cloud.

Gunfire ripped from his revolver as his bellows turned to screams. Fearing what he was seeing more than a shot in the back, Jose made a break for his motorcycle. He immediately smashed on his helmet to keep the vicious flying creatures from attacking his head.

Jose turned to glance over his shoulder only once to see a swarm gather around the other cop and then become a large singular entity masquerading as a bald, jaundiced-hued, black-suited man with hooked claws, red gleaming eyes, and fangs. He was out.

Stomping down on the motor, he careened away from the highway underpass near the scaffold-clad building, heading for open, wide streets that were populated by something that made sense—people. In a blur, a wisp of red fabric stabbed into his vision from the sidewalk. The high-pitched scream of a woman became a Doppler effect in his mind, welding it to the piercing decibel of screeches from the things that flew.

Billowing sulfur-tainted smoke obscured all but the woman's terror-stricken brown eyes as he drove, turning to look over his shoulder, hunkered down to keep control of the bike. The sound of guttural moans, then the stench of blood made him hock and spit in the wind as his bike raced down the center of the lonely street. He wasn't stopping for shit!

"Oh, my God! Help me!"

The female voice rang in his ears behind him. The familiar scent dragged his bike to a pivoting spin. Two beasts had her cornered against a vacant building in a huddled mass. He reached, one-handed, into his saddlebags and found paint. His bike became a weapon, hitting the curb and barreling down the sidewalk playing chicken with the unknown. Something landed on his seat behind him with a heavy thud, but his Harley was a part of his body, and Jose instantly whirled around to blacken gleaming eyes with paint, sending the invader shrieking to the ground clutching its hideous face.

Kicking and screaming, the woman covered her head as a predator bent. But the thing looked up too late to avoid Harley wheels burning at 80 miles an hour. Jose braced for the tumble, expecting the collision to throw him from the bike. Instead the entity parted in a foul splatter of sulfuric green gook that wet his helmet, chest, and the sidewalk.

"Jump on!" Jose yelled. "Up now, or I'm leaving you!"

The woman scrambled to her feet and immediately mounted his bike. Gone in seconds, he zigzagged them into traffic, popping a wheelie as they entered a busy intersection to make cars stop and give way.

His heart thudded, sweat blinding him along with demon gook on his helmet shield, forcing him to snatch it off and let it bounce away in the street. Frightened hands clung to his chest, and a feminine face pressed to his shoulder blades. He rode like the night wind itself, still smelling approaching sulfur.

Lead the mass of shrieking demons to his mother's home?

Impossible. Stop riding? Not likely. Talk to this chick on the back of his bike and figure out how to ditch the unexpected passenger along the way? Not. Oh yeah, hang around and try to explain that he hadn't butchered two cops? Suicide. Stop? Oh, hell no. Not until he ran out of gas. Not until he was somewhere safe. Not until his heart stopped slamming into his chest. Not until he reached the only place in the world where he knew people who believed in such things and had something to deal with it—Grandpop's.

They came to a stop on an old dusty road on reservation lands. An old man sat on the porch chewing the stem of a worn corncob pipe with a smile.

Jose's grandfather stood with effort, his tattered red and gray plaid shirt loosely blowing in the just-before-dawn breeze. He came to the edge of the porch rail and waited and shoved his hands in his brown corduroy pants. The old man simply nodded as the coyotes howled. Waning moonlight washed across his silver hair which hung in two long braids over his chest.

"The Thunderbirds sent you," Jose's grandfather murmured, and then looked up at the moon. "You smelled them?"

Jose leaned his head against the bike handlebar, too spent to immediately respond. "I'm freaked out, Pops. No riddles right now."

"I was on the bus," the girl clinging to him sobbed. "I was; I was… Then the bus stopped at the end of the line. I got off!" she said, her voice rising in hysteria. "It was deserted and I was afraid, so I headed toward police lights in the distance, and then… and then… oh, dear Mother of God…" She pressed her face to Jose's back and wept.

"We know," the old man said calmly. "The council of elders had a vision. It is the season for these things."

Jose felt the woman behind him cringe but lift her head. He looked at his grandfather with a harsh glare. "This wasn't gypsy moths, Pops! The season? The freakin' season! Do you know what they did to two cops? Have you any idea what—"

"Yes," his grandfather said in a calm tone. "Your training to guard the innocent begins with a harsh lesson, because you bear the totem of the Thunderbird. You are a sensor. Your gift is like that of the wolf, a tracker, but you fly like the night wind, and portend the rains of change." He signed a calm, satisfied sigh. "Come into the house, wash, and eat. The women have clothes for her. I have clothes for you. We've been waiting for you both for a very long time."

Jose watched his grandfather go into the house with quiet dignity. His serene acceptance of their story was both comforting and unnerving. Trying to piece together the fragments of reality that still existed within his mind, Jose finally turned to the woman on the back of his bike.

"Listen, sis… this ain't no place to be. I'm sorry I didn't drop you off in LA, but shit…"

He rubbed his hands down his face and kicked the bike stand down so he could dismount. She still had her palms covering her face, breathing into them slowly as though holding back a scream. He knew exactly where she was at—freaked out.

Rather than dismount, he turned to her and touched her tousled hair. "What's your name?"

She didn't answer, just dragged her breaths in and out of her lungs as though about to have an asthma attack. "I saw it all in my dream," she whispered. "The same one I have almost every night. I never saw his face… the man on the bike. But the demons, the street… the dead cops—I saw it all!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Jose grabbed her by both arms. "Come again? Tell me the dream!" he nearly shouted.

As she lifted her head slowly from her hands, the same eyes he'd seen night after haunting night stared back at him until her gorgeous heart-shaped face was revealed. Tears and terror had made circles under her eyes from bled mascara. But it was her. He let his gaze trail down her torso. Oh yeah… it was her. Violet-laden perfume, Dove soap, and adrenaline-spiked pheromone got separated out from her skin in layers to attack his senses with dream-memory. The scent bottomed out in his stomach and made it clench.

"I never saw his face," she murmured, "because he wore a black helmet." She allowed her gaze to slide down Jose's torso. "But he was wet with sweat. And I know the bike…" Her words trailed off as she glanced at his hands. "I know those hands," she added quietly. "Same grip."

Jose let his hands slowly loosen and then fall away from her arms. "Your people… you need to call home, and let them know you're all right."

"Okay… but my mother doesn't care. She said I was dead to her."

He watched new tears rise in her eyes, and something he couldn't understand drew his fingertips to wipe them away from her pretty, flushed cheeks as they fell. "Call her anyway," he said in a gentle voice. "I have to call my mom, too."

She nodded, adjusting the strap on her halter top, suddenly feeling exposed. It had to be the insane terror that had released butterflies in her stomach. She lifted her chin; no matter what her mother had said, she was no tramp. But those intense gentle, quiet brown eyes and strong grip made it hard to breathe. She studied the line of his solid jaw and then let her gaze travel over broad shoulders, and lean, sinewy arms that had held the bike steady to save her.

"You came back for me. Bless you with all the gifts of heaven."

"I couldn't leave you out there like that without trying… not after I saw what they could do."

She stared up at him and swallowed hard. "You could have been killed."

He gave her a half smile. "But I wasn't and neither were you."

She touched a finger to his lips. "Thank you. Say no more. Let me just work this out in my head for a minute."

He didn't move or blink while he watched her process it all. She was a still life, something his hands ached to immortalize in wet paint, charcoal, pencil, any medium that would hold her. There was a level of serene acceptance beneath her stricken state. In the moonlight, even with smeared makeup and wild hair, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever been this close to. It was reflex that sent his hand to stroke her hair and pull her into a hug. Why he was feeling like this at a time like this was way past crazy.

But the sensation of her silky hair under his palm and the way her breaths entered and exited her mouth to pour warm heat over his chest was beyond comprehension. The urge to take her mouth defied all logic, just as what they'd experienced was surreal. Rather than make her more nervous than she already had to be, he simply hugged her and nuzzled the crown of her hair.

"You'll be safe here tonight. You can call home, get a shower and some hot tea, something to help you chill out… and some rest. My grandfather has some strange ways, but he's a decent old man. Real cool like that."

She nodded and pulled away from the embrace to stare up at him. "You'll stay in the house with me, though… I mean… you won't be too far away?"

"Yeah," he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. She wanted him near? Thought of him like he was some kinda protection or something—a hero? Whoa.

Needing to move or else kiss her, he got off the bike and helped her down. For some reason, she snuggled in close to him, and for some reason, his arm threaded around her waist. They entered the house practically in tandem. His grandfather's Navajo wife looked up, smiled, and brought a pile of towels and clothing forward. She petted the young woman's face and turned to Jose for an introduction. It was only then that he realized he didn't even know her name.

"Uh, we just met, and—"

"I'm Juanita," the young woman beside him said shyly.

"Oh yeah, I'm Jose," he said to the woman he'd saved, and then offered his grandfather's wife an apology with his eyes.

The older woman said nothing, just simply handed off the pile of towels and clothing to Juanita, then kissed them both, held their faces for a moment, and left the house to go wait on the porch.

Jose's grandfather nodded toward him. "My wife will gather with the women to make strong medicine to give to you both, but especially her, the one with the eyes of the night."

Jose stood very, very still. He knew a little something, as memory served him, about old shaman ways—none of which made him feel comfortable in the least. If an all-female tribal night conclave was being convened to make serious medicine before dawn, then the men would be in a heavy spiritual ritual within a sweat lodge. He and his grandfather shared a knowing glance.

"Do not worry," his grandfather said, setting his jaw hard as he fetched his gray felt hat with the eagle feather down from the wall. "You passed the first test—she is not dead; you also live unmarked by the beasts. This house cannot be entered by the shadows. Strong medicine keeps the path clear and this home untouched." He strode toward the door, unfazed. "Besides, the man with a good heart who played the guitar taught you how to shoot a rifle. He is a good teacher. There is a rifle with special shells on the mantel."

Jose nodded. Jack Rider had definitely taught him how to shoot, how to ride, and how to play a little guitar. The reference to his old mentor's presence at the house brought back good memories. But, still, Jose wished his grandfather had decided to stick close to home. He wasn't no punk, but damn. They were gonna leave him and Juanita there all by themselves? What if something else wack jumped off? Learning how to shoot a rifle years ago, with a wild-man guitar player while drinking Jack Daniel's and hanging out on bikes, was not exactly commando training!

Jose glimpsed the mantel, and then Juanita. She stood stock-still, like a paralyzed deer caught in the gun-barrel sight of a hunter. Her knuckles were losing color as she clutched the pile of fabrics to her chest. Girlfriend looked like she was about to pass out, and he couldn't blame her.

"Uh, listen… why don't you call your mom, tell her you're okay? I'll call mine. Then you can get a shower and I'll root around in the fridge to see what's to eat."

"You know how to shoot that gun?" Her gaze ricocheted from him to the mantel and back.

"Yeah, I'm okay at it."

She shook her head in a slow, frightened daze. "I can't go into the bathroom alone… it has a window, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Uh-uh! No," she whispered, panic strangling her voice. "Please don't leave me alone in any room at any time."

"But what if you have to pee?" he said, trying not to smile.

"So!" She began walking in a tight circle. "You can bring the gun in there, stand by the window, keep your back to me, and then when I tell you I'm decent, you can turn around."

"The bathroom ain't but so big, 'Nita." He chuckled and raked his fingers through his hair.

She looked up at him, a plea in her eyes. "What did you call me?"

"'Nita. Why?"

She glanced away, her face flushed. "That's an old nickname. Only people who know me real well ever call me that."

He shrugged, new tension threading through him as he stared at her beautiful, stricken face. "Well, sorta makes sense that we get real cool real fast, if we're gonna listen to each other pee, don't you think?"

She just stared at him for a second and then burst out laughing. The sound of her voice ran through him and tightened the tense muscles in his spine.

"Good to see you finally relaxing." He looked down at his grimy, gook-splattered clothes. "I'll ransack the fridge after I wash up, on second thought."

"You're still gonna go in the bathroom with me, with the gun, right?" Her eyes searched his face for a commitment.

"Yeah. No problem," he said, feeling an odd mixture of nervousness and excitement. This woman didn't know him from Adam, yet trusted him not to be some weirdo. She was gonna allow him to guard her, naked in a shower, and not try to violate her. Deep. Jose went to the mantel and turned to face her. He watched her shoulders drop an inch in visible relief.

Chapter Three

The responsibility weighed on him heavily in several ways as he ushered Juanita to the bathroom. Part of him stood taller, felt a sense of quiet, resounding pride that a woman as beautiful as her actually thought of him as some sort of neighborhood knight. Him? A kid from the barrios without any real money beyond chump change to his name? But every glance she offered was filled with awe and respect like he'd never been given by any female eyes. Yet another part of him was extremely worried. What if his grandfather had been wrong and those things that attacked them came back… what if he wasn't able to fend them off this time? What if they hurt her in some way? That outcome was totally unacceptable now, especially when she'd scooted into the bathroom behind him and shut the door, seeking a lock.

"My grandparents don't believe in locks in the house," Jose said, turning his back to Juanita.

Her eyes darted between him, the window, the door, and the shower. The man hadn't lied; the bathroom was so small that both of them could barely turn around within it, but every horror movie she'd ever seen converged in her rapid pulse.

"Check the shower," she said, whispering. "Please."

Jose flung the curtain back with bravado, brandishing the weapon, using the rifle barrel to hold back the white plastic. "It's cool."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Good."

Perhaps it was the expression of relief on her face or the way the statement had come out on a breathy rush, but it made him need to turn around to pull himself together.

"I'll, uh, just stay like this till you tell me it's cool. Okay?"

Juanita nodded and opened her eyes. The entire experience felt like a crazy, jumbled-up dream. A part of her was scared to death, horrified by what she'd seen. Another part of her felt like she was embarking upon the greatest adventure of her life… and the man who had saved her was the most handsome, sexy hunk she'd ever been this close to.

Tingles claimed her belly as she hunted through the medicine cabinet looking for mouthwash and spied small Dixie cups. There was baby lotion and Jergens lotion. She tried to forestall getting undressed as long as possible. But she knew in her soul that this barrio prince who stood like a soldier, back erect, gorgeous eyes alert to the darkness, would not turn around or fail her by breaking his honor.

Little by little, she eased her jeans down and then quickly turned on the water. "Don't listen. This is so embarrassing."

"I'll just sing," he said, laughing, and began humming a heavy rap tune. When she flushed, he laughed. "You're gonna have to holla and stomp your feet to drown me out when I go, girl. That wasn't nothing but a princess tinkle."

She laughed as she washed her hands. "You so crazy."

"Like none of what we're dealing with tonight is crazy?"

"It is crazy," she said, stripping off her clothing, by shy degrees. "But I'm not scared in here with you. And I'm sorta glad we met, anyway."

"You know, most guys meet a fine woman in a club, down on Venice Beach, walking down the street… but no. I have to meet the finest babe I've ever seen while on a motorcycle tear down a demon-filled street. That's the type of year I've been having. Truth be told, that's the kind of life I've been having. So, my bad if I wish I had met you under different circumstances… but I am glad we hooked up."

Juanita turned on the water and slipped under the spray without a word. He'd said she was the finest woman he'd ever met. Wow. A guy like him? He'd also said, in so many words, that he was unattached, since it was hard to meet people and he was having a bad year. Plus had said she princess-tinkled. She smiled as the warm water covered her and she doused her hair in it, finding a bar of Ivory soap on the rack. Her papi used to say that to her when she was a little girl… "go make a princess tinkle." She wanted to laugh and cry both at the same time.

"Your people are really nice, Jose. Thank you for sharing them with me for the night, and for taking me in… and for doubling back to pick me up on your bike. My family isn't as cool as yours."

"Yeah, well, you ain't never met my mom. She's a trip," he said, watching the window intently. The scent of Ivory soap was embedded in his nose, creating a memory template that he'd never forget. Wet woman splashing behind a thin curtain… naked. Trust was as thick between them as the growing steam and the heavy throb that had begun to cause a dull ache in his groin. Co-dependency—her dependent on him for safety, him dependent on her for hope, for balm to his wounded male pride… to make losing his mural, his last-ditch dream, worth it all, with both of them wrapped in the faith that they weren't crazy. They'd both seen it, had tribal elders confirm it.

"My mom is a trip, too… that's why I was out tonight," she said so quietly and in such a sad voice that he was tempted to turn around but didn't.

"Moms can be like that," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the response came out on a gentle rush of breath.

"You have any brothers and sisters?" She peered around the curtain and drew his attention away from his neutral post.

"No," he said slowly, unable to keep from looking at her squeaky-clean face and how the water ran down her wet hair, down her throat, and then slid away behind the semi-sheer curtain that barely concealed her wet cinnamon-brown skin. "Long story. But it's just me and her."

"Oh," she said, ducking back into the water behind the curtain.

Conflict tore at him. He wanted to keep staring at her and yet also needed to turn around to keep her from seeing the state she'd put him in.

"You and your mom had an argument?" He needed to talk, keep things moving in the bathroom. If it got too quiet, she might be able to hear him breathing through his mouth.

"I wanted to go out with friends," she said in a tight murmur, just above the spray. "But she slapped me and called me a whore—and I've never even been with a man. All I do is go to work, watch my little brother, clean up the house after him and Juan, my older brother, who she thinks walks on water, no matter what he does. Cook, clean, 'do this, Juanita,' 'do that, Juanita,' that's all I ever hear, ya know? I wanted to go to college one day but wound up working in a drugstore ringing a register, just to help Momma out. So, I just got fed up when she slapped me for wearing red and makeup, and I ran away. But I didn't ever think…"

"Hey, I hear you. Noticed you, like me, weren't in a hurry to make the call home. Maybe when we get outta here, huh?" he said, trying to mentally catalog everything this beauty had told him in one rush.

She, that fine babe, was a virgin—he'd heard that first. Then, his mind processed the rest: She didn't have a man. Had dreams that had been crushed by duty—he could relate—which meant that she had a good heart, a tender spirit, cared for people, and put family first. She didn't have a man? Shee-it. Problem solved.

"What were you doing out there?" she asked quietly, turning off the shower.

Jose let out a long breath. "I was almost dog meat," he replied, leaning against the wall with a thud as the grim reality finally hit him. "I was up on the scaffolding of the building that the city gave me a contract to paint a mural on. Up there, at night, by myself, studying the bricks and where to lay down the design—then cops pull up, hassle me, make me come down. In a weird way, they probably saved my life."

He heard the curtain yank back and steeled himself against the shudder of desire that ran down his spine.

"Ohmigod, you were out there by yourself, all alone, doing the mural, and could have been killed? You're an artist? Like a real artist, and went out there at night?"

The tone of her voice, the excited rush, and the awe that echoed in the bathroom made the muscle in his jaw pulse. No woman had ever listened to what he had to say with bated breath. No one had ever heard his tales of victory after near death like he was some street warrior returned from battle—he'd never had anything like the other hombres had to tell an adoring feminine crowd. But right now he had Juanita's full attention focused on him, her wet movements beneath a towel driving him to the brink of insanity; then the sweet smell of lotion and the sound of it being applied almost made him groan out loud.

"Yeah… I can draw," was all he said.

"But you were out there by yourself, Jose. Ohmigod!"

"Yeah. But it was cool."

"Whew," she whispered. "Okay, you can turn around now."

He shook his head no. "Uh… why don't you turn around so I can jump in there?"

"All right. I'm not looking."

She heard him drag in a deep breath and begin taking off his clothes. His sneakers fell to the floor in heavy thuds, and the vibrations made her belly quiver. This fine man was getting naked behind her back. This awesome guy had just stripped to the raw—this same man who had saved her life. He was an artist, single and unattached. The city thought enough of his work to give him a contract, at his age, so he had to be ba-a-ad. He was a man going places and a man unafraid. He made her feel safe and have hope and faith and something she dared not name. Just hearing him turn on the water and jump into the shower made her mouth go dry.

She peeped over her shoulder. "Want me to hold onto the gun?"

"It's a rifle," he said, chuckling, "but if it'll make you feel better, just keep the barrel pointed away from me, aw'ight?"

She laughed and didn't go near the weapon that rested on the floor. "That's okay," she said, stealing glances at his moving form behind the plastic curtain. Her body was responding against her will. The humid, foggy enclosure reminded her so much of the best parts of her crazy dreams… angry black smoke giving way to a thick rain forest-like mist… primordial steam, the sound of a waterfall. She was a water sign, Cancer, and the element was a part of her. That had to be it.

"So you hungry?" he asked over the din of the spray.

She towel-dried her hair harder, trying to wrest her thoughts back to appropriate topics. "Yeah, I guess."

"Cool. After I get out, we can go see if there's anything in the fridge."

By the time the water stopped, her heart was thudding in mild arrhythmia. When he leaned out of the curtain to grab a towel, rivulets of water running down his body, she didn't even bother to turn away. Toffee-hued bronze-tan skin cut through the steamy haze. Pure masculine scent mixed with the water and made her lean against the sink to stare. His chest was carved into two solid blocks of hard muscle, and as her gaze discreetly slid down his torso she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from going hang-jawed.

Perfectly sculpted abs in isolated free-standing muscles drew her gaze down to a silky thin line of water-slicked hair just under his navel. This wasn't the soft body of an artist; what Jose owned belonged to a warrior. Heaven help her, desire bathed her in a hot sheath of want. Her skin was on fire, her nipples were so hard they hurt, and the moisture that crept between her thighs made her face burn with sudden shame. He was the entire package—a decent human being, listening ear, soldier at the ready, generous of spirit to share his family, a man with integrity who had saved her life.

She turned her head like she'd been slapped when he swathed himself in a towel, but she noticed that he just stood in the tub, breathing in slow, paced sips.

He willed his legs to move, but they didn't cooperate. He begged his eyes to go back to an appropriate place, but they wouldn't listen. The finest woman he'd ever seen was leaning on his grandfather's sink in a white cotton nightgown that her wet hair had made cling to her. Nipples hard, dark brown hair making the gown sheer in all the right spots, curves unconcealed beneath the fabric. Just slap him. Adrenaline and the whole drama were clearly making him stupid. This woman trusted him and depended on him, but por dios, she was fine.

"You look much better after the water hit you," she said, trying to make a joke of their previously grimy condition.

"I'm a Pisces," he said, his laughter strained. "What can I say? Water is my thing."

For a moment she didn't answer, processing the comment a number of wicked ways. "I'm a Cancer," she said with a shy smile. "Water is my thing, too."

"Moonlight doesn't do too bad on you, either, moon child." He smiled and glanced at the window and then at her.

He stepped out of the tub and was standing two inches from her. She tried not to glance down at his towel or the hard length it shielded and fixed her gaze on his eyes. He was standing so close that their bodies almost brushed.

"Any sweats or anything in there that I can throw on?"

"I think so," she whispered, and then pulled her gaze away from him with great effort.

"Give me a second; then I'll go find you something to eat."

Him for dinner was a viable option. She turned around quickly, wishing that the steam hadn't claimed the mirror so completely. She peeked but turned away and simply suffered at hearing him drag on the soft fabric.

"I'm decent," he said in a low murmur.

She turned to face him again, smiled, and stopped breathing as his body made a definitive tent in his gray sweats.

"You hungry?" he asked in a quiet, sensual tone that released a new flow of thick wetness between her thighs.

She nodded and swallowed hard.

"Me, too. Been a long time since I had anything good."

She stared up at him as he closed the distance between them and allowed his body to brush hers to get a towel to dry his hair. The sensation of his naked torso sweeping against her breasts almost made her gasp. Her stomach clenched, and his erection grazed her thighs, making her want to open them.

About to hyperventilate, she clasped the edges of the sink with both hands behind her. She'd never felt a man's body against hers, had never been touched so gently in an accidental rake of bare skin against cotton. Her nipples pouted with the urgent need for one more pass, one more feather-light contact Even in the dense, steamy heat, gooseflesh had risen on her arms. But he simply stood inches from her, drying his hair, staring at her.

"Can I tell you something?" he finally asked, reaching past her again to slip the towel on the edge of the sink, his chest gently touching hers again when he did so.

She nodded quickly, his caress sending shards of lightning between her legs. "Yes," she breathed out. "What?"

"You are so beautiful that I really wanna kiss you, but I'm not trying to freak you out, after everything you just went through." He swallowed hard. "It's just that, I'm so glad you weren't hurt, so glad to be alive… and can't get the fact out of my head that we've been dreaming the same dream—and before tonight I didn't even know you."

She couldn't move or take her eyes off his as his finger softly traced her cheek and then found her ear to move her wet hair behind it.

"I don't want you to think I'm trying to take advantage of you, because I'm not… and it ain't like I'm trying to look for some payback for the ride. I don't roll like that."

It was the stone-cold truth. His actions were driven by none of those things. She was simply beautiful, a heaven-sent gift. A phantom beauty in the mist, sipping air, making his skin burn beneath too-tight sweatpants, making him remember how alone he was in the world—no touch, no mouth to hunger for his, no hands or body to make him know life was worth living.

He smiled a half smile. "Maybe I should have taken a cold shower instead. I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she whispered, her soft voice holding him for ransom. "Maybe we both should have."

The way she turned her head, bit her bottom lip, and gripped the edge of the sink tighter did something to him. He knew it was foolish, to go for it under the circumstances, but if he didn't touch her, he'd lose his mind.

Ever so slowly, he took her mouth, testing for acceptance as he closed his eyes and his tongue met hers. The warm, moist yielding of her soft lips drew his body nearer, yet he took care not to crush his to hers—he didn't want to offend her or scare her off. But the sensation of her satiny skin in patches against his made it necessary to swallow a groan. He deepened the kiss and allowed his palms to slowly slide up her rigid biceps, closing the small fraction of space between them until his pelvis welded with hers.

The sound of her voice trapped in their mouths made his tongue more aggressive, but he took great care not to move against her like he so desperately wanted to. She had sanctioned a kiss, had only said yes to that. She'd never been with a man and had almost lost her life. Her momma had put her out, or some variation on a theme. It wasn't about working on Juanita while she was in a vulnerable, messed-up mental state. Yes, he wanted her, but not like that in his grandfather's house… tears the next day, recriminations, no.

Yet his hands kept gliding up and down her arms and on each pass edging nearer to the side swell of her breasts. He couldn't help it. She tasted so good, smelled so sweet, his body ached for touch so badly, and she had turned him on so thoroughly. When her hips slightly lifted to press her mound against him harder, he allowed his thumbs to caress the sides of the breasts, gently tracing the heavy lobes that rose and fell with her shallow inhales.

She broke from the kiss, breathing hard, but didn't pull away. He loved how she stared up at him, a question in her beautiful brown eyes. His thumbs never stopped moving against the sides of her breasts. He never took his eyes away from hers. Compelled, his thumbs grazed her nipples, and she closed her eyes with a shiver. That was all he needed to witness. Permission granted to explore how far she wanted to go.

This time when he took her mouth, his lazy thumb roll back and forth became a quick flicker of attention that made her gasp. Her hands left the sink and found broad shoulders to hold. A man she'd just met on the back of a bike in a deserted street was between her legs, moving hard against her, making her cling to him, making her moan, making her ready to grab his back, making her lean her head to touch the medicine cabinet mirror.

Hot kisses along her neck stole her breath. Male hands both rough and gentle at her breasts made a whimper escape and fuse with the steam. It felt so good, so wonderfully, terribly good, as his body now created an insistent pulse, like he was trying to climb inside her, simply pull himself through the fabric, and God how she wanted him to do that.

Yet from some very remote place in her mind she'd been called out of her name, a vile word delivered by her mother that gave her pause. His family had offered them both trust and asylum, and an old Indian woman had kissed her cheek. Yet this man was coming out of his pants, the friction wearing loose the drawstring, wearing down her resolve, wearing a hole in her brain while wearing her out, hiking up her gown, making her bud ache with such agony that she almost cried and begged him to touch it.

"Your grandparents," she gasped in a rush as he suddenly bent, dipped low, and pushed her gown up to French-kiss her navel.

"They're cool; they're gone for the night," he said in a ragged whisper against her belly. "I'll be gentle."

He was on his knees on the bathroom floor, whispering promises with kisses against a place that only her fingers had ever touched. Her thighs parted without her rational consent. But she couldn't help it. He had spoken truth and torture against the swollen wet lips between her legs, finding spots that made her shoulders collide with mirror glass. If he didn't stop, she would lose her mind; if he stopped, she'd slap him. She covered her mouth to stifle the sound creeping past her larynx, but her hand fell away and her voice rent the room, echoing, bouncing off the tiles, a wail that she couldn't hold.

The scent of ready woman was all in his nose, had penetrated his sinuses, was in his mouth, and lit the back of his tongue to ignite his groin on autopilot. Damn… this was the one. Right here on the bathroom sink. Butter-soft thighs tensing and releasing, hot flow all over his face. Her tight, round ass lifting, hips jerking under his hold… sweet virgin essence washing his face, her voice a moaning plea for something more to quench her that only he had. Oh yeah… he'd be gentle but firm, would take her spilling tears of pleasure. Her hands had found his hair and had become fists—he knew exactly what she was trying to say.

He didn't need a bed; a bathroom floor would do. The wall, whatever, oh, baby… yeah… just let it go like that when I'm inside you.

It was impossible to catch his breath as he pulled her down to the floor with him. Her mouth fought his for more tongue, a deeper kiss, her hands seeming as though they couldn't touch enough of his skin fast enough. Her breasts begged to be suckled, and he obliged as he slid down his pants and nestled himself between her legs. Tears made her eyes shimmer in the lifting steam.

"I won't hurt you; I promise," he whispered, finding her slick entry point.

She looked up at him with eager, trusting eyes. "Just don't get me pregnant, okay?"

Her voice was so small and tight, just like he knew she'd be, that it split his conscience in two. "Okay," he said on a ragged whisper.

She closed her eyes; the rational side of his brain shut down with them. He entered her slowly, easing in just the head, and dropped down on his elbows to cradle her skull in a gentle grip.

"Take a deep breath," he said quietly, watching her expression. "Don't tense up, all right?" Agony clawed at his groin until it felt like his sac would be drawn up into his abdomen with each inhale.

She nodded quickly but kept her eyes closed.

" 'Nita, look at me," he whispered, kissing the bridge of her nose and waiting until she did. "Trust me. It won't hurt in a minute. Don't take your eyes off mine," he said, allowing more of him to fill her.

She arched and he reached down with one hand to hold her hips steady, careful not to press his full weight down on her.

"It… oh God… it feels so good, but hurts a little, too."

He nodded, unable to speak for a moment, his eyes sliding shut as the sensation of a near convulsion swept through him. "I kn-n-n-ow," he stammered, then nestled even more of him within her. "Let me put it in slowly, then you get used to it, before I move."

A hard shudder claimed him as she stroked his chest, her graceful, soft fingers grazing over his nipples. When her hands slid over his ass, he was barely lucid. Every impulse within him hovered on the very shaky border of moving in hard-driving jabs, yet her tear-filled eyes held such trust that he had to open his, stare at hers, just to remain nearly sane.

In slow increments he entered her deeper, watching her writhe beneath him, the suffering of want becoming hot need as he lowered his weight on her fully and kissed her hard. Her thrashing, her touches, her soft moans that he swallowed, the tight, slick, contracting sheath she pumped against him in urgent mini-upthrusts, broke him. His hands found her wet hair once more, his tongue diving at hers the way he wanted to move inside her. Short, even strokes soon became longer thrusts bordering on desperation. He stopped when she cried out his name and spent hard, his burning forehead pressed against her shoulder.

"Why'd—"

"I have to stop. Now or never."

He clung to her, trembling, begging her with his mind not to move, lest he explode and accidentally fill her with his seed. But pulling out was going to be painful, worse than having dental work done without Novocain. He lied to himself, trying to make it seem rational that he'd pull out in a moment, as soon as that got easier to do. Never happen. It was gonna be a bitch no matter what.

He tilted his head, took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut and withdrew with a hissing inhale. "Oh, shit…"

Her caress found his face and her arms held him closer to her. "Papi, I'm so sorry I'm not on the pill."

"Shush," he whispered into her hair. "Don't call me sweet names while I'm in a way like this. Let me get myself together."

"But you let me over and over again." She hugged him tighter. "I never thought it could be like this."

Didn't she understand that she was making him crazy, making him rethink his position, lying between her spread thighs, his member pulsing, so close but so far?

"Baby—"

Her kiss stopped his words; the heat of her hand stole his breath.

"That's not fair," she whispered against his ear, her hand moving swiftly up and down his slick, engorged shaft.

In no position to argue, he grasped her around the waist tightly, convulsed with a low sonic-boom moan that bounced off the tiles, and collapsed, breathing hard.

Dawn crept through the windows, adding pink and orange paint to the white ceramic tiles around them. Only his deep pants chasing hers echoed within the tiny space.

"I think we need to take another shower before my grand-pops and abuela come home." He'd spoken without opening his eyes but could feel her nod and sweet acceptance with a kiss before she struggled to get up.

"Yeah, Jose, I'll die if your grandparents ever see me like this."

Chapter Four

As he helped Juanita to her feet, after-the-fact guilt gnawed at him. Just seeing the slightest wince flit across her pretty face let him know he should have waited. A woman like this didn't deserve to have her first time be a heated rush on a bathroom floor. Damn, what had he been thinking?

Jose cupped her cheek. "I'm going to run into the kitchen for a second and will be right back, then—"

"No. You promised you wouldn't leave me," she said, holding him tightly, her eyes growing wide.

"How about this," he said softly. "You sit on the edge of the tub, hold the rifle, I'll leave the door open and will talk real loud—nonstop—so you can hear me. We'll keep talking during the thirty seconds it'll take. Then I'll wash you up in the shower." He held her face with trembling hands and kissed her gently. "You trust me?"

She begrudgingly nodded and loosened her grip on him. "Do I have to hold the rifle, though?"

"No, just stand by the door, then, and leave it open. Talk to me while I walk the short distance. It's only like twenty-five feet down the hall."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go get something that'll make you feel better."

He swept her mouth with another quick kiss, opened the door, and began talking loudly as he dashed through the house. "So, what are you in the mood for? Breakfast, a sandwich, maybe some soup?" he hollered as he yanked open the freezer, grabbed an ice tray, and ran back toward the bathroom.

"Wow, that was fast," she said, hiding her body behind a damp towel. She stared down at the tray of ice. "What's that for?"

He just smiled. "You'll see," he said, and turned on the shower water again, closing the bathroom door behind him. He motioned to the tub with a nod. "C'mon. Hop in."

She gave him a quizzical look but slipped into the spray like he'd asked. The sound of ice breaking filled the tiny room, and within moments he'd joined her in the water with ice in his fist.

"Turn around and face the water," he murmured against her neck.

She did what he'd asked but had questions. "What are you going to do?" She gazed at his fist, trying to keep her face out of the spray.

"Relax and lean back against me," he said in a gentle command, sliding one palm across her belly as he lowered his ice-filled fist near her mound. He kissed her shoulder. "Open your legs… I know it's tender there, like a friction burn."

When she complied, he cupped his hand against her, allowing warm water to blend with the ice and pour a cool, soothing stream of relief over her bud, the swollen lips of her delicate flower, and where he was sure it hurt the most.

"Oh God… that feels wonderful," she whispered, melting against his chest the way the ice was melting in his hand.

"Bueno," he whispered against her ear. "All I ever want you to feel with me is good."

He applied a gentle caress to the fragile haven that had taken him in, and could soon feel a different slickness from just water spilling against his fingers as the ice disappeared. The sensation made him want to move against her again, but he'd already done enough.

"Hand me the soap," he ordered quietly. "Let me wash you off."

With her leaning against him, eyes closed, the spray pummeling her breasts, he lathered his hands and then gave her the bar of Ivory soap to hold. He took great care in sudsing her delicate throat, her collarbone, her arms and shoulders, and then allowed his hands to revel in the varying textures of her breasts, the soap a slickened glide over her soft skin. Her quiet whimper of pleasure made him focus on her nipples perhaps longer than he should have, but he couldn't help it. That part of her required special attention. A dull ache burning him again, he slid his hands away and simply kissed her neck to regain his focus.

As he repeatedly took the soap bar from her, he added more lather and worked his way down her torso and belly, stopping to spread wide, slow circles over her navel. She didn't say a word but just pressed her backside to him in a way that produced a shudder. The moment his palm slid against silky hair, he petted the tender area in silent apology. Next time would be the way she deserved.

He could feel her thighs parting but took great care to rinse soap away, lest it sting. He reached for the soap and then slid down to a squat behind her, kissing the firm rise of her behind while splaying his hands along her shapely legs to coat them, caress them, kissing the backs of her thighs until she fell forward with both hands pressed flat against the tile wall.

Looking up at her wet behind from that position was tearing him up. But rather than hurt her again in an impatient rush, he soaped the backs of her legs and slowly stood to make soapy swirls over the firm swell of her bottom. The dip in her spine called his name, made him kiss it deeply and then plant kisses up her spine, finding each vertebra to anoint with his mouth, followed by soap. By the time his hands slid over her shoulders, she'd released a low moan and had leaned against him again. Soap created a slick emulsion on her back and sweet ass, causing him to slide against the slippery surface and release a quiet moan.

They said nothing as they moved against each other, but he dared not enter her again. The first time had been Russian roulette. His shaft had filled so hard and so fast his greatest fear at the moment was that she was already pregnant. One drop was all that was necessary.

"I should probably make you something to eat," he murmured thickly against her hair. "If we keep this up…"

"I know," she whispered, "but…"

"I can't promise I can control it this time."

She nodded but didn't stop grinding her backside against his length. He understood more than she knew, and slid his hand down her belly until she moaned at the touch that found her bud.

"Is it still tender?" he whispered, gently massaging the outer folds that hid the pouting knob of flesh.

"It throbs," she whispered, shivering. "I've never felt anything like this in my life."

"The water's getting cold," he murmured into her ear, then swallowed hard.

"But it feels like it's on fire."

Her voice had come out in a quiet, strangled rush. Each time he moved against her, the muscles in her backside clenched, gripping him and driving him nuts. Cupping her breast with one hand, he kept the other palm moving in a slow, gentle graze against the tender region between her parted thighs. She needed to release again, and he could tell how close she was… just like him.

Water spilled down her chest and belly, and he caught it in a slight cup of his palm between her legs, allowing the water to add to his touch, sending it between the hot, sensitive lips in a pulse that matched his gentle thumb flick.

In total trust, she'd reached back with lathered hands, finding him, stroking him, almost making him forget that he couldn't put it in again. When she came hard, her grip made his eyes cross beneath his lids. His body found a demanding rhythm against the outside of her soap-slicked ass at the same time his arms found anchor around her waist. Close to madness, he forgot about the possible danger of a slip-and-fall injury; he had to let her worry about that. She braced her hands against the tiles; he braced for the swift convulsion that dredged his groin and sent jerking, twitching spasms into his limbs.

This didn't make sense. He lifted his head from her shoulder and they both turned around in the spray to rinse off again. He took her mouth hard this time and then held her face to look at her without playing.

"I have to put my pants on," he told her firmly, saying it out loud more for his benefit than hers. "We have to get out of the bathroom. One more go-round like this, and I'll lose it."

He stepped out of the shower and snatched his pants off the floor, wondering how in the world one could get out of a shower sweating. He didn't even bother to dry off, nor did he look back. The rifle went with him the moment his pants were drawn on, the fabric clinging. The soft padding of her bare feet was immediately behind him. The decision was clear—at full sunrise, he had to ride. At full sunrise, he had to find some gas. At full sunrise, he had to go into town. Full sunrise demanded action. Find a drugstore and some condoms.

Speechless, she slowly slid onto a kitchen chair, watching him quickly open and shut cabinets and the refrigerator and then reach down with plates and a bowl, slamming them on the counter hard. Eggs hit and splattered a black frying pan. Shells and egg whites got hurled at a trash can, leaving a long, clear ooze across the counter in the wake of his rush. All she could do was stare at it, remembering… the spilled whites a reminder to be more careful next time.

Bread got jammed into a toaster and the heating bar slapped hard to begin toasting it. Suddenly he'd slid two glasses on the counter and sloppily poured orange juice into them. Bacon went into a too-hot pan and sizzled. She tried to stand, but her legs felt like jelly. This man was so fine and so sexy, and the things he'd done to her body made her briefly close her eyes. But he seemed angry, like she'd really done something wrong. For a long while she stared at him, summoning the courage to find out what her offense had been so that she could swiftly correct it.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, I'm cool," he said, slapping eggs on a plate and flinging a piece of toast beside it.

She didn't say a word as bacon popped and sputtered, half-black on one side, half-raw on the other.

"Jose, what's wrong? If I didn't do something the way you liked back there—"

He stopped rushing about, let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Hey, I'm sorry."

"If I didn't do it right, I'm—"

"No, it's not like that," he said, turning away. "Damn! Bacon's burnt. You okay with just eggs and toast?"

"I'm sorry if you're used to being with more experienced… I mean…"

He turned off the burners, leaned on the counter, and allowed his head to fall forward with his eyes closed. " 'Nita, baby, I'm not angry at you; I'm angry at me."

"Why?"

He looked up at her and held her gaze. "I shouldn't have started all that in the bathroom. You deserved a better place, better circumstances, for your first time."

His urgent reply made her face hot.

"I wanted to as much as you did," she said quietly. "It was more than I'd ever dreamed of… the way you make me feel. But then you seemed angry and—"

"I'm not angry; I'm just so horny right now I can barely breathe." He turned away and began fixing their plates more calmly. "I've never been with nobody like you, 'Nita."

She watched his back expand and contract with deep inhales. It was as though she were witnessing his internal battle for composure displayed in every taut muscle that stretched beneath his skin. The sight of his raw arousal had reignited hers.

"There's a washer and dryer in the pantry," he said without turning to face her. "I'm gonna throw our clothes in, get dressed, and make a run into town. Cool?"

"Can I go with you?"

She watched him hesitate and his breathing become more labored.

"I'm gonna go pick up some supplies, and won't be gone long."

"Okay… but I just wanted to go to the drugstore."

He turned slightly and looked at her over his shoulder. "That's where I was headed."

"Why don't you sit down and have some breakfast?" she murmured. "The eggs are getting cold."

He nodded, pushed a plate toward her, and dug into his eggs with a fork where he stood, never taking his eyes off her. She stood.

"Tell me where the laundry is."

He indicated with a nod and sopped up egg yolk with his toast, shoving half a slice into his mouth. "I'll straighten up the bathroom," he mumbled over the food he was chewing. "I got the dishes."

"It'll be an hour to wash and dry everything."

He stopped chewing and looked at her, then at the kitchen clock, swallowing hard. "They don't have twenty-four-hour joints around here. We've gotta wait until nine, at least. Some stores don't open till ten."

"That's like four hours from now." She sat down with a heavy thud in the chair she'd abandoned.

He began to pace in front of the stove and raked his fingers through his hair. She picked at her eggs and sipped her juice, knowing exactly how he felt. There was nothing else to say as they finished eating. Jose washed dishes and straightened up the bathroom. She kept her focus on the task at hand, laundry.

As she was standing there in a white cotton shift, her feet bare, the old house had such a comfortable feel that it almost melted into her bones. No matter what happened, she'd never forget this. What had happened out there in the streets of LA defied explanation. Oddly, terror had been replaced by knowledge. Being terrified all alone was something wholly different from having a witness to share the horror.

There was finally someone else who had seen what she had. There was a family that understood her dreams, like no one else did. For the first time in her life, she knew she wasn't insane or possessed—demons did exist. Angels had sent her a warrior, and she didn't even receive a scratch. And this man's wonderful family of old Indian shamans had taken her in, would provide protection… she didn't have to go anywhere else in the world but here.

Juanita let her gaze slowly take in the small pantry. Everything within the wood-frame ranch house was neat and tidy and old-fashioned. Big rose cabbage floral prints in bright yellows and pinks were everywhere. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed, the electronics minimal and two decades old. Pictures of family hung on the walls. Sheer lace curtains blew at open windows, and ceiling fans and box window fans were the only defense against the desert heat.

She left the thudding dryer and peered out the back window. She loved the old porch in the front and the back that held wicker furniture. Chickens pecked at pebbles in the yard. A lonely, dilapidated toolshed stood leaning a hundred yards away across dried, brownish-yellow grass. An ancient pickup truck rested idly against a garage with no door. Jose's bike gleamed in the sunlight, marred by a dark green splatter she wished she could forget but never would.

Turning her attention to the positive, she spied tiny wild-flowers peeking out in spots along the edge of the shed and garage. Suddenly her prayer came back into the forefront of her mind. She had asked the Almighty for a quiet place… with flowers and trees and family and a loving pair of arms to hold her. "Thank you, God," she whispered, and hugged herself.

On a night when she was sure she would die, instead she'd become a woman. Warm arms had enfolded her, and the heart of a good man had beaten against hers. Heaven had sent a man so decent that he was openly losing his mind to be with her but had denied himself just to protect her from something neither of them was ready to deal with. That made her want him all the more, seeing his restraint. His gentle caresses in the tiny bathroom and knowing how close they'd both come to death had made her grasp life, cling to it, and experience it fully in his arms.

He'd cooked for her… saved her… breathed her name on a shudder. In this old, beat-up house filled with love, even in her bare feet and wearing a borrowed nightgown, she felt like a princess.

If he remembered correctly, the town had a run-down motel. Jose went into his old bedroom and stopped for a moment to take in the changes. Gone was his bunk bed. That had been replaced by a queen-sized wood-frame one. His old pine dresser and drawing table and ladder-back chair were still there, though, and Pops and Nana had even framed his old sketches to hang in the new guest room. Jose's line of vision went to the blanket his grandfather had always tucked around him, and a sense of comfort began to thread through him. This was home, not East LA. This was the only place in the world where he felt unconditional love. What had he been thinking to ever leave? True, it didn't have the fast pace and excitement of the city, but there was something to be said for the stillness it offered.

He crossed the room and stared out the window, wondering if his grandparents would mind if he turned the old shed into a studio one day. His mural project was history, and with a woman, now, he needed to get his art thing going. He needed to figure out a way to support them both, as well as give back to his elders who had given him so much.

Jose pushed away from the windowsill, breathing in the new day. It was gonna be a hot one, up in the high nineties, could even top a hundred degrees—he could smell it in the air. When Pops came back, he wanted to sit down with the old man and ask a lot of questions.

The first one would be, how did the tribal council know what would attack them? The second would be, what was this strange gift he had to be a tracker? A nose. Jack Rider also had that same trait. He just wished he'd spent more time learning about that when there was a chance to. But he also wanted to ask his grandfather all about the demon world, how one fought them, how one protected oneself and one's family against them… were there more, or was there this whole other side of the universe that he had only just begun to see?

A small piece of notepaper on the wooden nightstand by the bed drew his attention. He went to it and carefully lifted it to read. His grandfather's scrawl was unmistakable. The note was cryptic, like everything the old man said:

It will take three days and three nights to make the medicine. Learn your totem while we are away. Keep the house and your belief. There are more clothes in the drawer for both of you, as well as something to help your stay. The days are short and the nights are long. Make good use of your time.

"Cool," Jose said, crossing the room to pull open a drawer.

Three pairs of jeans and three T-shirts, along with a three-pack of boxer shorts, greeted him as he peered inside the dresser. But a small brown bag made him frown with curiosity. The moment he peeked inside the parcel, he froze. Pops had left him condoms—oh, shit.

Jose quickly shut the drawer and then opened the next one beneath it. Three pretty sundresses in yellow, blue, and pink stared back at him. A plastic three-pack of girl's underwear caught his eye, and there was another nightgown, this one pale peach.

He pushed the drawer closed with a quiet thud. The old folks knew!" His gaze tore around the room as he further inspected for anything out of the ordinary. They knew. Had left him and 'Nita in the house for three days and nights while they went to go make spirit medicine? The realization made Jose pace. He wasn't sure why all this was bothering him, but it did. Plus, 'Nita might take it the wrong way. Then again, she might be cool.

Some things were better separated from the knowledge of the elders, especially like having a love jones and shower sweats for a gorgeous woman. His face burned with humiliation. If he used their quiet offering in the drawer, they'd know. That would put 'Nita's business out there, when the woman was trying to make a good impression. What had gone down in the two-by-four bathroom was bad enough, but under Pops's roof with Nana's and his knowledge?

It was still hours before the town stores opened and the sleepy little commerce area woke up. Jose looked at the drawer and then looked at the door. Aw, hell… he would just have to get over it.

"Yo, 'Nita… wanna see some old sketches?"

Chapter Five

The moment she heard Jose's voice calling out, it suddenly dawned upon her that she'd been all by herself in the pantry, standing near the washer and dryer, doing laundry for an entire fifteen minutes—alone. How had that happened? Wanting to be with him had her nerves so rattled that she'd temporarily forgotten about those things that had chased them? Was she insane!

Juanita ran to meet the voice that had become synonymous with safety. She couldn't sort out why Jose, this house, or daylight had chased away her terror or the images that by rights should have given her a nervous breakdown. All she was clear about was the fact that this man's presence made everything seem normal. His excited expression made her smile through the panic. He didn't even have the rifle with him. The only weapon he had, which instantly blew her away, was his brilliant smile.

She stood before him in the hallway, now nearly ready to laugh, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot like an excited kid with a secret.

"They redid my room, and made it into a guest room. But they didn't throw out all my old sketches. Wanna see 'em?"

How could she refuse an offer like that? Juanita's smile widened.

"You'd let me see your art?"

"Yeah. C'mon," he said, dragging her down the hall by her arm. "I forgot about half of this stuff. I used to have some wild-ass images in my head as a kid, and me and this older guy, Rider, used to hang out, practice sharpshooting cans… then I'd see stuff, could almost smell it." He turned to her as they entered the room. "I'm wondering, like, if we've been having the same dream, and hooked up like we've known each other for years, maybe some of the stuff I've drawn might be a trigger for you… like help you remember your dreams, too."

"Okay," she said, hedging, not sure if she had the special insight he was seeking. She would have been happy enough to see his work just on the basis of getting to know him better.

He took a deep breath and walked over to his old desk. "All right," he said, hesitating. "Granted, some of this stuff is rough." He ran his palm across his jaw, suddenly appearing shy. "I'm much better now, but, back then, I didn't know how to always get the shading right, or the depth perception to make things pop off the page in three-D, and—"

"Jose," she said, putting her hands on her hips and smiling wider. "Are you going to show me, or what?"

The fact that he'd grown shy about unveiling his work endeared him to her. The humility that had arrested him and had made him look away, along with all the qualifiers and disclaimers, made her want to hug him. She waited with great anticipation and much respect for him to share this intimate peek into his mind.

"Yeah… it's just that I only showed people the good stuff," he said quietly, motioning to a few framed pencil sketches on the walls. "I got all hyped when I thought about it, and may have spoken too soon. I never let anyone see my books, my pads—where I was just messing around." He turned away from the desk and leaned on the dresser. "It ain't nothing, I guess. Just some old kid nightmares… like you'd wanna see that. You'll probably look at them and go, 'This brother is touched—loco,' and then laugh, anyway."

She went to him and placed her palm gently in the center of his chest. "I would never laugh at something that came from inside you, Jose." She stared up at him. "A little while ago, you asked me to trust you—and I did. I've never let anyone get that close to me, or make me open up like that."

He covered her hand with his own, nodded, and drew a deep breath, then let it out through his nose. "Okay. But promise not to laugh or run screaming into the driveway to hitchhike a ride outta here."

She kissed his cheek. "Lemme see what's in there."

Slowly, he moved away from his perch against the dresser and she watched him go to the desk to extract several huge sketch pads. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to sit down beside her.

"These were when I was in high school and used to visit here for the summer," he murmured, not looking at her as he opened the first book on her lap. "Wasn't much else to do out here; no clubs and I was too young for the one bar they had in town. So, I sorta amused myself and helped Pops. Nothing special."

She was rendered mute, her fingers tracing the edges of the exquisitely detailed drawings. A quiet gasp of appreciation was all she could initially offer him as she turned the pages. "Wow…"

Every image was a finely crafted series of individual dots and hatch lines, if one looked closely enough. But upon her pulling back, the minute markings evolved into epic images of demons and angels in furious battles… smoke, fire, huge, sinewy protectors standing tall with outrageous weapons, holding the line with female warrior counterparts against evil. Juanita lowered her face to the pages to better see how he'd patiently, painstakingly laid down each black mark to expertly make an entire living dream come to life on a single page.

"Oh, my God, Jose," she whispered in reverence. "How long did it take you to do one of these, let alone all of these?" She hadn't even looked up at him. She couldn't look up. The question had simply spilled from her lips in honest awe. Each page was a living fresco, jogging her memory, making her mind flex and bulk with images of her own that matched what she saw.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "I lose track of time when I'm working. I get all caught up, and that would always get me in trouble at home… or at school," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "My mother thinks I'm a bum. Maybe she's right. You can't make money on stuff like this."

"Are you crazy?" Juanita whispered, turning pages, engrossed in his book.

"Yeah, totally," he said, laughing nervously and then standing to cross the room. "Told you."

She jerked her attention up to stare at him. "No. That's not what I meant." She held his gaze. "You're a freakin' genius, Jose. Why aren't you in art school, or in galleries somewhere? A bum? Are you nuts?"

His gaze left hers to seek the window. "Couldn't get my tuition together, and—"

"Did you ever apply for a scholarship, or send them your portfolio?" She was on her feet with a sketchbook extended. "With work like this, you could go anywhere, brother!"

"I never applied… didn't know they'd take me without cash on the barrelhead. Didn't wanna get my hopes up for nothin' that wouldn't work out anyway." He just looked at her.

"Did you ever show these to a guidance counselor at school?" Indignant, she put the book with the others on the bed and stared at him. "Didn't those damn people who are supposed to talk to kids about their future—because that's their job—ever tell you, 'Jose, man, you got skills. Lemme help you fill out an ap' to apply to a big-name university'?"

He didn't know how to answer her. No one had ever gotten angry at him for not using his art to better his life. No one ever had fire in her eyes because he might not have followed his dream or used his passion to earn opportunity. But this gorgeous woman nearly had tears in her eyes, hands on hips, and looked like she was ready to fight the whole world for his cause.

"Didn't they tell you that you could work as a cartoonist or that you could be the next great film animator—or even be the mastermind behind all those expensive video games, working for the big companies? Oh, my God, Jose!" she exclaimed, beginning to pace. "This is a travesty! A bum? Your momma called you a bum? Do you know that you could design video sets for the music industry, or, or… oh, help me, Blessed Mary!"

Juanita had placed her hands on top of her head and was now staring out of the window. Just seeing her so upset about no one understanding his hidden talent was blowing his mind.

"They all told me to stop dreaming… to get the three Rs of reading, writing, and arithmetic down. Said that my SAT scores were pitiful, like my grades. Said that I was wasting time doodling in notebooks, and—"

"They never saw your work?" Her hands slid off her head and hung loosely at her sides. "Never saw the quiet genius in you, a poor kid from the barrios." Her voice became a whisper of outrage. "Never thought you had dreams worthy of anyone's time. I know. Been there."

"The way you just broke down those industries and opportunities… you could be a businesswoman," he said, pushing off the dresser to go collect his books to hide them away again. This was too intense and had been a bad idea.

Her indignation made him nervous; he wasn't used to anyone caring so deeply about him. "You should be counseling kids, giving them hope and direction," he said, sudden depression weighing in on him. "Lotta parents just don't know what's out there, as far as different careers and stuff, and only want their kids to take the safe, guaranteed route… like a vo-tech school. I can't blame them." He shoved the books into the drawer and looked up at the few framed sketches on the walls. "You could be a talent agent, too," he said, laughing sadly as he thought about the mural contract that he'd lost. " 'Nita, I was gonna paint the hell out of that wall… was gonna funk it out, trick that bitch out so lovely that there'd be accidents on the 405 from people staring." Jose let his breath out hard and turned around to look at her.

Tears stung her eyes and she swallowed hard. "How did you know?"

"Know what?" He hadn't meant to upset her by his outburst.

"That I wanted to be a businesswoman, not a cashier in a drugstore?"

"I thought that was a part-time thing, until you did your thing?" He closed the space between them. "With your mind… the way you just dissected my shit, pulled it apart, and came up with solutions that I couldn't figure out? C'mon, girl. Be serious."

"You be serious," she said, lifting her chin. "Vo-tech? You? I don't care who told you that; it's bogus."

"I just draw, but you seem like you were an As-and-Bs kinda student. Real book smart."

She turned away from him and went to stand by the window. "Yeah… I got straight As, but a lotta good that did me. When it came time to apply for college, they said that getting straight As at a low-expectations high school in the inner city wasn't as good as coming from a top-notch public high school, or private school. Plus, my momma needed help at home, and nobody was helping me find scholarships. I learned about all that career and scholarship stuff on the fly, when customers would come into the store to buy what they needed to go off to school… I wanted to be them so bad, Jose, you just don't know—and I'd eavesdrop or make small talk to get them to tell me where they were going and how they got there, just dreaming. Then I'd sneak to the library and try to figure out what they meant. But I'd missed my chance by then."

"It ain't over till it's over," he said, coming to her and gently hugging her from behind. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. "You can still go if you want to; all you have to do is try."

She turned into his embrace and kissed the underside of his chin. "I'll take that advice, if you will. Deal?"

He nodded and shrugged. "I guess so—but you should go."

"So should you," she argued with a smile. Her fingers traced his mouth, her eyes following the invisible imprint of where her touch had landed. "Jose, you are so talented, have so much to offer the world with your inner vision. Promise me that, no matter what happens, you won't allow yourself to wind up in some dead-end job that will kill your spirit." She brushed his mouth with a kiss and then pulled back. "Do the wall, baby. That mural. Do it on paper, if you can't have the wall right now. Add that into your going-to-college-or-bust portfolio. Put your all into it, like you would have up on that scaffolding. Please, dear God, whatever you do, don't waste this gift."

The way her eyes searched his and her words coated his insides with heat lowered his mouth to hers in quiet surrender. Never in his life had anyone gone to bat for him like this, had ever pushed him so hard with such a tender shove. If he couldn't give himself over to his art completely, today, at least, he could give his all to her.

"Only on one condition," he whispered.

"Name it," she murmured, running her fingers through his hair.

"That you go to school with me and never stop looking at me like this when I show you my work."

"How could I stop looking at you like this, when you and your work makes me know there's still hope and love and beauty in the world?" She grazed his mouth with a kiss and then shook her head. "Jose, you also make me know that I'm not crazy to dream… I've seen those same images before. They'd start behind my eyelids when I'd shut my eyes at night, like pinpoints of black dots fired by lights behind them… then the image would become clearer when my body would lift above it to see it all from an aerial view. And that's just how you drew the sketches—dot by dot."

"You serious?" he whispered, the words catching thickly in his throat.

"I swear it," she replied, staring at him without blinking. "The thing I can't understand is… how I know you?"

She pulled out of his embrace and wrapped her arms around herself. "I have to just say this, because my mind won't let it go."

He nodded and gave her space.

"I've never been so afraid in all my life." Her eyes sought his for confirmation and found it. "I didn't know you, had never seen you, had no reason to trust you." She looked away, shame glittering in her eyes made dazzling by the sunlight. "I don't just meet men in the street, jump on a motorcycle with them, and do the wild thing on a bathroom floor in their grandparents' house, of all places, for chrissakes." She covered her face with her hands and breathed in deeply. "I'm not like that, Jose. I have some pride and some decency, no matter what you might think. And yet I'm here in a borrowed nightgown, half-naked. I've just given my body to a man for the first time, and I don't even know his last name."

He went to her quickly and enfolded her in his arms. "Ciponte. My last name is Ciponte. And I know that you've never been with a guy like that, have to be freaked out, and have never done it before. That's why I was so angry at myself for going there with you; you aren't that type of… I mean—"

"I'm not," she said, huge tears spilling. "I have to get dressed and go home to my momma."

"I know, baby. We'll get dressed right now and I'll take you home. But I don't want you to think that all this was the norm for me, either. It's been a really long time since I had what you could call a girlfriend, or something. Years, and that's no bull." He raked his hair and kept his gaze on her, forcing her eyes to stay with his. "Guys get a bad rap for always being dawgs, but I swear on my father's grave, I've never had an experience like what we just shared. So, don't make it out to be dirty, in your mind. It was pure passion, from my point of view."

When she looked away, he returned her gaze to his with a gentle finger beneath her chin. "No, look at me—dead in the eyes so you can see the truth or a lie." He let out a long breath filled with emotion. " 'Nita… No one has ever believed in me, treated me like I was their hero, given themselves to me without games. You think men don't have feelings? You don't think we ever dream of finding the one?"

He released his hold on her and went back to his desk, yanked out a drawer, and selected a pad. "Look at this one," he said, shoving the book toward her. "Every page owns my secret lover."

She cautiously accepted the book and he came closer.

"Look at her," he said, his voice becoming strident as he finally saw the eerie similarity between the woman standing in the room and the one gracing every page.

Growing more unnerved by the discovery, he led Juanita to the mirror that hung over the dresser and took the book from her to hold it up beside her face. "Same body, same hair. Every pose is you—same eyes, I just didn't have the rest of the face. The hero is standing in front of her, guns blazing, trying to keep demons at bay." Jose flipped another page and forced her to stare more deeply into the mirror. "Got her on his bike, rough-riding out of hellfire."

He flipped another page quickly, growing more urgent that she see into his heart. "Then he was so grateful to be alive that he made love to her in a tangle of passion in the mist—place to be determined, location unknown." He slammed the book shut and flung it on the dresser, bracing a hand against the furniture on either side of her body.

They both stared at each other's reflection in the mirror.

"Operative words—he made love to her, didn't screw her," Jose murmured, his eyes never leaving the mirror. "Would die for her, would take a bullet for her, would battle the darkness, just for her. Fell in love with her somewhere in the mist, I guess when he was losing his mind. I don't know when that happened, or how. I'm just the artist that draws them. All I know is, for years, he couldn't wait to go to sleep so she'd come to him in a dream. Years of wanting someone to see that he was a hero deep inside, and to have someone to call his own, someone who had his back, someone who could see what he saw and had vision. Artist by day, superhero by night… Years, 'Nita, that's how long he'd been waiting for her to step across the threshold of a dream and be made flesh, and be real."

She nodded, tears now streaming down her face while she stared at his pain-filled expression. "Years of running through the darkness in dreams," she whispered. "Years of feeling different, and knowing she was… years of waiting for that voice she knew by heart in her head. Years of waiting for those right eyes that saw her as more than a booty call, some chica airhead to use and then throw away… hoping, believing, knowing there was only one man in the world who could chase the demons away. Only one who made her feel like a princess and special… who would make her body yield and then burn and give her all… and then feeling so foolish for having to bite her lip to keep from saying that she was falling in love with him the moment he took her in the steam on a bathroom floor."

His ardent kiss on the side of her neck caused a hard shiver at the same time his hands swiftly traced up her arms to produce a gasp.

"I can't explain this," he said in a hot whisper, aggressively nuzzling her neck. "I can't explain what we saw out there, or how I can be feeling this so strong with everything that just went down." He delivered mind-stunning kisses against her jawline and then shoulder. "I can't explain why I can't keep my hands off you, or can even think about something like that after what we just went through." He dragged his nose up the side of her neck and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, breathing her in. "I'll take you home, if that's where you wanna go. But don't ask me to stop feeling like this about you, okay?"

"I can't explain it, either," she said, her breaths coming out with the words in short, staccato pants. Her body moved against his and her voice became strangled as she tried to speak. "It doesn't make sense. After what we just saw we should both be so wigged out right now that… it doesn't make sense."

"Does it have to?" he said in a low rush, his hands covering her breasts. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, gently kneading her flesh while capturing her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs. "All I know is you looked at my drawings like you were looking into my soul, 'Nita."

His voice fractured as he began to slowly pump against her backside through her nightgown. "All I know is that it's like I found you from somewhere in my mind, like some weird and wonderful out-of-body experience," he murmured, ending the statement on a deep, sensual moan. "And, baby, if you came to life from my sketches, I'm not ready for you to disappear yet… can't bear the thought of you being black-and-white, two-dimensional, anymore." He kissed the nape of her neck when her head dropped forward and her hands braced on the dresser. "Oh, shit, I need you in three-D right now."

Unable to withstand his impassioned outburst, common sense fled her as she reached back and yanked at the sides of his sweatpants, pulling them down over his hips. They both looked up into the mirror at the same time.

"Go 'head," she said on a hard exhale. "I've been waiting for you to step out of my dreams and become real, too."

For a second he didn't move; she didn't move. Then suddenly his hands raced up her sides, lifting her gown. He kept his eyes on her through their reflection and entered her tender, wet valley hard, sinking against her with an agonized groan. The new sensation lit her spine with fluid motion as her hands gripped the dresser's edge. She watched his eyes slide shut with an expression of pure torture.

"Oh, Jesus, if I don't reach into that top drawer right now… I'll get you pregnant today."

No words would form as he gathered her around the waist with one arm and yanked the drawer open by several inches. She didn't care what he did or that there was something hidden in there, as long as it would allow him to continue to be inside her.

Through half-closed eyes she watched him fumble with a brown bag, then a box, ripping and tearing away the cellophane covering like a madman, moving against her with insane thrusts that made her belly repeatedly collide with the furniture. Pleasure like she'd never known tore through her while she watched him struggle with the small foil wrapper, and she held on to the dresser, arms extended, head down, gasping.

The guttural sound he released deep within his throat fused with the sting of cold air against her back. Near weeping for his return, she arched into him, taking him in sheathed with latex. Instantly, strong arms gripped her waist, his hot cheek pressed against hers. She was blinded by the new sensation, and her legs threatened to go out from under her as he slammed pleasure into the tender place he'd so gently deflowered before.

Her hair swept the top of the bureau, swinging back and forth like a maddened feather duster. Tears blotted the surface, rolling down her cheeks to land in ecstasy-driven splotches. Her voice was not her own as it blended with his deep, grunting exhales, a unified chant till her nails raked wood severely enough to almost draw splinters. If this was what it was like, don't stop. If this was the next level, keep moving! If this was just the beginning, por dios, she would die and didn't care.

"Girl, I love you," Jose said on a hard shudder, then convulsed in waves of jerking thrusts.

Her body slammed against the dresser, the wind knocked out of her on a wail: "Jose!" Then wave after wave of womb-deep tremors consumed her, releasing bands of color behind her tightly shut lids.

The dresser held them both up, panting. She could feel his kisses pelt her shoulder blades. He was still rock hard inside her; a sob crested, and then she utterly broke down and wept in earnest. What was this sweet madness? No one had ever told her it could be like this. She'd practically been speaking in tongues, lost to reality. Strong arms were holding her; she could feel Jose extracting himself, breaking the connection to divine insanity. Reflex dug her nails into his hips.

"Don't move," she whispered between her teeth. "Not yet."

He nodded against her back, gulping air. "Tell me when. Did I hurt you?"

"No… it just feels so good. Don't take it out."

"Jesus," he said against her shoulders. "I've gotta put another one on."

Their eyes met in the mirror.

"What time will they come home?" Her glance went to the bed and then sought his again in the reflection.

"In three days," he said, swallowing hard and still gulping air.

"You sure?"

He nodded and stroked her hair. "Wanna go lie down in bed?"

She nodded but couldn't move.

Every previous night of denied access took his mind, bent and snapped it, with her now under him in the flesh. Every touch she delivered against his skin made him insane… just like her voice, her scent, her seeking eyes as the sun began to wane. They had petted and fondled each other under the old Indian blanket until sweat stripped the linens and the arid desert air stripped their lungs. What was left on the bed was sticky and wet with spent love. His sweatpants were a ruined heap flung across the room to a vacant chair, just like her gown was a damp mess on the floor. The scent of pungent brand-new sex hung thickly in the room, growing denser with each encounter.

Time of day was lost. Thoughts of food went neglected. No matter how many times they had each other, their bodies still craved more. The need to make love seemed infinite, but the box had a finite count that brought sure panic.

"Just one more time," he whispered, his fingers lodged deep inside her. The scent of her in his sheets, in his hair, on his skin, was making him delirious as the sun went down. It felt like he was living his last twenty-four hours on earth before dying. But he couldn't care less as she straddled him, her lovely mound poised for his kisses as she went down on him and made him see stars.

No latex to dull the sensation of her tongue. No barrier to block the softness inside her mouth. No advance warning to prepare himself for the hard pull of her lips over the head. Nothing on this side of heaven to make him ready for the grip of her fist at his base. No way to keep from drowning in her sweet juices as he lapped them. Nothing rational left of his jellied mind as her sucking became more insistent. Impossible to stop the slow, hard implosion that sat him up in hard arches, made his hands grip the halves of her ass to open her wider for his tongue.

If there was something in the shadows coming for him, then it had better kill him quick. If his people doubled back and came home early, so be it; he'd beg their pardon later. Because right now the only thing that registered was her tongue, followed by a lightning arc of current that ran down his spine, created epileptic seizures, made spasms dance through his limbs and stab his groin.

Near hysteria, he found himself sobbing against her wetness, breathing it in, almost choking on her sweet essence, and coming so hard he thought he'd go blind.

All he could do was collapse with her body a heap on his. Disoriented for several moments, he had to remember where he was, what time it was, feeling along her supple backside for confirmation that it had all been real.

"You want some water?" she whispered against his thigh.

He just gasped in air but didn't have the strength left to answer. His palm rubbed her hip as an immediate reply. "In a minute," he finally said, eyes still closed.

"We should get up and get a shower," she said, giggling. "The box is empty."

"This all started in the shower," he said, breaths ragged, and intermittently chuckling. "I'm scared of that room. Has powerful medicine in it."

"Our clothes are dry—the dryer stopped hours ago."

"You wanna ride into town before the drugstore closes, maybe stop at the diner to eat?" The thought of being in the house with her for two days and no way to make love to her brought instant clarity.

She kissed his thigh close to his sac. "I don't care if we stop at the diner, but we have got to go to the drugstore before it's full dark."

The feel of her hot breath against his inner thigh made him sit up and get focused.

Chapter Six

The only rational thing to do, so they could get out of the house, was let the woman go into the bathroom alone.

"Open the window," he said as he walked down the hall with a rifle. "It's not dark yet, got a few hours, and I'm gonna go check on the bike—see how much gas is left to get us to town."

He didn't wait for her to argue. He was on a mission. He needed to score latex like a junkie needed to get crack.

Out the back door, down the steps, Jose went to his bike and groaned. Damn! His black beauty was running on fumes. Okay, new plan. The toolshed caught his eye. Maybe, just maybe, if there was mercy in heaven, his grandfather might have an old red gas can with a spit of fuel in it.

Jose jogged across the backyard, scattering angry hens. Resting the rifle against the outside wall of the dilapidated structure, he pulled the rusty door open with both hands. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he squinted, searching for a light. But soon the low afternoon sun and opened door allowed his eyes to scan the interior. However, what he saw gave him pause.

It was a veritable artillery shed. Medicine wheels and amulets with eagle feathers covered the walls, along with silver stakes, crossbows, and bowie knives in varying degrees of blade length. He stepped inside, his curiosity dragging him over the threshold. In the center of the floor were strange circles and symbols, bones and stones, as though a hex or a ward against evil.

His gaze went to a litter of shells and dirt on the small wooden table by the wall. Jose approached it with care, peering down at the gleaming silver bullets and dark soil that had an incense fragrance. Jugs of water with war paint etchings from a time long gone sat beside the shells. He looked up at the crossbows and the long stakes plumed with eagle feathers.

They knew. Not just empathized or believed but knew.

Jose stared harder at the walls as dust motes danced and played in the murky stream of low sunlight. The interior had been whitewashed with war paint. The scent of white sagebrush hung heavily in the air, stinging his nose. A sense of calm, safety, spiritual fortress emanated from everything around him. Sagebrush and silver, chicken blood and burnt wood, all of it crawled over his skin in an odd sense of knowing. He was standing in the middle of a spiritual bomb shelter. If his people had built this, then what was coming?

Suddenly getting into town had less urgency. But finding gas to ride out a storm was still the thing to do. Jose walked through the shed with new reverence, only to be disappointed. He grabbed the rifle and jogged back to his bike, determined to rinse the demon gook off it before Juanita saw it again.

Hurrying with the task, he got the backyard hose and quickly blasted off the muck—this time more careful with the water that was scarce where his grandparents lived. Respect for them, what they knew, what they calmly accepted, what they'd built, entered him as he dropped the hose and ran up the back steps.

He passed Juanita in the hallway. "I'll be in and out in a few seconds." He knew he sounded panicked; he was panicked. But she didn't need to know why.

When he got out of the shower and raced to the bedroom, she had on her jeans and broken spike heels in her hands and was covering her breasts with her arm.

"Can I wear one of your T-shirts?" She gazed at him, chewing her lip for a moment. "My mother said the red halter made me look like a whore… and I don't want to look like that when I'm with you."

"You don't look like that to me, no matter what you wear." He pulled on his jeans and nodded toward the dresser. "You can have one of my T-shirts, and Nana left you some dresses in there, too."

"How did she know I was coming, Jose?"

They both stopped dressing and stared at each other.

"She's a seer," he said quietly. "Don't ask me how they do it; all I know is, that's what she is. Abuela knows things. So does Pops."

"I know things like that sometimes," Juanita said, going to the drawer to get a T-shirt. "That's why I know I don't want to wear this red halter right now."

He stared at her back for a moment and then found his sneakers and a T-shirt and she began to finger-comb her hair.

"When we go to the store, I'll get you a brush, too, and get us some toothbrushes—I need a razor," he said, rubbing his chin and trying to distract himself from the eerie feeling that had come over him. "But one thing's for sure; we've gotta get you some flip-flops, or something, until we can get you some sneakers."

Juanita bent without speaking and opened the bottom drawer. She slowly lowered herself to a squat, her hand stroking the doeskin dress. "There's moccasins in here with this dress."

Jose rushed to her side and stooped down to look, then snapped his glance to her quickly. "Full ceremonial outfit—how'd you know it was in there? 'Cause I damned sure didn't."

Juanita shrugged. "Can I wear the shoes, until I get some slides or flip-flops?"

He nodded and walked away, pacing in front of the bedroom door. "Let's make this a quick run. I think we should hang close to the house till my people get back."

Worry clung to him as Juanita kept a firm grasp around his waist. Dust stung his eyes and nose as they roared down the deserted strip of road, and he told her to keep her face pressed to his back to shield it from airborne debris.

Her wet hair whipped and slapped his neck, and the rose-orange hue of the setting sun made him push his bike to the limit. He had just enough in his wallet to put a couple of gallons in his tank, buy her some flip-flops, maybe a burger or two, a comb—but latex was king. If he'd known he was going on a serious road trip like this, he would have… done what? His ass was flat busted.

Jose almost cheered when he made it to the gas station and the old brave who ran it simply smiled and waved away his payment. He and Juanita shared a glance, and Jose walked over to the sun-blistered wicker rocker where the gas station owner sat calmly whittling down a stick. Even though he was nearly broke, Jose knew that the people in the town were poorer than that. He kept a respectful gaze on the gaunt, elderly silver-haired man who sat in the desert heat in a white sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of mechanic's uniform pants and worn leather slippers.

"Sir, it's cool," Jose said, extending a five-dollar bill.

"Your grandfather and I go way back. You're family." The elderly man glimpsed Juanita and kept whittling the stick into a sharp point. "We had a meeting, young Thunderbird. That which is within is about to come to the fore. You need everything you've got. The ancient spirits are dancing."

Jose folded up the bill and shoved it into his jeans. He hadn't a clue about what the old dude meant but also knew enough to know that once the elderly started talking in riddles, there was no arguing with them.

"Thanks," Jose said, quickly going to his bike and mounting it so Juanita could climb back on.

He was out.

Back on mission, he tried to wrest his memory back to the town layout. The streets were nearly deserted. Some stores already had their grates down. Full darkness wouldn't come until eight thirty, and judging by the height of the sun, it wasn't six yet. He stopped the bike at the corner of a strip of businesses. How did he know what time it was? He was freaking himself out and had to get a grip.

His gaze scanned the line of small stores, and when he spotted the old pharmacy he kicked the bike stand down in relief. "We can run in there, cool?"

Juanita got off the bike with a smile. "It's like the old West out here—like you see in the movies."

He laughed and slung his arm over her shoulder as they walked. "Baby, this place ain't changed since those times, believe me. That's why summer was enough."

Now, the challenge. It was simple enough to collect a pair of cheap rubber sandals, a plastic disposable razor, a comb, and a two-pack of toothbrushes, but this wasn't some impersonal, huge chain store where nobody knew your name. The real reason for the mission was up high on a shelf behind the counter, and the old lady who sat on a stool at the register fanning herself only spoke Navajo. How in the heck was he gonna ask Grandma for a double six-pack of Trojans!

Juanita edged away from the register. Aw, man, this was bad.

Jose dumped his stash of toiletries on the counter, and the old woman grinned a black, toothless grin and began ringing up his purchases. He spied Juanita glimpsing him from the corner of her eye. Okay. Cool. He lifted his chin. He was grown, was a man. So what if the old lady dimed him out to his grandmother? Pops had left a stash, anyhow.

"And, uh, two boxes," he said, pointing to the shelf behind the elderly matron. What was the word, what was the word—damn, he never learned the language cold like he should have!

She frowned and picked up two boxes of aspirin and began to add them to the items she was ringing up.

"No, uhm, not that."

She stopped and stared at him, then slowly put the items back, pointing at Pepto-Bismol.

The old woman was making him die a thousand quiet deaths, and he motioned with his thumbs higher to the next shelf.

She hesitated for a moment, then looked at Juanita, who had worked her way toward the door, and then looked back at him. Slowly, the old woman covered her mouth, giggled, nodded with a sigh, and jumped down off the stool to fetch a retail grabber stick. Jose sent his gaze down an adjacent aisle, too through. The boxes the storekeeper pulled down had so much dust on them he could write his name on the top. Now he had to check an expiration date, too, with Grandma staring at him?

Cringing, he pointed at the date without a word, trying to keep his dignity, act cool, nonchalant, like it was no big deal.

But when the old woman covered her mouth and burst out laughing, he was ready to forget it all. However, Juanita's shy smile bathed in setting sunlight made him endure while the elderly lady went to the back and brought out something with a fresher date.

She said something to him in Navajo that he didn't totally catch. Something about breathing new life. But he wasn't trying to hang around to hear all of that. He paid for his purchase, collected the bag, said a quick thank-you, and walked out the door ahead of Juanita.

She jumped on the bike behind him, laughing. "Oh, my God."

"Yeah," he said, finding it hard to laugh. "Like I said, this ain't LA."

He heard her stomach growl so loud that he thought the motor was already on. "You hungry?" he asked, stomping down on the pedal and realizing how starved he was.

"Can we grab a couple burgers and take them back to the house?"

"Yeah, but there's no such thing as fast food out here. We can get burgers at the diner and have them boxed to go."

"Then let's ride," she said, snuggling against him and laughing.

He loved the sound of her voice through his skin.

The smell of meats cooking, milk shakes, and coffee was making his stomach contract with need. They sat outside on the small metal bike rail to escape the inside fans that just re-circulated heat, waiting for their order, which was slow to come. Even though there were only a few truckers sipping coffee inside, the process of getting a couple of pops, two burgers, and some fries seemed like it took forever. But somehow, when he was with her, just laughing and talking, time didn't matter so much.

"If I hadn't dropped my purse back in LA, I would have been able to help out in the store," she said merrily, swinging her legs back and forth.

"It's cool," Jose said, enjoying her smile. "Like we're in this adventure together and I'd do it anyway, even if you did have your purse."

"Yeah, but you've gotta keep your ride straight," she said, nodding toward the bike. "It's beautiful."

"Ain't mine," Jose admitted, jumping down off the rail to go run his hand over the gleaming handlebar. "It's just a loaner."

"Who loaned you a bike like that? I mean…"

"Now you sound like my mom," he said, chuckling.

"Look, I wasn't trying to go there, but a bike like that, Jose… I don't want you to get yourself caught up in any—"

"It's cool, but I like that you're more worried about me than a fly hog."

"My brother… he deals, okay? And his friends, they do, too. I never rode in their cars and went with them because—just because. I don't believe in it."

He studied her sad face in the shards of sunlight that were left, loving every word she'd said. The rose-orange tinge made her complexion so beautiful. The way the breeze blew her wind-dried hair and she repeatedly removed it from her face and licked her lips, growing nervous. If she had any idea what her caution had just done to him…

"Remember that old guitar player I told you about?"

She nodded but wasn't looking at him when she did.

"My people did him a favor, a long, long time ago… maybe I was like five or so."

Juanita glanced up.

"He rode into town on this machine, lady on the back of it, near dead from a demon bite—legend has it." Jose stood taller and walked around the bike, touching it with gentle caresses, like he'd approached a shrine. "She was the love of his life, and he brought her to her grandmother, who later married my pops, became my abuela by marriage."

"What happened to her?" Juanita said, quietly rapt.

"Pops and Nana made good magic, but she crossed over and became a spirit."

Juanita covered her mouth. "Oh no, she died?"

Jose nodded. "Fucked my mentor around, you know. Rider sorta stood in every now and then for my dad, who died real young." He stared at her, smoothing his hand across the seat. "Dude left here, went to go lose himself in a bottle for a while to get over the loss, then little by little, once a year, he'd come back all sick for my nana to heal him. After a few days, he'd hang around and chill out with me… tell me stuff about me having a nose like him—a schnoz, he called it." Jose looked at her, hoping she'd understand. "Said I was a tracker, and needed to learn how to shoot dead-aim. Then he'd get all weird about legends and shit, talking about my destiny… would start sounding like Pops."

"He must have been in a lot of pain."

Jose nodded, his eyes locked on her sad gaze. "Until I met you, I couldn't really get with how deep it was for him." He shrugged and looked out into the distance. "One day he said he wasn't coming back for a while. The year I graduated high school… said to keep his lady clean, talking about this silver and black beauty that purrs in your crotch. Said where he was going he didn't need a chopper." The hard memory got caught in the lump in Jose's throat behind his Adam's apple, and he drew in a shuddering breath to dislodge it. "It's been years—ain't seen or heard from him. I keep the bike clean, polished, hoping he didn't do something crazy like put a bullet in his skull. He'd said he was gonna go join a band, some warriors or something." Jose let a hard breath out. "Who knows?"

Juanita slid down off the rail and came to his side, her graceful hand touching his forearm. "You keep the bike clean for him, okay? He'll come back."

"It's cool," Jose said, kicking a pebble away from a tire. "I'm just glad you believe me and didn't think I got it dealing drugs, like my mother. Have it her way and she'd take it to the scrap metal yard." Jose walked around the bike, his fingers grazing surfaces. "This is a custom-kitted Harley that the man designed and funked out himself."

"It's beautiful," she murmured, not sure what to say as she watched him go inside himself and bleed.

"It's a fucking fingerprint, a one-of-a-kind work of art. It's in every drawing I do. Respect," he said, his gaze catching hers in a sudden trap. "He told me a story about how he'd ridden this halfway across the country with his woman bleeding on it after a demon attack. Until I saw what we saw, I didn't believe him. I thought it was the bottle and bullshit talking. But that night, last night, when you were on the back of this night rider, all I kept doing was praying to God—'ride me like the night wind, let me make it without one of those things slashing my woman,' that was my prayer. 'Don't let me drop the bike on a spinout.'"

"You didn't drop me, and nothing touched me, Jose," she said in a near whisper.

He glanced up at the waning sun and then stared at her. "If something like that ever were to happen to you, I'd be messed up—just like him. And he told me some crazy shit, that I've never told another living soul… said to bring me back his bike and he'd buy me my own, when I was ready to go demon-hunting with him." Jose raked his hair. "Said I'd be coming into some special powers, would learn how to track a scent like a bloodhound. Would join some underground group of warriors who had to protect this chick called a Neteru, or something, whatever that is. Then Pops keeps saying that I have Thunderbird in me, whatever that shit means. All I know is, since last night, my nose is… it's like I can tell the time of day without a watch, and can separate out scents like a damned hunting beagle. I don't know what I'm trying to say; all I know is the burgers and fries are done—and I shouldn't know that!"

"Let's go get our food and go home," she said as calmly as possible. She used her voice as a gentle prod, not fully understanding Jose's angst but feeling everything he'd said in her marrow.

He seemed so bewildered that she simply threaded her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder, walking him toward the diner. But as they stood at the register and waited for their food to be bagged, her gaze locked with her reflection in the shiny aluminum panels above the kitchen pass-through.

Much older eyes stared back at her, frozen in time. A pair of sensuous male hands slid down her arms, but she couldn't see his face… couldn't see anything in the shiny surface but could feel it. Smooth enamel caressed the side of her neck, making her shiver with revulsion but also with desire. She suddenly felt drowsy—drugged. Yet a part of her was so wired that she almost screamed in the diner.

Juanita rubbed her neck with the palm of her hand to stave off the feeling of something touching her there. She sought Jose's eyes, but he was staring out the window, gaze locked on the nothingness in the parking lot. His profile was tense, his jaw muscle pulsing. Looking at him, his skin, she was drawn into his pores as his face suddenly became constructed by thousands of black dots. Darkness swallowed her whole as she stood in the diner by the register. She wanted to scream, tried to cry out, but something had paralyzed her vocal cords, her limbs; she could barely breathe from the crushing weight that pressed the air from her lungs.

In the faraway part of her mind she could see herself standing next to Jose in the diner, people moving about in slow motion while the waitress bagged their food. But she couldn't move as the interior of her waged war, struggling to break free of the black dots that were beginning to blot out the waning sunlight around her. Instinct told her to stay in the light, not to allow her soul to be covered over. Then her sight line became trapped in an inky splatter—that's when she saw them. The feeding.

A scream threatened to split her lungs, yet it couldn't break free as she watched the fanged creatures kneel over their limp, drained kill, heads thrown back, bulbous red eyes glowing, mouths washed red with gore. They had infested victims, mating with the dead, with one another, all of it a frenzied orgy of feeding and the carnal. Writhing bodies were everywhere. One of the creatures lifted an ashen woman's neck, then looked at her and turned the victim's face so that it could be seen.

Juanita's eyes locked with an older version of her own as the fanged, naked entity smiled, then viciously sliced into the victim's jugular with his huge incisors. Juanita stopped breathing, the scream still lodged in her chest. Perspiration coursed down her back. Her nails dug into her palms. She could hear her own heartbeat as the pain in her chest chased her pulse. Stroke, heart attack, one or both of the above, she was quickly losing consciousness but fought to remain awake. She knew in her soul that if she passed out, they'd have her.

"Darlin', you all right? You want some water?" the waitress said, nearing the register. "You younguns gotta be careful and pace yourself in this heat."

Juanita reeled and Jose's attention snapped toward her just in time for him to catch her before she fell.

"She don't look so good," the woman behind the register said, rushing over with a glass of water.

"My bet she's pregnant or high," the cook grumbled, and then went back to the fryer baskets.

Juanita clutched Jose's T-shirt as he helped her to sit on a counter stool and sip water. "We need to get out of here," she rasped, gulping water and wiping at the rivulets of sweat coursing down her temples.

"You gonna be all right to ride?" Jose asked, looking concerned and glancing out the window at the waning sun.

"When's the last time you ate, hon?" the waitress asked, setting the food bags on the counter.

"That's all it is," Jose said, grabbing the satchels and helping Juanita up. "She just needs to get something in her stomach."

The moment Jose and Juanita were outside alone they both began talking at once while they hustled toward the bike and he handed her the greasy bags.

"I know, I know, it was freaky in there," he said, nerves clearly shot.

"I couldn't move, Jose! I was just standing there one minute, then I started seeing this horrible stuff, blackness was covering me, and I was choking on—"

"Sulfur," Jose said, finishing her sentence.

"You saw it, too?" She clutched his waist with the bags still held in her fists as they hopped on the bike.

"I didn't see it; I smelled it," he muttered, and then stomped down hard to start the motor.

Chapter Seven

Warm air slapped his face as he rode hard, but he tried to keep the speed to a level where Juanita could hold on to his waist with one arm. She held the bags; he held the handlebar. He talked, hollering over the roar of the bike, trying to rationalize the irrational. She listened, soaking it all in, holding out hope that he was right—that what had happened in the diner was just a freaky aftershock effect brought on by suppressing what had happened the night before. It was an unrehearsed dance of trust through the wind, down the dirt road, the family house a destination of sanctuary. The moment they crossed the threshold, he felt better.

It was near dark and his nose was picking up every scent in the house and beyond it, but burgers, fries, and two Cokes were calling his name. Why he was so hungry was a question he didn't have time to ponder. They both tore into the bags, swiping fries, stuffing their mouths, relief glittering in their eyes as they sat down heavily on kitchen chairs.

"I'm starved," she said through a mouthful of food. "I don't know why, but I am. After all this I should be ready to puke."

"I know. Ridiculous," he said, wolfing a burger and then closing his eyes. "I could eat a horse."

Slowly calm began to settle over them as they sloppily ate, licking their fingers and practically inhaling their food. He wondered what it would have been like to meet her under different circumstances and was glad that he'd shared so much with her while they recovered between lovemaking sessions in bed. It was odd, now, that they could just vibe, didn't need to say much, but could read each other even though only having known each other for such a short time. She was so easy to talk to. It was as though he could tell her all his dreams—even the crazy ones about joining a band—and she didn't laugh at him. He quietly wondered how things like that happened but was glad that they did. More important, he just hoped that he was right about her vision in the diner being set off by the past, not the future.

"Good thing you didn't join a band like you'd wanted; they'd put you out for eating up the concert door draw," she finally said, smiling and watching him devour his food in record time.

He glanced up from his Styrofoam and smiled, knowing that she was making small talk to stave off the earlier case of nerves. "Hey, they wouldn't put their lead drummer out," he said, banging on the table in a riff.

"You're pretty good at that, hmmm… maybe they'd keep you."

"Used to practice for hours, banging on anything around the house to keep my chops right," he said with a wide smile and striking the table to keep the conversation light—anything to keep fear at bay. "Would watch all the college bands on TV and could mimic whatever they did in a day; love the drums. Would work at it for hours till I got it down cold… sweatin' and thumpin' on the coffee table. You'd be surprised, but to play the drums, you've gotta be in serious shape. It ain't as easy as it looks."

"For hours," she said with a sly smirk. "Now I know why you've got a hard, soldier's body, not a soft, artist's gut." She laughed and shook her head. "I've experienced the upper-body strength that comes from hours of beating on furniture… sweatin' and thumpin', as you say."

They both laughed.

"I'ma have to practice some more tonight," he said, shoving another bite of burger into his mouth and giving her a sexy wink. "Bought two boxes." He lifted an eyebrow. "That oughta hold us till daylight."

"Man, stop talking trash and eat your food!"

Knees touching beneath the table, feeding each other fries, glances going between food and the other bag from the drugstore, they laughed like little children who had stolen fresh-baked cookies. Finally sated, they both leaned back in their chairs and groaned.

"We should have done this hours ago," he said, rubbing his stomach.

"I kept trying to make you get up, but you wouldn't listen." She giggled as she sipped her Coke loudly through a straw.

"And that's exactly why I couldn't get up," he said with another wink, standing to fold away the greasy containers.

"What?" she said, playing with the straw, complete mischief on her face.

He stood by the trash can with a smile, his mind working on a comeback, when a shadow flitted by his peripheral vision. His smile faded. She set down the cup gingerly, her smile fading, too.

"Jose, what is it?" she whispered.

He held up his hand, sniffed, and caught a whiff of sulfur. His gaze immediately tore around the room for the rifle, and he went to it and cocked back the hammer. "I saw something."

She stood, almost toppling her chair. "What was it?" she said in a fast, harsh whisper.

"I don't know, but it went past the side window." He stood legs wide, braced toward the window, and then backed up to keep her behind him.

A thud on the porch made her cover her mouth in a silent scream. He held up his hand and shook his head, begging her with his mind not to shriek. Whatever it was had the same smell as the things that had chased them. The dank odor of rotting meat and sulfuric ash created a slurry of nausea in his gut. What had gone wrong? Pops and Nana had said the house was safe! Strong medicine was supposed to protect it. Panic-induced sweat made his T-shirt stick to him. But there was something else roiling in his system, something lethal and inspired by adrenaline.

"I'm going outside," he murmured, his voice a low growl.

Two small fists clung to the back of his shirt. "Oh no, the hell you aren't!"

"I'm damned sure not waiting for it to come in here and get us." Jose looked at her hard. "The sun just set; we've got twelve hours till daylight."

"Then we can just freaking wait in here for twelve hours with the lights on and live!" she whispered furiously through her teeth. "My momma said to pray the demons away!"

Another thud hit the porch, and then another sounded above them on the roof.

"You really think so?" he asked, shrugging out of her hold. "You stay here and pray while I blow the bastards off the porch."

Something insane had been embedded in his DNA, as he broke from Juanita's hold and stood by the door, opening it slowly, and then kicking it wide, gun barrel out first. She ducked down beneath the sofa and covered her head, and the moment he quickly peeked out, a hideous face with drool-slicked fangs leaned in. It was pure reflex. Dead-aim, center of the creature's head, and green gook splattered the porch with the shot. The smell of demon blood entered Jose's sinuses, connecting with a craziness encoded in his system like he'd never known.

Juanita's shriek blended in with hisses and snarls coming around the sides of the house. He ran to the steps and jumped down them into the front yard, spinning to catch an airborne predator in the center of its chest with a shell midnight. Two more creatures scampered over the flat rooftop and leaped, claws extended. Jose was down on one knee in seconds, pulled the trigger, and no shot rang out. But he held his position, gouging into the heart of the first beast as it attempted to land on him, then yanked hard to extract the rifle barrel and slammed the other one's skull with the gun butt.

Piles of smoking ash were all around him. He was pure motion. The thing that had fallen from the gun butt was only temporarily dazed. He needed more artillery!

Jose hit the front door and slammed it, hearing the thing behind him crash through the door. Kitchen knives in both hands, he flung them, sending blades into a yellow-green-skinned chest. Smoke and a sulfuric stench were everywhere. He could hear Juanita screaming, couldn't see her, but could smell her. He reached out, grabbed her arm, and hustled her through the house out the back door.

"Stop resisting; the house is about to be overrun!" he hollered.

"Not in the dark, not outside!" she shrieked.

He didn't have time to argue, just simply dragged her until she got with the program. She looked back and the windows were blackened by the unnatural infestation. Black ooze poured out of windows and cracks in the frame as Jose and Juanita ran across the open lot in a hundred-yard dash toward a rickety old shed. Once inside, Jose barred the door.

"Now, start praying," he said, yanking down a crossbow, loading it with silver stakes, and then opening the door wide.

He got the first creature that materialized in the chest, exploded it, and slammed the door shut again. Juanita stood cringing against the wall saying the Lord's Prayer between sobs.

"Say it like you mean it, sister!" Jose hollered. "Put authority in your tone, and back this shit up!" He whirled around, eyes wild. "Not on my land! Not in my grandfather's house! Not when I'm with my woman!"

A bowie knife went into his back jeans pocket, and he shoved a jug of water toward Juanita, frantic. "Get away from the walls; the boards are loose. Anything that comes near it can scratch you—splash the mutha, and get it away from the walls!"

She nodded, her face streaked with tears, and the moment a demon tried to get its claws between a loose board she screamed and flung a large splash against the wall. Horrible screeches and hisses became one with the smell of burning, rotted flesh.

"Keep praying—loud," Jose commanded, his gaze going to the ceiling, his nose instant radar.

Reloading the crossbow, he sniffed, took aim, and blew a hole through the roof, and a screeching, squealing demon dropped into the center circle on the shed floor, then caught flame. Spinning wildly, the thing on the floor reached to grab Jose's leg in a death cry, but a bowie knife ended the creature's suffering the instant Jose flung the knife down hard.

"Douse the bastard," he said to Juanita, who was clutching the water jug to her chest. "Do it now!"

She flung water at the thing from where she stood, hiccup-crying. Jose's attention went to the walls, sensing, smelling, and then a low, threatening voice laughed quietly outside the shed.

"You're one of us," it hissed. "Vampire. Distant cousin. A very young one, but the nose is a dead giveaway. You love the night, just like we do. It makes you stronger, just like the female in your lair made you fearless. We'll be back to finish this another time, half-breed. Maybe next time you'll get a nick or a scratch, perhaps a little bite, that will make you lose your human stink."

Drums and car horns crashed into the yard. Headlights lit the shed from the outside. Chants and voices, torches, were one.

What the demon had said made Jose's blood run cold. It had to be bullshit, because he could touch silver, stand in a prayer circle, endure the white sagebrush and sacred anointing water.

Jose opened the shed door, and a ring of pickup trucks filled with old men and women who had hands raised, pumping shakers, surrounded them. One-by-one they calmly climbed down from the vehicles dressed in full ceremonial garb, feathered headdresses bouncing as they stomped the dried grass under the moonlight and made a circle. Spitting and lighting fire to the ground, they walked with blind purpose, not even looking at Jose or Juanita. Women dropped bundles of sticks and sagebrush in the ring of dirt until it roared and sputtered with fury. Jose held Juanita close to him, a crossbow at his side at the ready.

His grandfather stopped and spoke first, addressing the spiritual war dancers in Creek, then Navajo, and then finally looked at Jose and Juanita.

"It is time to join the circle," the old man said as the drumming quieted and the chants subsided. "Under the silver of the full moon, learn your true destiny, young warriors… Clan of the ancient Thunderbird, step forward."

Frozen where he stood, Jose gripped Juanita closer to his side.

"She is from the clan of the nighthawk and has seer eyes, that understand the darkness. But you must step forward first."

Reluctant and glancing up at the shed roof to ensure no predators would harm her, Jose left Juanita to walk forward a few paces to stand before his grandfather.

A gentle, calloused hand petted Jose's face as a shaker hissed in his ear, and then his grandfather began a slow, stomping circle around him, dusting his body with a handful of eagle feathers, chanting in a deep tone he'd know in his sleep.

The drumming stopped when his grandfather stopped to face him. "Young warrior, they came for you early, because they sensed it was time when you left the house to go to town, son." Tears made his grandfather's eyes glisten in the moonlight. "The prophecy begins… It will be hard, but we have made good medicine for you."

The circle shifted, and women shamans collected Juanita to make her stand by Jose before the roaring fire. Embers rose and carried on the wind like red-flecked fireflies. The silence created a natural harmony as fragrant sticks and twigs crackled and popped, and coyotes howled in the distance. Jose's grandfather waved two women forward; one was Jose's nana. The women came with bowls of oily water for Jose's grandfather to dip the feathers he clutched into, and he violently splashed the liquid across Jose's and Juanita's chests as though exorcising demons.

"Legend is truth; truth becomes legend. Without one the other cannot endure. We go back in time, many moons," he said as Native American flutes filled the quiet around them. "Eight generations ago, when the buffalo were plentiful, and the wolf could shift into man-skin and still run with packs at each full moon, it began on this land."

He paused and splashed Jose and Juanita with more of the strange liquid. Jose touched his chest with his fingertips as the substance started to make his skin tingle. He looked at Juanita and her lids were heavy. Instinct made him reach for her to hold her upright as she weaved a bit, appearing flushed and faint. The scent from the ministrations was strong, but he couldn't place it. He just prayed it wasn't some serious tribal hallucinogen, but everything was becoming hazy and his body felt too warm. Jose rubbed his eyes with his fists, seeing double. There was a ghostly layer of bluish-white aura around the old men and women in the circle, and his eyes went in and out of focus as it seemed like transparent forms of spirits wafted among the living, standing elders.

"A young warrior, our ancestor, was out chasing the shape-shifters… and he was attacked in battle by another beast." The old man paused and flung more oily water at Jose. "The beast with two fangs. The one that can only witness the shadows of the night. But the warrior was strong and did not die from his wounds."

The old man began chanting again and the drums accompanied his dance around the circle until he stopped and stared at the young couple once more.

"He sired many children, and only one lived to pass his seed to the next generation and then the next, all others dying young of blood diseases or sterile… then through the generations times eight you were born. Like your ancestor, part tracker, part the night itself. One day you will hunt what almost destroyed all generations to come. You will stand by one like yourself, a blood brother."

Jose's grip tightened on his crossbow. His mind was on fire like the inferno on the ground. Hot tears stung his eyes. What was his grandfather saying? He was a vampire, or part one, the undead! He didn't realize he was backing up and shaking his head until he almost bumped into another old brave. But Jose's grandfather's eyes held patience and such loving compassion that it made him swallow hard and stop.

"It is a gift," his grandfather whispered, his aged eyes holding Jose's gaze. "You can hold the sacred instruments of cleansing," he said, pointing to the silver stake in the crossbow. "You went into the place that is guarded by the Great Spirit," he added, motioning toward the shed with a wave of eagle feathers, "and the sunlight smiles in your hair. Do not fear. What you received from our ancestor is the best of the beast, making you a strong warrior—like the hunter who kills the bear but gains his strength. This is why you, alone, could defend a house from invasion. We had to see and know before we could complete the prophecy."

The old shaman moved the feathers about and used them to point to Juanita. "Your eyes will also guide him. You see through dreams and are his soul mate. You feed his hunger for the flesh and for the blood by living rhythm… he needs you, like you need him. But you will also have the quest to find his blood brother with your night eyes, and bring them together as one."

"Rider's dead," Jose whispered. "He never came back for his bike. She'd never know where to find him."

"Rider is the brother of your soul, and lives," Jose's grandfather said quietly. "You will soon bring the bike to him. Your blood brother is younger than you, but older in spirit, and does not have the fangs yet, but soon will… She is to wait with him until that happens."

Juanita shook her head and backed up to grab Jose's arm. "I'm not going looking for vampires by myself !"

"You are to hold the place and hold the line for the coming female warrior, the Neteru, who will slay him the way you have slain the inner beast within my grandson," the old man said without blinking. "It is prophecy."

"He will come to you and trust only you for a while before the blood hunger hits…" Jose's grandmother said softly, touching Juanita's arm. "But Jose will come back for you, once the prophecy is complete. It is out of our hands; the ancestors have spoken. Your eyes will be blinded, but soon the second sight will reveal your purpose, child. Do not fear the wisdom of the ancient ones."

"We ain't breaking up; that's all there is to it. As soon as the sun comes up, we're out. I'm going to art school; she's going to college with me. I'm not living my life in this madness—you can forget that!"

Jose grabbed Juanita around the waist and raised a crossbow toward the patient souls who simply stared at them.

"When that which is within comes to the fore," his grandfather said in a quiet, serene tone, "you will be reunited. You were her first, and marked her soul with pure love. She was your first, the first to see you as a true warrior. That marked your soul with pure love. The darkness cannot eclipse a sun so bright."

"I don't care what you say; we're not breaking up so she can go hunting demons alone and I can go on some bullshit quest!" Jose shouted, staring at his grandfather and trying to stay on his feet.

"I'm not leaving him," Juanita whispered, holding Jose's waist tighter as she swooned. "I won't!"

"When the full moon calls the coyote and the demon is ash," his nana whispered, "then you will have each other again."

"When the sun draws your blood brother to dance with ancient spirits… only when you step into the darkness without fear, and a light within burns brighter than that, will you taste your memory of this time." His grandfather began walking in a circle, touching the feathers to the ground. "It is done."

Shakers hissed; a slow drumbeat began. The flutes lilted a sad wail.

His grandfather's voice felt so far away, and Jose struggled to remain standing. He brushed the wet surface of his T-shirt and battled for consciousness.

"It is on your lips, the Thunderbird. Take back the night," a cacophony of faraway voices murmured. "Then it will fill your mouths and lungs to breathe new life again, and you will be home once more."

The last thing he remembered was having a very bad dream. His mother stood over him with her arms folded. Sunlight poured into the bedroom within their apartment. Bleary-eyed, Jose stared up at her frown and then blocked his eyes from the sun's glare. The taste of sulfur and a burger, dead meat, was stuck to the back of his tongue, nauseating him. The scent of white sagebush and campfire smoke clung to his clothes. Jose sat up quickly. The scent of a woman was a whispering memory from his pillow.

"Now that you're back home, don't you waste all day sleeping—you hear me, Jose?"

He stood, his eyes burning with tears. "Momma, how long was I gone?"

"Stop playing games with me, and clean up this place, at least, while I'm at work! I'm late and don't have time for your foolishness first thing in the morning." She strode to the door with her purse over her shoulder. Turning to him once, she glanced back. "Don't forget to put in an application to vo-tech school, all right?"

As his mother left, Jose just stood very, very still, watching the door. Drums were in his head; a sketch pad called out to him. There was an image stabbing into his brain. He finally had the rest of the face for the mystery woman in his dreams, but for the life of him wasn't sure why.

"Baby, this time I thought you were real," he whispered, and swallowed hard, his tongue tasting tears.

Juanita awoke from the sofa with a start at the sound of her baby brother's cries. She sat up slowly, scratching her head, and looked down at her red halter, remembering the party she never got to attend. Her mother's slap stung like a very old wound, and Juanita rubbed her face as the toddler wailed. She briefly closed her eyes, and for some unknown reason tears wet her lashes. The dream had been so vivid, so horrible, and yet so wondrous. He'd finally taken off his helmet, the fantasy lover in her dreams… and his eyes had been the most intense, gentle brown. He'd held her with sweet innocence and so much love.

She covered her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud and then ran up the steps to fetch the bleating child. She picked her little brother up from the crib as he stretched his arms out to her, and she hugged him, crying into his soft curly brown hair. "You be my hero, okay, Papi?" she whispered. "Mine only comes to me in my dreams."

EPILOGUE

Arizona, present day

Jose sat on the porch rail of his grandfather's house, his gaze on the horizon, his nose catching the fragrance of wildflowers on the early dawn wind. The smell of Jack Daniel's filtered into the layers of fragrances, and he didn't even have to look over his shoulder to know that Rider was moving through the house toward him.

So much time had passed, and yet there was subtle comfort in knowing that the entire Guardian team had been built body by body, each of the twenty-one-members of the squad leaving something cherished behind to give of themselves to the world.

Warriors. Band to move about the country by day, demon killers by night. His art now was the weapons disguised as stage mounts. His dreams of personal freedom were long dead, like his mother and grandparents.

"Morning, partner," Rider said, bringing Jose a cup of coffee and handing it to him.

"Thanks, man." Jose took the coffee and let the aroma enter his sinuses.

"Least I can do for the shift change. You need a little something extra in it this morning?" Rider asked, reaching into his back jeans pocket, extracting a silver flask, and pouring a healthy splash of Jack Daniel's into his own mug.

"Naw, I'm all right, man," Jose said, slurping his coffee but keeping his eyes on the horizon.

Rider leaned on a porch support beam and studied Jose with concern. "Dude, you've been up all night. It's daybreak. Shift change. You get to go to bed. That's how it works. Then, tomorrow night, some other poor SOB gets to sit up, walk point, and have his nerves screwed until dawn so a couple of us can get some rest and sleep with one eye open, watching the team newbies."

Jose gave Rider a sidelong glance. "I don't feel like going inside; is that all right with you?"

Rider held up a hand and his mug in front of his chest. "My apologies. My bad, as they say. Awful testy this cheerful sunny day, though, I might add."

"The house is overrun with warriors—it's like a damned army barracks in there," Jose said, slinging his legs over the rail and sloshing coffee on the porch as he stood. "That's not how it used to be. The bull is working my nerves."

"Let's me and you take a walk out of earshot, huh?"

"I'm cool, just need to get my head right this morning, is all."

Rider poured a long trickle of Jack Daniel's into Jose's mug and then capped his flask with a smirk. "That's why we should take a walk. Have your morning coffee and humor me."

"I ain't in the mood."

"Then keep me from accidentally dropping a lit cigarette as we walk and talk."

Jose sighed and obliged his longtime friend. What was the point in arguing with the insufferable Jack Rider anyway? The man couldn't be dissuaded by insults, and at nearly fifty, maybe older, Jack Rider was as rusty as an old barn nail. Jose began walking. He needed space. Rider hung back, lit a Marlboro Red, and shoved the pack back into his jeans, catching up to Jose in long, lanky strides.

"So, she's back."

Jose stopped walking and just looked at Rider for a moment. "Yeah."

"Old bedroom is calling your name, but she's a brand-new Guardian on newbie lockdown—no fraternizing until all her powers of second sight come in full force, according to the house seer, the inimitable Marlene Stone. I take it that you're in such a foul mood, my friend, on account of the fact that Juanita needs to be judicious in her experiences until her third eye and special demon-hunting powers fully develop?"

Jose began walking again, taking a deep swig of his coffee.

Rider kept stride as his paces increased. "And the house now has a bunch of demon hunters in it, chasing the best memories of your life out the window."

Jose stopped walking. Rider's eyes held his without blinking.

"Been there," Rider said, then took a long drag on his cigarette and slurped his coffee. "Only my soul mate died. Went vamp, lives somewhere this side of hell, and I had to deal with it. Conversely, yours is in the house, alive, with her memory coming back by very fast degrees." He took another drag and studied the glowing ember, speaking to it in a philosophical tone. "Don't let the fact that she had to complete her mission to go bring your old line brother to us be a problem. Why stand on some old machismo ceremony? Bottom line is, you were her first; only a seer female could have smoked him out, blocked him from going after the Neteru before she was old enough to deal with a male with a lotta vamp in his veins."

Rider looked up from his cigarette and stared at Jose hard when he didn't respond. "The demon went to ash, hombre. You held his ashes. Dude crossed over and danced with the ancient spirits and went into the Light. Your skills came to the fore lovely, and you ain't scared of the dark, like you were when you were a kid. Embrace the opportunity. Embrace change."

Rider took in a deep inhale of fresh morning air when Jose looked away. "You're a nose like me—smell it. Change is in the air."

Jose glared at him from the corner of his eye. "That was seventeen years ago. A lot's changed. So? We ain't the same people we were."

"I might be several years your senior, but don't let this old Kentucky boy from a trailer park fool you. Smoke and booze ain't killed my schnoz." Rider gave him a sheepish smile. "What did the old man say? Taste your memory?" Rider chuckled and began walking back toward the house. "If you ask me, I'd damned sure let the Thunderbird be on my lips this morning, bro."

Screw the fate of the world; his was shattered. Jose stood in the driveway, his back to Rider, refusing to let his elder Guardian warrior brother see him slowly inhale the fragrance he knew in his sleep. His nostrils flared ever so slightly as Juanita's delicate scent wafted out from the house. Hurling the mug away, he refused to give into that delirium-producing connection. She'd awakened wanting him and was wet. He could separate that out from the thousands of other scents that barraged his senses, but none like hers could compete for his attention.

The night before had been an enigma… Juanita's memory had come back with a vengeance, and their reunion had been heated and grasping, urgent, frenetic, out in the depths of the night shadows while walking point. But now, standing in the driveway with the cold light of day facing him, what did that mean, really?

Her second sight hadn't fully come in; she was still in boot-camp early demon-hunting training. Another man had spent years with her, and how many lovers before that? The ancestors had robbed him of time and freedom, had stolen away what should have been. Yet in the quiet recesses of his soul he knew there was no other way. The demons would have relentlessly hunted him and Juanita down as an untrained pair and killed them if they'd run. It was their destiny to come into this group of night hunters—strength in numbers for those who shared this twisted but sacred path. The young female Neteru, the vampire huntress, had become his friend, his charge, almost his lover, and like all the other soldiers on the squad, his job was to be a defensive line so she could hunt.

The sweet fragrance from the house was beginning to make his hands tremble. Jose dug into his jeans pocket to find his Hummer keys. He was out. This morning he was off duty. But the strengthening scent made him look up to the porch. He couldn't move as Juanita stood in the door frame, a white cotton sundress slightly billowing around her shapely legs from the breeze. She said nothing as she opened the screen and walked toward him, spilling violet and baby powder and ready female fragrance in her wake.

"Hey," she murmured, tossing her long brunette hair over her shoulder. "You going into town?"

"Yeah. Just need to take a ride and get some air."

She descended the steps slowly, her flat sandals padding softly. "Mind if I tag along?"

Jose shrugged and opened the vehicle door. "Whatever."

She climbed into the vehicle next to him from the passenger's side and touched his arm. "Last night…"

"Was last night," he said, turning on the motor and shifting the gears into reverse.

"We need to talk," she finally said, resting her hand on his as he gripped the wheel.

They rode into town in silence. Good. What was there to say? At least she'd removed her hand from his, but his skin still burned where her caress had grazed him. The moment he pulled into the diner parking lot, Tie angrily put the vehicle into park and turned off the motor.

"All right, 'Nita," he practically shouted. "Talk. Get it over with."

"Last night was… the beginning."

He looked at her hard and then sent his gaze out of the driver's side window. "You're still in love with him. Too much time passed, the shaman medicine wore off too slowly, and I dealt with you not being in my life this long. I'm cool."

"Tell me last night didn't mean anything to you," she whispered.

The sound of her voice made him look at her. He could smell the salty, hot tears in her eyes before he'd even turned.

"Tell me what it meant," she said, swallowing hard. "All this time has passed and now—"

"Time passed," he said, fighting not to breathe her in. "You're a soldier; I'm a soldier. You met others and fell in love; so did I. We ain't kids no more."

"Then your memory didn't fully come back," she said, her voice low and urgent.

"My memory never fully left," he said, gazing at the way her figure had become even more voluptuous with age, her dark eyes more smoky and sultry. "Do you know how many years I chased the phantom memory of your scent? Your touch… your voice?" His gaze held hers in broken fury as his voice hitched when he spoke. "But you went to a master vampire, like it was nothing… didn't even—"

"Stop it!" she yelled. "It was nothing? He wasn't a vampire then and turned later, and it was part of my duty to keep him locatable. But what the hell do you think drew me to him!"

"The shaman—"

"No!" she cried, tears glittering but not falling. "He had your eyes! The voice, a vampire line brother's seductive whisper. I had been looking for you way down in my soul and found your near double!" She dragged her fingers through her hair and turned away, her voice going soft. "Just like you found my near double, time and time again, until you found me."

Shame stole the words from his mouth. He reached out to gently push the hair behind her ear, but she yanked it away.

"When I saw you in that cathedral," he murmured, "and you still didn't know me yet, I thought I would put my own nine to my skull."

She unfolded her arms and turned to him. "We'd just been chased into a corner on hallowed ground… I didn't know it was you, at first."

He breathed in deeply and let the quiet shudder pass. "But you were so angry at me," he whispered. "You kept saying I'd left you, when that's not what happened, and then you pushed me away for months while we traveled back here… and for a while, even here, it was like I was some old, platonic friend."

She covered her mouth and inhaled sharply to hold back the sob. Slowly lowering her hand, she spoke toward the window. "It came back in snatches of memory. All I remembered was the pain of you leaving me, and I didn't know what I'd done wrong."

"Do you know how I felt when I first saw you again? That feeling that tore out my guts… felt like I'd been dropped from the twentieth floor in an elevator with no stops. My stomach was in my throat."

She turned and stared at him, wiping at her face.

"Your hair was all over your head. Your eyes panicked. It brought it all back, and here I was standing in a cathedral, armed, vampires on our asses, and all I wanted to do was hold you… but you didn't even know who I was."

Her hand reached out and cupped his cheek, and he turned his mouth into it to kiss it hard, covering her hand.

"And every day that I waited for you to remember, I lost a piece of my soul. Every day that I smelled your freshly washed hair, or saw it catch sunlight… or heard you laugh, watched you move around the house that we'd shared for one glorious day… I lost a piece of my soul. Every time I'd pass you in what's now become a safe-house barracks, and couldn't touch you to pull you into the bathroom or my old bedroom… each time that happened, something in me died, 'Nita." He caressed her face with one trembling finger. "Have you any idea what it does to me when I hear you take a shower? I have to literally leave the house."

"I remember," she whispered, moving closer and gently kissing his forehead. She brushed back his hair and then kissed the bridge of his nose.

"I was so angry at you," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

"I know," she murmured into his mouth.

"I don't want to ever feel that kind of pain again," he admitted quietly, ending the kiss but enfolding her in his arms. "Not when I love you like this."

"I swear to you, Jose, my memory is fully back. I love you so much. I'm not going anywhere ever again."

She immediately deepened the kiss, her hands tracing wide shoulders that had filled out with disciplined training routines, had been hardened by war and broadened by age and experience. Memory ignited within her touch, burning them both with bittersweet awareness of what they'd had and what they'd missed and everything in between that they'd been robbed of. His hands made fists in her hair, his tongue dueling with hers in a fire dance. Then he suddenly tore his mouth from hers as though a man drowning and dragged his jaw up her neck to whisper an urgent message in her ear.

"Just the scent of your bare skin drives me out of my mind; I can smell you in the house, tell when you're wet, know when you're moving around—I can't even train with you on the mats!" he said between his teeth. "You sweat, I inhale it, and then I have to be with you." He took her mouth again and punished it, breaking to gasp out his complaint. "Do you know how many nights I rode my bike around in circles all over Las Angeles, trying to track you on the night wind? Do you know! Then when I found you, you were with him and didn't know me?"

His intensifying passion sent her hands up his back. The need to have him recoup all the time that had slipped by made her pull him against her and roughly seek his mouth. She didn't care if all-night diner patrons walked by and raised an eyebrow. Didn't care that the windows had become fogged or that the air conditioner at full blast did little to cool the vehicle cabin. She had her first lover in her arms, her memory clear, the taste of him exquisite, and the Thunderbird was on his lips.

"I know you now, and won't ever forget," she said in a rushed, hot murmur against his neck.

"Don't leave me again," he whispered in gulps, crushing her against the seat. "Not even to die. Especially not that." He kissed her hard, sought her neck, his hands a coating of pleasure over the swell of her breasts till she gasped. "Don't ever forget how much I love you or how long I waited to find you again."

They were both crying, kisses cutting off sobs… thick, salty emulsion sheathing battling tongues, breaths hitched by emotion and intermittently halted by gasps.

"Take me somewhere quiet for the day, and I'll remind you of what I'd forgotten," she whispered, splaying her hands against his spine. "Let me show you there, in private, all day, what I had locked in my head… within nearly twenty years of deferred dreams." She nipped his neck until he groaned deep within his chest. "Let's make some brand-new memories."

He just nodded, swallowed hard, broke from the kiss, and started the engine, headed for the local motel with no name.