Stroke of Midnight

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is for my first love and soul-mate, my husband, who loves me fangs and all… the only one after all these years who I want to make it last forever.

CHAPTER 1

OKLAHOMA… 1979

Tara took her time boarding the bus, her gaze sweeping the elderly passengers headed for Las Vegas. New Mexico and her grandmother's reservation homestead seemed so far away. So many days, and so many nights away now that the night was something terrible to fear.

But with her dying breath, her mother had told her to go there. It was part of her destiny and her only salvation. One simple mistake had cost her her life, and she was only eighteen. Tara willed away the tears as she clutched her small, square leather suitcase tighter in her grasp, and refused to look back. What was done was done.

The dry, oppressive heat made her feel as if she would crumble into dust. Maybe one day she actually would. The people who were boarding with her smelled like they had already begun to decay, but their vibrant smiles and incessant chatter about a trip to win big and start their lives all over again almost made her weep. If her grandmother's medicine didn't work, there'd be no second chance for her. She wouldn't have a chance to grow old and hopeful. She wouldn't grow old at all.

She found a seat by the window in the middle of the bus and cast her gaze out of it. For as long as she could, she'd savor the beauty of natural light. She'd turn her face up to the clouds and ask the Great Spirit to spare her.

As new tears filled her eyes, she thought of the gravestones that marked her parents' final resting places side by side. That was the natural order of things. Maybe if she were lucky, she'd have that, too; a marker beside someone who'd loved her for years, where they both could be at peace after a long, joy-filled existence.

Part of her had considered going south to her father's people. The blue calico print of her dress blurred in her peripheral vision as she thought of Nana Wainwright. Each of the women in her family had a piece cut from that cloth; her Southern Nana said this was the way it was done, to bind all in like-mindedness, and she had made the dress, had made her mother and her maternal grandmother aprons from it, and Nana kept the scraps for her leg quilt. After her mother died, Nana had told her repeatedly, "Chile of mine, you never too grown to come home and always gots family wit us. Don't you brave this awful world of woe and evil alone."

But to go to Alabama—the Bible Belt—being what she was, and with a dear Nana who knew nothing about reversing curses, would be to visit horror upon those she loved… just like she'd visited it upon her mother. Tara banished the invitation, guilt squeezing her heart and making tears fall in earnest now. Her daddy always said that God-fearing black folks didn't mess with hoodoo. And even though her Cherokee grandmother didn't dabble in "hoodoo," as her father put it, she was a seer. A respected one, at that. And just like her mother had always explained, she would be caught between worlds forever. Perhaps her mother's words were more prophetic than she'd even known. Tara had to get to her grandmother before it was too late, before she didn't wake up with the sun, and before the moonlight would become her dawn.

One bite in the dead of night that hadn't killed her had stolen her life just the same.

MAYFIELD, KENTUCKY… 1979

"Jack Rider, you are not going to leave my bed without telling me where you're going, or when you're coming back."

He kissed Marianne's pout away, pushed himself up with a grunt, and sat on the side of the motel bed, allowing his gaze to travel down her curvaceous form. He chuckled as he rubbed his beard and tried to think of an excuse to extricate himself from her temporary hold. Everything had a price, and sleeping with her meant that she thought she had some claim to his time. Not even. His personal freedom wasn't for sale, that's why he'd bought her dinner, first.

"Now, don't be like that," he said, rolling a taut strawberry nipple between his fingers, loving how her pout melted away on a moan. "You know I've gotta go to work. This ride'll bring in a lot of cash."

As she sighed, he filled his hands with both porcelain breasts, and let his caress drag down her torso, past her tiny waist, and then pausing, allowing her shapely hips to warm his palms. Damn, Marianne had been a great roll in the hay, always was. Blondes were indeed more fun, but he had things to do. He kissed her navel and stood. There was no way he was going back to the trailer with his parents, who'd most likely be in the midst of another of their drunken rages. He'd had enough of it all. The road was calling his name. This had just been a pit stop. Marianne had known what this was, going in.

"Well, when are you coming back?" She sat up slowly, thoroughly disappointed, and began twisting a long tendril of corn-silk-colored hair around her finger.

"Soon," he lied, pulling on his jeans, and stalking around the room to find his T-shirt and boots. "I'm just going to ride with the fellas to be their road mechanic, then I'll be back. I'm the best in the business, and if they're gonna do the Arizona races, then I not only get fed and paid, with free drinks along the way, but also get a cut of what they win. Nobody can rebuild a Harley like me. Like I said, I'm the best at what I do."

"You are the best," she murmured, sending him a double message with her sad smile as she left the bed and came toward him slowly. "But you promise you'll call from the road?"

"Yeah, baby, of course," he said absently. "Don't I always take good care of you?"

She nodded and melted against him, and leaned up for a kiss. He returned it hard, holding her silken tresses in his hands, and then let her go. Damn it, she was going to make him late.

"I'll call you," he said, pecking her lips one more time, and swiping his wallet off the dresser.

"I wish you could make it last forever," she said quietly.

"Maybe when I come back, I will," he said offhandedly, giving her a sly wink that contained its own double message, and then he was out the door.

Freedom, blessed freedom. He'd broken out of Kentucky's red-clay prison, had money in his pocket, wind in his face, and was riding with the pack. Even the rough riders had respect for his skill and his custom rebuilt bike. She was purring like a kitten between his legs, petting his crotch with her vibrations—a black and chrome beauty, and the sexiest thing he'd ever been with.

He was proud of his pretty woman. She could make love to the asphalt at a hundred and ten without a shudder, and could go faster than that if he wanted her to. All he had to do was stroke her right and she'd respond. There wasn't another one like her. She was a fingerprint original with his stamp of excellence; a custom-built Easy Rider that would make a man shiver just looking at her.

She had fine Hell's Angels high bars in the front, a teardrop gas tank, custom painted, with blue and red flames… V-twin engine—a hard-tail, with no shocks… fishtail stack exhaust, highway pegs that demanded respect, and a sissy bar for those times when he needed to pick up a stray babe and ride a little female companionship toward a motel. When the women got off his chopper, they were already wet. She was the hottest thing on two wheels, and the only thing he needed to make a commitment to. No, he wasn't coming back. Unfortunately, Marianne's sweet charms couldn't compare.

He pulled fourth position in the convoy, just behind Snake, Crazy Pete, and Razor, and had moved up a notch in front of Bull's Eye, loving the way the vibrations traveled up his arms, quaked his legs, and jarred his spine. Motion was an aphrodisiac. Speed was a rush. He had no plans to take a job he hated, like his father, and then come home to beat his wife. The old man should have gotten out before he'd lost his mind in a bottle. He should have done what Rider was doing now. Just got out. But roaming probably wouldn't have helped his dad. From northwest Kentucky near the strip mines, to Mayfield in the southwest parts near the Mississippi, it was all the same nonsense.

Where he'd been didn't allow for the individual soul to explore. They said music was a waste of time. Playing the guitar was a fool's dream. Trying to get some of Johnny Cash's and Willie Nelson's riffs under his belt had mollified them. He could do that on a plaid nylon lawn chair out back without protest being hurled out the window at him. But he had to tinker with B. B. King, Eric Clapton, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Led Zeppelin, and the other masters in private, at the garage. Messin' 'round with Hendrix had made his father threaten to break his arm. Had put his other lover, his guitar, at risk. Had to pet her like that on the sly. Didn't his father know some things just transcended race? Music, like knowing how to rebuild an engine, was another one of those things.

L.A. was his destination. After he made some money, he was never coming back. He was twenty-one and there was just too much of the world to see.

His guitar was slung over his back, his tools, a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a roll of jeans, concealing a Smith and Wesson model 19 revolver, were in his side saddlebags—just in case life got crazy, as he headed toward the Wild West. Black tires set in gleaming wire rims eating up Route 66 blacktop.

And they said Paradise was lost. Well, he was living testimony. Being a nomad was in his genes; this was the only thing he wanted to make last forever.

Words weren't even necessary to communicate with these guys he was with. One of them would simply ride down the line, offer a nod, and it meant "pull over; bar stop." Time to leave highway civilization and do the back roads.

Rider squinted at the setting sun, loving how it turned burnt orange and fired his bike with a supernatural glow. There was just something about sunset going down on a man's chrome. It was almost a religious experience, if there was such a thing.

Kicking the stand and stopping the motor's purr in one deft motion, he stretched as soon as he dismounted. All of them did, just as they all glimpsed the smoking bus that stuck out like a sore thumb in the dirt lot a hundred yards away. Its front sign read, "Las Vegas." Rider just shook his head. Tourists.

"Check it out," his buddy Snake said, nodding toward the bus. "Think they've got balls enough to come in?"

"Nah," Jack said, laughing, and slung an arm over Snake's thick shoulders without breaking stride. But his laughter slowly trailed off as he glanced back and appraised the passengers through his dark aviator shades. A pair of eyes held him for a moment and his stomach clenched. Her large liquid-brown irises were mesmerizing; had the startled quality of a deer. He shook it off. "But leave the old ladies alone."

"You going soft on us, Rider?" Razor asked, punching his arm. "Or you just miss your momma?"

"Or did something real different on the bus catch your eye?" Bull's Eye asked with a knowing smirk.

"Neither," Rider said, his smile wide as he glanced at Crazy Pete. "I just don't want him to get tangled up in girdles and garter belts. I'm just trying to help the man."

It had happened so fast that she almost couldn't catch her breath, and then time stood still. A long, lanky biker had paused, tilted his head to the side, and she saw it. The thin blue-white light around him that the old ones said all seers could see. His back was straight, and behind his dark sunglasses she was almost sure she'd seen a pair of kind eyes. It was in the crinkles around them that made her know. It was also in the regal way he lifted his strong chin and squared his shoulders, standing with the pack but apart from them in a way she couldn't define. Then he turned away slowly, still glancing over his shoulder at the bus. His laughter boomed rich, deep, and honest. There was just something in his carriage, but it wasn't false pride. Somehow it seemed so natural, dirty blond ponytail and all. Then he was gone.

Her fingers pressed to the window in reflex. The hair stood up on her arms. Danger was near, but where?

Rider laughed as the guys continued to tease him, elbowing and play-boxing with each of them as the rest of the squad straggled into the roadside tavern. Crazy Pete purposely bumped the bus driver, who was anxiously speaking into a black rotary telephone provided by the bartender as they went up to the bar to get a drink. The burly driver looked up, saw Pete's wiry, muscular build, then immediately glanced at the others, nodded an apology, and moved out of the way.

"Leave the man alone, dude," Rider said, shaking his head. "The poor SOB is about to drop a brick in his pants, as it is."

"Just marking our territory as off limits," Crazy Pete argued, accepting his shot of tequila. He downed it hard and set his glass in front of the bartender for another. "Can't have them desecrate sacred lands. Next thing you know this'll be a damned mall."

"Everything's changing around here," Bull's Eye said with a weary sigh, then removed the sweaty black bandana from his bald head to mop his sunburned brow.

"Yeah, well, with change comes progress," Rider said sarcastically, then ordered a Jack Daniel's, as the others around him laughed and slapped Pete's back.

"Progress?" Pete was beyond indignant, but still had to laugh. The tequila helped.

Rider took a deep swig of his drink as soon as the bartender put it in front of him, made a face and shuddered. "No. I stand corrected," he said, holding up his near-empty glass. "This is progress."

His cronies laughed and raised their glasses, each mimicking him, and slamming their glasses down hard enough to nearly shatter them.

"But how did we end up in this godforsaken place?" Razor asked. "No women, nuthin' but an old man bartender and old tunes on the juke."

The bikers cast a disparaging glance around the tavern. Rider nodded in agreement. This was piss-poor and pitiful. The establishment seemed like it had had a day, once, a looong time ago. It wasn't the mix-match chairs, or the wooden tables that were scored and engraved with names and every profanity known to man that gave it a dead look. Truthfully, that was pretty cool, gave the joint character.

He couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't the old sawdust on the floor, or the old Elvis tunes skipping and popping vinyl in the ancient jukebox, nor was it the dingy paneled walls and dusty moose head hanging above the bar. He and the fellas weren't picky. It wasn't even the old pool table that couldn't give a good game anymore because it wasn't level and leaned like a dead battleship. To his mind, it was pure evidence that a good brawl had broken out here at some point. Now that was life.

What he was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with the fans that only swirled dead, dry air. The long, yellow strips of flypaper that were polka-dotted with insects didn't bother him, no more than the ever-present dank smell around them did. Hell, the guys he was riding with gave BO funk a new definition. Maybe it was the eerie fact that they had the place all to themselves. The guitar on his back suddenly felt too heavy.

Rider pulled out a Marlboro and slowly lit it. He watched the ember fire red on a hard inhale, and tapped the back of his pack, offering the group's leader one. He glanced at the bartender when Snake accepted it and just put it behind his ear, then he glanced over to the bus driver and noted his dejected expression. He could tell by the look on the man's face that the bus was fried and nobody was coming for a tow tonight. It was the way the bus driver slowly hung up the receiver and passed the telephone back to the bartender.

Both men seemed to be in their late forties. Their crew-cut hair was just too neat and conservative, restricted, their faces puffed red from the incessant heat. Their shoulders slumped like life had kicked their butts; their guts hung over too-tight pants. One had on a blue-gray uniform soaked with sweat, the other had on a butcher's apron over a sleeveless T-shirt, sweat making the thin white fabric stick to his portly build. Watching them made the heat in the joint unbearable. They reminded him too much of his father. Trapped. How did men allow crap like this to happen to them? he wondered. Maybe that's what was making the crew edgy, seeing the possible future in these two old dudes and looking around a place that held only the remnants of its heyday. Maybe it was because one of their own had recommended it from that memory.

Rider took his time, choosing his words carefully. Snake was the leader and had to make the decision to leave, or else it would be taken as a sign of disrespect that wouldn't be tolerated. He could tell everybody else was feeling it, too.

They all watched Snake's massive back expand slowly and contract the same way, stretching his black leather vest to the limit and making the medallions on his breast pocket catch the setting sun in prisms. Their leader was leaning on his forearms, studying his drink like it might divine the future. His ragged black ponytail attracted gnats, which he swatted away intermittently like a bored bull, making his huge bicep flex. No, he wasn't gonna mess with Snake, if they'd taken a wrong turn.

Crazy Pete's eyes held a quiet desperation. Pete could never sit still, and his narrow weasel face was almost covered by his greasy, matted brown hair. It irked Rider the way he kept raking his fingers through it, like that would solve their problem. They needed food, gas, liquor, and willing women—not to be trapped in a bar like bugs on sticky paper. This was no way to run a road trip.

Rider only shook his head, watching Razor whip himself up into what was sure to be a trademark Razor tirade. It was in his bloodshot blue eyes. But no matter how skinny the dude was, Razor had him by two inches, was made of stone, kept a bowie knife on his hip, and had done prison… Bull's Eye was normally cool, but, carried a gun at all times, and was one cock-strong bastard when provoked. He had to wait it out. This was why he normally rolled solo; he didn't have to deal with democratic decisions. Rider had a nose for trouble and for tracking opportunity. He smelled both in the offing here. Group consensus sucked.

The other guys had fallen in and had taken up a post at the bar. Fifteen in all; that was a lot of testosterone to defuse and a lot of bikes to refuel. Rider slowly removed his sunglasses and stuffed them into his vest breast pocket.

"So, Snake, man," Rider said after a while, finally growing impatient, "your boy said this was the place to pull over. I know Oklahoma is a dust bowl, but this is ridiculous. We need fuel and…" The fact that Snake hadn't looked up made him let his argument rest.

Snake calmly pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, put it in his mouth, struck a wooden match on the bar, sucked hard on it, and hailed the bartender. "You all got grub here?"

The bartender shook his head and simply refilled Snake's drink. "Just liquor." He glanced at the bus driver who was edging toward the door. "No fuel either."

Snake nodded and stood. An inaudible sigh of relief swept through the group as money was slammed onto the bar and everyone stretched their legs, downed the last of their drinks, and rolled their shoulders.

"We ride," was all Snake said.

Progress.

Then something happened that should never have happened. A fragile female figure entered the doorway, her chin held high and her gaze darting nervously around the tavern. The last of the sun hit her light-blue calico dress, framing her petite form like a halo. The rays fired her caramel skin, warming it with reds and gold, and the hued light shone off her long, dark brunette braids. She moved with the trepidation of a doe that needed water so desperately that she'd take a risk, even though she knew danger was lurking near. Her light lavender scent wafted in on a breeze and was the only life in the place.

When she saw him this time, she couldn't pull her gaze away. Even beneath the grime, this one was different. He was bronzed strength from head to toe in a filthy pair of jeans slung low, no shirt on beneath a black leather vest. But his eyes… Liquid hazel set in a ruggedly handsome face. In their depths she saw honor. No, she couldn't let this one die.

Rider immediately cringed. The girl at the door had glanced at him and then gone up to the bar, literally stepped around a pack of wolves, ignoring the fact that the blood had drained from the bus driver's face, and hailed the bartender. The group behind him stopped. Snake stopped and cocked his head to the side like a hunting dog. Oh… no…

"Sir," she said in a soft but urgent tone, "Mrs. Parker is diabetic, and she needs water and something, anything, to eat to keep from passing out. I know you don't actually serve customers food here… but maybe you just have a piece of bread?"

"We got us an Indian Florence Nightingale in the joint," Crazy Pete said, chuckling and rounding Rider. "I got beef jerky she can eat. Ask her—"

Rider's hand hit Crazy Pete's shoulder. Some insane place in his brain made him grab the back of Crazy Pete's vest to keep him from moving forward. Then his brain didn't consult his mouth at all when he looked at Crazy Pete hard and spoke. "Leave the kid alone," Rider said quietly. "Let the man get her some water and something for the old lady on the bus. We got things to do."

Outraged, Pete snatched himself from Rider's hold and spun on him. "Back off, man! What's wrong with you? Nobody touches me. Especially not for some black Indian tail. Are you crazy?"

Razor had already approached the young woman, had reached out and touched her cheek, and laughed as Rider and Pete pushed each other back and squared off. The young woman jerked her head away from the offending touch, fury and fear glittering in her eyes. The pending fist-fight was temporarily defused as Rider and Pete looked at Razor.

The bartender had moved back. He'd apparently seen how quick lightning could strike his establishment. Snake gave him a hard glare that was a warning not to be so foolish as to pull a shotgun from behind the bar. Bull's Eye flanked Snake and shook his head, conveying that to make a sudden move would not be advisable. But that obviously wasn't the man's intention. The bartender kept cleaning the glass that was in his hand, unfazed, simply moving out of harm's way.

However, the bus driver was determined to die a hero. He'd pushed the girl behind him. The others formed an immediate horseshoe circle behind Rider, Pete, Razor, Bull's Eye, and Snake. The bus driver and the girl were huddled against a wall. Nerves were pulled wire-tight, hair trigger. The bus driver had hidden the girl behind his back. One false move and the joint was gonna blow.

"I wasn't tryin' ta hurt her," Razor said, attempting to peek behind the bus driver. "I just wanted to touch her hair to see if it was as soft as it looked, being she's an angel and all. Y'all ever had exotic fare?" he asked the group, glancing at them and laughing.

"We don't want no trouble," the bus driver said, new beads of sweat forming and rolling down his temples. "Our bus just got stuck, and I've got elderly folks who just need to get to Vegas. That's all."

Rider stepped forward and put a hand on Razor's shoulder. "The man needs a mechanic. My rate is twenty-five dollars an hour," he said, making himself smile, which made the men around him relax and chuckle.

"Always got an angle, don't you, Rider? But I like how you think," Razor said, and then grudgingly conceded with a sly smile. "Bet if these folks are on the way to Vegas…"

New worry wrapped tension around Rider's spinal column and constricted it. "Yeah," he said, peering at the frightened young woman. "I might be able to get that tin can started, if these folks would be good enough to pass the hat?" He gave the bus driver a look filled with meaning. It was a strong suggestion to keep the wolves at bay using money as bait. Then he sighed theatrically when the bus driver nodded fast. "The man said there were a bunch of old folks on there—you know, the old dolls will travel across the country with one roll of quarters, man. They're nuts, like my mother. I ain't gonna do time for chump change. We've got a race to do, where the real money is."

Snake nodded and glanced at his squad. Bull's Eye sat on a stool. It made the others stand down, and then he looked at the bus driver. "Give Rider here enough to gas up the choppers, and we'll call it even. Your bus will get fixed, and we'll be on our way."

Rider could feel his shoulders drop two inches in relief. He eyed the girl and tried to send her a message to just stand still. No sudden moves.

"Uh… sure," the bus driver said fast, and began pulling the girl out of the bar behind him.

But she stopped, looked a little too long at Rider, and then dropped her gaze. "Mrs. Parker still needs—"

"Get the girl some water and something to eat for the old lady, for chrissake," Rider said, his nerves about to snap. He banged his fist on the bar, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. "I'm an artist under the hood and can't concentrate with all this crap." He looked at the girl, signaling her with his eyes that now would be a good time to leave. "I wish she'd just get on that bus and shut up. Geeze Louise. Can a man get a drink while he works?"

She nodded and scooted out the door with the bus driver. Her eyes said it all: Thank you.

Rider downed another drink as soon as the bartender had poured it, and he waited impatiently for him to return from the back room with some bread, an apple, and a beer pitcher filled with ice water. The men around him just grumbled and sat down hard on stools and waited. Nothing else was said as more drinks were poured and consumed.

"Money is money," Rider said, falsely complaining as they eyed him. "I'll come back with two hundred, then we're history."

Snake only nodded and slowly sipped his drink.

She accepted the outstretched tray with deep appreciation, and couldn't help again noticing the hazel eyes that glanced at hers, then looked away. They were more than kind eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face; they were gentle—albeit in a dirty face with a scruffy beard. She smiled and looked up at the dark blond hair caught in a long pony-tail, as the one who had shown some mercy turned and walked away without a word, like he was angry.

He was tall, maybe six two, if her judgment was correct. The sun had burned his bare shoulders but had graciously turned his arms and face to a dark golden hue. He was indeed a part of the light, looked like he lived in it. She watched him pull his guitar off his back and set it down with care, leaning it against the front wheel of the bus. She glimpsed him from the corner of her eye, and let her gaze travel past the black leather vest he wore, studied the multicolored embroidered snake on it briefly, and then assessed the way his jeans hugged his narrow hips, hugged his behind as though it were cut stone beneath them, and then considered his hard, muscled thighs beneath the fabric and the pair of dusty black cowboy boots that were on his feet. All he needed was a hat, and he'd look like a rogue sheriff. What in the world was this man with a good heart doing riding with that mangy gang?

She smiled wider and then swallowed it away, taking the tray onto the bus for Mrs. Parker. Maybe her mother had been wrong? Maybe she shouldn't be frightened of every strange man she might meet along the way to her grandmother's house, visions, dreams, and superstitions notwithstanding. She was, after all, eighteen, and there was so much of the world she hadn't yet seen. So she'd had one bad experience. Her family's concept of being a cloistered healer was truly no way to live. If her grandmother could just fix one little mistake made in misguided passion…

Aghast that she'd actually gone into the tavern on a mission of mercy, the other passengers immediately bombarded her with questions. Each spoke in hushed tones.

"They're animals, Tara," one lady said, her whisper fervent. "They could have harmed you, or worse."

"They're not all bad," Tara said quietly, helping the lady she'd come to know on the ride as Mrs. Parker take a sip of water.

"Don't go back out there," an elderly man said, reaching past his seatmate. "You were just lucky."

Tara nodded. "We all were. But we have to pay the one fixing the bus."

"What!" another male passenger said too loudly, making the other passengers become even more nervous. "How much? We shouldn't have to pay. The bus company should."

Tara released her breath with strained patience while calmly cutting a piece of apple for her seatmate and placing it into her aged, shaking hand. "That's true, but we must deal with our circumstances."

"The girl is right," Mrs. Parker said. "If Tara hadn't been brave…"

"Perish the thought," another lady murmured and began digging in her bag for money. "Give him this." The action made others around her begin looking into their purses and wallets as well.

Tara stared at the crisp hundred-dollar bill and folded it away in her palm.

For the life of him, Rider couldn't figure out what was wrong with the bus. Sure, the radiator had overheated, but time and a little water would have solved the problem. The fan belt was shot, but still, a bus driver should have had enough road knowledge to fix something minor like that. It didn't add up. And why did the old buzzard keep looking over his shoulder and making the flashlight jump? The fellas weren't coming out of the tavern anytime soon. As long as he went in there with a representative knot of money in his pocket, then hey… everything would remain jakey.

Then there was that pretty girl who looked at him like she did. Made him want to buy her dinner at the next local diner, which was a foolish thought. As though a girl like her would be caught dead on the back of a bike, much less sit and eat with him. He knew better than that, and knew what the old folks on the bus were probably telling her. He focused on the engine, trying to see if the block had cracked from the heat. She was so damned pretty, so clean… had a voice that would make a man forget time. But those dark, troubled, mysterious eyes of hers drew him. They were the eyes of innocence, but also the eyes of someone trapped, and set in a face so pretty that a couple times he'd forgotten to breathe when she'd looked at him.

But all of that was stupid, anyhow. She wasn't his type. It had to be the heat, the road, and the boredom.

First off, she was too short, maybe five foot nuthin', a little bitty thing. She had no boobs to speak of, just a petite rise in her calico dress that didn't even offer a real cleavage—she was no Marianne. Her hips were very nice, he'd give her that… and, yeah, so okay, the perfect shape of her behind did nearly hypnotize him when she'd walked away, but she didn't have the full package he usually went for.

For instance, she didn't even wear makeup; no lipstick covered her lush, honey-brown mouth. Her long dark lashes didn't have that black stuff that came out of a tube caking them. All the women he knew wore that, even his mother. This babe wasn't even a blonde, he reminded himself. Far from it… far enough away to possibly get his ass kicked by the fellas if he treated her too nice, especially in this neck of the woods. Plus, she looked like she'd never been anywhere in the world… probably had the address to where she was going pinned to the hem of her dress, like a kid. Couldn't have been more than seventeen, maybe eighteen—if he stretched it—and with his luck, he'd get picked up by some sheriff on a statutory charge… were he so crazy to even attempt anything. So, what was the point? It had to be road dust and Jack Daniel's talking to him. Damn, it was hot out here.

Problem was, she'd come down off the bus again and had floated in his direction with a tray in hand and money in her fist. He could tell by the way one hand was balled up tight, like she didn't want to drop something important. He sighed. Then why'd she have to stand so close waiting for him to look up, smelling all good and like lavender? And dammit, why did she smile so sweetly, and flash him the whitest, most perfect row of teeth he'd ever seen when he bumped his noggin to stand?

He rubbed his head and looked at her hard. "You pass the hat?"

She nodded and extended her hand. "Two hundred and fifty for your trouble," she said shyly. "Thank you so much."

"Well, don't thank me yet," he muttered, taking the wad of bills from her. He paused as his fingers met her palm, the softness of it made him draw his hand away fast. He couldn't look at her, so he sent his attention to the bus driver. "Give it a try," he told him. "Gun the motor and see if this old battle-axe turns over. I don't know what the hell's wrong with it."

But the bus driver didn't move. He glanced at the tavern, and then at Rider.

"Okay, fine," Rider said, handing half the money back to the young woman before him. "Get on the bus, tell your driver to gun the motor, and if it doesn't turn over you can just pay me for taking the time to look at it."

She nodded and left the tray by his feet, and quickly fled back up the bus steps.

"Satisfied?" he grumbled to the driver. "So would you go try the engine?" Old people got on his nerves, especially tourists!

But before the driver could get up the steps, gunshots rang out. Rider turned and stared at the tavern. He heard several bike engines engage; voices escalate; glass break; grunts and snaps; more rounds fired. Shouts became frenzied yells, then turned into bloodcurdling screams. Voices of men carried on the night air and made him freeze where he stood, paralyzed as a hundred emotions slammed into him at once. Shit! Crazy Pete, or maybe Razor, had lost his cool. Maybe it was the bartender, but it wasn't a shotgun blast, it was a revolver. Snake was wild, but he wasn't out of his mind and Bull's Eye didn't make a move without Snake's okay. There was only one option. Run.

He snatched his guitar and headed toward his bike. He was not doing time if the fellas had held up the bar. He was not going to be locked in a cage because one of them had tripped out and had killed an old man for some change or a free bottle for the road. Hell no, he wasn't going to rely on some old bus passengers to vouch for his honor—they'd swear it was a set-up. They'd tell the authorities he'd kept them occupied while his boys robbed the joint. He'd be an accessory to sure murder; the robbery was secondary. They'd give them all the chair.

She pressed her hands to the bus window. "Oh, my God! What's happening? We have to get to a phone and call the police!"

"Calm yourself, child," Mrs. Parker said, eating the remains of her apple slowly. "They were animals, anyway."

"What?" Tara looked around the bus at the placid faces that stared at her. "There's an innocent bartender in there! I heard gunshots, a man being murdered! Didn't you hear that?"

"Oh, it's not murder, honey," an elderly man said with a smile. "It's just an old place getting a little life back into it, is all. That's why we came, and they had so much vitality. It's the everlasting cycle of life." He nodded toward the tavern, and then glanced at the other passengers. "They'll be pleased. We did good this time."

"You think tonight will be the night they'll fulfill the promise?" Mrs. Parker asked, excitement brimming in her eyes.

"Fifteen strong, young males," the bus driver said with a smile as he entered the bus and came up the aisle. "Plus a girl? Yes. I think that would be enough to convince them we're ready."

New terror slammed into Tara as she looked at the insane expressions around her. Her heart almost seized when the bus driver reached for her. Brandishing the glass pitcher, a scream filled her lungs, then rent the air, and she swung it madly with her eyes closed tight. She could feel strong arms grasp her waist. Madness entered her ears above her screams as she left the bus floor kicking, yelling, clawing, fighting, but still moving forward and down a flight of steps. The old people were saying not to fight it, give in and be thankful that this was happening while her body was still young. Tears blinded her, choking her, drowning her cries. Her grandmother's visions were coming true. The nightmares she'd lived with all her life were coming true. She looked up and saw a man with a guitar on his bike, stomping his pedal.

"Don't leave me!" she shrieked, sobs wracking her body as she continued to fight. "Oh, God, they're crazy, don't let them take me inside! Man with a good heart, please, for the love of God, don't leave me!"

CHAPTER 2

A young woman's screams cut into his consciousness. Rider turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. His motor was running, the sound of it almost deafening. But what he saw was surreal, happened instantaneously and in slow motion at the same time. Crazy Pete's body was hurled out a window, shattering glass, landing almost at his feet. Rider looked down. Pete's jugular was ripped open. His body was still twitching. Blood spurted and turned the ground at Rider's feet muddy brown. He looked up and saw the girl over the bus driver's shoulder. Her hands were reaching toward him. Tears were streaming down her face. The bus driver was taking her into the middle of hell.

His guitar hit the ground. A .357 Dirty Harry was somehow in his hand. His arm was outstretched, and it trembled as he clenched the Magnum. He was going to jail, and wasn't even sure why. The center of the bus driver's skull had a bull's-eye on it, dead aim.

Blood and death and the stench of terror filled his nose and clung to the back of his throat, leaving a metallic taste as he swallowed thickly. Rider hocked and spat, but kept his gaze fastened on the man carrying the woman. The bus driver looked up. Their eyes met. Rider said nothing as he fired the first shot at the bus driver's feet. He stopped walking and smiled. The girl was still struggling. Old folks began coming off the bus.

His heart was racing; his ears were ringing. They were eyewitnesses who would remember things wrong. They were witnesses who were feeble, would not understand, and wouldn't give good testimony. Sweat was stinging his eyes.

The old people were shouting confusing things. One of them yelled, "Leave her. We have more than enough." What the hell did that mean? Put her down! his mind screamed, but his voice was lodged in his throat. Crazy Pete had freaking bled to death at his feet. Where was Snake! Another old bastard told the bus driver, "Don't be foolish. If he kills you, you'll miss the promise. She's so skinny, she won't yield much, anyway."

The girl was dropped, and she ran in Rider's direction before he could process what had been said. The inside of the tavern was suddenly too quiet. Ten bikes still sat in a row, undisturbed. When she came to Rider, he pushed her behind him, driven by instinct. He backed up, keeping her an arm's length in back of him. His motor was still idling. He couldn't turn away. He saw something in his peripheral vision that made him stare at the broken window, but he also kept the bus driver in his sideline view.

What appeared to be two gleaming red eyes flashed past the window. The metallic taste of death scored his throat. He shoved the young girl. "Get on the bike!" She ran ahead of him, and then leaned down for the guitar. "Leave it!"

She picked it up anyway and slipped the strap over her shoulders, and elbowed it to cover her back. More of those glowing orbs appeared in the window. The old folks were smiling, laughing, walking toward the tavern. Rider jogged backward, half hopping, half jumping, his eyes never leaving the window as he slid into his seat in front of the girl while still blindly pointing the barrel of his weapon in the direction of the bus driver's head. Instantly, he snapped his arm back, revved the engine—the gun affixed as a part of his hand—and left dust.

His chopper tore up dirt road, making everything on either side of him a blur. He could feel his heart beating a hole out of the center of his chest, and hers thudding through his back. She'd buried her face so hard against his shoulder that it felt as if she were one of his shoulder blades. He could barely breathe, her arms were wrapped so tightly around his waist. That didn't matter, just as long as she took every lean and pivot with him and didn't make them wipe out. He wasn't sure how fast they were going; that didn't matter, either, until his engine coughed. Gas!

"No, baby, be good to Poppa. Please, girl, not now. Stay with me."

"Find a church," the girl clinging to him yelled. "We have to find sanctuary!"

He'd kidnapped an underage church girl? God, just make his bike keep eating up road. He'd give up drinking, smoking, making love to women whose names he didn't know… just one small act of mercy, that's all he asked.

"I'll take you to a church, and that's where you get off, love. You never saw me, cool?" And a church out here would have some vehicle he could siphon for petro.

He could feel her nod in agreement against his back, and his eyes scanned the blur of horizon. Everything was flat. It was pitch-black on the open road. Not a steeple in sight. His engine was beginning to knock. This was supposed to be God's country, Middle America, where was a damned church! Then his black and chrome baby sputtered, gave up the ghost, and simply died.

Tears of frustration stung his eyes as he coasted to a gentle stop. "Oh, screw me!" He jumped off his bike, made the stand come down with the heel of his boot, and did something he'd never done—kicked the front tire hard and pointed the gun at his engine. "You lousy, good for nuthin' whore! I'll kill you for dying on me like this! No, baby, not when I need you most!"

Then he dropped his arm, closed his eyes, raked his fingers through his hair, and walked in a circle. Trapped.

"We can't stay out in the open," a soft voice said.

He heard the girl dismount, her sandals hitting the ground as she neared him and touched his arm. He nodded, went to his bike, and spat.

Shoving his gun in the back waistband of his jeans he walked his bike into the tall grass. With his luck, some farmer had put up an electrified fence he wouldn't see until it was too late. What did it matter? He was going to prison sooner or later to fry, anyway. The only thing that helped was the fact that she seemed to be assisting, or at least had offered a good suggestion. But everything was just too damned crazy to sort out. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

Rider put both hands on the leather seat of his bike and heaved in air. Two soft palms rubbed his back. His road dogs had been butchered. He'd seen something that looked like it had slithered out of a horror movie. Not just one, mind you, but several. Old people were in on the deal, somehow… a young woman had been a temporary hostage, was gonna be sacrificed. He looked up fast, spun on her, making her back up. He only had one question.

"What the hell is going on?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Who are you to them, and what ambushed me and my squad?"

"The undead."

He blinked twice, drew his gun and leveled it at her. "Stop this crazy bullshit, and talk to me! In a minute, every highway patrolman in the state is going to converge on a scene where a bunch of bikers are gonna take the weight. We were just stopping for a drink and some grub. Whatever they find—"

"I know," she said, seeming unafraid of him. "That's why we must run."

Her eyes held such empathy that he couldn't stop looking at her. It took his brain a moment to transmit the command to his arm to put the gun away, but finally he did. She had knowledge of something he couldn't wrap his mind around. She'd seen it, too. So, if they both had the same story, then maybe they wouldn't put him away with the criminally insane.

"We have to find hallowed ground," she said again more firmly. "Soon."

He wasn't sure why he trusted her, but she was the only alibi he had at the moment. More than that, she was the only one in the world who'd been an eyewitness to the unthinkable. Neither said a word as they found a small path. She was at his side looking straight ahead. His eyes scanned everything, but he kept his gun hidden. All he needed was for some farmer to see a silver barrel, then shoot first and ask questions later.

"How do you know this is the right way?" he asked after they'd walked about a hundred yards.

"I'm a seer. I can sense the direction."

He'd heard about things like this, but wasn't buying it.

"Well, Madame Seer, tell me then, why didn't you see the firestorm coming our way?"

Her voice was patient as she spoke calmly. "I was on the bus because my mother came to me after she died. She said to go to my grandmother's… she'd have good medicine to help me. I was to learn the old ways from her, and to stay out of harm's way. I could feel evil coming." She stopped walking and looked at him hard. "I didn't know exactly when, or how, but I had a feeling—just like you can smell things."

He stopped walking.

"The cigarettes and other substances are hurting your sinuses. But your nose is still better than the average man's. You're supposed to be a tracker, a nose… a man with a good heart."

All he could do was stare at her.

"Where are you from?" she asked, her eyes holding his in a gentle gaze.

"Kentucky," he murmured, not sure why just looking at her made his voice drop to a reverent whisper.

She smiled. "Land of Tomorrow… my people, the Cherokee, named your state. That's what it means in our language, and that's where they said the tracker guardian with the music from his heart would come from." She shook her head and softly chuckled. "I just didn't think he'd look like you."

She took off his guitar and handed it to him. "This is a part of your destiny. That's why I couldn't leave it."

Now she was scaring him.

"All right. Point the way to a church," he muttered, accepting his guitar and slinging it over his back.

She just nodded and resumed walking. He followed her, numb.

It was a little clapboard structure painted gray and washed light blue in the moonlight. As soon as they stepped into the front yard, she sighed and dropped to her knees. They'd walked nearly two and a half miles in the dark toward nothing he could put his finger on. But for some strange reason, he also felt safe.

"So, what do we do now? Wait for daylight, or something?" He couldn't see squat in the darkness, save the light from the moon. But his eyes were adjusting as he urgently searched for a gas source.

She shook her head and glanced around. "They won't believe us."

"You got that right," he muttered, going toward a beat-up Ford that he'd finally made out. But her plan had merit. He could hot-wire the car, or maybe siphon some gas if it wasn't dead, too. No, screw taking the car. He was not leaving his bike.

Rider glanced around for a garden hose and to see if there was a container that could hold fuel. But he stopped when he saw this woman, whose name he still did not know, on her knees putting fistfuls of dirt in the pockets of her dress. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting hallowed earth to place a ring around us near the bike," she said calmly. "You'll need some to pack in your bullets, too, if what's after us is what I'm sure it is." She stood and gazed at him with such serenity that for a moment he was speechless.

"How about Plan B? I siphon this tank, and—"

"No, no! You must never steal from holy places."

He looked up at the sky and opened his arms wide. "Why are you torturing me? I know I've lived a wild life, but, hey, I'm only human."

"If you want to stay that way," she said in a tense tone, "you'd better listen to me and follow my lead."

"Listen, sister," he said, his nerves frayed beyond patience, "this is why I don't do religion—any of them. It breeds fanatics like we saw on the bus. Crazy people."

"It doesn't matter what religion or faith, as long as you believe," she snapped, gathering her dirt-filled skirt up as she stood.

He looked at this crazy woman before him who didn't know him from a can of paint, but had gone with him, trusted him—even with a gun in his hand—and who now had her white lace panties showing in a churchyard with dirt in her skirt. She was like nothing he'd ever encountered. Beautiful didn't describe her. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts as he continued to stare at her. He had to remember that his boys were either dead or in jail, most likely, and he was about to follow some religious nutcase down a dark road.

"It doesn't matter what culture," she said, pressing her point and not looking at him. Her gaze was on the stars. "There is good. There is evil. Tonight we have to make a stand."

She began walking back the way they'd come. For some unknown reason he found himself following her again. This was not the adventure he'd banked on.

"What's your name?" The question came out quietly as he tried to sort out what had just happened.

"Tara," she said. Her voice was so soft he almost hadn't caught it.

"Tell me you're not a minor."

He waited. She smiled.

"I'm eighteen. In some states I am, in some states I'm not. Like everything else, I'm caught in mid-transition."

"Yeah, well… I know what that's like—being trapped."

She let out a long breath and sighed. "I could feel that something wasn't right when the bus broke down. In my soul I knew it was starting." Her gaze went to the moon. "But I knew if I went inside to help someone, I'd be all right. It's always that way. Do you know what I mean? Good wins over evil."

What could he say? He truly didn't know what she meant. But he oddly liked the sound of her voice, no matter how strange what she said was.

"I knew you were a good egg, when I looked in your face," he admitted and resumed walking. "The fellas can get a little rowdy and out of hand, and I could tell you weren't the type that…" He paused and began the balance of what he had to say a different way. "I knew you didn't deserve how they were gonna behave." He fell quiet when she held his gaze. It nearly made him stop walking again. "I also knew when I heard you screaming that I couldn't leave you, don't ask me why."

He shook his head and looked forward at the dark path. Crazy Pete's face flashed into his mind. "I had a dead body at my feet. Never seen anything like it. Me and Pete never got along, but that's a whole nuther thing. I knew he was stupid enough to pull a knife, or make someone have to off him one day in self-defense… but to be sliced with his own bowie, or Razor's… damn."

He started walking faster. "Like I said, don't ask me why I couldn't leave you, but things weren't adding up… Then you called me, something familiar clicked—I can't even explain it. But I didn't kidnap you—be sure to tell them that, if we get caught."

"I know you didn't," she said softly. "You didn't leave me because you're a guardian." Her voice was so gentle that it felt like a caress.

He chuckled, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "No, darlin', you've got that wrong. I need a guardian, but I'm not one."

She laughed as they approached his motorcycle. "Don't you know you're part of a Legend?"

He laughed harder and found his stash of Jack Daniel's in his bike's side compartment, then gave her a sheepish look. "So my reputation got all the way out here?"

She shook her head. "Pick where you want to bed down for the night so I can ring you."

His jaw went slack. "Go figure. It's always the innocent-looking ones…"

"Find a spot where we can sit and make a fire," she said like a schoolteacher. But her smile was wide and warm.

"I knew that," he said, hoisting up his jeans to walk ahead of her. "I was just joking."

He watched her long process of walking in a wide ring around where they'd hole up while he built a fire. He didn't mind her prayers, or that she said two sets—one in her own native language and then the only psalm he'd learned from funerals, the twenty-third. He watched her carefully sit and wrap the remainder of the dirt in one of his bandanas. It was like watching a grown woman make mud pies, which messed with both sides of his already embattled brain. Then she crooked a finger at him with a gentle smile, crossed her legs in front of her like a yogi, and patted the ground for him to sit before her.

He gladly submitted. He was beginning to enjoy her strange company. "Now what, O learned one?" He was relieved that she laughed, because the sarcastic comment wasn't designed to offend.

She held a bit of earth in her delicate palm and gazed at him. "I need to put a little of this against your throat, all right? And then you can do me."

He didn't care that it seemed like superstitious mumbo-jumbo. Her hands could have been holding cow chips and he wouldn't have argued. He sat down cross-legged, remembering how soft her hands were. "Yeah, okay," he said without resistance, then waited for her touch, trying not to seem too anxious for it, yet wondering why that, of all things, would be on his mind—given everything that had just happened.

Cool earth and a soft caress warmed the sides of his neck. Dirt crumbled and fell to his shoulders and rained on his thighs and knees. Her seeking gaze captured his, and for the first time in his life he thought he could actually drown in a woman's eyes. The feeling was disorienting, if not totally disturbing, while also exhilarating. He could feel such caring enter him, yet he didn't even know who she really was. And as her empty palms slid away from his neck, it left an ache so profound that he'd almost taken her wrists to bring her hands back to where they'd been.

She had to steady her breathing and contain herself. The moment her hands slid against his throat it felt like a current had run through them. She could feel his pulse in her palms, could actually hear it thudding in her ears. And his eyes simply drank her in. This was such a good soul. Had he any idea what seeing him transform into an unlikely warrior had done to her? She tried not to let her hands tremble against his warm skin. He'd allowed her near his jugular, had offered her his throat with no resistance and with pure trust. Didn't he know how dangerous she was? But the fact that she could touch hallowed earth meant she still had a chance. Tonight she was still human, and alive, and had hope… and all because of him, she hadn't died the way the curse had predicted.

Rider studied the woman before him. Never had a simple touch ignited him like this. Nor had a pair of eyes ever held him for ransom.

"Now, you do me," she murmured, then signed the words with her graceful hands while speaking them softly: "man with a good heart."

His hands trembled as he reverently gathered a clump of dirt in them. This was the kind of woman a man would marry, for sure. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, exposing her throat. For a moment, he couldn't move. Her thick, black lashes dusted her cheeks. The rich, deep color of her skin was warmed to a glow by the firelight. And for a second, his mind took a turn to envision that same expression on her face under different circumstances. What would she be like with her face flushed by passion, eyes closed, neck arched, breathing his name… An offering that he knew he'd never be able to refuse now, if she made it. But that was foolish, wishful thinking. Yet she was so trusting, seemed so good down deep in her gentle heart… Didn't she know he was a dangerous man out in the wilderness with a gun? But she sat there with only trust in her expression. Didn't she know what that was doing to him?

He brought the earth close to her neck, trying not to spill too much on her already dirty dress. He could feel the heat from her skin as his hands neared it. She was breathing in shallow sips of air, her petite breasts rising and falling ever so slightly, and it twisted his mind when he touched her and she shuddered.

That's when it really became difficult for him to catch his breath. Lavender and her light scent fused with earth and burning fire and open grassland. She was so damned soft… he had to fight to keep from leaning in to kiss her, or allowing his palms to run down her shoulders. But she wasn't that way, wasn't that type of woman. And for some very strange reason, he didn't want to offend or push her away.

Bits of dirt fell down her dress, and he followed it with his eyes. Blue calico had just become his favorite color. Flashy blondes a thing of the past. He had to stop touching her, and he did so abruptly. She slowly brought her head up, opened her eyes, and smiled. The look in her eyes drew him.

"Nobody ever told me I had a good heart before. Probably 'cause I don't," he said quietly. "And I've definitely never been called anybody's guardian." He forced a self-conscious chuckle and he rubbed his hands down his jeans.

"You're too hard on yourself."

"Madame Seer, you have got to stop messing with my head tonight. I've already had it blown, thank you very much."

"You really don't know the legend, do you?"

"No, but why do I have the funny feeling you're about to tell me?" He had to stop looking into her eyes and at that perfect smile of hers. He reached for his bottle and took out his cigarettes. "I know this ain't your thing, but I have to confess to being pretty messed up right now. So if you're gonna tell ghost stories around the campfire, after what we've just seen, indulge me."

She didn't agree, but didn't give him grief. He could deal with that. He leaned back on his elbows, took a healthy swig, set the bottle down hard, and brought a cigarette to his lips and struck a match. "All right. Shoot," he said, dragging as hard on the butt as he'd wanted to kiss her.

"What's your name?"

He stared at her for a second, and then laughed. "Oh, yeah. Jack Rider."

"Jack?" She frowned. "No. That's not right. It's really Jake… Jacob. A biblical name."

He sat up slowly, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. Nooobody knew that.

"You're scaring me again, lady. Honest to God."

She began drawing in the dirt with a twig. "There's a being coming that my people call the Great Huntress. She comes from a part of the Great Spirit's soul and is made of love and hope and faith. She's also known as the Neteru, they say. And from all walks of life, she'll draw people with special talents. Great warriors." She looked up. "A tracker is among them, a man with a good heart, named Jake."

"Aw, that's a buncha malarkey," he said, forcing himself to feel relieved. "A tracker. That's me, huh?"

"Yes. That's why you have the Nose."

He laughed and took a hard drag on his cigarette, making the end of it glow, then chased the exhale with a swig of Jack Daniel's. "I do have a huge schnoz, and snore like a buzz saw. All right. Say, for the sake of argument, that I go with this mystical legend. Then what?"

"They'll be seven around her, a sacred number. They'll come from all walks of life. Musicians… because music is a universal language that breaks barriers. It's also an art, but sound, like thunder, is something that comes from the sky, Heaven. Music can be felt, words are important, the sound takes harbor in the heart. You play guitar, right? You'll need it."

He relaxed and leaned back on his elbows, flicking his half-smoked butt into the fire. If she could understand that about music, then maybe she wasn't all that crazy, just a little touched. He could deal with that. He'd been around crazy people all his life—had been raised by them.

"Yeah, I play," he admitted. "Just mess around, from time to time. Won't ever make a living at it, most likely, but as they say, music soothes the savage beast."

She stared at him for a moment, suddenly understanding why musicians would be a part of the prophecy… to soothe the savage beast. She tried her best not to allow her gaze to rake over his lanky form, but lost the battle. He was a guardian. He had saved her from sure living death. And he was lying prone before her, relaxed, his warm voice coating her like a protective blanket and stirring something inside her that had never fully blossomed naturally on its own.

"You have a gift," she said. "Whatever people told you about it being less than that, ignore them. Follow your dream."

Her stare was so intense that he could barely hold it. He found himself swallowing hard. His mouth suddenly went dry. For a moment he couldn't respond. No one had ever looked at him with such utter confidence. No one had ever seen something in him beyond his dirty, grease-monkey hands that could fix an engine, or beyond his roughrider biker façade. And no one had ever told him to follow his dreams, not having heard him play a lick on his axe.

"Your guitar will get you in. It will also be your weapon."

Her voice caressed him and made his pulse race.

When he nodded, agreeing without understanding, she stopped breathing. Hope dangled by a thread. If he could understand, could read between the lines without thinking she was insane… and if he'd just kiss her, just once, before she couldn't even do that without risking his life… That's all she wanted—to experience the full range of human emotion, the depths of love, before it was too late. What had happened, before, was preternatural. It was a trick, an evil seduction. This was as right as sunlight, and had also been forecasted. And as she felt herself warm under his tender gaze, there were a hundred things she wished she could have done differently… anything to have waited for this unlikely knight on a black and silver charger.

"Jake, things are going to hunt you all your life. You have to learn so much."

Just when he thought he was talking to a rational person, he remembered that he was having a discussion with a chick who was certifiable. "You get put out for smoking too much peyote, hon? Since when—"

"You're supposed to fight vampires with the Great Huntress's warriors." Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. He was going to die if he didn't hear her.

He sat up. He didn't want to talk about this madness anymore. There was no such thing as the undead and this conversation was blowing the groove.

"How'd you wind up on a bus with a bunch of religious fanatics?"

"I got in trouble."

He sighed. Just his luck to be out in the wilderness, on the run, with a beautiful but crazy pregnant chick. Poof. There went hope. "So, you're going to your grandma's to have the baby?"

Her eyes got wide, then burned with outright indignation. "I'm not pregnant!"

He shrugged. "Hey, where I come from, when a woman says—"

"That's not what happened." She gathered her arms around herself. "Never mind. I should have known better. You took one look at me and assumed."

"Hey, don't get all touchy. I didn't think… I mean—hey, just tell me what happened?"

She shook her head and looked down. He'd never understand. She didn't understand it all herself, and hadn't truly believed until it was too late.

Now, he'd done it. He glanced at the bottle with disgust and screwed the cap back on tight. "Let's start again from the top, since we're sorta partners in some kind of crime—or crimes, plural, who the hell knows at this point? But I'm no choirboy, and I'm not throwing stones from my glass house. I've done enough crap to get put out by my folks, too. So, don't take whatever I said wrong. Cool? I'm not judging."

She nodded, but still denied him access to her gorgeous eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said again after a while, preferring the way she was before he'd offended her. "Listen, my pop was… nuts. Beat my mom. I was going nowhere fast. Loved rebuilding engines and working on anything that moved, but music is my first love. I've seen a lot of dysfunctional crap in my time. People dying in their own bodies, going to work in a hellhole they called a job. If you want to call that the undead, I'll go with you on that… and as for bloodsuckers, I've seen my dad work for vampires all my life. That's why I had to make a break for it."

He peered at her sidelong when she didn't respond, hoping to get the conversation back on a relaxed track. God, she was beautiful. His tone became more urgent as he tried his best to draw her out again. "So, if you did something to get away from a crazy situation, then what can I say? That's why I was on the road, myself."

"I did the unthinkable," she murmured.

Her eyes were on the horizon when she'd spoken. If she would just look at him to know he wasn't kidding around…

"What could somebody as sweet as you do that would cause unforgivable harm?" He truly meant what he'd said, and for his honesty her returned gaze rewarded him.

"I went off with someone I shouldn't have. He was tall, and handsome and mysterious and came into town from New Orleans… I'd never—" She glanced at him and then looked away, swallowing hard. "I couldn't resist him and it wound up killing my mother. She said that what I had become would shame all those from our Cherokee heritage who'd walked the Trail of Tears. My father, God rest his soul in peace, had been a good man. He was a Baptist, and in the military, and would tell my mom that black folks didn't deal with this mess. He would never have understood this, even though he and my mother were both guardians. It was only one time, but it was enough."

What she'd said was too deep. She was a beautiful combination of black and Indian, and her people had had a problem with some foreign white guy that obviously blew into town. That had to be the deal. He could relate. His folks were the same way about differences. Sad, though, that they'd put this poor girl on a bus for something as minor as that—but where he'd come from, infractions were often dealt with more severely. At least they didn't burn a cross on her lawn. But it broke his heart to see her still struggling with cutting ties to home.

"Yeah, well, my folks weren't big on interracial relationships, either," he said, studying the stars. "They didn't want me to even play certain music, so I can dig it. Closed minds, hey… whatcha gonna do? So you left. Cool. Just did it myself, and I'm never going back. So, here we are, Bonnie and Clyde, or the Odd Couple." He chuckled and shook his head. "Who cares if they don't get over it? We'll ride it out together. Cool?"

In that moment, Jake Rider became even dearer to her. She watched him looking up at the stars, his mind open, but not comprehending, his voice gentle, his spirit so fair. She didn't care if he wasn't hearing what she was saying. It didn't matter that it might take years before he truly understood. All she had to do was get to her grandmother's healing medicine to purge her system and she might not be lost to the destiny she was supposed to have. She was to be one of the guardians, too… whenever the Neteru came.

She looked at this handsome man, who had stood up to pure evil on her behalf, and a knowing washed through her. He'd never flinched, never wavered, just drew his weapon on instinct like a warrior, and used his body to shield hers. He didn't even know her name when he'd done it. A dead man lay at his feet, but he'd had kept his goal singular—protect an innocent… her.

The old men used to talk about this in quiet tones. Their wise murmurs had also spoken of soul mates among the newest Neteru inner circle. All she had to do was wait, but she'd been so deceived when she had been so close. They had told her she'd know by the depth of a man's eyes, but had also told her not to look into every pair of eyes she'd encounter.

Their messages were cryptic, and she'd been impatient to taste a slice of life denied her. It wasn't fair, and the Great Spirit could not forsake her… she'd prayed so hard and so vigilantly, and the moment she saw the right pair of eyes, she'd understood—a flicker of familiarity in a pair of unlikely but kind hazel eyes that weren't dark, seductive, or intense… they were eyes that didn't change into horrible glowing orbs. Jack Rider's mouth would issue a caress, and never bear fangs. If only she'd waited… but how did one stare at something like she had and not be seduced?

She almost wept as she listened to life all around her. Music of the night, the cicadas, the crickets, the owls, a mournful coyote's wail. She could already hear things she shouldn't have been able to hear with normal human senses, regardless of her gift. She could tell things about this wild, but honorable man that should have been blocked to her mind. It had only been one bite. It took three to completely turn a human. She hadn't even been bitten by the master of the line, but by a lower-level lieutenant. Shame filled her. Just one fateful, unfair bite, during an encounter that should never have happened. Even her sensuality was starting to change… a touch on her throat had scorched her. She'd wanted Jake Rider to make love to her so badly, she'd almost cried out. And that made no sense. She needed time; he needed time—they didn't even know each other, and her system had to be purged.

Tara wrapped her arms around herself. "My mother came to me in a dream and she gave me an address—said to go to my grandmother, and meet up with the Creeks that had been through this before in New Orleans. There's a small group of them tucked away in the Navajo nation in New Mexico." She reached into her bra with two fingers and produced a small slip of paper.

He looked at her as she offered it to him, accepting it with caution.

"If something happens to me," she said quietly, "or if something happens to you… go to this man. He has a young son, José Ciponte. His mother never married his father, because she was afraid, too… she feared her son's destiny and had hoped she could keep him from it by staying away from his father, who would teach him. But she finally sent the boy there to learn and he saw the things that we did. They have different last names, but his father is a renowned Creek guide; his mother is Latina. You're going to Arizona, past New Mexico, right?"

He only nodded, stunned, because he'd never told her where he was going. Just like he'd never told her his name or about his ability to always smell things better than the average person.

"We should stay together, as long as possible. Those things in the tavern always try to separate the herd, get one off by themselves—unless they come in numbers, like they did there. Maybe we'll get to my grandmother in time." Her expression was sad as she glanced away. "You're a sharpshooter, too?"

He couldn't speak. How in God's name did she know that he'd spent nearly every afternoon of his life popping bottles at distances to the point where it was a local gambling diversion? He could hit a bottle at a hundred yards, dead drunk. "Yeah," he said slowly, his eyes searching hers for understanding.

"Pack your bullets with the earth I gave you… please do it for me. Humor me, even if you don't believe me, and don't go out alone, even for a pack of cigarettes, without it."

From a very remote place in his mind, everything she was saying, even the way the moon lit the side of her face, sounded and seemed too frighteningly familiar. He tucked the small slip of paper into his jeans pocket, knowing somehow that his adventure had only begun.

"Nothing's gonna happen to you—or me," he said, trying to convince himself. "What happened back there… was… there's a logical explanation." He pushed himself up and stood and began pacing, but was careful to stay within the hallowed-earth ring.

"My crew probably got restless. One of them probably rushed the bartender for a free bottle or his register, or he got jumpy and pulled a gun. The old dude may have had some hired help in the back, or something… yeah. And, uh, it got nuts—crazy. A couple of the guys riding with us did what was sensible, got out of Dodge." He stopped walking and looked at her for confirmation that never came.

"Tara, listen, honey, that's what makes sense. See, bikers get a bad rap. People always think we're just animals. And if the authorities came, we had illegal stuff on us, drugs, unregistered weapons—because the road is dangerous, we carry a lot of money, see. They would have pinned robberies across the state on us just to close the books so they'd have less paperwork. I mean, I've been temporarily locked up before for bar fights that I wasn't even involved in. But I had a Harley, so I went in overnight with the whole kit and caboodle. And, okay, Crazy Pete was crazy. Probably got his throat cut in the brawl. I'm sure the bartender had a knife or something, or one of his boys did."

Rider could feel his pulse quicken as he whipped himself up and raked his mind for a rational thought. He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, hoping that would invoke logic. "And it made sense for the bus driver to put you off the bus, because maybe he was just prejudiced—you were the only different one on there—and he probably thought 'cause you were being nice to me, and everything, that he didn't want you with him… uh, yeah, because you'd tell the truth about what you saw, or didn't see, which would muddy up his open-and-shut version." He added, rubbing his jaw, "So the SOB was just gonna leave you with us."

He stopped walking, scratched his head, and started pacing again. "No, more likely, he was taking you to the winning side, the bartender. Sorry bastard probably didn't want to be detained for questioning or have to come back for a trial, with a busload of witnesses, so he did the punk thing and started his engine so he could roll. I pulled the gun because I didn't want you hurt by either side, and I was fixing the bus while it all happened, anyway. Before tonight, we never met each other, and I was just helping a damsel in distress. The eyes—cats. A rundown joint like that would have cats everywhere to chase away mice or rats… I didn't hear dogs bark, so that's what probably ran by the window fast. Cats move faster than dogs. Right?"

He stopped pacing, nearly winded, and stared at her. "I'm not putting you down, or your belief system down, or talking bad about your momma, your people, or whatever. I'm just trying to keep us as far away from the bodies that dropped as possible. We can't go telling this stuff that sounds like dementia to a sentencing judge, if we get caught up in a dragnet. If they try to pin a crime on us—believe me, an insanity rap ain't no day at the beach, and doesn't always work, anyway. So, if the police ask, that's the story."

"Okay," she said just above a whisper, standing and going to him. She looked into his eyes and touched his cheek. She could feel his hard pulse through her skin and almost kissed him. "If you say so, that's the story."

CHAPTER 3

A shiver ran through her as the adrenaline surging in his blood wafted toward her. The night was calling her beyond the protective ring, and a sudden hunger began to grip her. As long as she never took an innocent before the cleansing rituals were done… as long as she never polluted her system with human blood from a kill… before the teeth came, she had a chance. She walked away from him and sat down, rubbing her arms.

"I've got a blanket in my saddlebags," he said, not asking her if she wanted it.

She only nodded and closed her eyes tight. He had to stop being so kind. She could feel her gums thicken as he walked away, her will a shred of dental tissue from not being her own. She had to remember that she was still human, and hadn't died yet. That was the last phase.

"You hungry?" he asked, coming back to put a blanket around her shoulders. He set his guitar down inside the ring, but stood near her waiting for a response.

She clung to the rough fabric and wrapped it around her all the way up to her neck. She shook her head no. The question had made her shudder. He had to get away from her. She used her chin to motion toward his guitar. "Why don't you play? It's going to be a long night."

She relaxed when he slowly withdrew from her side. She could smell the blood and sweat on him.

"Like I said, I just mess around." He sat down and opened the case, glancing at her. "It's an acoustic. Don't always have a place to plug in an electric axe. But, one day, when I find myself somewhere permanent, I'm getting a Fender. The real McCoy."

"The one you have is beautiful," she said quietly, truly meaning it as she watched the fire bounce off the highly polished wood. "Where'd you get it?"

He paused and rubbed the body of the instrument. "Don't laugh. I got it from my mom." He looked at her, expecting her to laugh. But her eyes held understanding.

"Why would that make me laugh? Mothers will give you their life blood."

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or that something he couldn't describe that glittered in her eyes, but she made him feel safe to tell her what he hadn't told another soul. "I told her I wanted it for Christmas when I was fifteen. I saw it in a window in town. I wanted this guitar more than anything. And she stole money from my dad—well, it wasn't really stealing, she just shorted the supermarket allowance, you know, ten dollars here, twenty dollars there, for a whole year so she could buy me this." He started tuning it as he talked, the memory hard to verbalize. "She got beat up that morning, and my dad threatened to break it. She stood the whipping, told me to run with it, and never look back. Took me six more years to heed her advice."

"I'm sorry," Tara murmured. "There are all kinds of demons… your mother sounds like a good woman."

"Don't be sorry," Rider said, chasing the memory with a swig of liquor and letting the pain fade. "But you're right. There are all kinds of demons, so maybe what your people believe isn't all that far-fetched." He played a little riff. "Yeah, Mom is a good woman. I'm going to send her some money to get away from my father."

He was glad that Tara didn't say another word while he picked up and down the bridge and tightened his wires, deciding. What would he play for her? He closed his eyes and listened to the night. He better understood the sad country songs he'd always shunned. But she wasn't country western… had something extra. Spanish guitar, a little funk, some blues, something Native American spiritual, something sensual, something honest, something that cut across all his known boundaries… she was something he'd never played before. He just let his hands work and follow her rhythm while they composed Tara on the fly.

Without a doubt, he'd wanted a woman before. But something about this one was different. Half of his mind wanted to pursue what that something different could be, the other half of it was rapidly losing perspective as the music hit his bloodstream and became her.

The way she watched him intently was something he could feel without opening his eyes. The heat from her stare entered his pores. He glanced up and saw her gaze rake down his throat so hotly that he almost closed his eyes, this time in pleasure.

Her expression was innocence and hunger. She licked her bottom lip. It made his mouth water and sent the burn racing across his skin, awakening erogenous zones he didn't even know he had.

He told himself it had to be the liquor talking, or the adrenaline still humming in his veins. But the look she gave him made him want to touch her so badly that the hairs were standing up on his arms. He could feel his nipples harden. They stung every time he took a breath and brushed the rough inside fabric of his vest. He was glad he had his axe on his lap. She didn't need to see the erection he was sporting. He didn't want to offend, scare, or disrespect her. He continued to play and his fingers almost stumbled when her gaze slid down his chest and settled on his hands.

She couldn't breathe. This man was stopping time with his beautiful music. She could feel the creative energy in his bloodstream, linking to hers and washing through her veins, creating an ache to lie with him. The beat of his pulse was maddening, driving another hunger within her to the surface. No, not him and not tonight. Never. This man with a good heart didn't deserve that. But soon she would have to leave him to feed.

The heat of her gaze settled like a molten ache in his groin. Yet he couldn't move toward her or away from her. He watched her lids lower to half-mast and his cock twitched. That's when he stopped playing, shut his eyes, and swallowed hard.

He carefully set aside his guitar and pushed himself up and walked toward her. He knelt before her and slid his fingers into her hair. He didn't care that they could both use a shower. He didn't care where she came from or where she was going. He didn't care what she believed in, or what color her beautiful skin was. All he wanted was her mouth, and whatever else she'd allow him.

"We can't," she whispered, as he leaned in to kiss her. "We have no protection against this."

Her hand found the center of his chest, but she wasn't pushing him away, just making him pause. There was no fear in her eyes, just a warning that he knew to be true.

"You're too decent a man to get trapped in a life like that," she said gently, shaking her head.

It was the truth; not that he felt he was a good man, but the part about being trapped. He'd never wanted to be the kind of man who had kids somewhere, a bounty for child support on his head, and guilt on his conscience. But at this very moment, all those issues seemed remote. She didn't understand that his sense of self-preservation and pride had been stripped, leaving him naked and aching before her. All rational thought had left him. The very fact that she cared about his future only caused him to want her more. But he also cared deeply about her future and he forced himself to pull away.

He dropped his hand away from her hair and sat back on the ground with a thud, looking at his boots. No woman had ever cared about his future. None of the others had ever given a rat's ass about anyone beyond themselves. And as his gaze found hers again, all he could think of was all the things a woman like her deserved. He wanted her to genuinely like him, respect him, not think he was just what people had said—some sort of lawless animal who lived only for the next thrill.

Then she got up and came to him, touched his face and traced his mouth with the pad of her thumb. Rider grabbed her wrist and kissed the center of her palm.

"I'll pull out. I promise." He looked at her, not breaking eye contact as he spoke, hoping that she'd work with their circumstances. The fact that she hesitated gave him a flicker of hope that there might be a chance, which only made his heart beat faster. "I swear to God."

She smiled and drew back her hand. "That's just the thing… I might not let you."

"I'll take my chances," he said after a moment and held his breath for her response. Oh, God, he'd never begged a woman like this in his life.

"I can't let you do that, man with a good heart. The result would kill you. Trust me, that much I know."

With that she stood and walked to the other side of the dying fire. She might as well have cut him and left him bleeding by the side of the road. He wasn't about to force her, had never done anything like that in his life. But he watched her intently, for a sign, any signal that she might change her mind. Please let her change her mind. Because, right now, if she wanted to trap him, she could. He'd go willingly down whatever path she wanted him to go.

She looked up at him like she'd just heard the thought. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him, he was sure he'd seen her shudder. He could sense her deep conflict. If she were feeling half of what was running through him, then she'd err on the side of reckless abandon and just go for it. He was ready to throw caution to the wind. Truth was, he'd jettisoned it about an hour ago.

Oh, Rider… you don't understand. Temptation tugged at her, nearly seducing her. To throw caution to the wind would be so irresponsible. But as he sat there, hope flickering in his eyes, his inhalations becoming shallow sips, she almost gave in to his offer. It took everything in her not to open the blanket for him to join her. She'd never been with a man before, not like this, when nature was simply taking its course. And with him under the stars, and his song still vibrating within her… She sucked in a deep breath, ashamed at the shudder of arousal that claimed her. Worry filled her as she watched it ripple through him, too. It was in his eyes, something that went beyond intense arousal. A knowing resonated in her core. If the man got up and came to her, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions.

"I'm ready to abandon caution," he finally said, more than hoping she had, too. It was more like a silent prayer, because if a beautiful brown baby came out of this, then he'd build a house and put her and his baby behind a white picket fence. The road wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He'd get over it. But one thing was for sure: he wasn't about to get over her anytime soon.

"When daylight comes, you'll feel differently."

He stared at her as he felt her retreat behind a very sensible wall. Trying to salvage some of his dignity, he just nodded and let it rest. "You're right. This probably just got intense because of what we've been through together. Warrior bonding." He made himself laugh.

But he thought, Oh, God, let her change her mind.

She laughed, nodded, and rubbed her arms under the blanket. Oh, Lord, I want him. The burn was so hot, she wanted to cry instead of laugh. Her body craved his touch.

He had to look away. Couldn't even watch the gentle slide of her hands up and down her arms.

"In the morning," he said, clearing his throat, "we'll walk back to the church. I'll see if they'll give us a lift to a gas station, then we'll refuel and head out. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"Okay," she said softly, "you, too."

Yeah, right. He got up and found the bottle of Jack Daniel's, opened it and took a swig, trying not to let her see his hands tremble.

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep. He had slept like a dead man, but now had awakened with a start. He glanced around the circle, and jumped up in a panic. Tara was gone.

"Tara!" he hollered, his voice echoing back to him in the early predawn hours. If she'd left him… But that was crazy. What right did he have to feel this way? "Tara, honey, you there?" he called out again with less confidence. Then he saw her coming through the bushes not far away.

"Where did you go?" he demanded, rushing over to her. "You scared the crap out of me."

"I had to… relieve myself," she said with a smile. She sighed as she stared up at him. He was so sweet. But she was glad he didn't know the real reason she'd gone out into the woods alone.

"Yeah, okay, but you should have woken me up. There's things out there that—"

"I was fine," she said, kissing his chin. She wanted so badly to kiss him. She glanced down to fight the temptation. She clasped her hands together to keep from reaching up to trace the vein in his throat.

Rider gave her a quick hug, then let her go. "It'll be dawn, soon. Let's go get that gas."

"All right," she said, as he put his arm over her shoulders.

Dawn sounded so different from the night, especially in the springtime. It smelled different, too. Small birds began chirping, dragonflies buzzed. The frogs went quiet; a whippoorwill sent a lonely cry through the air. Dew brought the scents of the flowers and grass alive. Households slowly came alive in farm country at that hour. A bloodhound barked in the distance. His footsteps sounded heavy beside Tara's soft pad of sandals. He glanced at her and worry stole his peace. Her pallor was nearly gray now, her breathing labored. It was as though the cresting sunlight were sucking everything out of her. He hastened his steps, remembering how much she'd just been through.

As they approached the churchyard gate, he also remembered where he was—in a part of the world that had not changed since the Civil War.

"Sweetheart, stay right here, and let me go try to get us a ride," he said.

She nodded and leaned against the short fence, taking in small sips, breathing like she had asthma. Suddenly a stray dog rounded the corner, stopped when it sighted her, raised its hackles and snarled.

Before Rider could leap between her and the dog, Tara narrowed her gaze and hissed at the dog.

The large dog stopped advancing, turned tail and ran, barking hysterically.

Heart pounding, Rider pulled her in close to him.

"We need to get out of here. Can you make it for a short run?"

She shook her head no, as she clung to him for support.

He was about to sweep her up into his arms when he heard a deep baritone voice bellow, "Duke! Duke! Whatcha got, boy?"

Shit, his worst nightmares were coming true. He'd never outrun a hound and a man with a shotgun with her in his arms. He'd have to stand his ground and simply hope that this church didn't belong to a local Grand Dragon.

"It's going to be all right," he told her, holding her close. "I'll go talk to him, alone, and work it out."

"Be careful," she whispered. She raised her arm and shielded her eyes. "But hurry."

He reached in his vest pocket and gave her his shades. "Ten minutes." Then he jogged around the side of the church where a small house leaned. "Anybody home?" he yelled, announcing his approach, just in case someone had an itchy trigger finger.

A tall, broad-shouldered black man was standing in the doorway in his robe. He had a raggedy gray Afro, and was fumbling with a shotgun and his glasses.

"Whatcha wants 'round here, boy, at dis hour? We's God-fearing people, and I'm a minister. Don't want no trouble, ya hear?" He brought the gun up.

Rider held up both hands. "Just came to buy some gas, sir."

"Gas! Does dis look like a gas station? I'll tell ya what happened—ole Duke caught your thievin' ass trying to suck it out my car, right?"

"No, sir, honest. My girlfriend's sick, and I ran out of gas. I need to get her someplace where she can rest. And I have money." He reached for his pocket when he heard the distinctive click of a shotgun hammer cocking back.

"Reach slow, or lose your arm. Dis here is church property, and we don't need no junkies like you coming—"

"She isn't a junkie, and neither am I. Go see her for yourself. We just need a little help."

The minister glared at him before lifting the barrel slowly to the sky, gave Rider a hard scowl, then begrudgingly came down the steps. "C'mon, Duke," he said to his dog. "Let's go see what all the ruckus is about."

But the dog refused to budge.

The minister swung around to face Rider.

"Whatcha do to my dog?"

Rider held up his hands again.

"Nuthin', sir. Please. You can see I'm not armed."

"How I know it ain't a Klan ambush?"

"You don't," Rider said, defeated. He turned and walked away.

"You tell her to come 'round to the back, and I'll wait here. Won't call the sheriff right off, if everything's on the up and up. I don't like dealin' wit da police, truth be tol', but I gots something fer ya, if yous a liar."

Rider nodded, relieved.

He found Tara where he'd left her, leaning against the fence. "Sweetheart, there's an old preacher back there who would like to see you. He's scared of an ambush."

She stared up at him and her eyes told him that she immediately understood. Without a word she took his hand and walked with him to meet the preacher.

When the preacher saw them his expression went from shock to fury in a matter of seconds. He rubbed the gray stubble on his dark walnut face and looked at Rider hard while addressing Tara.

"You need me to call the sheriff, baby?"

A plump older woman wrapped in a blue terry-cloth robe appeared at the door beside the preacher. "Oh, my Lord in Heaven, look at her. Clothes all tore up and dirty. Oh, baby, come on in. We'll he'p ya. We'll call yo' momma. Just give us an address, and we'll git you home. Sweet Jesus, he—"

"No," Tara said quickly. "I'm fine. He's a friend."

"How old are you, baby?" the preacher said, now completely focused on Tara.

"Eighteen, sir. And we just need some gas so we can be on our way."

"He got you on drugs?"

"No," she said. She took off the sunglasses and squinted. "I have a migraine, that's why I have on the glasses." Before she could say another word, she bent over and retched.

"You in trouble, girl?" the wife asked, coming off the porch.

Tara shook her head as tears spilled down her cheeks and Rider longed to hug her, but the situation was too fragile for that.

"No, ma'am, I'm not. I just ate something last night that didn't agree with me. That's why he's taking me to my grandma's. My momma died."

"I'm so sorry to hear about your momma, chile," the preacher said. "I got a gas can in the house. You all can come in, wash your faces, get some coffee or something to settle your stomach. Idell, you gots some aspirins in there for a headache, right?"

"Yeah, c'mon in here while my husband fetches some gas."

Rider glanced at the couple and the dog, then looked at Tara. "The dog, ma'am, it scared her."

"Oh, that old mutt…" The preacher's wife gave the creature a disparaging glance. "Shoo, you old thang. Git!" The dog scampered deep into the house and the wife let out a long sigh. "C'mon. It's all right, now."

"You go in and sit down for a while, all right?" Rider waited for Tara's response, noting her hesitation. "I have some money," he said and tried to hand a fifty-dollar bill to the preacher.

The man declined it with a wave and turned to go into the house and dress. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. You all go on up to the kitchen and set down. If she can stomach it, maybe a little breakfast?" He studied Tara. "Or maybe just some ginga tea to settle her stomach."

It felt like needles were stabbing her behind her eyes. All she could do was breathe deeply and put her head down on the kitchen table as the preacher's wife prattled on and on about who in her family had suffered migraines, and expounded upon her understanding of light sensitivity.

Then the older woman began going into the Scriptures about wanton behavior and the sins of the flesh. The four aspirin weren't helping. However, she was extremely grateful that the elderly couple had taken them in. Jake Rider nodded respectfully as he rubbed her back. He'd told the old preacher she was his girlfriend. Interesting. She liked the concept very much. But why had he said that?

Rider declined the tea, but downed two cups of black coffee. He intermittently forced her to take two sips of the wicked tea brew. All she wanted to do was get the sickening smell of the dirt off her. The walls of the tiny house felt like they were closing in on her, and an anvil-like pressure was caving in her chest. Her condition was getting worse, and she knew it. Soon she wouldn't be able to touch hallowed earth, or withstand the names of the Most High. Sunlight was draining, making black spots dance before her eyes. She wondered how long it would take them to get to New Mexico by bike?

When she heard the preacher's voice, and felt Rider stand, she pulled herself up. She watched them shake hands, and feigned a smile.

"Y'all need a lift to your bike?"

"Yeah. It's about two and a half miles from here, and I don't think she can make it until the aspirin kicks in," Rider said. "We appreciate everything you've done. Your hospitality's been a blessing." There was no fraud in his words as he looked at this older couple. He made his mind up right there and then to tolerate the initial misgivings Tara's family might have about him. If he had to run the gauntlet, so be it. His own father had called him worse names than anything they could dish out.

"That's what we's supposed to do—help each other," the wife said.

"Ain't too much trouble to he'p some young folks on they way," the preacher agreed.

"If everybody felt like that, the world would be a better place, mister." Rider threaded his arm around Tara's waist. That was the truth, if ever he'd said it. He just hoped that the old couple would take what he said as an apology, too, for all those who hadn't helped them along their way.

"Reverend Jones, son," the preacher said. "You ever come through dese parts, you come stop at my door, hear? Tell folks you wit Bible Tabernacle. Yous with Josephus and Idell's people—that'll give ya a temporary grace pass."

Rider nodded.

"Since you travelin' wit her, I'ma tell you some safe places to go, hear? Places dat you proba'ly don't know about. Some peoples might not understand, 'specially when you cross over into North Texas. Now, you heed my words, young fella. 'Less you in a major city, you best act accordingly. Don't take her into no small town when you gits supplies, and on this side of the county line, there's only one diner and one motel that's refuge. You listen to what I'm saying, hear?"

Rider extended his hand in friendship, understanding completely. "Much obliged, Reverend Jones."

The man at the motel front desk looked them up and down and pushed his girth off the stool, setting his newspaper on the counter with care. He frowned so deeply that the wrinkles in his ebony face made his white eyebrows touch. He gave Tara a look that lacerated both her and Rider. "You want it for how many hours?"

The question pissed Rider off so badly that he slid his hands into his jeans. "For the night," he said between clenched teeth.

The old man took his time, muttering something Rider was sure he didn't want to hear as he got a key, accepted the wad of bills, and thrust a register in front of him. "Mr. and Mrs. who?"

"Jones," Rider said, snatching the key off the counter.

"From Reverend Jones's church—Bible Tabernacle. We Josephus and Well's clan."

The man shook his head. "Well… if Rev sent you, my name's Bennett and I ain't In-it."

Rider shut the door behind them, then walked over to the window and pulled the drapes as Tara flopped on the bed. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, feeling much improved as soon as the sun had been sealed out of the room. "Just don't turn on the lights, yet. The headache…"

"All right," he said. "Listen, why don't you take a shower, rest, and I'll go into town and get some supplies? When I come back, I'll knock three times, so you'll know it's me."

She smiled. It meant the world that he was trying his best to be a respectful gentleman. It meant the world that he had gotten a taste of her reality, and was dealing with it. It meant the world that he thought she was worth it. "Okay, but just be safe."

"I think we might be all right," he said, but his tone was unsure. "News should have hit by now. There wasn't anything in the newspaper that put the motel clerk on red alert, and the preacher and his wife didn't seem to know anything, either."

"Yeah," she said quietly, knowing full well that if bodies hadn't been discovered by now, they never would be. The things that hunted them were very efficient and had probably removed all traces of their presence. That was their way: to keep the humans in the dark. Ignorance was bliss.

"You want anything while I'm out? Anything specific?"

"Just some toothpaste and a toothbrush."

He nodded. "Cool. You got it."

She stood and walked to the bathroom, and closed the door.

The incident with the dog nagged at Rider's brain, but he had more important things on his agenda. Ammo. He'd find the local hardware store and go get hollow-point explosive rounds. Since she'd been dead aim on target about everything thus far, maybe he would pack some bullets with that dirt she'd collected and load his gun.

Hollow points made a small hole going in, but blew a hole the size of a barn coming out. Explosive rounds flattened when they went into something soft and sprayed the insides with whatever shrapnel material was packed in the shell. If he ever encountered what they'd seen again… shit, if she wanted him to make silver bullets, he'd do that, too. Kits were easy to buy, and he'd seen enough. That small precaution was worth it, just like she was.

She had lied for him; had thought fast on her feet. Had clung to him for support and protection, if there was ever a time in the world for her to make a break for it and save herself, it would have been back at the church with the old couple. They were her people… But she'd come to him, stayed with him, vouched for him, stood up for him. No one had ever done that with so much riding in the balance—and she seemed to know him even better than the woman who'd given birth to him.

He made short work of getting ammunition, then hit the corner drugstore. All right. Toothpaste. Toothbrushes. A carton of smokes. He bypassed the pharmacy with resignation. She was not that way, and wasn't interested in him like that yet. All right. He thought about her pretty hair, and found himself in an aisle looking at hairbrushes and combs. Crazy. He tried to remember the items he'd seen on ladies' dressers before. They had all sorts of potions and elixirs and lotions and junk. How did a man figure out what some woman needed in a motel room?

He studied the brushes and combs and just grabbed one of each. Motel soap, he knew from experience, was like laundry soap. On her pretty skin—no way. But what the hell was he doing sniffing different lotions trying to figure out the closest thing to lavender? Nuts! But he so hated that when she got sick she began to lose that lovely fragrance. She'd gotten this almost metallic scent like you'd pick up in a hospital. He found a lotion, then went to find a gentler scented soap. Then he thought about her hair… no, she needed shampoo and that other stuff that went with it. Yeah, conditioner. That's what they called it. Maybe that would make her feel better. Maybe she'd want that dusting powder stuff, too?

Rider cocked his head to the side as he looked at rows of deodorants and antiperspirants. He chose one and tossed it into the brimming basket in his hand. The thought of deodorant made him stop, sniff himself, and cringe. Christ… No wonder all she wanted was toothpaste and a hot shower. He glanced in a mirror in the cosmetics section and simply shook his head. How in the world was he supposed to take her to her people and withstand a family inquisition with road dirt and gnats in his beard? Three years of rebel pride since it grew in evenly, but it had to go.

Like a madman he started getting things he'd never truly worried about before. Razors, his and hers… yeah, ladies did that thing with their legs. Shaving cream. Damn, when it was just him, he traveled light. The pharmacy caught his eye again. Maybe?

CHAPTER 4

This was not the adventure he'd planned. Twenty-four hours ago he had been drinking with the boys, on his way to a race, had had money in his pocket, and been a free man looking for tail in a honky-tonk bar. One woman later, and he was nearly broke, was running from the law, was dealing with a minister who carried a shotgun to the door but gave him an underground passport, and he'd bought so much female junk that it wouldn't fit in his bike. Here he was, like a fool, balancing women's clothes on his lap and trying to ride slow enough not to lose his parcel. Not to mention, the wind was like a razor on his jaw, ever since he'd submitted to a bunch of old men in a barbershop who had brutalized his beard and had shaven his face as clean as a baby's butt.

Was he out of his mind? Yes. Was he pulling up to a motel with stronger headache medicine, hoping that the ruination to his life felt better? Yes. Did an hour away from her feel like a year? Yes. Did he almost go skinny-dipping with some chick he really didn't know, and not care that he didn't have a condom? Hell, yes. Oh, brother, he was in too deep. Best bet, the most rational thing to do, would be to give her all the stuff he'd bought, just hand it over at the door, let her buy a new bus ticket with the money he'd put in her new purse, give her an I'll-catch-you-later kiss, then ride like the wind.

That would have been employing common sense. So why was he standing at the door, knocking three times, and holding his breath for her to open it? Easy answer. He'd lost his mind.

"Hi," she said, peeking from behind the door and shielding her eyes.

"How's the headache?" he asked, coming in quickly and sealing off the sun's glare.

"Better," she said, nodding toward the one lamp that was on. "A good shower helped a lot. Thank you." Then she looked at him hard and slowly covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, my goodness… you shaved?"

"Wasn't nuthin'," he said, dropping his parcels on the bed. He had to keep his eyes on the packages and not on her. She had wrapped a thin, white towel around her and her hair was dripping wet. It formed gorgeous, curly, jet-black tendrils about her shoulders and hung down her back. The fact that his new jawline pleased her had run all through him. Every minute under the barber's straightedge razor had been worth it just to hear that appreciative gasp come from her.

"I just picked up some odds and ends." He looked at the chintzy towel around her, ready to kick himself for not buying a thicker, fluffier one of those for her, too.

"My dress was so dirty, I didn't want to put it back on. It was making me nauseous." She glanced down at her towel and held the corner of it tighter.

"Well, then, great minds think alike." He smiled at her from a sideways glance, and then thought about what he'd just said. "No, what I mean is—not that you made me nauseous… but I figured the dress was in pretty bad shape."

"It was." She laughed and he relaxed. "Man with a good heart, you're crazy, you know that?"

"Tell me something I don't know," he said, chuckling at himself. "Yeah, I'm out of my mind," he added, and began unpacking the first bag.

"This," he said, holding up extra-strength tablets, "is for those nasty, stress-induced migraines." He raised one eyebrow. "If I was with my boys, I'd have something much stronger than that to kill the pain, but… since I'm with Mother Teresa, we'll go with over-the-counter meds."

She held the edge of her damp towel harder and shook her head with a smile. "Thank you, Rider. These will be fine."

"But wait," he said, waving his hands over the bag like a magician, "there's more."

She watched in awe as he produced an array of every possible thing that could bring her comfort under the circumstances. She smiled as she looked at the brush and comb, knowing her heavy hair would break them. He had so much to learn about her difference, but it counted for everything that he'd tried. She looked away as the objects on the bed got blurry and he handed her shampoo and conditioner. For a man like him to go to all that trouble, and he didn't even know her, had already done too much, and had not harmed her in any way, but was so kind…

"Now, don't cry over lotion and shampoo. If I can't at least do that for you, then what good am I, huh?"

It was the tone of his voice and the way he looked her in the eyes, wasn't raking her body, that made her want to weep. Great Spirit, please don't fail me… this is the one.

"Well, look," he said fast, appearing self-conscious, "I tried my best to figure out your size, but I don't know anything about women's stuff. So, I hope you like the dress… and the jeans and whatnot are so we can ride hard and make time when you're feeling up to it."

He spread the dress out on the bed and placed a pair of jeans beside it, then dug around in his bags for other items, so that she had to slowly sit down.

"I got that ammo, too, like you suggested. I'll take a shower, we can go get something to eat, and before it gets dark, I'll pack some shells with dirt. Okay?"

All she could do was nod.

Then he took the bag away, and she could hear there was still more stuff in it. He gave her his back to study while he fished around and talked a mile a minute.

"Oh, yeah, got toothpaste, toothbrushes, a newspaper, uh, some shaving cream so I can look human… the rest of the bag is just junk. Nothing important. I'll, uh, just go outside and, uh, do some stuff while you get dressed. Cool?"

She nodded and opened the shampoo and smelled it. "You bought lavender?"

"Yeah, well," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "You said I had the nose… If you don't like it—"

"I love this fragrance. Thank you so much."

For a moment, neither of them said a word.

"I'm sorry I didn't have it before you washed your hair."

"That's all right. When you're done," she said shyly, "I may go in there and just try a bit… if you don't mind?"

Was she crazy? That's why he'd bought it—to please her.

"Gimme a minute," he said, moving to the door. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going? I thought you wanted to get in the bathroom first?"

"I'm going to the front desk to get some cleanser."

"What?" Then her heart sank. Of course he'd want to clean the tub after her… some things hadn't changed since this country began. "I did leave a mess," she said, salvaging her dignity. She stood and gathered up her old dress.

He stopped and leaned against the door. "If you're going to wash your hair after I get in there… as long and as pretty as it is…" He laughed and looked at the bathroom door. "You think your dress made you nauseous, after I'm done, the tub will make you go running into the parking lot in your towel."

He loved the sound of her laughter and the way her dark eyes shone when she was happy. "In fact, the practical thing would be for you to go on in there and wash it first, I can wait. Then, I can wash your dress out with that paramilitary crap they call soap."

He watched her sit down with a smile, drop the old dress on the floor and reach over and pick up a pair of new lace panties. He almost didn't breathe as he watched her study them in her hand. He prayed she wouldn't get bent out of shape.

"You even bought these?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, hoping that she would understand by the color of them that he'd meant no disrespect. He'd purposely bypassed the reds and blacks and purples and all the colors he was used to seeing… hoping she'd understand what he'd meant. "I figured you'd be all clean and fresh after a shower, and that would be something a girl would like—if I did the wrong thing by buying 'em, it wasn't me trying to be fresh."

If she hadn't been sitting down, her knees might have buckled. She took a deep breath and pasted on her calmest smile. He was going to wash out her dress for her, clean the tub… had even thought of her down to her underwear? That he'd noticed every single detail about her was making it hard to breathe.

"Tell you what," she said carefully. "Why don't you go get the cleanser while I try to organize some of this stuff? You take a shower first, because I know how good one feels—it's relaxing, and we've both been through a lot. And if it's not too much trouble… when you're done, maybe you can help me wash this bird's nest?" She ruffled her hair and stared at him, hoping he'd clearly read what she was trying to tell him: he had a green light. She tried her best to casually make her signal clear. "You were so right. That hard soap just tangled it all up."

He didn't move for a moment; couldn't. Was she saying what he thought she was saying, or did she just want him to wash her hair? And if it was the latter of the two options, that was fine by him, too, because he'd been wanting to run his hands through her thick tresses since the moment he'd laid eyes on her—yesterday it was a dream, today it was a near reality… and that meant other fantasies might also come true. He had to remember to breathe.

She smiled and looked at her lap when his expression went stone serious, and he slipped out the door without a word.

She would be calm, would sit quietly, and would seem platonically interested. Certain things took time, should progress slowly—the problem was, time wasn't her friend. Still, there was no real reason to feel all jumpy. The butterflies in her stomach would go away. He was a decent soul, biker or not; she was in the company of a true gentleman. The problem was, however, he was in the company of an almost vampire. But she had to stop being silly. She hadn't actually turned into one, yet. All she had to do was get to her grandmother's. So it was best that they both ignore the huge white elephant in the center of the room—the bed.

True, she had turned on the green light with her offer to allow him to wash her hair. But that was a signal with a caution flag to let him know she was interested, would like things to progress, and that she considered him a suitor… but…

Tara looked at the closed bathroom door and listened to the water. She briefly closed her eyes and let her mind wander, wondering what he looked like with suds running down his strong back and broad shoulders. The momentary fantasy produced a wave of desire, and she quickly opened her eyes. Oh, no, no, no, no, no—not until she was safe. This man had been so good to her, but he was in mortal danger and didn't even know it. Right now the best and most prudent course of action would be to develop the friendship, allow the courtship to proceed, get to Grandma's, then let nature take its rightful course.

But it was going to be challenging, especially when she could see him through the door in her mind. That new awareness made her tear her gaze away from his direction and cast it into the paper that she couldn't concentrate on to read.

She was getting stronger. More of the dark power was taking hold as the afternoon sun lowered. Yet, they said she was a seer. Maybe it wasn't the thing that would remain nameless within her. What if the fact that he was a guardian was increasing her sight?

Tara clung to that thought as her hands tightly gripped the newspaper.

He almost slipped and cracked his head in the tub, he was in and out of it so fast. He'd nearly blinded himself as he'd tried to scrub road dirt out of his hair while cleaning his fingernails, and brushing his teeth in the shower at the same time. He had to clean the tub, and dry the floor, and get on his jeans, and go out there calm, cool, act like this was just a walk in the park. Just another spring day. Couldn't let her see him behaving like a fool over the idea of washing her hair. But the finest woman he'd ever seen in his life was in the other room, sitting on the side of the bed, naked under a towel, still damp, reading the newspaper. He stumbled twice as he zipped up his pants, willing away an erection, trying to mop up the floor with his feet, using the towel.

"You ready?" he asked brightly, his voice almost cracking from anticipation as he burst out of the bathroom more eagerly than intended.

"Yup," she said, popping up from the bed and bringing the shampoo and conditioner into the bathroom clutched in one arm.

"Cool, uh… right," he said, coming into the bathroom behind her quickly and turning on the tub, adjusting the water temperature as she got on her knees and leaned over the edge of it. He'd never done anything like this in his life… never washed a woman's hair. He'd done a lot of things, but this was too intimate. It was messing him up, big time. Then what was protocol—where was he supposed to stand? The tub was running, she was waiting. The practical position would be to straddle her and bend over, but that might seem too suggestive. Holy Moses.

She glanced up over her shoulder, and threw her mane over into the tub and leaned against the side of it deeper. It exposed the delicate nape of her neck, and her supple spine stretched and flexed when she did so. The sight was disorienting. The towel barely skimmed the back of her thighs. Her already wet hair formed little wisps and ringlets at the nape of her neck and before her ears. God, she was gorgeous, a stark contrast to the all-white glare in the confines of the tiny tiled room.

"Rider, the hot water is going to run out, if you don't hurry up."

"Yeah, sure," he said fast, wondering if there was some female code to what she'd just said. "Uhmmm… I'm not trying to be funny, but I need to stand a certain way, because your hair is so long."

"Go ahead, no problem. I trust you."

He swallowed hard and put one bare foot on either side of her and bent over to capture the heavy weight of her hair in his hands. For a second, he closed his eyes as the water fused with velvet in his palms. He suddenly became aware of how rough his hands were from everything he did in life. Working under a hood, working on motorcycle engines, playing the guitar, all of it made his fingers snag the silk he was holding and he was almost ashamed to even touch it. Almost.

His legs felt like steel on either side of her hips. She willed herself not to think about his sensuous stance, and refused to allow herself to consider the gentle way he stroked her hair. His tenderness was dissolving her into lather. She was practically a puddle on the floor. This was a bad idea. How in the world was she going to keep her distance from him if he worked on her like that?

"I need to wet it up good and then I'll put the shampoo in."

"Okay," she murmured and let out a slow exhale. She had to remember to breathe, and to not assume every word he said had a double meaning.

He almost dropped the bottle while trying to open it. It was the way she'd breathed out the word "okay." He poured way too much in his hands and the excess lather immediately created billowing white suds. The fragrance from it brought tears of anticipation to his eyes as he made gentle swirls with it.

A gasp was trapped in her throat, and she quickly swallowed it away. No, the gentle strokes had to stop or she'd never make it through the night with him. She had to just be calm, talk to him like they were doing something else, like watching TV.

"Oh, c'mon. You can do it harder than that. I'm not a baby, and I'm not tender-headed."

He paused with her hair in his hands, shampoo lather dripping in large globs into the tub as her words made him breathe through his mouth. "Cool," he said quietly, scrubbing her scalp a little harder. "Like that?"

"Yeah," she murmured, "harder, though." She'd meant her voice to stay light and cheerful, but when he stopped and took a deep breath… his voice had dropped to a low timbre that practically vibrated through his legs where they touched her hips.

He closed his eyes and let his hands work with the erotic textures under his palms. The way she'd asked for it harder… Okay, he had to pull himself together. This was ridiculous. He was simply washing her hair and needed to remember that. He added a bit more pressure but was unsure. "Like that… it's not too hard, is it?"

"Uh-uh… that feels really good," she said on a heavy exhale.

The response made him pause, then redouble his efforts. He couldn't think about the sound of her voice and the many ways what she'd just said could be taken. He made his fingers work out the frustration, scratching her crown, the sides of her temples, the back of her skull till she gasped. The moment the sound escaped from her, he wanted to drop to his knees behind her so badly that the muscles in his thighs were twitching. But he knew better than that, and stopped his own agony by rinsing out the suds. He could do this and remain cool. He had to.

Just rinse it and let me get up, she begged him in her mind. This was such a bad idea. The man had made her tremble with a touch, and it was time to put an end to it. She had to be responsible, she reminded herself. And she also knew herself well enough to realize that at this point, she couldn't take another soaping—not the way his hands felt.

Her hair squeaked as he stripped her long tresses of lather, and he watched it turn into long ringlets, just transform in his hands. Mesmerized, he wanted to do it again, just one more time. He was fascinated by the way it went straight under the flow of the water, then as soon as the air hit it, it became a thick mass of unruly curls.

But when he reached for the shampoo, she chuckled.

"I think my hair is clean," she said, "but it could use some conditioner."

"Right… right… that's right. You've already washed it once."

He straightened his back and locked his knees to give his legs a short rest. He was glad her head was in the tub, and was too embarrassed when he looked down at his blue jeans. He should have bought the black ones, then a wet spot in them wouldn't have been so obvious. This didn't make any sense. He grabbed the conditioner and slathered some into his palms and bent over her again.

However, the viscosity of the fluid in his hands was like straight sex. The way it slid down her hair, the slickness of it under his palms, the sound of it going on, made him shudder in earnest. She glanced over her shoulder, and he didn't even care. He was beyond worrying about appearances when her spine dipped so she could look at him.

"You okay? You need a break? My mom always said doing my hair broke her back." If he didn't need a break, she sure did. She hadn't expected the feel of the conditioner going in under his hands to melt her. She had to keep the conversation light. Yes, that was the only way. Her face was hot, her throat felt flushed, and he'd awakened other parts of her that she dared not admit to herself.

"No, I'm good," he lied, rubbing the slippery conditioner through her hair and reveling in the textures of her scalp, the fluid, and the curls, with the scent of her and the sight of her wearing him out.

"How long do you have to leave it in?"

"How long do you want it in?" he said hoarsely, his eyes closed against the sensations that were rocking him.

He felt her tense, pause, and turn her head.

"It says on the bottle, three to five minutes," he said quickly, trying to recover.

"Oh…" For a moment, she thought she'd lose it—had almost moaned. It was time for distance.

"How about five?" she said quietly, turning off the water. "It's really been a long time since I've done this right. Some things you just can't rush."

He stepped away from her, leaned against the sink, shut his eyes, and nodded. "Uh-huh. Know what you mean."

"You sure you're all right?" she asked, squeezing excess water out of her hair and turning so her tresses could hang over the tub, but so that she could lean against it while sit-ting on the floor looking at him. She would not read more into his expression than warranted. "You didn't hurt your back, did you? I mean, you ride that bike all the time, and could have—"

"I'm cool," he said, gazing at her, "but this is breaking my back."

"I knew it," she said with a sigh. "I'm sorry."

"That's not what I meant." He just stared at her.

"Oh…" She leaned over and turned on the spigot, then got on her knees. She had to stop looking at his intense hazel gaze. "If it's any consolation, it's breaking mine, too." She put her head under the water and closed her eyes. She turned the cold faucet on full blast. Oh, no… she hadn't misread him, had heard every word he'd said just as it had been intended. But the fact that he'd made her just say what was on her mind, so openly, made her cheeks burn. It sent the butterflies loose within her again, and then something imploded like a sudden heat.

While her admission was profound, if he was reading her right, it didn't help matters in the least, since it was obvious that she wasn't prepared to take things to the next level. If she had been, she wouldn't have turned on the water and begun washing the conditioner out. He watched her struggle to do it unassisted, loving the conflict as it unfolded, her towel sliding away, and then she'd grab it, trying to tuck it so it wouldn't fall while trying to get her head farther under the spigot.

"It hasn't even been three minutes yet. You're rushing it."

"I know," she said, almost out of breath. "It's hard to do it by yourself."

"Don't I know it," he said, finally going to help her. "Then why didn't you let it sit there for a few more, and wait it out? Patience is a virtue, I'm told."

"That's always been my weak point," she said, glancing up at him with a look that made him stop rinsing her tresses. "I'm trying to get this stuff out of my hair so it doesn't mess up the bed."

What was she doing! The words had just tumbled out of her mouth. Humiliation paralyzed her.

He blinked twice, then almost fell in the tub as he pulled her up, hair dripping, water still running, and kissed her hard. The inside of her mouth had the consistency of raw honey, mint hit his nose, and his tongue tangled with hers till he couldn't breathe. He broke away, took a huge gulp of air, and buried his face in her wet hair, then dragged his jaw down the side of her neck. Her immediate gasp blurred his vision, it hit his system so hard, just like her wet form molding to his bare chest did, her satin skin pure butter under his palms.

She almost passed out when he scored her throat where it had once been bitten. He didn't understand what he was about to unleash. But as his strong arms enfolded her, and he smelled so good… his pulse beat so hard, and Great Spirit help her, she'd never felt like this in her life. Her hands trembled as they slid up his back, the muscles within it pure cable. The way he tasted made her weak in the knees.

"Why didn't you just say so?" he murmured hotly against her ear, then captured her mouth before she could answer. Then she did something that almost made him pass out. She bit his shoulder and gently dragged her teeth up the side of his throat while her palms slid down his chest, one hand finding the middle of his back, the other finding the center of his groin, all in one fluid, graceful, feline motion. It forced the air from his lungs as her grip on his length tightened, and the sudden expulsion of air came out as a ragged groan combined with a gasp.

He didn't even feel it when his back banged the door on the way out of the bathroom. All he was aware of was her as he lifted her up and kept kissing her while walking, knowing his way to the bed blind. Her arms were around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, the attention she paid to his neck at the jugular was bringing tears to his eyes. He had read every signal wrong, but he was clear about this one. Caution was the wind itself, fleeting, unimportant, and something neither of them could summon.

They fell so hard they almost took out a slat in the bed. He fought with his jeans as her legs threaded around his and she arched. He felt a bite at his throat that made him see colors beneath his lids. He heard her whisper, "I'm sorry," and he couldn't even answer her, it felt so damned good. He returned the kiss hard, and then bit her neck even harder, and the sound she released almost made him release in his jeans.

She helped him push the barrier down to his knees, and when he entered her the sound of his voice was foreign to his own ears. The sensation was so immediately explosive that he had to look at a point on the wall for moment to hold back the inevitable. But when she leaned up and took one of his nipples into her mouth, his eyes literally crossed. The way she held his back made her part of his skin, and the way her pelvis worked in unison against his created pinpoints of light inside his head. He could feel them both sliding to the edge of the bed, about to go over the side of it as he began chanting her name on every other thrust. Then she called him by name, his real name, on a heave that became a shudder, which transformed into a jerking spasm that made him go blind for a moment when his body convulsed with hers so hard that he was sure he'd stripped a gear and had a hernia.

He couldn't even shout what his mind was screaming, it felt so good. Oh, God… Aftershocks were slamming him, her body was still moving, it was pleasure so profound that tears were running down the bridge of his nose. Jesus… I've never felt anything like this in my life. This woman had called him like that by name.

It took a while for him to stop panting and to get enough air into his lungs. He looked at the tiny goddess under him and kissed her forehead, too afraid of what her lush mouth could do to him. Her eyes were closed; tears stained her cheeks, her hands caressed his shoulders, then she sobbed as she stroked his hair. Oh, yes, he was a blessed man. So what that he'd never made it to the hidden box of protection in the bag? Yeah, he'd marry her. Whatever. All he knew was, he wasn't letting this one go. Uh-huh, make it last forever, baby.

She opened her eyes and peered at him as he petted her hair while he was still lodged deep within her. "Oh, Rider… this wasn't supposed to happen until—"

"Shush," he said, kissing away her words and banishing them. "This had to happen."

"But—"

"Uh-uh," he murmured, sliding his hand up and down her side and finding her breast. "Don't get nervous on me now. I'm over the top and crazy about you. Whatever happens, happens."

"I'm crazy about you, too. That's the problem. But this happened too fast."

"How is that a problem?" He looked deeply into her eyes, loving the fact that he'd put tears of pleasure in them.

"Because I want to make it last forever."

He kissed the bridge of her nose, her face, and found her earlobe. "Tell me how that's a problem… like I told you in the bathroom, all you had to do was say so."

"I have to get something to eat. Soon."

He stared at her for a second, and then laughed. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I forgot we were supposed to be getting something to eat. It's just that when you came to the door in that towel, wet, and then put that lavender dress up to your pretty skin… then I touched your hair. I lost it."

"You promised you'd pull out." She smiled at him.

He closed his eyes. "Tara… I couldn't… so help me, God."

He felt her cringe and knew that he'd messed up, knew that he should pull himself from her deep, warm valley to let her up, but that was next to impossible at the moment. And the thought of having to sheathe latex between him and that sensation, after knowing how good she felt, was going to be impossible, too.

"Rider, if I don't eat, I'll die."

"Okay," he said, bracing himself for the knife of cold air that would slice him when he pulled away from her. "All right. But when we get back to the room, please tell me you'll still feel the same way."

She touched his face and then kissed his cheek. "Once I eat and the sun goes down… I have this really dark side, sweetheart, that, uh… might make you feel differently. It might shock you."

He closed his eyes and flopped back on the bed, so grateful to be alive. His prayers had been answered. She was beautiful on the inside, gorgeous on the outside, was kind, gentle, funny, sexy, smart, passionate, and she knew how to handle herself on the back of his bike, plus loved music… she was trying to tell him that she had a little bad girl in her? Oh, yeah, he was definitely a blessed man.

"Let's get you something to eat, so we can get back here pronto and then you can shock me all you want."

She just looked at him for a moment, then her gaze went to the window. The sun was low, she could tell by the orange glow at the edge of the drapes. He didn't understand. She brought her hand to the side of her neck where he'd instinctively bitten her, as though he knew just the thing that would send her into a frenzy. But how could that be? No one uninitiated knew the secret. She let her breath out in defeat. A soul-mate would know, would have an instant roadmap to her body, just like he'd stumbled upon an immediate trail to her heart. All of it was working her mind way too hard.

He laughed when she sighed, trying to will his erection away. This woman had him tied to her in a way no other woman ever had and he loved every minute of it. He laughed. She was going to be the death of him yet.

"The lady said she wanted it rare, not medium. If she wants the steak still mooing when you put the plate down, give it to her, so please take this one back."

"Thank you," Tara said quietly, ignoring the indignant look the diner waitress gave her. It was already late afternoon, and she sat in the local diner they had found and studied Rider. She'd bitten the man so hard that the side of his neck had a huge purple blotch on it. She was just thankful there weren't puncture marks. The sunglasses he'd bought her had helped, and every once in a while he would stare at her hard and ask if she was all right. It made her smile. She was flattered that he was so anxious to get back to the room that he was fidgeting with the silverware. She understood all too well, she could barely sit in the vinyl booth herself. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the heat in the diner and drips from his hair made his T-shirt cling to his torso. She watched the muscles in his shoulders work beneath the thin cotton fabric. Just looking at him was making her want to slide out of her seat.

Nobody had ever made her feel this way. At least not a man with a soul. He was a gift she wouldn't squander. She felt his caring all the way down to the bottoms of her feet. He was special. Suddenly she desperately hoped he'd be asleep by the time it got dark. Maybe the blood hunger wouldn't hit her so hard tonight. Maybe she could beat this thing and come out on the other side with a real life with someone who cared. As long as she didn't take his blood, they had a chance.

Lavender suited her. The dark rush of her skin against the pale color just twisted him in knots as he watched her practically inhale her steak. Just when he thought he had her all figured out, he learned something fabulously new about her.

He could almost see her coffee-brown nipples through the sheer fabric of her dress, could remember what every inch of her smooth skin felt like, and that scent, and the way she'd gathered up her hair into one easy-to-make-fall bun. He had to remember to stick his fork in his food and cut it, bring it up to his mouth, then chew it. Where she'd bitten him still burned and the signal resonated in his groin like reverb. It had been damn sexy. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. Just watching her made a whole other hunger surface—the one he had for her.

But as he stared at her, many thoughts came to his mind. Reality was trying to blow the groove. He could hear them talking about rains hitting Texas soon. He was traveling by bike. Before her, that wouldn't have been a problem, yet there was no way he could put her on his bike in a driving rain. And if they had to hole up for a few days in a motel, that would eat into his shrinking budget.

The original plan had been to hit the races in Arizona, the money in his pocket was for incidentals, Snake was gonna cover his room and board… which meant that he needed a way to make some cash along the way to travel with her right. He couldn't take her to the roadside joints he and the fellas would crash at. He couldn't take her to some biker hangout trailer in the back woods where for a pound of weed they could stay for free and drink.

The preacher had had a point: they had to keep to the main highways, especially if they were on the move at night. And it wasn't about getting some side mechanic work around these parts—everybody knew how to go under the hood. Being a good mechanic was a matter of supply and demand. In L.A. there were a lot of cars and a lot of people who didn't know squat about how to fix them. But in no-man's-land, everybody could fix their car, do plumbing, carpentry work, hunt and shoot, and pretty much do whatever needed to be done—or they had a brother or cousin who could.

Rider rubbed his face with both palms. A cigarette was calling his name, so was Jack Daniel's. Since he'd put out the last butt before he'd gotten to the preacher's house, he hadn't even broken the seal on the carton he'd bought in town. He looked at Tara as she ate the last of her steak. Riding with a woman in tow was much more expensive, was much slower, but worth every damned minute. The question was, how to make it work?

"You look tired," she said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"Just need a smoke," he said, stretching and trying to let his brain rest.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she said quietly. "It's bad for your health, and I want you to live for a long time."

He wanted to lean across the table and kiss her, but thought better of it, given where they were. He smiled instead. "I'm going to live forever, don't you know that, darlin'?"

Her eyes held his, suddenly deadly serious. "Do you want to?"

Desire slammed him full force. "With you? Yes…" He could feel desire come back with a vengeance. "Let's get out of here. We can hit the road tomorrow morning."

"We might have to travel at night," she said with hesitation. "I'm better then, have more energy. Sometimes the sunlight saps my strength."

He smiled and allowed his gaze to rake her. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low, private murmur. "You don't need strength. You just hold on, baby, and leave the driving to me."

She just shook her head and smiled.

CHAPTER 5

She'd set a slow flame to every inch of him; had left no section of him unbranded. There had been moments during the night when he knew he was losing consciousness. She'd made obscure parts of him literally come alive in her mouth… the veins at his wrist, the insides of his elbows. When she'd nuzzled his femoral artery going down on him, he'd nearly blacked out. If this was what they taught healers, he'd convert to whatever religion her people espoused and would smoke peyote and live the quiet life. If she wanted him to go on a spirit walk in the wilderness, so be it, just as long as she kept loving him like this.

Even as he briefly slept, she was inside his head, calling him, loving him, arching under his hold. He'd ejaculated in his sleep, and had awakened to her kiss at his throat, which only started the whole crazy thing all over again. He couldn't stop if he'd wanted to; could no more reach for that damned box in the bag across the room if his life depended on it. Right now she was air. Right now she was the very blood in his veins. She was his pulse. Was his heartbeat, and the reason to draw another breath. Crazy about her didn't begin to define or do justice to what had happened. He'd lost his mind completely, and didn't care one whit that he had.

He pulled his mouth away from her neck, his hands threaded through her dark tendrils as he peered up at her, exhausted.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, giving him a sexy, sated smile before gently kissing him. "I'm not scaring you yet, am I?"

"No," he murmured. "Just don't stop."

"I have to get some rest. It's going to be dawn in a couple of hours. You have to rest, too, if we're going to push on from here."

He flipped her to lie beneath him, looking down at her, his arms trembling at either side of her shoulders. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "You have this effect on me that I can't explain… I'm sorry I lied to you when I said I'd pull out. Baby, I meant to every time, but couldn't. You're like an addiction."

She smiled and touched the side of his face, totally understanding what he was trying to say, and wishing with all her heart that she'd met him before. From the first time she laid eyes on him, she knew he was the one, just like his hazel irises now glittered with open desire. His pupils were dilated and every stroke of her hand made him shiver. Her gaze traveled down the broad chest, and her hands caressed his thick shoulders and trailed down his strong, trembling arms. And his hands… pure strength and yet gentleness resided within them. She'd lost her voice too many times to count at the mercy of those hands.

She rubbed her legs up against his hard ones, reveling in the sensation as she slid one delicate foot over the tight steel of his buttocks. She watched new tears form in his eyes as he closed them and allowed his head to hang back. There was so much that she needed to tell him, so much truth she'd already told him that he just hadn't heard.

"When you look at me like that, it just runs all through me. You have no idea…" His voice had come out on a ragged murmur as he began moving against her again. "Just one more time."

She let her body answer his request. She could feel his soul bound so tightly with her own that she couldn't speak. They had shared the same dreams; he was inside her mind and heart as deeply as he was inside her body. They had lived a similar life, being different, gifted with something special, misunderstood and feared, yet this man with a good heart had found her. They were opposites in so many ways, but so much the same. He was tall, she was short; she was dark, he was light; they were both on the run, had no family to speak of, were protecting each other, wanted a better life. Respect was the common glue, and she tried to siphon away all the hurt and pain and misery his life had been before her through her touch and her bites, without breaking his skin.

He'd tasted every part of her, had revered every inch of her skin, the heat of his mouth searing her. Every one of his shudders was hers. Every sensation traveling down his spinal cord, she felt. Every time he'd orgasm, he'd send her hurtling into a multiple spasm of ecstasy of her own. How was she going to disappear one night and leave this, leave him? They had to find a cure. Time was speeding up, and he was slowing it down as though he could stop it just for them.

Yet, as his hand covered one of her breasts and his lips found the other and he moved against her, the issue of time slid from her mind…

He blanketed her again and thrust hard. She gasped his name. He responded with a hard bite at her throat and she saw colors behind her lids. He moved against her smooth, controlled, slow, then he lost that control, his voice disintegrating into grunting chants of passion.

She couldn't stop her own panting, couldn't catch her breath, and couldn't stop the release that she was edging toward. She felt her incisors lower.

She arched hard, the crown of her head digging into the mattress, and she ran her tongue over her incisors to send them away, the razor edge of them cutting her tongue and drawing blood. Oh, no… It was starting, but she couldn't stop. He felt so good, her hands were shaking as she clutched at his back. Warm, salty blood filled her mouth. She screamed and he heaved in jerking spasms, then dropped on her like a dead weight.

It took her a moment to extricate herself from beneath him. She had to get out before he came back to himself completely. She needed to feed and she refused to feed from him.

Rider stirred, and blindly reached out for Tara, but drew his hand back, wanting. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was after checkout time. He pushed himself up slowly, yawned, and listened for her. Water was running. He relaxed and leaned forward on both forearms as his feet hit the floor. It felt like he had a hangover. Every inch of him was sore and reminded him of how much he'd abused his body. If he felt like that, then he could only imagine how Tara felt. Guilt swept through him. She was only a little, bitty thing, too. But heaven knew there was no way to control this wild relationship they had going.

He indulged his senses and pulled a deep inhale… The whole room smelled like her and sex.

The scent was staggering. It would always draw him to her like a bloodhound. He laughed—oh, yeah, he was whipped. She owned him. He'd heard about getting zapped with feminine mojo, but he'd never known it could be like this. He just hoped she felt the same way. Damn if he wasn't falling in love.

It took him two attempts to stand, and he squinted at the bright sunrays that were trying to push past the edges of the drapes. Yeah, he could understand her sensitivity to light.

He crossed the room and tapped on the door lightly. He rested his head against it, needing something sturdy to help hold him upright. "Tara, baby, I know this is a little strange, but I really need to get in there for a minute."

He waited, but she didn't answer. He knew women had delicate sensibilities about things like this, so he walked in a circle and tried her again.

"Honey, this is an emergency. Seriously."

"Okay," she said, her voice frail. "I'm in the shower."

Without hesitation he went into the dark room, not questioning the fact that the bathroom lights were out. That was a godsend, because his eyes couldn't take it, either. He put the seat up and stood before the porcelain throne holding the wall with one outstretched hand and holding himself as gingerly as he could, sighing with relief. There were some things a man could do blind, and he'd had plenty of practice taking dead aim the morning after a long night in a bar. He almost laughed at the thought; she was way better than Jack Daniel's, or anything else.

"If I flush, am I gonna mess up your water?" He'd even put down the lid. Oh, yeah, he was whipped.

"No, go ahead," she said quietly and turned off the tap.

"Good," he murmured, completing the task, then moving to the sink to wash his hands. Some breakfast, a cup of joe… more sweet lovemaking.

"Oh, what a night…" He almost fell asleep standing up at the sink with the water running. "I don't know if I can ride this morning; it's already past checkout, too." He leaned his forehead against the mirror, hoping that she'd understand his double meaning.

When she didn't answer he pushed away from the mirror, splashed some water on his face, and looked up. To his horror the only light in the room were two glowing orbs behind him that were her height. He froze.

"Don't be afraid," she said quietly. "But I can't go out in the sun anymore."

He spun so fast that he almost shattered the mirror with his elbow as he slapped on the light.

She immediately covered her eyes with her hands and turned away. "Turn it off!"

"Oh, bullshit," he said, backing toward the door and touching the sides of his neck.

Her body looked normal, except that she was shivering and had goose bumps covering her skin. His gaze scanned her frantically, while hovering in the doorway ready to bolt.

She turned to him slowly, and brought her hands away from her face in gradual increments. She looked like she was about to keel over. Half of him wanted to go to her; the other half of him was transfixed where he stood. She looked like a junkie. Her beautiful eyes had dark circles under them. Her gorgeous lips were nearly blue. Her once-fantastic coloring was ashen, and her hair looked wiry and brittle. He almost wept as he went to her.

"Oh, Jesus, what's the matter?"

She pulled away from him and cringed when his fingers trembled at her cheek.

"I'm so sick," she whispered. "I have to get there before it's too late."

She felt for his hand when he extended it, as though she were blind, and he helped her out of the tub and sat her down on the toilet seat, then lifted her chin with his finger and stared into her eyes. Her once-beautiful eyes had a bluish-gray seal over them like an old person's with cataracts.

"I'm blind," she whispered, feeling for his face. "I opened the curtain and the sunlight…" Her voice broke off with a sob.

He turned her throat to the side and saw two puncture marks on it and ran his fingers over the fresh wound. "Did I do that? Did I do that to you last night? Oh, shit!" He turned her wrists over, and then looked at the insides of her elbows, terror coursing through him by the second. Every major pulse point on her was scored, and witnessing it dropped him to his knees. His head found her lap. "Oh… baby… I swear I didn't mean to hurt you like that. I don't even remember."

"You didn't do it," she whispered, absently stroking his hair. "I went out last night while you slept."

Her confession snapped his head up and he looked at her blind eyes, holding her upper arms tightly. "What!"

"I needed human blood," she said quietly. "There are only a few ways to get it."

He stood slowly and then sat on the edge of the tub. There were no words. His mind couldn't process the madness fast enough. What was she talking about! Some crazy ritual?

"If I take an innocent, I'm damned. You're an innocent, Rider. Last night, I felt my gums rip. The teeth didn't come all the way down, and I haven't died, so I have time. But the hunger is like an acid burn inside your intestines that will eat them away until you satisfy it. The animal blood isn't working anymore. That's why I keep throwing up; even the steak didn't stay down. When the hunger came, I could feel it coming back up, so I left the room… I didn't want to hurt any of the townspeople—they're innocents, too. So I had to get real blood the only other way…"

"What the hell is that?" he said, standing quickly.

"I went to the one who made me like this, and fed from his veins."

The incomprehensible lodged in his throat. Irrational jealousy swept through him as he looked at her bite marks; the one by her femoral artery twisted him up the most. She instinctively knew where his gaze had traveled and she tried to hide the wound with her hand. He instantly understood her erogenous zones, and why a kiss at her throat would make her shudder. It was a painful comprehension that carved a section out of his brain. He didn't know how he knew, but he did.

His fist went through the bathroom door and came away bleeding. She swallowed hard, as though the scent were making her salivate. He now understood what she'd been telling him all along. He had some insight into how these things that were hunting her did a blood transaction. He watched her literally pull her blind gaze away from his bloodied fist and begin rocking.

Yet, the more she rocked with tears streaming down her face, the more his pulse points lit with a desire that was nearly beyond his will to fight. Her bottom lip quivered and the sensation made him want to offer her his throat. She pressed her knees together tightly and dropped her head back; he felt the phantom sensation of entering her sweep through his groin so brutally that he had to hold on to the edge of the sink and breathe through his mouth.

"I never meant to hurt you," she said on a choked whisper. "I tried to tell you, tried to warn you that you needed protection… and whatever you're feeling, it wasn't a feeding seduction. I wanted to make love to you for who you are, not for what you have… not for your blood."

A sense of violation spiked his fury, as he bitterly understood that there was a difference between an outright attack, and a seduction to feed. He wanted in the worst way to believe what she'd said, but as he began to hear his own pulse in his ears and she quietly moaned in a way that sent a hard spasm through his groin, he just couldn't.

"You want me to open up a damned vein, Tara? Answer me, now! Is that what you want me to do?" A sob cut off his words. He looked at her as she blindly followed the sound of his voice. "Because if that's what you need, baby… I'll do it—just ask, but you come to me." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Don't ever go to that sonofabitch again!"

He held his skull with his fists. What was he saying! Then he watched her wrap her arms around herself and begin crying so hard that all he could do was turn into the broken door and sob. That was when he knew he'd spend the rest of his life hunting down these demons. He'd devote his existence to wiping every one of them from the face of the planet. They'd taken the only thing from him that really mattered, and he was helpless to do anything for her but bring her to some old Indian medicine men in the hills. He pounded on the door and pushed away from it. He refused to give her up without a fight. This was war.

"Listen to me," he finally said, collecting himself. "If you rest by day, will you have enough strength to ride at night?"

She nodded and covered her face with her hands for a moment, then put them in her lap. "But only if I have blood." She gazed in his direction. "But it's not safe for you. My mother allowed me to drink from her when I first went into the fever. Then she and a small group went after these creatures, and…" Her voice trailed off. "She was killed. I can't have something like that on my conscience. I can't have it happen to you. You have to believe that you mean more to me than that."

Rider walked out of the bathroom and yanked on his jeans and his boots, then glanced at his pocketknife. She'd warned him; that was true. She could have ripped out his entire throat last night—he wouldn't have cared—and yet she never even broke his skin. Instead she'd gone to the one who had made her, rather than put him in harm's way.

Half of his brain told him to make a run for it. He paused, catching sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser. He saw the places where she'd bitten him but found no evidence of puncture wounds. He touched his throat, remembering the loving caresses she'd placed there, how she'd pulled away every time—unlike him. He hadn't been able to control himself nearly as well. Perhaps she'd been more responsible than him?

He picked up his knife and slowly walked back to the bathroom with it. He flicked it open with a quick flip of his wrist.

"What are you doing?" she asked, shivering.

"I'm feeding you," he told her, his voice quiet and strained as he made a fist.

She shook her head no and tried to stand. "If I take it right from your vein, I'll infect you, too. That's why I tried so hard not to all last night." Her voice had come close to hysteria. "Please. Don't."

"Then I'll bleed it into a plastic cup," he said without emotion, taking one off the sink and pumping his fist. "You'll sleep in here so the daylight doesn't hurt you. I'll stand watch at the door. I'll give you the blankets off the bed. But as soon as night falls, we ride."

He ignored her tears as he made the cut, and couldn't look at her as the slow oozing color trickled from his wrist and made almost too loud slats into the plastic cup. He wrapped a used towel around his wrist and put the cup into her shaking hands. He left the bathroom as she brought it to her lips. He couldn't see for the tears as he swept up the blankets and sheets and pillows. The smell of her and them and their lovemaking made him bury his face in the bed linens. If she didn't come back from this, he'd die for her, for sure. He couldn't even think about it. He simply went back into the bathroom, made a small pallet on the floor, and turned off the light as he shut the door.

For the remainder of the afternoon, he made bullets, then dozed with his gun on his lap. As soon as the sun set, he heard the shower go on, but didn't flinch. His mind and soul were so weary that he just glanced up at her slowly when she came out and put on her jeans.

They packed only what was necessary. She reminded him to bring his guitar. At first, he tensed when she wrapped her arms around him after climbing on the bike, then he relaxed. This was still Tara, the woman he loved, an innocent who had been infected.

He was committed to her for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. All he had to do was get her down Route 666 in New Mexico to where the Navajo knew what to do. That's what he kept telling him-self as he crossed the border into North Texas. That's what he told himself as he found a place to hide her before dawn. That's what he told himself when he became very afraid.

But each day was worse than the one before. It took more blood to rouse her, more effort to wake her at sunset. She was always cold now, her complexion always gray. By the time he hit the edge of the reservation lands, she could barely hold on to him as they rode, she was so weakened.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the first house he saw, but he didn't speak the old men's language and they just shook their heads. Dogs backed away. The old men sighed, and an elderly woman walked down the dusty path speaking in urgent unintelligible phrases.

Rider looked into her dark, leathery face, searching her deep brown eyes.

"I don't speak Navajo," he said, his voice breaking, but he held Tara close with one arm and dug into his jeans pocket and produced the paper she'd once given him.

The old woman shook her head and called out. A young boy no more than five or six appeared. Rider looked from the child to the elderly woman, confused, but desperate enough to try to learn whatever he could.

"She says her grandma moved to higher ground. Arizona."

The old woman said more words that Rider couldn't decipher while the child listened intently to her. Then the boy looked up at Rider.

"She left something for you and her." The child pointed to Tara's limp body. "Knew a guardian would protect her. Said a bad wind was coming." Then the child ran away.

"Where in Arizona?" he shouted to the old woman before him. Frustration and terror were making his ears ring.

She walked away slowly and met the young boy and took something dangling from his hands. Then she shuf-fled back unhurried and looped a small leather pouch over his neck and one over Tara's.

Rider stared down at what was given him. It was a leather pouch on a long tether that had some type of herbs and sandy-feeling stuff inside it. The outside of the bag around his neck had silver and turquoise pieces interspersed with long eagle feathers, short hawk feathers, and what looked like some sort of animal tooth. On his there was a jade cross, on Tara's there was a silver medicine wheel with turquoise and jade stones set in it. He almost cried. He'd ridden hard for all those miles for an asafoetia bag? This was bullshit. The child gave him a crumpled-up piece of paper with the new address on it and he tucked it away, then brushed Tara's forehead with a kiss.

Without a word, he trudged back to the first house where the old men were sitting on the porch, produced a twenty-dollar bill and pointed to the dilapidated truck in the road and toward his bike.

"Where's the nearest medical center? A doctor?"

One of the old men chewed his pipe, stood slowly and simply walked down the steps toward the truck with a sigh, waving away Rider's money.

"How bad is she, Doc?" Rider said, clasping Tara's hand and brushing her hair away from her forehead, and then looking into a pair of old, wise blue eyes.

"There's probably some type of acid in that thing they put around her neck, the way it's burning her chest," the doctor said with disgust. He lifted it away from her skin with two fingers, exposing a large red blister between her breasts. "Take it off her and give it back to her family. Superstition drives me nuts with these people." He raised Tara's lids and looked at her dilated pupils and roughly took the bag off, thrusting it toward Rider. "What's she on?"

"Nothing. She has a blood disease," Rider said carefully, accepting the bag and putting it in his vest pocket. The wise eyes were failing him; total defeat had a stranglehold on him. This man didn't understand.

The doctor's eyes met his. "Do you think I'm crazy?" he snapped, pointing at the holes in her flesh and then at Rider's wrist bandages. "For the love of Christ, what's she shooting up on with you? If you want her to come out of this coma, you're gonna have to come clean and stop playing games and help us. Time is of the essence, young man!"

"I don't know what it is," Rider told him honestly. "But can you give her a blood transfusion, or something, to bring her back?"

"We're gonna give her a pint, because she's obviously anemic, then run some blood tests to determine what's in her system. She might be borderline OD, or have some sort of viral staph infection, or hepatitis from using dirty needles… but I've never seen injection sites so large. It looks like she was shooting up with a ballpoint pen."

He swished away from Rider, ordering the blood work and telling the nurses to give Tara a blood pint, and to keep her hydrated with an IV drip while on oxygen.

"Why don't you go have a drink and sit this one out?" a nurse said offhandedly, as she came into the room and began studying Tara's chart, but not looking at Rider when she spoke. "If she passes, does she have any next of kin?"

He just stared at the short, squat woman who had cold gray eyes. "I'm all she's got," he said just below a whisper.

"Fine job you did taking care of her." The nurse shut the chart with a snap. "How old is she?"

"Eighteen," he said, staring out the window.

"You two married?"

"No."

"Then you ain't next of kin." The nurse sighed with impatience. "You got insurance?"

He shook his head and dug into his pocket, producing two hundred dollars.

The nurse looked at him hard and accepted the bills, handing him back fifty dollars. "Put some gas in your tank and ride to wherever the hell her family is and go git 'em. That won't even cover the blood work, but by law, since she came in here under emergency conditions, we can't turn her away—even if she's a wetback."

"I'll go make more money and cover the bill. Just give her the best." He looked at the small form lying prone in the bed. "She has a grandmother that I have to go find. The old woman doesn't have a phone." He dug in his vest pocket and thrust the crumpled paper at the nurse. He'd already burned the new address into his memory.

"What's Tara's last name?"

He stared at the indignant woman before him and then headed toward the door. "Ma'am, I don't truly know."

A bad wind was coming, that was no lie. He knew it as soon as he'd put Tara on a gurney and the white coats had taken her away. But they were hooking up blood to her arm when he'd left—that was all he could do. At least she was somewhere safe, where there were professionals, where there weren't dust and rain and things that slithered in the night. Unshed tears stung the back of his throat and mixed with Jack Daniel's as he sat at the local bar, oblivious to the music, the crowd, everything.

Time had been his enemy. If he'd had more time, he would have sat out on a porch with her and brushed her lovely hair in the moonlight. If he'd had more time, he would have used his hands to build her that cabin she'd told him she'd dreamed about… the one in the woods, decorated with her people's art, the ancient ones. And still, time was preciously slipping away just like he could feel she was. The gun in his waistband felt so heavy. He'd have to go get her before morning, before the sun started to blister her beautiful brown skin, or blind her for good. But once he'd delivered her to what he thought was a medical sanctuary, time had sped up as the professionals around her slowed down, searching for answers that no one had.

A familiar voice laughed loudly and made him turn around on his stool easy. Crazy Pete was walking in the door with Snake and the rest of the gang, missing five. Rider stood slowly, trying to allow his mind to catch up to the images. He'd seen one of them die, and after what he'd been through, he knew the rest of them had died, too. He could now identify that metallic taste on the back of his throat. It was the smell of living death. Eyes that knew his met him, and heads nodded with sly recognition. He carefully set down his money for the bartender and glanced around for an alternate exit. As soon as he looked back toward the main entrance, they were gone.

The medical center stabbed into his temple. He moved toward the front door so fast that he nearly took out a waitress who'd been carrying drinks. He dashed toward his bike and then stopped as the shadows moved. Snake stepped out of the darkness with Crazy Pete, then Razor, and Bull's Eye, until his old squad formed a ten-man horseshoe ring around him.

"You left us, Rider," Snake said, his eyes glowing. "Thought we was going all the way to the limit, one gang, one road?"

"Plans changed," Rider said, the muscle in his draw arm twitching.

"There's only one way to save her, man," Crazy Pete said. "Don't knock it, till you've tried it."

It was reflex, not a thought. The light caught Pete's fang and made it glisten, Rider unloaded his revolver dead aim. Pete, Razor, Snake, center-of-the-skull hits, exploding them into ash and cinders. Two more of his boys lunged from either side, and took a bullet in the center of their chests on a quick pivot shot. Rider immediately spun, the hairs on the back of his neck registering the slightest movement, and he caught Bull's Eye mid-flight as he came down, burning.

"He's got that shit hanging on his chest. Don't reach for him, he's poisoned," one of the remaining creatures said, nodding toward the bag around Rider's neck. "Later, we'll settle up."

Later indeed. Rider was still pulling the trigger as they disappeared. Instantly he heard commotion behind him and knew it was time to ride. There were no bodies, just ash and the distinct smell of burning remains. He was gone before anyone could get a good look at him or his bike, and way before the sheriff's sirens ever sounded.

He reloaded his weapon and sat by her side all night, intermittently arguing with the authorities about at least allowing her to be in a dark room before morning came. Then security ushered him to the door with a brawl that drew the sheriff. He had one option: be cool, or do a night in a cage.

But all of that was for naught when the doctor came out and shook his head at dawn. Rider looked up. He was so defeated that he couldn't even cry. The only thing that made it all right was that they finally let him go in and see her. And she seemed so peaceful, like a sleeping baby. Her color was back, her beautiful eyes were shut, long black lashes dusting her high cheeks. Her once-agonized expression had disappeared as her facial muscles relaxed when she'd passed. He stroked her hair and it was velvet again.

"I'm so sorry that we ran out of time." He put his head on her chest and closed his eyes, hoping that she'd heard his whisper.

"We found something that we've never seen," the doctor said, his tone subdued. "There were no drugs in her system, and we'll have to send her work up to the Centers for Disease Control. If you can make contact with her family, they may have to wait for the body until we can determine that what she's carrying wasn't communicable."

"It wasn't," Rider said hoarsely. "Something bit her—that's the only way you can get what she had." He kept his back to the doctor as he drew away from her and just stared down at his heart—her.

Tears ran down his nose and splattered her face, and he kissed her so gently as he said a private goodbye in his mind. He branded her peace-filled expression into his memory, then stepped back, sucked in a ragged breath, and brushed past the people who wouldn't listen.

He rode hard and wild. The promised Texas rains did come and they also pelted New Mexico, but that didn't stop him. He found the Arizona door that had the number he was looking for in Sedona. He knocked hard and dragged on a cigarette and waited.

A striking woman with silver hair opened it. She could have been Tara's body double with wrinkles and an additional fifty pounds. He looked at her hard and cast away the smoldering butt with fury balled into his fists. The tears glittering in her eyes only made him angrier.

"I brought her to you!" Those were the first words out of his mouth. "But you moved and left her!" He thrust the medicine bag that had been around Tara's neck into the old woman's hands. "What about her destiny?"

The woman before him nodded and tucked the bag into her blue calico apron. The color of it nearly made him sob.

"She fulfilled her destiny," she murmured. "I didn't have the heart to tell the child what it was. Even my own daughter wouldn't listen, and tried to intervene… I lost her, too."

"What are you talking about?" he yelled, a sob catching in his throat as he opened his arms.

"The Ojibwa as far away as Wisconsin said the time is near when the rivers run with poison and the fish are no longer fit to eat. Each clan has their own version of the legend, all the ancient peoples know the truth. We Cherokee have a version. The stories are different, but the message is the same. The time is now. For fifty thousand years before the invaders came, there was harmony, and—"

"What the hell does that have to do with Tara and me!"

She continued to hold him in a calm, tender gaze. "Her destiny was to make you a warrior so that you can guard the Great Huntress. Every destiny is intertwined and woven together in the grand loom. Hers was to make you see your worth, your gift, and to show you the undead… and to make you understand how that beast functions so you can fight it one day for the Neteru as a part of that family… and yes, what I told her was true. She showed you the power of love, of hope, of faith in things unseen but known. Tara was your soul mate, but her destiny was to heal you and then leave you. Her purpose was to guide you to your destination, not to be your destination. Hers was an honorable sacrifice. She will be remembered as a guardian, too. Her body will never go to ash in the sun like the others. She was stolen. But I knew that by the time she got to New Mexico, it would already be too late. That's why we moved to higher ground to await you. Your purpose has just begun. Go to Los Angeles and play your guitar."

Tara's grandmother's calm acceptance of fate tore him to shreds on the porch.

"Don't you understand—she was my Neteru. She was my family. She was my breath. There is no other." He turned and walked away, headed down the steps. "She was my purpose, and the only one I'll ever guard," he said quietly. Right now, he couldn't even breathe.

"When she comes to you again, put her soul at peace. They gave her blood in the hospital and she died. They will never understand, but you must. She will come to you because she loves you so."

He looked over his shoulder as he walked off the last step, but stopped and turned around. He couldn't take another minute of this crazy talk. Tara was dead and had never transformed into the creatures he'd seen. He flung the admission paper from the hospital on the ground. "You can get her body and bury it in hallowed ground. They wouldn't let me have it. I never got a chance to do the honorable thing and marry her like I'd wanted to. I'm not her next of kin."

The old woman nodded but didn't go near the paper as it blew away. "Remember the young boy who gave you my address?"

"Yeah. So?"

"His name is José Ciponte. Remember it. His grandfather gave you a lift to the doctor's. There are no accidents, no coincidences." She sighed and wiped her eyes. "If you ever encounter… if you should wake up one morning and the sun hurts your eyes, come to me, or the boy—during the day."

She left him standing in her front yard and went into the house, but left the door open.

One day's ride, and he was already out of gas. What did it matter, anyway, at this point? His plan was simple: hustle up a few dollars doing odd jobs, twenty dollars here, ten dollars there, sit in the town library and read as much as he could about this thing called a vampire… find a little hallowed earth to ring him and sleep in the wilderness. He didn't need food, just a bottle of Jack a day. Maybe God would be merciful and let him die of alcohol poisoning before he got to L.A.

By the third night stuck in the same sleepy town, the only thing that kept him sane was refining that song that he couldn't get out of his head. He didn't even look up when he heard a twig snap. If it was the rest of his old gang coming to settle a score, so be it. He had questions he wanted to ask them, anyhow, before he died.

"You're still playing," a soft female voice said.

He looked up fast but set his guitar aside slowly. He was on his feet in seconds, but then noticed that she stayed just beyond the ring. Tears of recognition stung his eyes and he swallowed them thickly, then went to the ring and opened a small path in it with his boot. He took off the bag that he always wore and cast it near his guitar.

"Don't do that," she said quietly, her eyes glittering in the firelight. "I've crossed over."

He nodded. "I know. I don't care."

"You always said that… and I'd always tell you that in the morning, you would." She smiled at him and shook her head, the tears in her eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

He stared at her as she backed away and he came outside the ring. "I've missed you so much that at times I've stopped breathing."

She stood very, very still. "I've missed you, too. More than you'll ever know."

For a moment they said nothing, then she came to him and placed both hands on his chest, but wouldn't let him hug her. Old desire fused with new desire, but it was all so fragile they handled it like fine china—too delicate to grasp tight. So they set it down easy between them and waited.

"You feel warm," he said, but wouldn't ask how that could be. He knew the answer, and left it alone. They were beyond that. It didn't matter.

"You have to stop smoking," she murmured, then inhaled deeply, coughed and spat.

He could feel where she touched him burn and then go cool.

"The addiction is gone. I love you and want you to live a long time."

"Don't take all of my human shortcomings away," he said with a sad smile, and traced her cheek. She was still so beautiful and gentle, no matter what she'd become.

"I didn't," she said, smiling. "I left Jack Daniel's alone."

"And the other one?" he asked, moving closer to her.

"I don't have a cure for that… we share that addiction."

"Good." He lifted her hair off her shoulders and stared into her deep brown eyes. "I'm going to build that cabin just how you wanted it. Might take me years, but it will be there for you… hallowed earth in a horseshoe, the front door never closed to you. Even if you only come there once a year on that date we met, I could live with that… just knowing you would be there." He brought his face closer. "I love you, Tara."

"I have to go."

He shook his head no. "You once asked me to make it last forever, now I'm asking you to do the same thing." He held her gaze and swallowed away the building emotion. "Don't leave me, because I can't ever leave you."

"I've never turned anybody into what I am… and if I do that to an innocent—"

"First off, I'm not just anybody. Second, as you know, I'm not so innocent. My choice." He kissed her gently, then deepened it, and scored her throat to make her gasp. "Don't you miss this? It's only been three nights away from you, and I feel like I'm dying… I'm not even counting all those days you were sick." He murmured against her temple as his hands slid down her arms and found her waist. "Without you, I'm already the walking dead. Can't you tell?"

Her fingers trembled as they touched the thick stubble at his jaw. "You still have the address that's just one day's ride from here?" she asked, nuzzling his neck as she melted against him.

"Yeah… your grandmother left the door open for me. So let's not lie to ourselves, or make promises about pulling out… how about if we compromise and just make it last all night."

She sat on the porch with an old man her age and a young boy, all three of them looking down the road. She stood calmly with effort as she heard the motorcycle before she saw it. She squinted against the sun; today was a very good day. Her dear friend chuckled as he hoisted the child off his lap and chewed the end of his pipe. He craned his neck but held the child's hand tightly.

"Today," he said in English to the boy, "we will learn how to heal a broken heart, and take out undead poison."

They said nothing as a young man with a black vest brought his bike to a wobbling stop and fell bleeding in the front yard dust. The threesome looked at the puncture holes in his neck, unfazed.

"The lost guardian is back," the old woman said with a chuckle and proceeded down the steps to collect the wounded. "And so it begins."

EPILOGUE

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS LATER… PRESENT DAY

He took his time lathering his face with the barber's brush, then brought the straight razor to his throat, willing away the erotic sensation that was always there. Some things just took time and patience, or a man could get himself nicked. He listened to the lather make hard plops against the porcelain sink, but kept his focus on the razor as he removed the last of the blond and gray stubble from his jawline, then watched it all go down the drain as he turned on the tap. He bent and splashed his face with water and stood slowly, his eyes meeting the mirror, searching for the ones behind him in the master bathroom that were never there. Force of habit. Some things a man could never forget.

Everything still reminded him of her.

He dried his face and went into the next room, and glanced at the jade cross on his bedroom dresser, then touched the long eagle feather and short hawk feathers on the leather cord that held it. Spring always had the same effect on him, made him want to rush. But not today. He would take his time.

Rider went over to the wall-length mirrored closet and stepped into the spacious mini-chamber as he slid back the door and found a collarless black silk shirt, his black suede jacket, and pulled down a pair of black boot-cut jeans along with the Indian braided leather belt he only wore once a year. His custom-made Navajo black cowboy boots had already been polished. It was near time to ride.

He could hear the others moving about in the compound as he dressed, preparing to go into the studios to rehearse. Not today. He picked up his shoulder holster that held his old .357 and put it on after he buttoned his shirt. This was a process. A state of mind that required his total concentration. Getting ready always was. This was something the average human couldn't understand.

Rider ran a natural-bristle brush through his short hair, appraised himself with one glance, and put on his jacket. Checkbook in hand with the letters, he headed for the kitchen. He walked down the long corridor trying to keep his hands from trembling.

Thankful that there was no one else in the room, he sat at the huge oak picnic-length table of the guardian compound and finished writing out three checks; one destined to go to his mother, another his annual anonymous five-digit tithe to Bible Tabernacle in Oklahoma, and one destined to go to the woman who'd saved his life—Tara's grandmother. He sealed the letters with the checks inside them, gently tucking them away in his jacket pocket, then put on his black aviator sunglasses and headed down the hall to the music studio within the paramilitary-like complex.

"I won't be at practice tonight, gang. See you all Monday," he said in a somber tone, not fully entering the room. "I need to make a run."

Six sets of eyes looked at him and slowly put down their instruments. The one person he knew would protest was instantly on her feet. He just smiled. She was young, and had yet to begin to fathom how deep life and death could be. She wasn't even twenty-one, wouldn't be till summer, and was going to try to boss him. He could smell the fight coming. And she wasn't but an itty-bitty thing, trying to put her chin up to make herself seem taller, dark brown eyes blazing with frustration, long brown locks dancing at her shoulders as her head bobbed from side to side with her around-the-way-girl, East Side L.A. style… Was fussing at him like the daughter she'd become to them all. He knew her protest stemmed from love and worry. So he waited, with strained patience, knowing he'd been like her once. Uninitiated.

"Jake Rider, I'm serious. You are not getting on that motorcycle, gone for an entire weekend, without a way for us to get in touch with you. We've got this new CD to cut, a U.S. tour… might even get to go to Europe soon, if we play our cards right. At least take one of the fortified Hummers. And none of us deals with the night alone to risk a possible vampire attack. Ever. House rules."

"I'll be all right," he said, "just wanted you to know I was leaving so you wouldn't panic." This wasn't up for a vote; he was out. No convoy. This was a solo mission. Group consensus still sucked, even after all these years.

She glanced around the group for support, but found none from the older members of the team. Big Mike saluted him, José just gave him a cool nod, J.L. got up and stretched, Shabazz simply pounded his fist and started tuning his bass. Marlene stared at him, her wise, older-seer eyes appearing amused by the power struggle.

"Okay, now you're making me pull rank, Rider. As the Neteru," she said, putting her hand on her hip, "it's my job to make sure that all guardians make it through the night. Going up into the hills to wherever, alone, is crazy."

"Yep," he said, walking away.

"Yo, Damali, he's cool," José said. "It's something our brother has to do, you feel me?"

She sat down on a studio stool, hard. "I'd just feel better if he took more than that old Smith and Wesson when he went. The man isn't even strapped with a Glock, and won't wear a cell phone to save his life!"

Rider chuckled as he left Damali fussing and walked out into the bright, late afternoon sun. Freedom. It was an inalienable right that defied the requirement to explain.

He got on his old bike, and stomped down hard. His antique black and silver girl was still beautiful after all these years. He took good care of her, like he'd always promised himself he would. One day the young kid he was guarding would really understand what something like this was all about… she'd learn how to stop time for a moment and would appreciate the gift that that was.

The sound of the chopper became one with his pulse. Damali might be this era's Neteru, but there had definitely been one before her, to his mind. Her name was Tara. Only she didn't get to blow up the music charts with their band, Warriors of Light, or become a part of the nightly vampire-hunting team. Was a damned shame, but that was life. There was a pair of eyes missing from the group. The old Cherokee woman and her Creek partner had said seven were supposed to guard the Neteru. It still hurt his soul that it wasn't Tara's beautiful brown eyes begging him not to leave the compound.

But he chucked all that aside. Fate was what it was. The Native Americans had taught him to finally accept that.

Total freedom claimed him as the wind caught his jacket and whipped his clean-shaven face, but the helmet felt like an unnecessary black and silver anvil on his head. Long gone was his ponytail. The gray at his temples made some things passé. That, too, was fate. Time stopped for no man, that's why it was to be revered. Respected.

Everything from his era had changed, too… all the laws, even the women, unprotected sex could now kill you… drugs were no good—he didn't mess around anymore. It was too dangerous, worse than vampire hunting. Some things were worse than dying. He remembered telling Crazy Pete that with change came progress. Maybe he was wrong about a few things. But hey, what could he do? Too late to admit that truth to the bastard.

Rider kept his eyes on the road, wondering if the Ojibwa and Cherokees had been mistaken. Would there be anything left for seven generations to inherit after the people of peace took it all back?

Congested highways gave way to side roads, then narrow one-lane paths. Springtime was beautiful in the hills. He loved the way the grasses smelled, and as the scent of wild lavender caught him he almost sighed out loud. Heaven on earth. He found his private entrance to his secret property and rode a while, then stopped and parked his bike by his favorite tree by the lake.

It was a twenty-four-year old Indian redwood sapling that he'd put in as soon as he'd acquired the land, something that would live for at least a hundred years or more, like her. He crossed the ring of hallowed earth and knelt by it to say a quiet prayer, and then rearranged the bits of silver and jade and turquoise stones that formed a horseshoe border of hallowed earth in the mulch around its base. Maybe one night he'd finally have it within him to scatter her ashes by the tree that stood proud between his porch and the lake… just let her go free on a breeze… But not tonight. Some things took time to accept.

So he also took his time going up the front path of his cabin, trying to quell the nervous anticipation that ran through him on this same date every year. His gaze roved over the wide pine porch that he'd laid down by hand, one plank at a time… a twenty-year labor of love… a shrine to a memory, a promise kept the moment his money got right—the sacred place that still housed his old acoustic guitar and every bittersweet memory of her. His assortment of new electric Fenders could never replace the original, any more than a slew of flashy women on the concert trail could replace her.

Dead leaves were on the steps, and those had to be swept away, lest they'd blow across the hallowed-earth horseshoe from the sides and back of the house. The front path had to stay clear. Always. That, too, had been his promise, his superstition. It would be hours before sunset, and he'd have enough time to build a fire, light some candles, and go find his old acoustic guitar and relax, if that were possible. He just wished his old girl were there, too. Yeah, some things just took time to accept… it was a process.

Everything else, however, was just as he'd left it. He opened the door and punched in the alarm code, disgusted that he even needed such contraptions. But this was the new millennium. Indeed, much had changed.

Hours passed as he sat in a handmade oak rocker outside, tuning his axe, listening to the fire crackle through the screen, no porch light on, the fireflies enough for him. The rose-orange sun lit the lake; wild lavender from the flower beds along the front of the house and burning wood from the fireplace inside had enveloped him deep in thought, just like the music his hands softly stroked had. He listened to the crickets and the frogs, remembering the beauty the night held.

Where are you? he wondered. His hands coaxed her from his guitar, conjuring her from his memory using the one song that he'd never played for another living soul.

"You've gotten better each year," a soft voice said in the front path of the house.

He stopped playing and set his guitar down carefully, watching her materialize out of vapor as she walked toward him.

She signed his name as she came forward, her lush mouth practically breathing his name as she formed it with her graceful hands. "Man with a good heart. I missed you."

"I missed you last year, too," he said quietly and stood. "I thought something had happened to you." She'd worn a simple, elegant black sheath for him tonight. Each year as she matured she almost stole his breath. He signed the words as he spoke them in a soft rush. "I was man with a broken heart when you didn't visit." It was the bare truth, and he couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice when he said it. "Please don't do that to me again."

"We both live a dangerous life," she murmured, walking up the front steps. "There's a new master vampire in this region. I had to lay low, or become a part of his harem."

"Tell me where his lair is, and I'll deal with him like I dealt with that New Orleans problem you once had."

"I don't know where he keeps his main lair. I try to stay away from him, and don't even know his name. I'm low on the list; he has enough second- and third-generation females to keep him occupied before he senses me," she said quietly. "He hasn't called for me, yet." She let the last part of her statement hang in the air between them, trying to send him what that meant with her eyes; she hadn't violated their union. There was no one but him.

He knew it was irrational, but part of him was relieved and another part of him was offended. Tara was low on the list? And the word "yet" just jacked with his nerves.

"I'ma kill the bastard. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "But don't go after him alone."

"If he calls for you before I get to him, let me know. You might even make me get old-fashioned and pick up a crossbow for him, sugar."

"He's not a third- or fourth-generation like me, he's the real deal. Dracula era. Promise me you'll let this situation be. They say he is literally the fallen night."

Rider chuckled and cradled her face with his palm. "Remember, me and Mike did New Orleans during Mardi Gras, baby. Two-by-two detail; quick assassinations, then we were out. Don't worry. I'll be all right."

"I know, Rider, and thank you for everything. You didn't even have to do that. But to go after a master is something altogether different…"

"He made me miss my annual checkup," he said, grinning and warming to her stare. "The situation is personal now. The SOB has to go."

"Just be careful, honey. You're not as young as you used to be."

"Duly noted." Rider nodded and he could feel his smile fade as her hand touched the hair at his temple. Her gentle caress always had the amazing dual effect of relaxing him, yet also burning him. It was the same way with her eyes. "I am getting grayer every year, though. Thought that's why I didn't see you." He covered her hand and then kissed the center of her palm, turning into it, drawn to the irresistible softness of her skin.

"Your music gets better every year… I've been watching the magazines, you guys are hot." She chuckled and ran the ball of her thumb over his wiry eyebrow. "You can definitely shoot better… heard you're doing Glock nine millimeters with a clip when you guys go hunting these days. I'm impressed." She watched him remove his shoulder holster and drop his gun on the porch. "Everything you do has gotten better," she whispered, her voice becoming husky as he cast away the weapon that contained hallowed-earth shells. "Age brings refinement and finesse."

"But you were the first one who taught me how to load hollow-point shells," he said, closing the gap between them. "You're my first and only love. Time can't change that."

He coveted her smile and could tell that the honest admission meant a lot to her. "And twenty-four years have worn very well on you… you don't look a day over eighteen," he whispered, brushing her mouth and allowing his hands to slide down to her shoulders. "I also like what you've done with your hair," he added, filling his palms with her shorter, shoulder-length curls. He wondered what surprise she had for him under the black sheath. Two years ago she'd blown his mind with a white lace thong and garter combo. He never could tell what mysterious manifestation she'd gift him with.

She kissed him long and slow and wet and pulled back to look at him.

"I swear I feel twenty-one again when I'm with you, Tara."

"You always will be, to me… that way. Don't you know that by now?"

"Yeah," he said, chuckling as he draped his arm over her shoulder and led her into the house. He turned her to face him in front of the fire, loving the way it made her skin glow. "But I'm getting to be an old man. One night, you're going to have to fix that."

"Not tonight, though." She nuzzled his neck and enjoyed the light shudder it produced. "You've still got a lot of work left to do. Stop trying to seduce me."

"I've got Jack Daniel's in here… and in my system. Still got your grandmother's address. Even have an in-house guardian seer now, who's so good she detoxed my compound road dawg after he'd been to New Orleans with me on a hunt—although I do try to keep Marlene out of our business. So… you wanna talk about my retirement options over a drink?" He nipped her neck and made her sigh, then offered her his throat.

"Yeah," she said on a deep breath against his neck, "but let's not lock in that option for another twenty years. I'm not going there tonight."

She chuckled and nipped him, but didn't break his skin. "My grandmother is almost ninety-eight years old, and this wouldn't be a first-time-out bite on my first full night in the life. What I'd do to you would be coming from a forty-two-year-old woman… who's missed you terribly for two years—you want to give her a heart attack?"

The naked truth in her statement sent a hard wave of desire through him.

"Damn," he said on a heavy exhale as he nipped her shoulder. "I must be losing my touch."

"Oh, no, I guarantee you, you're not," she whispered, unbuttoning his shirt slowly.

"I keep waiting for you to lie to me, again," he said quietly, breathing in the fragrance of lavender in her hair and kissing her ear. "Keep waiting for you to lose it like you did that one time when we were kids in the woods… keep wanting you to tremble, close your eyes, drop fang… and whisper, 'Trust me, Jake, I'll pull out.' You make me lie to you like that annually, woman." He chuckled against her throat and listened to her swallow hard. "That's not fair."

They both laughed as she pushed him away from her neck, but not far.

"Cut it out," she said, a hint of fang now showing. "You're turning me on, and you know it. That's not fair. Don't dangle the temptation…"

He watched her run her tongue over her teeth and draw a steadying breath. The fact that he still had that effect on her after all these years twisted him in knots. He loved it. "All you have to do is ask…"

"Twenty-four years behind me, with eternity in front of me, has taught me patience," she murmured. "Now stop it, before I lose it and flatline you."

"As always, you're right. With age comes finesse," he said, now breathing through his mouth as he closed his eyes. "But I'm only human… and I love it when you get close to the edge like this. You have definitely perfected the art of patience. I'm still working on it."

It took a moment to stabilize herself. After twenty-four years he still knew how to make her hands tremble at his pulse points. Patience, have mercy; tonight she wasn't sure. She had to stop looking into his hazel eyes. It had been two years too long… if he didn't cut it out, she'd be in his bed every night—a very dangerous option to his destiny. But he wanted her so badly she could feel it through his skin. Hell, she wanted him so badly she was about to pass out.

Creating a diversion from the hunger in his eyes, she kissed down his chest and loosened his belt just to reduce the heat he created within her. But that didn't help much, either: it was supposed to put the whole situation on simmer; instead it had only turned up the flame. Damn… he smelled so good and felt even better. He'd aged very well. That was the last thing he had to worry about. She'd let him know in a way he wouldn't forget, would make sure he had no question that he'd become distinguished, more handsome, sexier. She dragged her nose across his muscular abdomen and felt it contract. She could hear his heart thudding faster as she'd done that, and it made her close her eyes tighter when they'd crossed beneath her lids.

"Let's compromise," she said in a hot whisper against his stomach. "I've perfected a few other things that take time." She looked up at him, pleased at the effect she was having on him. "I've learned how to make one night last forever."

He smiled as another shudder claimed him, thoroughly enjoying the effect he was having on her, just like old times. "Yeah… baby, so have I."