Free Crossroads by Jeanne C. Stein

hairbreadth, my mouth still in reach of the prize. If you have something to say, say it.
    Chael releases a breath. I know the way. You think it not possible. You are wrong. I can show you.
    You speak in riddles.
    Then I’ll speak plainly. There is a way for you to become mortal again.

CHAPTER 11
     
    C HAEL FEELS THE INVOLUNTARY SPIKE OF INTEREST that seeps through my thoughts at his words. He smiles. Ah, I have your attention. Will you let me up now? Please.
    I don’t trust Chael. It goes against every instinct to allow him to get back on his feet.
    Still, it’s what I do. Roughly, jerking him up by the collar of his shirt, teeth and fists ready, body poised to pounce again if I detect any aggression.
    Why am I doing this? The little voice in the back of my head says it’s stupid. It has to be a trick. There is no way to go back. No way to become human again.
    Is there?
    It’s that tiny crumb of doubt that allows Chael a reprieve.
    I step away from him. He straightens his shirt, brushes invisible dirt from his slacks. My clothes are grubby but the jacket conceals the worst of the dirt and blood. This affectation is merely for show. As is his comment, I hope your sartorial taste was better as a mortal than it is now. You are filthy.
    Sarcasm? You try my patience, Chael.
    A snort. Is that irony? I imagine you try the patience of most who know you.
    My fists clench, my jaw and shoulders tighten. Every nerve in my body cries out to bring this arrogant bastard to his knees.
    My inner voice comes again. Patience, Anna. There will be time. After he spins his fairy tale. Consequences be damned.
    Speak.
    He finishes his symbolic tidying by running both hands through jet-black hair, smoothing it behind his ears.
    You’re ready to listen?
    I’m ready to rip your head off your scrawny neck if you don’t get on with it.
    He clucks his tongue. No wonder you are bereft of friends. He resumes his place on the couch. He starts to put his feet back on the coffee table, but the snarl that erupts from my throat stops him. He shakes his head and settles back against the cushions instead.
    There is a shaman. He lives here in your American Southwest. He has the power to restore life. He can bring the dead back from the grave. He can restore mortality to the undead.
    Impossible.
    He stares at me, bemused. That is your reply? Impossible ? You have no questions for me? You are not curious why I would come here risking my well-being with a fabricated tale? What would I accomplish with such a foolish act?
    Chael, I have no idea why you do what you do. I do know that you hate me. I can only guess you have prepared a trap. One you think I’ll be foolish enough to fall into. One you think will rid you of me once and for all. You are wrong on both counts.
    He doesn’t react the way I expect—with vehement denial and heated recrimination. Rather he lifts his elegant shoulders. You are right. It would benefit me greatly if you no longer held the position of Chosen One. A position you neither deserve nor understand. But if I wished only to remove you, it could be done in a much more direct way. I could have you killed.
    This is the Chael I recognize. The smile that I force to my lips is cold and menacing. You could try.
    And I would succeed. You are strong. But you have not faced an army of determined vampires. We would lose some, maybe many, but eventually we would prevail. You are not invincible. If the Chosen One were invincible, there would have been only one down through the ages, would there not?
    His bluntness strikes a chord. No one has yet been able to answer the questions I’ve asked myself since learning of my dubious distinction as the head of the Thirteen Vampire Tribes.
    How and why was I chosen? What became of those before me?
    My hesitation gives Chael the opportunity to push on. You have wondered about that yourself, haven’t you? Many of us have. His tone is bitter. If we could figure out the mystery, discover the source who