Stalking the Moon

by Angel Leigh McCoy

The escort took him to a small waiting room with a cozy arrangement of love seat and chair, a coffee table, a water cooler in the corner, and gentle music playing from hidden speakers. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "No."

  The escort produced a photograph-sized piece of paper from the folder and said, "They've explained to you that your brother was in the water for quite some time, so he may not look exactly as you remember him."

  It wasn't phrased as a question, and though no one had explained that to Nathan, he nodded in acknowledgement.

  The escort placed the photograph face down on the coffee table. Beside it, he set out a printed form and an ink pen. "If it's your brother, then I'll need you to sign this form. Take your time," he said and stepped back to the door, eyes locked on the floor. "Whenever you're ready."

  Nathan was more than ready. It was the turning of the tarot card, flipping that photograph over. It spelled out Nathan's fate. A man was lying on a stainless-steel gurney. He was covered to his neck with a white sheet, and his head was supported on a hard, x-shaped headrest.

  Even with the combination of bloating and lifeless flesh, Nathan could tell.

  A blast of fury made his jaw clench and his eyes go hard.

  It's not Colin, he thought. It's not him. Nathan's work wasn't done. He couldn't go home, and he had nothing to appease his father. It was the ultimate con, and he'd fallen for it.

  The realization struck him funny. Laughter overtook him, and he tipped his head back and let it out. The look on the escort's face made him laugh even harder.

  The escort came out. "So, it's not your brother?"

  "Oh no," said Nathan between chortles. "It's him. It's definitely him."

  You're not dead. Nathan wiped the laugh-tears from his cheeks. But when I catch up to you—and I will catch up to you—I'm going to kill you DEAD.

  ♦♦♦

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  JUMPING THE MOON

  Wyrdwood Welcome Book #2

  Sneak Preview

  I recently learned something important—that when you’re on an adventure, your natural inclination is to face forward. Each developing moment brings new information, new sights, sounds, and feelings, so there’s no possible way to look back without missing out on something.

  As the plane taxied toward the airport—Portland International Airport a.k.a. PDX—I heard someone say that our flight had been “uneventful.” On the contrary, it had been so full of events, I hadn’t closed my eyes once. I’d never flown before.

  My Mom sat on my left, Corona at the window, and Jake was across the aisle from us. The flight from Peoria to Chicago had been scary. The plane was small, and we’d hit heavy turbulence. Then O’Hare was enormous. We all had to stay together, which wasn’t easy between Mom’s lack of attention and Corona’s attention to everything. Jake took charge of Corona, and I kept hold of Mom’s jacket.

  I’d never seen so many people in one place in my entire life, all different, all living lives that felt—to them—just as solid as mine felt to me. All were going places, talking about things important to them, loving each other, working, thinking, breathing… and yet not once did I see a collision of bodies. It was miraculous.

  When we got on the big plane, the flight attendant said, “Hi,” and smiled at me. I beamed right back.

  We found our seats, stowed our carry-ons, and settled in. Then we flew two thousand miles across the country. I looked out the window and saw clouds below us. Below us! There was a time when people would have called me a god for looking down upon the world from such a height. Or they’d have laughed me out of the village—maybe even locked me up in an institution. And yet there I was.

  My eyes weren’t big enough to take it all in.

  We crossed the Rockies, and I saw mountains for the first time in my life.

  Corona commented, “I always knew I was short, but I never knew I was so tiny.” I couldn’t have agreed more.

  Why, I wondered, had I never left Illinois? Not even for vacation. I was almost to my thirties, and I’d spent the first third of my life stunted, hemmed in by schedules and duties. That ol’ tick-tock of the clock. I’d never known what I was missing.

  Everything changed the moment my car went into the lake. My eyes had opened even as I was drowning. That was when Colin Aubrey, my fiancé, was ripped from me, and when the machine that had been my life fell apart. The gears grinded. Springs sprung. And the cuckoo flew away.

  To Wyrdwood.

  Still looking out the window, Corona asked, “How’s Colin going to know where you went? Aren’t you worried he won’t be able to find you?”

  I wove my hands together in my lap, and my pin came to mind. I shoved the thought aside. With more confidence than I felt, I said, “He’ll find me. If he shows up at Abram’s door, Abram knows to tell him where I am. And I left a letter for him.”

  “You must miss him.”

  An ache, now familiar, made me look down at my hands. I nodded almost absently. I missed him. Being separated from Colin was like having a darkness sitting in your peripheral vision. I was always searching for his face in crowds, always on alert for his voice, scanning the skies for his winged silhouette. He was the last thing I thought about at night before sleeping and the first thing when I woke up, usually with alternating emotions of sadness and anger. He’d abandoned me. Twice. Three times if you count when he dropped me from a gajillion feet in the air.

  For years, Colin had tried to tell me he could fly, and I just thought it was a delusion caused by his amnesia. To say that he’d surprised the hell out of me when he’d proven he had wings and could fly was the understatement of the century. That was the moment I knew for sure that I was either insane or there was much more to the story. I still couldn’t think about how majestic he’d looked without a portion of my mind trying to sweep it under a rug.

  “He’ll show up,” said Corona.

  I rubbed my hands over my face and said, “I know,” but I didn’t know at all. I let my hands fall limp onto my lap. “Only thing is, I’m not his first priority, and I don’t think he’s safe with me.”

  Corona rested her hand on mine. “His family won’t be trying to kill him forever. I hope. You have no idea where he is?”

  “None. He went one way, and I’m going to Wyrdwood.”

  Corona was silent for a moment before asking, “What do you think it’ll be like there?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I admitted with a nervous chuckle. “We’ll be in a brand new place.”

  “A place called Wyrdwood.” She emphasized the “weird.”

  “We'll fit right in,” I joked with a goofy shrug I didn’t quite feel. It was a platitude meant to ease both her anxiety and my own. Trouble was that I saw through it.

  “True!” She leaned in, playing along, and then lowered her voice. “And peeps there have lived their whole lives without ever once thinking about us, looking at us. Judging us. I’m pretty fucking psyched about that.” Her brown eyes shone. “It’s a brand new start, Viv. We can be squeaky, fresh out of the box.” She did a little wiggle in her seat that drew a laugh out of me.

  “When you put it like t
hat,” I said, “it does sound kind of exciting.”

  ♦

  After awhile, the pilot announced that we'd begun our descent into Portland, and we slid down through the clouds. The landscape appeared below us. I realized that this was the layer we lived in.

  The suburbs of Portland sprawled across the land, each a maze of streets lined with houses. The area wasn't flat like Chicago. Hills covered with green trees forced mankind’s structures to go over and around them. A thick river—the Columbia—snaked through it all. Portland was a vast hive of humans, buildings, and parking lots. Skyscrapers clustered together. Long bridges crossed between land masses. Cars ran along them in solid streams, their headlights glowing.

  I watched out the window as we approached the runway, pushing down my fear. The ground rose up to meet us. We were going so fast, and then there was a bump, a bounce, and the roar of the engines. A thrill rose up from my gut and made my chest feel full. My heart.

  We had landed.

  Rain spattered the window, and it felt like a special welcome.

  I said, “Hello, Portland.”

  We took down our carry-ons and followed the crowd off the plane, up another tube, and into PDX. It was smaller than O’Hare and much less chaotic. The people weren’t in as much of a hurry. They sat around reading or looking out the giant windows at the planes criss-crossing between land and sky. No one was shouting or even talking loudly.

  As soon as I was back on land, I whispered, “Simon?” I’d been doing so whenever I thought about it—ever since my invisible friend had left—checking to see if he was back. He wasn’t. Or if he was, he wasn’t declaring it. I had neither seen nor heard Simon since leaving Malum Center. He’d been my constant companion ever since I was thirteen. For so long, I’d thought he was a figment of my imagination. He’d been my guardian and guide throughout my toughest years. When I learned he was real, he left—or so it seemed. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going or why. The silence he’d left in his wake made me feel sad and vulnerable.

  Our little group walked through the Portland airport, past shops selling smoked salmon, fleece, and Trail Blazers’ basketball souvenirs. Jake had done all this a thousand times before, so we followed him like ducklings to Baggage Claim. He tried to get us to walk instead of riding the moving sidewalk, but he lost that vote. Corona and I each took one of Gisèle’s arms and guided her on. Then we streamed along, the breeze in our hair. When we walked too, it felt almost like flying.

  Baggage Claim was in the underbelly of the airport. The energy there was different, the crowd impatient and anxious, everyone searching for something or someone. They surrounded large carousels with suitcases carried around like nigiri at a sushi bar. The people checked out each morsel to see if it was what they wanted.

  A hole in the wall gave birth to suitcases, the newborns riding the merry-go-round. They all had that well-traveled look. It made me happy to see them claimed and reunited with their owners.

  As we waited for our suitcases, a pair of women approached Jake. He greeted them with smiles.

  “How was your trip?” asked a tall redhead with strong bones and a voice like melted butter. Something about her sparked my curiosity. She was a striking beauty, despite the ragged scar that cut down one side of her face. Dressed in a peach crocheted sweater, skinny blue jeans, and white sneakers with no socks, she had a cosmopolitan style that screamed self-confidence.

  Jake replied, “Good. I’m glad it’s almost over though.” He launched forward to nab one of the suitcases.

  The woman let her gaze drift over the rest of us, evaluating. She caught my eye, and I looked away.

  The second woman was older, with black hair caught up in a French twist. A narrow streak of white grew from front-and-center, just above her forehead. Her dark eyes were warm and welcoming as she held her hand out to me. “You must be Viviane,” she said. “I’m Rio. Welcome to the Pacific Northwest. We’re your ride to Wyrdwood.”

  I shook her hand. “Thank you. It’s nice to be here.” I indicated my mother and Corona. “This is Gisèle and Corona.” I was feeling shy.

  Corona bounced, “Do you work with Jake? Are you from Lost Lambs?”

  The redhead took a step toward Jake, helping him move the bags onto a big cart.

  Rio answered, “Yes, we are. You’re going to love it there. We’ve got the ocean, the forest, mountains, a river… everything you could want.”

  It was as if a cork had popped from Corona’s mouth, and she started talking a mile a minute. Truth be told, I was grateful. I felt so overwhelmed by everything that I had no words. I don’t think I could have made rational small-talk if I’d tried.

  A girl with piercings all over her face walked by, as did a man with blue hair and a couple dressed in rags, wearing socks inside sandals. One woman had her blond hair all in knots, dreadlocks. People played with hand-held devices and talked to thin air, an earbud in one ear. I saw a man in a turban, a group of Japanese people in suits, and an eagle.

  An eagle. It flew down from a beam overhead and landed at the redhead’s feet.

  Corona gasped. I gasped. No one else noticed.

  The eagle pecked at a nearby man’s loose shoestring, pulling it undone.

  The red-head laughed, deep and rich. “The looks on their faces!” she said.

  Jake laughed, too. “Guys, this is Hilda, and that’s Hugs, her familiar. She's harmless.”

  “Who?” Corona asked, “Hilda or Hugs?”

  Hilda raised both eyebrows.

  Jake said, “Both.”

  “Don't you believe it,” Hilda said under her breath.

  Corona asked, “No one but us can see Hugs?”

  Jake nodded. “That’s right. Hugs is the kind of magickal creature that Normals can’t see.”

  That brought my overwhelm to a whole new level. I latched onto my mother, the noise and sights of the airport forgotten. I was so engrossed in watching Hilda and her familiar that I walked into someone’s luggage and tripped. A strong hand captured my upper arm and kept me on my feet. When I looked up, a man with tusks looked down at me. Not a man. My insides began to vibrate at a low resonance. His eyes were kind, his smile gentle. He said, “Careful there.”

  My every instinct was to get away from him, and I stumbled again.

  Jake was at my side in a heartbeat. “Thank you,” he told the man, helping me himself. “She’s new to the Sight.”

  The tusked man rumbled a sympathetic hum and released me.

  I realized I was holding my breath.

  Jake put an arm around my shoulders. “You’re okay. Let’s get to the van.”

  I nodded, staring back at the man-not-man, trying to wrap my mind around him. He was watching the carousel for his luggage and had forgotten all about me. I would never forget him. His body was thick, not fat, and he stood over six feet tall. His bald head had tattoos that resembled a pit of snakes or Celtic knotwork—it was hard to tell which as we moved away from him. He wore loose jeans and a blue windbreaker. If it weren’t for the sharp tusks growing upward from his lower jaw, protruding from the corners of his mouth, I’d have thought he was just a sun-leathered world traveler.

  We caught up with the others.

  I asked, “What was that?”

  Hilda answered me, her tone clipped. “Who. Who was that. He’s a person, like you and me.”

  My cheeks grew hot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  Rio said, “You might say he’s a nature spirit. They’re a race known as Orcneas. They’ve been around longer than humans.”

  Jake asked, “Where’s Gisèle?”

  “What? Mom?” I asked, turning in place to search for her. “Where is she?”

  “Shit,” Jake said. “Did you guys see where she went?”

  “Oh holy crap,” cried Corona. “I was watching the Orcneas!”

  I took off into the crowd, searching for her.

  “Viviane!” Jake called. “Wait!”

  But I couldn’t wait. Not a seco
nd. My heart was hammering. She could have been… But then I spotted her going out the exit doors. I took off running, pushing people out of my way. When I got to the exit, the automatic doors opened too slowly, and I squeezed through the moment the gap was wide enough.

  Mom was crossing the sidewalk, making a beeline for the curb. She stepped right into traffic.

  “Mom! Stop!” I flew toward her, bent forward to reach for her. I grabbed a fistful of her sweater and yanked her back just in time. A car of laughing teens went by inches in front of her. I tugged her into my arms. “Mom! Don't do that!”

  An instant later, Jake was at my side, guiding us both back to safety.

  “Well,” said Hilda dryly, “that was unexpected. Note to self: buy leashes.”

  Rio commented, “Ah, the complexities of family life.”

  I wanted to glare at them, but for some reason it struck me funny, and I started to laugh. It wasn’t the good kind of laugh, but the edge-of-hysteria kind.

  Jake stayed by my side, one hand on my shoulder. “Breath with me.”

  It took me the entire walk to the van before I had myself under control again.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

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  About the Author

  Angel Leigh McCoy has worn many faces, told many stories, loved many people, and lived many lives. Through it all, writing has been her one constant.

  Angel is a spark of creative force behind the epic Dire Multiverse and the darkly fanciful Wyrdwood project.

  She's an award-winning video game writer, having worked on “CONTROL,” IGN's Game of the Year 2019. Prior to that, she spent ten years weaving intricate tales for millions of Guild Wars 2 fans. As a writer for White Wolf's World of Darkness, she created stories about vampires, changelings, mages, and werewolves.