SARAH DOESN'T LOOK PARTICULARLY HAPPY TO SEE me sitting on her porch, even less happy to see me chatting up her little sister like we're a couple of school chums. But surprisingly, she doesn't lash out. She has car keys ain for sor hand. When she speaks it's with a decidedly resigned air.

"Mary, you and I are going up to the lodge."

Mary raises her eyebrows. "John-John?"

"He's staying." She has pointedly refrained from looking at me. Now she does. "Frey says I can trust you. He'd better be right."

She doesn't wait for me to spout reassurances. She tromps down the porch steps and heads for the truck. Mary gives me a thumbs-up and follows.

Sarah pulls away, her grim face pointed straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel. I half expect the truck to come roaring back and Sarah to wave a wreath of garlic and a stake at me so I wait until even the dust from their abrupt departure has dissipated before figuring it's safe to go inside.

The house is cool and dark. The front door opens to a living area painted stark white. The walls are hung with blankets of intricate design woven in primary colors-red, blue, green, yellow. The furniture is leather, big, built more for comfort than style, kid scuffed. A couch and two overstuffed side chairs cluster around a rectangular table that looks homemade. It's wood, juniper maybe, and polished to a high sheen. Coloring books and crayons and children's games and books are scattered over its surface. In the corner, a loom with a half-finished blanket. The pattern is diamond shaped, strands of yarn trailing to the floor.

In my mind's eye I picture Sarah weaving while John-John colors close by.

It's an image that invokes a strange heaviness in my chest.

A lovely image.

A hint of sandalwood mingles with the aroma of freshly baked bread and the earthy smells of juniper and desert sage.

This is a house that is well loved-again I feel a pang-and it's a house filled with people who love each other. Frey may be the kid's father, but we are intruders.

Maybe I shouldn't have brought Frey. I could have come alone. Made sure his son was safe and found the shaman on my own. Chael knew the location.

Why do I always drag Frey into things that threaten his well-being? I accuse Chael of not doing his homework-I should have done mine. Forced Frey to tell me the story of his son's birth back when I first learned he had a son. But I was too consumed in my own drama, and now look . . .

Should have, could have, would have.

Makes no difference. The damage is done.

From down a short hall, I hear Frey's quiet voice. He's talking to John-John. I don't know whether to join them or not. Guilt at being the cause of the kid's sadness makes me want to flee.

Until I hear the giggle.

John-John's giggle.

I tiptoe toward the sound. There are four doors, two on each side of the hall. The first on the left and right are bedrooms, probably Sarah's and Mary's judging from the vanities and flowered wallpapers. The third door leads to a bathroom. The last is John-John's.

Frey is sitting on the edge of the bed, John-John on his lap. They are looking through a picture book. John-John points to a page and Frey recites in English followed by John-John in Navajo. When Frey attempts the Navajo translation, it sends John-John into squeals of laughter.

At that momeiv now. It was selfishness on my part to want Frey with me on this journey, but it was selfishness on Sarah's part to keep him from his son. I'm glad we're here.

John-John looks up and sees me standing in the doorway. I start to duck away, but Frey calls me back.

"Come on in, Anna. John-John is helping me with my Navajo."

"Are you sure I'm not intruding?"

John-John wiggles off Frey's lap and comes to the door to grab my hand. "Would you like to learn Navajo?" he asks. "I could teach you."

At first, I'm unsure whether to let him touch me. But John-John already has my hand in his little fist. He seems not to notice that my hand has no warmth. At least there's no violent physical reaction the way there was with Sarah. I let him lead me to the bed and hoist him back on Frey's lap, settling myself next to them. "No, no. I'll just listen to you and your daddy. Will that be all right?"

He nods and picks up the book and the two of them take up where they left off, John-John's head bent over the pages and Frey's arms tight around his son.

It's been a long time since I've been around a four-year-old. I'd forgotten how much warmth their little bodies exude or how they smell of clean earth and talcum powder. I snuggle closer just to share in some of that warmth and breathe more deeply of his scent.

Frey and John-John go back to their lesson. I look around John-John's room-very much a boy's room with racing cars and Legos and curtains patterned with galloping horses. A bookcase has three shelves of books and one of pictures. I see only one of Frey. John-John was still a babe in arms when it was taken. I recognize where it was taken, here on the front porch. Did Sarah leave Boston when she found out she was pregnant or right after the baby was born? Did Frey know she was returning to the reservation? Or did she leave without a word, forcing him to track them on his own?

What happened to make her take John-John away from Frey? He's one of the most honorable men I know. And one of the most loving. I can't think of any justification for Sarah's actions. Not when it's so obvious that Frey loves his son.

A child needs both his parents.

I listen to Frey and his son talk and laugh, feeling very much the outsider. This is a relationship that I'll never have-the relationship of parent and child. It's a relationship I never thought I wanted-even before becoming vampire. So why do I feel this sudden emptiness? What has changed?

John-John's sweet laugh makes the answer clear.

Everything.

I hear Chael in my head, echoing my thoughts. All I have to do is choose to become human again and the possibility of having what Frey and his son have becomes real.

I misjudged Chael.

He dangled the right carrot. He'd done his homework after all, the tricky bastard.

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