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Shaman about death, spirits of the dead, and the belief they might one day live again.
    The night of the full moon, after the tribal ceremonies ended and embers were all that remained of their community fire, the Shaman told him stories of the Old One. The white-haired man lived on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. They believed he could delve into the minds and hearts of men. If the Old One found Gregorio worthy, he would bestow on him a new title, and Gregorio would become a member of the tribe.
    The Shaman honored him with his invitation to meet the wise old man and make Gregorio a part of their tribe. But it did little to raise his spirits. A new name, a new life, it didn’t matter. Tala would not be part of it, and his soul would still be empty.
    Each night when he slept, he saw her, held her, tasted her lips, and drank in the sound of her laughter, and each morning when he woke, his loss felt raw.
    He began to hate the sun.
    26 LISA KESSLER

Chapter Three
    Calisto’s eyes fluttered, and he knew the sun had set. His chest rose and fell, breathing even though his body no longer needed the oxygen. His heart beat in a slow rhythm once more.
    After a hot shower, he dressed in jeans and a black, button-down shirt, checking his reflection before heading upstairs to his office.
    Kate’s face haunted him, making it difficult to focus. Sitting behind his large oak desk, Calisto thumbed through the mail Betty left for him, paying more attention to the voices he heard in the night than the envelopes that bore his name.
    The name he used in this lifetime.
    He hadn’t used his real name in centuries. Every few decades, when it became apparent he was not aging, he would drop from sight, usually staging some sort of horrific death that made identifying his body impossible. No one suspected the charred remains weren’t his.
    But with the advancements in crime forensics, his next demise would probably be at sea without a body to recover.
    After a few months away, he would re-establish himself with his new identity, purchase a new home, and begin again. But this time could be different.
    He had remained in San Diego anticipating Tala’s eventual Night Walker 27
    return. Now that he had found her again, they could move away together. He had been Calisto Terana for nearly twenty years now, and he would probably be able to keep this identity even longer if they moved to a new city. If things remained quiet.
    But it was not always quiet. Over the centuries there were people who sought to prove he was not what he seemed. The Fraternidad Del Fuego Santo, the Brotherhood of Holy Fire, still confronted him from time to time. The monks were part of a rogue sect of the Roman Catholic Church, living in the same monastery where he had trained lifetimes ago.
    For decades they attempted to end his immortal existence.
    Righteous fanatical fire burned in their eyes when they confronted him, seeking to kill what they considered an abomination before God.
    He still bore a scar from one of their encounters. His right forearm had an indentation where one of the monks sliced off a chunk of his flesh. As a Night Walker, he healed rapidly, but flesh torn from his body would not regenerate.
    The scar was the closest the Fraternidad had ever come to wounding him. During the last century, their physical attacks were rare, but they still watched him. He sensed their presence at times, heard their thoughts and prayers. While most of the monks kept their distance, unsure how to kill him, every few years an especially righteous warrior would show himself and force an inevitable battle.
    There were times Calisto welcomed the challenge. Anything to break the monotony of an unchanging existence.
    He straightened in his chair, holding a single parchment envelope.
    His name and address were written in a scratched script only achieved through use of a quill, and a single red wax signet sealed the contents inside.
    A signet he had not seen in over 200 years.
    He ran his