The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) (16 page)

She clapped a hand to her forehead. “I hadn’t realized that’s how they found us.”

“Not Jimbo.
You,
Morgan. He was along for the ride. Without you, he could have remained undetected.”

“Poor kid. I didn’t realize that either.”

“Oh, he’s having a blast. But there’s still a lot you don’t understand. This is why your aunt was preparing you for an escape into the mountains. If you weren’t who you are, Okema never would’ve allowed you and Jimmy to remain with us.”

Her head swirled almost as if he still spun her. “And you think Aunt M. knew all that?”

“I do. Despite the enmity between the Morcant and Wapicoli clans, Maggie Daniel wanted our help.”

“She must’ve been desperate.”

“Thanks,” he said, in mock gratitude.

“No. I mean, to entrust us to Okema. You think she glimpsed the ice queen?”

“Probably.”

For the first time, she imagined herself in Aunt M’s place. “That really must have thrown her.”

“Especially if she’s having challenges of her own.”

“Yeah.” His observation had Morgan piecing together snatches of conversation. The haunted look in Aunt M.’s eyes, the way she pushed back her hair in frustration, her incessant safety drills, and adamant instructions that they head back into the mountains if need be…all might mean something.

“We were supposed to go to her cabin,” she reminded him.

Shadows muted Jackson’s face as gazed down at her. “I doubt your aunt ever expected you to make it that far.”

“Then she knows where we are?”

“Or hopes. And will come when she’s ready.”

“It’s beginning to make sense.
Beginning to
,” Morgan emphasized. “Except for Uncle Don’s disappearance.”

He hesitated, then pressed his lips to her ear. “I have a suspicion about that.”

“What?” she whispered.

“Can’t you think, Wolf Girl?”

She jerked back. “Dear God. No. She didn’t bite him.”

“We can’t be sure, can we?”

“But she wouldn’t.” Morgan was too stunned to take it in. “Aunt M.’s a petite, blue-eyed, strawberry blonde and—”

“Morcant,” he interjected.

“I was going to say, and Uncle Don is big and fast.” She pictured him towering over Aunt Maggie.

“Size isn’t everything, Morgan. Maybe he wasn’t fast enough.”

Still, she balked at Jackson’s outrageous suggestion. “He’s lasted all these years. And he’s super smart. It must be something else that’s taken him away.”

“The search for a cure.”

“That might be,” she allowed.

“Particularly if he’s been bitten,” Jackson added.

Annoyance flared in her. “For cripes’ sake. This is my family you’re talking about.”

“You think none of mine have bitten each other?”

“I’m not even going there. That’s a lose/lose.” And it depressed the heck out of her to consider the possibility that the same thing might’ve happened with Aunt M. and Uncle Don.

“Never mind,” he soothed, in a gentler tone. “Whatever it is, we’ll have to wait until one of them turns up and says, or we see for ourselves.”

“What if she did it? What if she bit him?” Morgan blurted.

Jackson reclaimed her hand in his reassuring clasp. “It’s not an insurmountable problem. One of those things we’ll face together. Come on. The others are waiting. Let’s eat cake.”

He didn’t add, ‘while we still can,’ but she doubted cake appealed to werewolves, unless it were made of hamburger.

Chapter Fifteen

The Prophecy

Trees closed in around Morgan and the earthiness of the forest pervaded her senses. Scents mingled on the evening breeze, crumbling humus from a millennium of fallen leaves and evergreen needles, living plants, young saplings and ancient oaks, the flow of crystal cold water and its mineral essence.

Here
.
The transformation would happen here, in the woods.
The primal domain of the wolf from time out of mind, until they were driven from these mountains, or so people think.

Any moment now, she would be—what? Out of her mind in
wolfdom
, or still herself somewhere inside the raging beast?
This was the all-consuming question.

Could she assert herself, and rein in the ice queen? Would she succeed, or fail miserably? Not knowing was the worst, although knowing might send her shrieking into the trees like a madwoman before the transformation even began.

Not terribly brave
, an inner voice chided.

Oh, come on. Look what I’m expected to face
, she thrust back.

Who the heck was she arguing with?

Fearful she knew, she braced for the coming change as she might an execution by some toxin. Okema had promised she’d survive but hadn’t been specific as to any potential suffering involved. If there was a lesson he deemed fit for character building, she didn’t doubt for a single millisecond that he’d allow her to undergo trial by fire to benefit from its teaching.

How much pain would he deem sufficient?

What must it have been like for the very first Morcant woman who’d had no warning of what was about to occur before the curse struck? She imagined a young woman, a girl really, much like herself, only in colonial dress, floundering in the woods. Desperate. Confused. Running from something she couldn’t escape. Frightened. Alone. This would have been Sarah, her grandmother six times removed.

She was number seven.

Jackson poised by her side for support or intervention, but there was only so much he could do. Nor did he take her hand. Not a wise move, given what likely awaited them. Despite the uncertainty, a sense of excitement enhanced his scent. The hunter moon exerted the greatest pull of the year. She supposed he couldn’t help anticipating this autumnal rite.

Her own scent eluded her. Aunt Maggie always said, ‘A fox can’t smell its own hole,’ meaning den. Maybe that applied to an almost wolf.

She detected the male musk of Peter, Buck, and Hawthorne, positioned a discreet distance apart from her and Jackson. The location of the other Wapicoli men was unknown to her. Only these four companions stood by her side, or as near to it as they cared to. Where Okema had secreted himself, was anyone’s guess. Jackson said he’d appear when and if he chose, in warrior or wolf form.

Heck, he could take a snooze if he liked, while she labored under his blasted curse. Nerves made her snarky. If he were here now, she’d tell him what she thought of the unfairness of it all. As if he’d bat an eye.

There
. Her breath caught in her throat.
Sister Moon
. Villainous, beautiful, the ethereal orb ascended through the rustling branches. When she arched a little higher in the sky, the queen of the night would reign over heaven and earth.

Morgan had never been so compelled, and at the same time, repelled by the magnificent sight. Dressed in orange hues, as if to blend with the lingering leaves, the moon was at her most regal. She wanted to both draw near and hide from the radiant light, as if from a magnificent and potentially treacherous witch. A few more moments and the perfect circle would rise above the trees, shining full upon her.

While she could still speak in human words, she turned to Jackson. She couldn’t see him clearly, but felt his presence to her core. “If it comes down to a choice between me or you, make certain it’s
you
who prevails. You’ve got that prophecy to fulfill.”

“You’re part of the prophecy, remember? And I won’t have to choose between us. We’ll both live. Trust me.”

“I do.” At least, she trusted in his sincerity.

She’d seen TV shows where people uttered those same words, or similar assurances, then things went terribly wrong. And they lost control of circumstances. Rather like shouting, ‘Cover me!’ and zigzagging between machine gunfire, expecting your partner to assure your safe passage through a war zone.

What could Jackson assure with any real certainty?

All hell was about to break loose. She just knew it. Before she underwent God only knows what, she must tell him her true feelings. “Jackson?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” The barest whisper escaped her. Had he even heard?

She tried again.
Nothing
. Not the faintest syllable. Terrified, she clutched her tight throat.

“Morgan?” His strong hand clasped her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Speaking was impossible, or she’d shout
No
! Struggling for air, she staggered back.

He gripped her harder. The streaming light revealed fear in his eyes—eyes turning gold. He didn’t have long before the change.

“Hawth! Get Miriam! Run!” Jackson’s shouts sounded distant.

Hawthorne was a blur. She glimpsed the young man, and the next second, a wolf sprang past. The transformation was almost instantaneous for him.

Would Miriam know what was happening to her, and what to do about it? Morgan felt stranger than strange.

Dizzy
. She was dizzy. The forest revolved around her, while scattered images whirled in her head.

Jackson’s handsome face, Jimmy’s pensive gaze, Miriam’s kind smile, all spun by in her mind’s eye, then mist swept in, as if from the sea, enveloping her. But there was no lighthouse. She was lost, disoriented.

She couldn’t see through the fog. Where was she?

Groping wildly, she clutched a tree trunk.

Right. The woods.

Thinking was a struggle
.
Even the simplest thing was hard to remember.

Ten? Could she still count to ten?

Un, dau, tri, pedwar
—

What language was that? Inherent memory, such as the kind that guided migrating geese, said Welsh.

Morcant
! She was Morcant, and they were from Wales!

Triumph at her recall was short-lived. Intense heat inflamed Morgan like a lightning bolt from the finger of God. The thickness in her throat muted cries that would be shrill shrieks. Her gut burned. She doubled over, vaguely aware of someone, or something, beside her. The forest floor rose to meet her as he—she instinctively sensed he was male—eased her onto the carpet of moss and leaves.

Back and forth, she twisted in wrenching agony. Groans escaped her in shallow pants, the most she could manage. Why this? Why now?

It seemed there was a reason. Something important she should remember. If she could even recall who she was.

No escape
. Whatever malady had seized her was relentless. Battering waves of pain slammed her, one after the other, churning her over and over, covering her head. She sucked in barely enough air to keep her alive.

Had she been bitten by a venomous serpent?

Manetoh
. Poison. The name returned on the fiery coils snaking through her gut, accompanied by the lined face of an Indian chief.

What reason had he to inflict such suffering on her? She’d done nothing.

Red-hot anger blazed at the injustice of it all, then writhing despair. Without an antidote, poison was fatal. Even in her wretchedness, she knew that much. The venom was coursing through her very marrow.

Between eyes squinted in pain, she glimpsed a form hovered over her. A furry form. He seemed familiar. Someone, not only a creature, but a being she knew well, was with her.

Who? If only she could think past this torment.

The flames would incinerate her, if the difficulty in drawing breath didn’t end her first. She’d suffocate from the constriction of her throat, or her racing heart would stop.

Just now, she’d welcome death, the cool earth her final resting place.

Was that a paw on her shoulder?

Thin high wails rose from the male at her side and others around her.
Wolves
. Were they a threat to her, or summoning help?

If a threat, she was almost past caring, though she prayed for relief. If tearing her throat out would end her anguish, then so be it. But she sensed they meant her no harm. The one at her side seemed to entreat her to be strong. Not with words; the intensity of his emotion penetrated her flaming torment.

Treading the waves of molten heat demanded every resource latent within her. One after the other, she rode the fiery tide. It had to end. She wasn’t able to long endure this lava flow. The heat consumed her. Even her brain was afire.

Helpless to resist, she convulsed in spasms on the forest floor. The wolf braced his paws against her. Was he preventing her from rolling into the underbrush, or the stream flowing not far from where she writhed?

Why he kept her where he did, or what was happening, she didn’t know. Only throbbing terror, diminished slightly by his presence. He was the constant light in this pit of unspeakable darkness. Without him, she’d succumb in a heartbeat, a moth incinerated in the flame.

She wanted to tell him the cold water gurgling near her ear might ease the fire engulfing her, as long as he prevented her from going under the flow. Then strangely, the inferno inside her dwindled and faded, like red hot coals burning low, and turning to ash.

Thank heavens
. A paw stroked her head, as if he sensed her relief.