The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) (8 page)

“Do you take it?”

“When I have the need. Morcant women also discovered this secret. It’s how the first one, Sarah, survived.”

Morgan remembered him mentioning the young woman’s knowledge of herbs. “Then Aunt Maggie must have intended to tell me. But she’s cutting it awfully close. I wonder why?”

He started to reply, hesitated, and glanced away.

“What?” she prompted.

His gaze slid toward her. “Maggie Daniel’s a werewolf.”

For a long moment, Morgan stared at him. “But Aunt M.’s not the eldest daughter. She’s a twin to my Uncle Don.”

“Eldest or only, it’s the same thing. Didn’t you ever notice anything
different
about her?”

“She’s kind of scattered. Distracted, I suppose, now that I know what’s going on. She’s out a lot. Uncle Don was often over before he took off. But she cares about us.”

“I’m sure she does. It’s a lot to cope with on top of raising kids.”

“One of whom is me.” A twinge of regret ran through Morgan, and the pull toward her old life. “Aunt M. must be worried sick. I hope she’s all right. There must be a way to get word to her.”

Jackson studied her, as if weighing whether or not to speak. “There is, but she’ll find you here, when she’s ready.”

“What do you mean by
ready
?”

He tightened his lips, then opened them. “I suspect she’s run into some challenge with the change. Did she tell you to come to these mountains?”

What was he still not telling her? Morgan searched every line of his face. “She aimed me in this general direction if the Panteras came, but how’s she gonna find the exact spot?”

“Simple. The nearer you come to turning, the stronger your scent.”

Morgan wrinkled her nose. “I bathe, use deodorant. Am I in major need of perfume?”

His lips twitched. “Naw. It’s not a bad scent. I like it.”

“Good. You make me sound like a stinky Sasquatch.”

“Oh no. They smell like rotten fish. The smell carries for miles.”

Her jaw dropped. “You have Bigfoot here?”

“Of course. Not as many as in the northwest.”

“Oh, man. Jimmy would be super stoked.”

Jackson shrugged. “They’re extremely shy. Unlikely you’ll come across one. But maybe.” Taking her arm, he propelled her up the hall. “There’s a lot to learn about Hidden Valley.”

She’d swear she’d landed in some whacked out fairytale world. “This rabbit hole keeps getting deeper.”

“Maybe we should call you Alice.”

“Seriously, Jackson?”

“Again with the
seriously
? I’m gonna tattoo that on my chest.”

She explored the humor hinting in his gaze.

“Wait until I explain about the Panteras.” He held up his free hand. “Later.”

Chapter Eight

Secret Warrior Breakfast

Wow
—
like stepping back in time
. A long way back.

Glued to Jackson’s side, Morgan swept her gaze around the stone and log kitchen. Candles and the orange glow from the brick hearth illuminated the homey room. A meld of scents enveloped her. Tangy wood smoke mixed with the savory aroma of food and the pungency of braided onions and herbs hanging in bunches from the blackened beams overhead.

No wolf carvings here. This was Miriam’s realm. She and Willow, the woman Morgan heard mentioned last evening, must cook as though they lived in the eighteenth century. Sort of like camping, she supposed, only indoors. Maybe the food tasted better simmered over a fire, or they were diehard reenactors.

For some reason, possibly reincarnation, Aunt M. claimed she should’ve been born in colonial America and had dragged Morgan and Jimmy all over Williamsburg. Thanks to the tour guides, Morgan knew the hinged, iron arm attached to one side of the fireplace was called a
crane
. S-hooks and trammels connected to it raised and lowered the kettles over the flames. The cast iron skillet resting on the trivet in the hot coals had fried the bacon. Bread and pastries were baked in the oven built into the bricks at the side of the hearth.

Given blacksmith tools, genius Jimmy could probably knock out a selection of iron implements. A sword would top his list. He’d fit right in with the Wapicoli who crafted everything by hand, like the oak table stretching over floorboards in the center of the room. Benches lined both sides. Chairs with carved backs stood at each end. A cupboard laden with pottery was against one log wall; food heaped platters on a sideboard along another. A narrow table held crocks, an old box-style coffee grinder, and other antique kitchen paraphernalia. This room was a living museum.

One exception to the colonial era brought to life before her was the white porcelain sink built into a cabinet. The sink was vintage, but had taps for running water and a dish drainer alongside. The pantry she spied off the kitchen had more provisions and a fridge, also white, that likely dated from the mid-twentieth century. Hey, as long as it worked.

Heck, Wapicoli Lodge was so well stocked and fortified, they could totally wait out the zombie apocalypse here—if Morgan weren’t anticipating a werewolf one, of her own making.

All this flashed through her mind in moments, and she focused on the people gathered around the table. They appeared normal enough, in a Native American way, but were all either a shifter, part space alien, or possessed the knowledge of this strange realm and its unlikely inhabitants—except Jimmy.

He high-fived her from his spot on the bench, and continued devouring syrupy corncakes. The kid adapted quickly to
the vagaries of life
, as Uncle Don termed any hurdles in their path, so maybe he’d fare better than she feared with what lay ahead. Her turning into a werewolf was one heck of a
vagary,
though.

Miriam smiled from the end of the table near the fire. “Morgan. I’m glad you’ve come. Jackson, introduce your family.”

He’d scarcely had the chance, and Morgan hated it when Aunt M. pounced on her to remember her manners, but he dutifully gestured at the woman seated beside two men. Lovely gray-green eyes reflected Miriam’s warmth, with a touch of shyness. Her hair was soft brown with a few silver threads streaked through the spill. Her face was smooth except for tiny lines at her eyes, and her slender figure clothed in a beaded jacket and skirt.

“Morgan, this is Aunt Willow, my mother’s sister. Her husband, my Uncle Buck, is beside her. That’s my father, Peter Wapicoli. Both sisters married Wapicoli men,” he added, and indicated the teen seated by Jimmy across from the trio. “Uncle Buck and Aunt Willow’s son, Hawthorne.”

Hawthorne grinned, showing dimples similar to Jackson’s in his lightly tanned face. Brown hair, not as dark as Jackson’s, fell well below his shoulders. The curious eyes exploring her were hazel like his mom’s. He was super cute, a little younger than Morgan, maybe a newly turned sixteen.

He lifted his hand in greeting. “Hey, Morgan.”

“Hey.” She gave him a wave.

Hawthorne and Willow, she liked immediately. The men were more unnerving, especially Jackson’s brooding father. No one had mentioned what became of his mother, likely a painful subject.

Peter Wapicoli, a sturdy man of medium height with rugged Native American good looks, wore his long black hair in a braid, and favored denim and leather. He seemed less than thrilled at her arrival. The expression in his dark eyes said,
Go away
.

Jackson’s Uncle Buck was similar in appearance and dress to his father, a little taller, and he bristled less when scrutinizing her. “Hello,” he offered, in a quiet tone.

Morgan nodded at him. “Hello. Thank you for having me.”

Peter Wapicoli looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Clearly, he hadn’t issued an invitation.

Ignoring her son’s disapproval, Miriam patted the bench nearest her. “Come sit by me, Morgan.”

“Sure.” As the men were on the other side of the table, and farther down, she stepped in that direction.

“She sits by me. Jackson too.”

Morgan’s heart nearly stopped and she halted. Okema stood beside her. When had he entered the kitchen? He was as tall as Jackson, about 6’ 2”, and could hardly have been overlooked before. He’d pulled one of his secret warrior stunts.

Round-eyed Jimmy must be wondering the same thing about the new arrival. His weren’t the only pair of eyes following Okema as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table. He still wore the buckskin coat he had last evening. Leather pants molded to his legs and met his high-topped moccasins. Three golden feathers still fluttered from the two braids knotted together at the top of his white head. He was the same as before, and yet, something felt different. His demeanor, maybe. He wasn’t quite as terrifying this morning, but intimidating enough.

The Wapicoli revered their leader, and his word was law. But what of fear? Were they accustomed to his peculiar comings and goings? They relied on Okema for protection, but did they truly love him? Was that even possible?

Jackson guided Morgan with a light hand on her elbow. She slid shakily onto the bench at Okema’s left. Jackson sat at his right. Everyone made room. Glances were exchanged. Okema joining them at breakfast must not be a common occurrence, but his seat had been left vacant, probably an unspoken rule.

Finding herself seated between Okema and Peter Wapicoli wasn’t the spot she would have chosen. At least Jackson sat across from her. She met his wary gaze. He didn’t fully trust Okema in regard to her, she realized. Not a comforting thought, as she didn’t either, and she sensed Okema had a plan in mind.

At a nod from the chief, Miriam rose and hastened to the hearth. With a tea towel to shield her hand from the heat, she lifted the iron coffee pot warming on a trivet over the coals. It reminded Morgan of the kind of pot cowboys used for coffee while seated around the campfire scraping baked beans off metal plates. At least, they did in movies.

She swung back and forth between making comparisons to colonial America and the Old West. With all the weird stuff happening here, maybe it was like being in the
Cowboys & Aliens
movie, only with warriors and werewolves. And she was definitely
not
gonna get to be one of the cowboys.

Sweet looking Willow fetched more tableware. Okema received a steaming mug of the fragrant brew, as did Jackson and Morgan. Miriam poured cream from a blue stoneware pitcher into each cup and offered Morgan sugar from the small, matching sugar bowl. Since she didn’t actually drink coffee yet, and this was probably the kind of brew cowboys swore put hair on your chest, she added several spoonfuls and stirred. She’d be hairy soon enough.

Willow handed her a plate of corncakes dripping with maple syrup, strips of bacon, and a fork. Between the two efficient women, the three were served while everyone waited in silence. The tension was palpable, as if they anticipated a sudden attack.

Maybe they did.

Okema hadn’t yet spoken, or taken a bite. How Morgan was to eat with her stomach in knots, she couldn’t think. The chief raised his fork, and Jackson did the same. A signal, she supposed. Jimmy returned to his plate with keen watchfulness, darting glances from the corners of his eyes. The kid was in watchdog mode. He’d probably figure everything out before the last bite. Or not. How could he possibly guess at this?

Still no hum of conversation buzzed around her. Apparently, they were breakfasting, then talking. Every action was decreed by Okema. She sipped her coffee, not bad, and nibbled corncakes. If she weren’t a nervous wreck, she’d enjoy the food. Cooking over burning logs and hot coals really did make it taste better.

The clink of cutlery and crackle of the fire were companionable. Now and then, Jackson caught her eye. He seemed to want to tell her something, but refrained, and she wasn’t risking the slightest whisper. He’d have to communicate in some extra sensory way, or the ultrahigh frequency sound waves used by bats.

Nix that. Okema would probably pick up on it.

Finally, he laid down his fork. She hadn’t cleaned her plate but did the same. Finished or not, everyone in the circle stopped eating. Then Okema fixed his silvery eyes on the gathering, shifting his gaze from person to person, probably accessing their souls.

He waved his lined hand at Morgan. “You see what she is?”

Tension seized her, and she joined Okema in searching faces. Willow and Hawthorne seemed uncertain. Her inner wolf must be invisible to them. She’d anticipated the glint of knowledge in Peter and Buck’s eyes. Oh, yeah. They knew.

Jimmy hadn’t a clue.

“She is a Morcant.” Okema bent toward the boy. “Your clan from the old days,” he explained, in a gentler tone. “You are also Morcant, but a male. The females are far more lethal.”

Jimmy eyed Morgan dubiously, then regarded the chief as if this superior being were mistaken, implausible as that might seem. “Lethal? Not unless you give her an Uzi and aim her in the right direction. Morgan likes to draw, watch movies, and text friends on her phone. Inside stuff. She can’t shoot a bow, or anything you think Morcants can, sir,” he added, politely.

“Okema,” he corrected. “Your sister will soon change. For this, she must learn new skills. She does not belong in the kitchen, but outdoors training to be a warrior woman.”