The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) (10 page)

“Good. Your strength of will and the herbs Grandma Miriam gives you are the best way to achieve control over the wolf. Meanwhile…” He glanced from Morgan to her bow. “Your human self isn’t gonna be our next great archer. That hope lies with Jimmy. Is there any other weapon you might master? And don’t say guns. They’re too loud.”

“I wasn’t.”

“She likes to whack things,” Jimmy offered.

Jackson arched his brows. “Really?”

“Want a whip?” Hawthorne chuckled.

“She can flick a fly with the end of a towel.” Jimmy further mortified her by imitating the wrist action.

The chilly air alone didn’t account for her reddening cheeks. “Jimmy. They don’t care about my fly zapping ability.”

“Sure we do.” Jackson eyed his cousin. “Don’t we?”

“Heck, yeah.” Hawthorn nodded. Neither cracked a smile.

“Seriously, Jackson?”

He crossed his chest. “You could use a slingshot. I have one. So does Hawthorne. Warriors have had them for centuries, mostly for flushing out game or anyone in hiding, but slingshots can have a more potent purpose.”

Skeptical, but growing colder and hungrier by the minute, she indulged him. “How does it work?”

“Simple.” He reached into the buckskin pouch hung over his shoulder by a strap and pulled out the weapon in question. The slingshot was made from a piece of leather about nine inches long and three inches wide in the middle. Both ends tapered off and were attached to a leather thong.

Not what she expected. “I’ll bet cavemen used these.”

“And ancient warriors.” Jackson fished a small smooth stone from his pouch.

Jimmy leaned in. “Kind of like David and Goliath, huh?”

“Yeah. But we don’t use slingshots on giants. Just makes them mad.”

“You mean there are some?” Jimmy asked.

“Of course.” Jackson was matter-of-fact. “You watch too, Jimbo. Loop one end around a finger on your right hand with the thong passing over your palm. The other end doubles back and is held in the same hand.” He demonstrated as he spoke. “Put the stone in the center of the sling and hold it in place with your left hand, then swing it in a wide circle above your head, release the thong, and sling the stone.”

His stone sailed into the underbrush and sent a bird winging skyward. “See? Simple.”

“Cool.” Jimmy’s eyes lit up. He’d master this in no time.

Morgan wasn’t persuaded of her ability. “You’ve practiced for years and are incredibly agile, Jackson. I’d probably knock myself, or one of you, in the head. Here’s a thought. What if we sew pebbles into the end of a scarf for me? I could whip that out and whack the daylights out of someone.”

The two guys stared at her, but Jimmy radiated enthusiasm. “She saw that scarf thing on an old
Sherlock Holmes
movie. Sherlock said he learned it in India. I bet Morgan would be great. You should see her with a towel.”

Hawthorne failed to smother a laugh, got choked up, and then laughed so hard tears ran down his face. “Sorry—” he gasped, doubled over with mirth.

“Ignore him. Time for his meds.” Jackson slid the slingshot back in his pouch. “Listen, Morgan. If you want, Grandma Miriam could sew one of these scarf weapons together for you. Maybe even cast a charm on it.”

“Really?” She handed him the bow she never intended to use again. “How much magic does Miriam have?”

“Not as much as Okema. But more than we know, I suspect.”

“What is she saving it for?”

Jackson shouldered the quiver of arrows Morgan passed him. “A rainy day, or Armageddon.”

“Do other Wapicoli women have her power?”

“Not yet. Lacking a daughter, it will pass to her granddaughter.”

“You mean, if you have a girl?”

A slight rose hue suffused his dusky complexion. “Right. She’s counting on it. Don’t underestimate other Wapicoli woman, though. They can fight. And whatever you do, don’t make any of them mad.”

“Karate, Taekwondo?” Jimmy pivoted in a box kick.

“Nope. No particular method or weapon. They’ll just beat the crap out of you. When Hawthorne and I were young, we were told never to hit a girl. We spent a lot of time hiding from our female cousins.”

“Now we can outrun them.” Hawthorne thumped his chest to recover from near hysteria. “One advantage to being a wolf.”

“But your mother seems so nice,” Morgan argued.

“Oh, she is. All of them are, until—” Hawthorne shuddered in exaggerated terror.

Jimmy shifted his spectacled gaze between them. “Sounds like our Aunt Maggie.”

“Doubly dangerous, then.” Jackson gave Morgan a pointed look. “You will be triple the danger.”

She opened her mouth in protest. “I’m really quite nice.”

His eyes lingered on her. “Adorable. Until you turn. Then the challenge begins.”

“So, I must overcome the threat from within, as well as the many looming from without? We might have to contend with other werewolves, along with everything else?”

“See why we need you on our side?” The melting appeal in Jackson’s gaze heightened his already staggering attraction.

“When are you gonna tell her about the Lizard Lady?” Hawthorne tossed out, as if inquiring about the weather.

The scowl Jackson leveled at him told Morgan this wasn’t a minor matter. “Later,” he growled.

“Wait. Who?” she demanded.

Reluctance evident in Jackson’s tight face, he parted his lips to reply. “The local witch, Lilith Dubois. Kind of a cross between a gypsy and a redneck.”

Morgan’s heart drummed a little harder. “Is she more powerful than Okema, or Miriam?”

“Heck no.”

She considered. “Why the odd title?”

“Lilith basks in the moonlight in the form of a large lizard. Never make eye contact with her in lizard or human form. She’s got hypnotic green eyes.”

“And two fair daughters. I’m in love with one,” Hawthorne declared, flinging out his arms as if to embrace her.

Jackson rounded on him. “Until Okema finds out. Wapicoli males do not fall for witches.”

Morgan gaped at Hawthorne, then turned to Jackson. “Is he under a form of enchantment?”

“No. Just stupid.”

“Dilly’s different. Not like Lilith or Eve,” Hawthorne argued.

“Only younger than her mother and sister. Come on. Let’s go.” Jackson firmly guided Morgan back toward the lodge with Jimmy trotting along like a dog. Hawthorne dragged behind.

Darting a glance over her shoulder, she took in his obstinate expression. “He’s serious about Dilly, isn’t he?”

“And very foolish,” Jackson muttered.

“Can Miriam handle this?” Morgan shuddered to think what Okema might do.

“Don’t trouble yourself on Hawthorne’s account. I will deal with him.”

What would that mean?

Jimmy panted at their heels. “About those giants you mentioned before—the ones you don’t use slingshots on?”

“They run moonshine for Lilith and are serious rednecks. Bigger than linebackers, Jimbo. We frighten the wits out of them if they give us any trouble. But they’ve gotten tougher to scare. We’re authorized to attack if need be. Not a word about this to anyone. I’ll explain more later on.”

Morgan brushed blowing hair from her face to better see Jackson. “I think you could talk for hours and not run out of weird stuff.”

Wistfulness touched his eyes. “I could. But I’d rather not just talk with you.”

Chapter Ten

The Call

Hastening up the hall with Jackson, Morgan inhaled the tantalizing aromas emanating from the homey kitchen. “Yum. Something smells delicious.”

“Yep. Chicken pot pie, baked apples, and fresh cornbread. We’re in luck. And
first
,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jimmy ducked under his arm and sped past them. “Beat you!”

“Hey! Cheat!” Jackson called, good-naturedly.

“It’s about the win, dude!” Jimmy shot back.

Reaching the table first had become a game between them. Normally, Morgan washed up and took a stab at fixing her windblown hair before meals. After hours out in the cold trying to master that impossible bow, she was famished. Rinsing her hands under the kitchen tap would have to do.

Beating the guys didn’t matter to her. Jackson indulging Jimmy in the little things he enjoyed was nice, though. The kid was a good sport and deserved some fun mixed in with these rigorous training sessions. Hawthorne usually entered into the friendly camaraderie. Not this evening. He lagged behind them, brooding over his would-be girlfriend.

Was Dilly as bad for his cousin as Jackson feared? Probably, if her mother was a notorious witch. Still, Morgan wanted to meet the
Lizard Lady’s
youngest daughter and judge for herself—assuming that hypnotic eye thing wasn’t hereditary. Meanwhile, thank God it was suppertime.

She halted in the doorway. Anticipation of digging into the savory dishes spread over the sideboard abruptly altered to alarm. Okema sat at the head of the table. He fixed those otherworldly eyes on her and beckoned with silent fingers.

A chill crawled down her spine. For the first time since breakfast several days ago, she lowered herself onto the bench at his left. Jackson sat across from her on his right.

Was it her imagination, or had Okema come because of her? She arched a questioning glance at Jackson, who answered with a slight shake of his head. He was also in ignorance as to why the unfathomable chief had joined them—a rare occurrence. What and where Okema normally ate eluded her. Granted, he was going on three hundred years old, but still human, or partly so. He must require regular nourishment to sustain life.

Did he kill deer in stealth and devour them raw? A shudder ran through her. She prayed Okema hadn’t noted it, or read her mind, but he very well may have. Better to think he chose to eat in the kitchen alone when the others were absent.

“Here, Morgan.” Miriam gently disrupted her inner conjecture and passed her a warm washcloth.

She wiped her hands on the cloth and passed it back. A glance into the older woman’s eyes told her nothing. If Miriam knew why he’d come, she wasn’t letting on. Jackson’s Aunt Willow gave no indication either, and the men sure weren’t divulging anything. Those two were as mute as the grave.

The mysterious warrior’s unexpected presence both disturbed and fascinated Morgan. He smelled of the age-old forest, the crumbling earth, deep-rooted trees, and a musk she couldn’t define, only that its essence embodied danger. He could give life or take it away. Always, in her thoughts, ran the question, ‘Who is he?’

Could anyone really know Okema?

As before, when he’d joined the family for a meal, the mood grew far more somber than normal, although, Jackson’s father, Peter, was never jovial. The set of his jaw reflected his outlook on life—a battle to be met with stern resistance; force, if necessary. She wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of the justice he dealt offenders. She guessed the dark cloud hanging over him arose from the death of his wife by Panteras.

This evening, Jackson’s Uncle Buck was subdued, but he’d revealed an increasingly affable side as Morgan consistently appeared at the table and joined the family in the main room after supper. Even the cantankerous owl had ceased to scold her. She enjoyed those communal times.

The adults sat before the hearth, the women with their knitting or sewing and the men smoking pipes. While the grownups exchanged quiet conversation, Morgan, Jackson, Hawthorne, and Jimmy played darts on the board she’d overlooked on the wall. Then paired off to plot
Stratego
©, the battle strategy game, and chess. These pursuits were declared good mental preparation as part of her and Jimmy’s training. He’d won several rounds of each, of course. Not her.

Jackson should give up on Morgan and devote his energy to training Jimmy. He might not possess super powers, but he’d make an outstanding warrior. Batboy excelled at everything she didn’t. However, Jackson would do as Okema directed. All the Wapicoli would, even those whom she hadn’t yet met.

She supposed every pack, or clan, had an alpha male, and Okema was a standout alpha. No one would defy him…except, possibly,
the ice queen
, as she called the cold creature dwelling within her, waiting to burst forth.

And then what? A showdown between her and Okema? She’d lose—possibly before the fight even began.

A somber thought, and one suited to the mood enveloping the family collected around the table. Despite the gravity of the gathering, she ate the food Miriam put before her. Sheer hunger drove her to devour each morsel, though she had scant awareness of the taste. The others scraped their plates in unmistakable tension. No one spoke. Either they anticipated what would Okema say, or waited to learn.

Finally, he laid down his fork. His intent gaze passed over Jackson’s watchfulness, Hawthorne’s uncertainty, and Jimmy’s curious stare. The kid grew bolder. Slight approval softened Okema’s study before it came to rest on Morgan.

No surprise there, but she squirmed under his scrutiny. Those eyes missed nothing.

For a long moment, he weighed her. “How does your training progress?”