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She switched off the bathroom light and hurried across the floor to the bed. She slipped under the covers, turned off the bedside lamp, closed her eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths.
They would find the cave. They would find the shaman. He would help her with the cure. And everything would be all right.
Santiago loved her… it was her last conscious thought before sleep found her.
The following evening they stopped at a small sporting goods store to buy suitable clothing and footwear for climbing. Santiago had chosen—what else but black, of course. Black T-shirt, black jacket, black pants, black boots. Regan picked a pair of blue jeans, a red T-shirt, a denim jacket, and brown boots. She also bought a pair of white shorts and sneakers in case the weather was warm during the day.
The store also sold groceries. Santiago followed her up and down the aisles. She looked at him inquiringly when he told her to buy enough food for two.
"The extra food is for the shaman," he explained. "It is customary to take a gift when one is asking for a favor."
Regan nodded. That made sense. In addition to the food, Santiago tossed a small sack of tobacco into the cart. "Also a gift."
When the clerk at the check-out counter found out they were going into the Hills, he admonished them to be careful, warning them to be on the alert, not only for wild animals, but also for wild Indians.
"The Sioux don't take lightly to trespassers these days," he said somberly. "It's almost like we're back in the eighteen-hundreds, when a man was putting his life on the line every time he entered Indian territory. I've heard things." He shook his head, then, after looking around to make sure they were alone, he whispered, "There's been some killings up in the Hills. It's all hush-hush, but word gets around, you know?"
"Thank you for the warning," Santiago said.
The man nodded. "You, ah, might want to think about buying a gun, if you don't have one already."
Santiago smiled faintly. "That will not be necessary." Regan already had a pistol. He knew she carried it with her at all times and slept with it tucked under her pillow. The scent of the weapon was a part of her, a very tiny, rather disagreeable part which, perversely, added to her allure. He had never been with a woman who possessed not only the knowledge but also the means to destroy him.
Gathering their purchases, Regan and Santiago left the store.
"Hope to see you again," the clerk called after them.
A sentiment with which Regan heartily agreed.
At the car, Santiago stowed all the food into his backpack, so that all Regan had to carry was her sleeping bag and her extra clothing, and the six candy bars she had added to the cart at the last minute.
"Comfort food," she had told Santiago with a shrug, thinking that on a trip like this one, chocolate was the one thing she didn't want to be without.
Bathed in the light of the moon and stars, the sacred Black Hills rose up from the plains like some mystical mountain of legend. It was here that the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians had roamed for hundreds of years, here that General George Armstrong Custer had found gold, thereby sealing the fate of the Indians who had lived there at the time.
The Hills belonged to the Sioux now, and members of the tribe from all over the world had come home. Large herds of buffalo foraged in the Hills again. Deer and elk grazed in the deep grasses, bears roamed the timbered hills, wolves and coyotes stalked the land, birds nested in the trees, fish filled the rivers and streams, beavers built dams, and the spotted eagle again soared over the tops of the sacred mountains.
Santiago drove as close to the Hills as he could and then he pulled off the road and parked the car. He shouldered his backpack, helped Regan with hers, and started walking.
Regan followed close behind, hoping she could keep up. She considered herself to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. She worked out from time to time, and she jogged around the department track on a regular basis, but she was afraid hiking to the top of the Black Hills was out of her league.
The landscape was beautiful and eerie in the darkness. Regan knew it was her imagination, but as they started their trek up the mountain, she was certain she could feel the spirits of all those who had inhabited the Hills in years gone by hovering nearby. Their voices called to her, muffled by the evening breeze, so that she wasn't sure if the mountain's ghosts were singing a welcome or chanting a warning. She listened to the sounds of the night—the rustle of the leaves on the trees, the lonely wail of a coyote, the cautious hoot of an owl.
Beside her, Santiago swore softly.
"What is it?" she asked.
"The owl," he said, and she heard the faint note of self-mockery in his voice. "The Apache believe the call of an owl is a harbinger of death."
"Maybe he knows there's a vampire nearby," Regan said with a wry grin.
"Perhaps."
"You can't be afraid of dying," she remarked, "since you're already dead."
He looked at her, his eyes glowing like a cat's in the darkness. "But you, my lovely little mortal, are not."
His words sent a cold shiver racing down her spine.
They walked for hours, steadily climbing higher and higher. When Regan grew weary, Santiago carried her. At first, she protested, but then, seeing how effortlessly he managed it, she rested her head on his shoulder and went to sleep.
Santiago gazed down at the woman in his arms. Seeing her, holding her, only seemed to emphasize how empty his life had been. For centuries, he had been content to drift through his existence, always keeping his distance from those around him, never becoming involved in the world or its affairs.
But Regan… there was something about her, an air of strength and vulnerability he found endearing. Of course, it didn't hurt that her skin was smooth and baby soft, or that her body was young and supple, or that her hair was like a shimmering river of gold where it fell over his arm.
He loved her. And he wanted her, wanted her with a single-mindedness such as he had not known since he became a new vampire drunk on the scent and the taste of blood. He ached with wanting her, not just her blood, but her love, as well. How had he existed all these centuries without her? And how would their relationship, new and tenuous as it was, change when she did?
He rubbed his cheek against her hair. No doubt she would make a beautiful wolf.
He walked until he sensed the coming dawn, then searched for a place where Regan could spend the day. He settled on a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. Holding Regan in one arm, he shook off his backpack, then unrolled her sleeping bag and spread it on the ground. He removed Regan's backpack and gently lowered her onto the sleeping bag, drawing half of it over her. When that was done, he dug a pit and laid a fire.
