The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) (4 page)

Miriam set the small brown crock of ointment on the whopping coffee table created from the inner circle of a giant tree trunk. The growth rings rippled out to tell its age—old. And it was riddled with marks and squiggles, giving it a rustic look.

She gestured at the table. “Made of chestnut. Blight wiped out the trees long ago, but left defects in the wood now considered desirable, making the lumber of value. In every bad thing, there is something to cherish. Remember that, Morgan.”

Disquiet stirred in her at the somber reminder. The words seemed spoken especially for her. “All right.”

What else could she reply?

Uncertain what Miriam meant, and not sure she wanted to find out, she ran her gaze over more of the room. It reminded her of a hunting lodge, minus the animal heads she’d expect to find mounted on the walls. Thankful there weren’t any.

Nothing went to waste with the Wapicoli. Everything was crafted from nature. Woven baskets were filled with silvery dried herbs, seed heads, red berries, golden-brown nuts, and balls of yarn in many hues.

Did they raise sheep and shear them for wool? She wouldn’t be surprised. They seemed quite self-sufficient.

Sections of tree trunks with the tops sanded and the gnarled wood polished served as smaller tables and stands. Two of these stood on either side of the handcrafted leather couch that could comfortably seat eight. Here and there, chairs made of vines and bent twigs appeared solid enough to bear the weight of a sizable man.

Deft fingers had been at work everywhere she looked, even with the lighting. All was handmade. Smaller sections of lichen encrusted trunks and shortened limbs acted as candleholders. White wax poured into the holes bored in the center held wicks. Tapered candles also rose from the prongs of antlers fashioned into holders. The candles glowed and flickered in the slight breeze escaping the hearth.

If the lodge was off the grid, did it lack electricity? Maybe the Wapicoli simply preferred this earthy way of life, like a living history museum.

They read, judging from the leather-bound books lining the shelves against the log wall.
The classics
, she guessed. Nothing published in this century, maybe not even the one before that. Probably the works of Dickens and the like.

A large ancient volume caught her eye. Instead of being lodged alongside the others so that only the spine was visible, this book commanded more space and held a place of honor on the wide shelf. Why was it singled out?

Some kind of spell book, maybe. The dark brown cover was embossed with a wolf and a moon. The unintelligible script was penned by hand. Was it written in Shawnee?

Witches on TV favored Latin, like in the
Witches of East End,
and every other show. Whatever language this was, she wondered more about the meaning behind the strange text.

Were the Wapicoli into magic?

Holy Moly
. Maybe Miriam really was a witch.

“Here, drink.” She broke into Morgan’s wild conjectures.

If she noted Morgan’s focus on the book, she made no comment. Rather, she held out a blue pottery mug with herbal tea steaming inside. “This will lessen your pain. It’s steeped from partridge berries, willow, and birch bark.”

Again, she spoke matter-of-factly. The plant names so familiar to Miriam meant nothing to her. The woman could poison her, and she’d never know.

Morgan hesitated.

“I sweetened it with honey,” Miriam coaxed, as if she were a reluctant five-year-old.

“I’m sure it’s delicious.” Not the least bit certain, she took the cup and sipped.

The taste wasn’t too bad. Honey enhanced the wintergreen flavor and diminished the bitterness, she assumed from the bark. She wouldn’t request a refill, but under Miriam’s watchful eye she drained the brew.

Nodding her satisfaction, Miriam collected the cup and basin. “Rest. I shall return later with food.”

Morgan slumped onto the couch. “Thank you.”

“
Megwich
,” Miriam prompted.

“What?”

“Our word for thank you.”

“Oh.
Megwich.
” Was Morgan staying here long enough to learn the lingo?

“
Gitchee
. Good. I’m happy to help you.” Miriam slipped from the room.

Apparently, Morgan would be here more than the day or two she’d expected.
Gitchee
seemed an odd word choice for good, but who was she to debate their language?

She snuggled under the wool blanket Miriam had given her, colored orange, red, and yellow like the autumn forest.
Doggone owl
.

Rather than gaze up into the bird’s unwavering stare, she shut her eyes. No need to ask where Jimmy was. Jackson had conducted the always hungry boy to the kitchen first thing. It adjoined the main room, but seemed farther away because of the vastness of the lodge. In the distance, she detected the endless stream of questions from Jimmy, and Jackson’s patient, at times noncommittal, reply.

No matter how hospitable he and Miriam were, and the instantaneous attraction Morgan felt toward Jackson, there was something odd about this place. Apart from the unsettling thought that she was staying indefinitely, and Aunt M. really ought to be notified, she sensed strange vibes—and not only from all the wolf carvings.

Where had the rest of the family gotten to? Half a dozen were said to reside under this roof: Jackson, his grandmother, father, uncle, aunt, cousin, and grandfather. Apparently, other family members came and went like a sort of commune. How was it all of them except Miriam were out? If any remained within these walls, they were exceedingly quiet.

At this hour of the day, most people gathered for supper or ate fast food in front of the TV. The Wapicoli didn’t strike her as the sort to be delayed at soccer practice or piano lessons, plus it was remote here. Too dark to be out firing arrows at thunderbirds.

What the heck were those things, anyway? Some kind of Native American dragon? What else lurked in these woods?

Maybe Vikings weren’t as farfetched as she’d thought.

Easy
.
Rest now
, a voice seemed to whisper.

Must be in her head. Troubling questions dimmed as the dull ache eased. The herbal brew must’ve worked its magic.

Magic was the word for Wapicoli Lodge. If such a thing were real. She’d never thought so until, maybe, this moment…

Exhaustion overcame her and she dozed off, stirring drowsily at the sense of a shadow passing by the couch.

Was the owl on the wing? If so, he glided silently by.

No
! She was so tired. Praying he didn’t peck her, she tugged the blanket over her head and fell back to sleep.

How long she slumbered, she didn’t know. She roused again at the sensation of being watched. That dratted bird had better not be perched over her, waiting to pounce.

Sliding the blanket below her chin, ready to jerk it back in an instant, she scanned the room.

Nothing and nobody
.

The owl roosted on the beam, head tucked between its shoulders. Asleep. No threat from him. Still, the eerie impression lingered that she wasn’t alone. She’d prefer to think the sensation emanated from the bird.

It didn’t.

“Anyone there?” she asked, immediately kicking herself.

This was what the airheads venturing down into dark cellars said—right before they were set upon and murdered. TSTL, too stupid to live, she and Jimmy termed them, and yet, how readily she’d blurted it out.

No reply came to her ditzy question. Attackers in dark cellars never answered either, though. They just acted. She didn’t actually expect to be killed but couldn’t shake the feeling of an unseen presence.

Good, or bad?
Tingles ran to the end of her hair follicles and her scalp prickled.

Not great.

She swiveled her head and peered at the room. The fire wasn’t as bright as before. The hungry flames needed to be fed more wood from the pile stacked at the side of the hearth. Candles burned low and shadows were long, though not the one she’d sensed before. Or now.

Oh, crap. Don’t let this place be haunted!

She’d never seen a ghost before and didn’t want to start now, especially not in this room.

Where was everyone?

Afraid to move, she hugged the blanket like a protective cover. The voices in the kitchen were muted, and Jimmy’s no longer chimed among them. Had he gone to bed, wherever bed was in this lodge for the ten-year-old boy? She’d like to be sure.

Jackson’s voice was so low she strained to hear him, and she’d been credited with nearly extra sensory hearing. ‘Like a bat,’ according to Aunt M.

“I’m determined to help her, Grandma. She needs us,” he said.

“And we’re helping her, but you know the rules. Your grandfather must decide what is best to be done.”

“Will Okema tell her?”

“Not everything. Not at first,” Miriam replied. “She isn’t ready.”

“I wanted to tell her something, but…” he trailed off.

“You didn’t know where to begin,” Miriam finished for him.

“Yeah. She’s clueless.”

Morgan’s gut twisted in knots. They must be discussing her, but why? They didn’t even know her. Did they?

“She has a lot to learn.” That was Jackson again.

“I expect you are a willing teacher,” Miriam observed. “If your grandfather agrees.”

“Okema must.”

The emotion in Jackson’s voice, assuming he referred to Morgan and his grandfather, moved her. Jackson was an ally and one she would need, though she had no idea why.

“Okema will do as he will do. It has ever been thus,” Miriam answered.

“But this girl is different, and she has little time,” Jackson argued.

What the heck?
Had Morgan heard him right? Maybe she was still out of it from the bump on her head.

Again, the overpowering impression of unseen eyes. She glanced up. The owl stared back, awake now. It must be the bird unsettling her.
Must be
. And yet—

“Morgan Daniel.”

She jerked at the commanding voice and looked down. Then froze, staring.

An older warrior sat before her on a chair. He might be seventy or a hundred. She wasn’t sure. A timelessness hung about him, and a bluish-white aura. Morgan knew at once it was an aura, even though she’d never been aware of them before.

Long snowy hair flowed over his buckskin coat to his waist. Three golden feathers fluttered from the two white braids knotted together at the top of his head. The silvery eyes in his lined face were unlike any she’d ever beheld.

He wasn’t blind, though. He regarded her with the fixity of the owl. Like pools of water in the moonlight, his eyes reflected the wisdom of the ages, strength of mind, and the sadness of one who’d seen far more than he cared to…war after war, and the death of his loved ones.

Where on earth had he come from? It was as if he’d materialized out of thin air. Was he the grandfather Jackson had spoken of? A creepier thought—was he the silent shadow?

Keeping the blanket wrapped around her, Morgan sat up. “Yes, sir. I am Morgan Daniel.”

“I know.”

She had the sense he knew most everything.

“I am Okema—Chief—Manetoh.” That all-seeing gaze scrutinized her as he spoke. “You have never heard this name.”

“No.”

“No,
Okema
,” he corrected.

“Okema,” she repeated, with a waver in her voice she couldn’t steady. “Am I staying here?”

He shifted feet and legs clad in high-top moccasins reaching halfway to his knees. They were also made of buckskin. Above these, he wore leather pants.

“You and your brother have nowhere else to go.”

“We have an aunt,” she pointed out.

An expression of displeasure narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Maggie Daniel. She will come. She is a Morcant woman.”

Morgan opened her mouth to ask him who the Morcants were.

He waved aside her unspoken question with a callused brown hand. “You know nothing of those who have gone before you or the place you have entered. The fault lies with the Morcant clan.”

She eyed him blankly. “I don’t understand about the Morcants, sir, but Jimmy and I didn’t mean to enter your land. We were chased here.”

A hint of disdain crossed his lined face. “Not chased. You were called.”

“We were running from the Panteras. They’re after us.”

“Always. Even so. No one finds their way here unless I allow it. You were summoned for a reason.”

Her thoughts circled back to the moment she chose to drive off the mountain and the strong prompting to go. Prickles scattered down her neck. That must have been him.

“What am I to do, Okema?”

“Listen well. Learn quickly.”

She faltered. “I heard I have little time. Why?”

“You are cursed, Morgan Daniel.”

A wild hammering drummed in her chest, and her jaw dropped. She gasped like a stranded fish. “How? Why?

“Jackson will teach you. And Miriam. Others among the Wapicoli. Heed them.”