Timeless Moon

by C. T. Adams

  The men on the sidewalk ran toward the SUV. They were safe and whole. As for the snakes in the SUV, they’d heal. Or not. She really didn’t care either way.

  “Can’t die—” Whispered words turned into a shout. “CAN’T DIE!”

  Josette felt tears well as they passed by the café, and a very pregnant woman holding a bagel stopped from getting into her blue sedan to see what the commotion down the street was, just as sirens filled the air. “And she’s not going to, sweetie. She’s not going to.”

  Chapter Six

  THERE WERE ANY number of things necessary in preparing the cabin for his absence. Rick hoped it wouldn’t be a long one, but something told him it might be. A phone call to Lucas just after dawn had been useful. Raven Ramirez had discovered some information in the computers before he’d crashed the system by remote command. It might be a clue to the location where Josie was headed. But, it was far too sensitive to discuss by phone, so Charles had decided Rick should drive to Colorado where they could talk in person.

  Unfortunately, there was no telling whether Josette would be at the location, or whether the information would just be the first in a long trail of near misses until he could find her. She was very good at hiding her tracks—she’d had plenty of practice over the centuries.

  Amber had insisted they all get a few hours sleep, with only Bruce staying awake to guard them. Morning had come too quickly, his dreams filled with snakes and twisted by the emotions of the others in the house.

  He didn’t know what to think about his shower earlier. He could swear Josette was standing in the room watching him. But when he pulled aside the curtain, the room was empty…although it smelled of vanilla, musk, and fur, a combination he’d never been able to erase from his mind, even after all these years. Maybe it was a premonition. Part of him hoped so. Another part of him feared being in easy reach of her formidable anger. A shudder overtook him as he struggled to close the stretched-taut leather saddlebags that fit on the back of his motorcycle. He put them beside the door and stood staring at the wall for a moment, tapping one finger against his hip—trying to remember whether he’d completed his list of tasks.

  The others were now safely on their way to wherever they were going to weather out the crisis, and Rick decided it was worth taking the time to shut down the house before leaving. The water and gas were first, then draining the pipes so that he wouldn’t come back to splits from a hard freeze. Next, he cleared all the perishable foods from the fridge and cupboards, taking them to the edge of the windmill tank for the animals to feast on. Hopefully, the windmill would still be standing when he returned, but he just couldn’t deprive the wildlife of the water they’d come to depend on. For better or worse, they were partners in the life he’d made here, even though they were no substitute for the partner he’d once had.

  A sigh eased from his chest and he shook his head. It would have been easier if he had some clue as to how long he’d be gone, but he really didn’t know. It could be anything from a few weeks to years. He did know he wanted to come back here eventually. This was his home in a way few places had been in his life. Only the cabin he’d shared with Josette in what was now Illinois had ever been more dear to him.

  While closing up the house took hours from when he started at dawn, packing was accomplished in a matter of a minutes. He didn’t want or need much: a couple changes of clothes, a few toiletries. He did pull most of the cash out of his floor safe though, along with his identification and credit cards.

  By 10:00 A.M. he was ready to go. After one last lingering look around the cabin, he stepped outside and took a deep breath of cold, clean air, feeling both excited at the adventure and terrified of the prospect of seeing Josette again—or worse, failing to see her again. Sunlight gleamed off the polished metal and chrome of his classic Indian motorcycle. He paused to check the contents of his saddlebags one last time. When he was sure he hadn’t forgotten anything important, he straddled the machine and kick-started the bike.

  The bike started without protest, the engine emitting a rumbling purr that echoed through the nearly empty landscape. He pulled a pair of mirrored sunglasses from the pocket of his coat and slid them on, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and put on gloves. There was nothing else to do. He was as ready as he’d ever be, so he gunned the engine and was on his way.

  The ride to Denver would be a little over eight hours if he went without stops. With breaks for meals and to stretch his legs it would be closer to ten. Rick knew that by the end of it he’d be glad for his healing abilities. A ten-hour ride on a bike when you’re out of practice is a painful proposition—just inviting leg cramps, a backache, and an indescribable pain in the backside.

  The weather stayed clear, without so much as a single cloud marring the perfect blue of the sky overhead. But even with the warm gear and his Sazi blood, it was a frigid ride through South Dakota and northern Wyoming this early in the year.

  He ate an early dinner at a Denny’s in Cheyenne, filling up on one of their specials before fueling up the bike at the gas station across the way. The weather had warmed as the day wore on until it was in the seventies. Rick stowed away his cold weather gear in the saddlebags and even left his shirt unbuttoned. He wanted to feel the wind against his skin and blowing through his hair. It was a sensation as close to flying as a cat could get. Oh, it could hurt like a bitch when the bugs hit, and once, a bird smacked into his chest, causing him to wreck. But he didn’t care. He’d heal.

  Before mounting up he strode over to the pay phone on the wall outside the gas station. Pulling change from his pocket he dropped it in the slot and dialed the number for information. The computerized voice on the line recited the number, offering to connect him for a small additional charge. Since he didn’t have a pen handy, he paid it and was rewarded by the almost immediate ringing of the line on the other end.

  A voice picked up on the second ring. He sounded young, but businesslike. “Ramirez towing, Pete here. Can I help you?”

  “I need to talk to Raven. Tell him it’s Rick Johnson.”

  “Raven isn’t in right now. But he told me you might call. He wants you to call him on his cell. Do you have a pen?”

  No, he didn’t, and as a member of Wolven command, Raven should know damned well that he would only talk to the actual contact at the number provided. Good agents didn’t leave messages with strangers to pass out like candy. But there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  “Give me the number,” he growled.

  Pete recited a series of numbers, Rick read them back from memory. When he had them down pat, he hung up without saying good-bye.

  The first call had taken all of his change, so he went inside and bought himself a bottled soda and packet of corn nuts to break a ten. Back at the phone, he dialed the cell phone number he’d memorized.

  “Ramirez.”

  He’d never talked to Raven on the phone and, as annoyed as he was right now, the words came out in a snarl. “Prove it.”

  The sigh was tired, like the whole world was suddenly too much for him. “God I hate this bullshit. I’m on medical leave. I shouldn’t have to put up with this paranoid crap.”

  When Rick didn’t respond to the comment, the other man let out a half-hearted growl. “I’m not sure what you want to hear. My father’s got children with your ex-wife’s twin sister. Their relationship broke up when he cheated on her with their other sister.”

  “That’s common knowledge.”

  “Not the ex-wife part. Not many people realize Aspen was ever married, and most of them think she’s a widow.”

  He had a point. Rick still didn’t like it, but as long as the meet was in a public place, he’d go along with it. “Fine. Where and when?”

  “Meet me in Denver at Bubba’s Roadhouse at the corner of Speer and Federal at 9:30 tonight.” He hung up before Rick could argue or ask directions. With a sigh, he went inside one more time, this time to buy a map of Denver.

  Sitting on the curb, he sucked
down an energy drink as he studied the map. According to it, Bubba’s should be easy enough to find. Both Speer and Federal were major traffic arteries. He just needed to get on I-25, take a straight shot down until he reached the right exit.

  Folding up the map, he rose and crossed back to the phone, dumping his trash in the can by the door on his way. Another call to information got him the number of one of the cheap chain motels with a branch on Federal. He reserved a room, guaranteeing it with his credit card since he wasn’t sure how late he’d arrive. With that done, there was no other reason to linger. He stowed the map, slid on his sunglasses, and climbed on the bike.

  It was an easy drive. He stayed close to the speed limit, enjoying the feeling of the bike under him and marveling in the way the area between Cheyenne and Denver had grown. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone on a cross-country ride this direction. It’d been too long ago, that was for damned sure.

  He made it to the bar without incident and with time to spare. At nine P.M. the bar was busy, but not packed. More than a dozen motorcycles, all of them Harleys were lined up in the lot outside the front door, paint and chrome gleaming in the yellow-orange glow of the halogen lamps that lit every corner of the parking area.

  In the short three blocks since he’d exited I-25 he’d encountered three black-and-white patrol cars. A fourth cruiser drove slowly past as he was dismounting. Feeling impish, he gave the driver a cheery wave and was rewarded with a stern glare.

  He heard the snort of laughter coming from one of the pair of smokers standing by the front door. The scent of tobacco drifted to him on the evening breeze. He turned to follow the scent and saw a bone-thin woman with bleached-blond hair and too much makeup getting a light from a short Mexican man. His leather vest bore the name of a national gang emblazoned across the back with “Las Vegas” embroidered under it in red thread. She didn’t love him, barely knew him, in fact. But a desperate need filled her that only the man could satisfy. Whether it was drugs or sex, or something else, Rick didn’t know. If the man had any emotion for the woman, he hid it well. But he was pretty sure that there was nothing there, except perhaps lust. They gave him a nod of acknowledgment as he moved past them and pushed through the front door.

  Lynyrd Skynyrd was blasting on the jukebox; the click of billiard balls was a sharp counterpoint to the rock beat. Rick’s nose was assailed by the mingled scents of cooking meat, beer, emotions, and bodies. No Sazi yet or cigarette smoke, which just seemed odd to him. There was just something wrong about a bar that didn’t allow smoking. Most likely, a “burn ban” here had forced the smokers to step outside. He’d heard of them, even though they hadn’t reached the small towns around his home.

  He paused, casually getting his bearings as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Four or five men were bellied up to the bar, drinking beer and arguing about the game playing on the television above their heads. But the arguing was friendly. Nobody felt or smelled of true anger. One or two groups had gathered at tables, downing shots and chatting. A couple was dancing on a floor not much bigger than the average postage stamp, and while she was a good five inches taller and probably weighed thirty or forty pounds more than her partner, it didn’t stop her from doing an impressive shimmy that nearly shook her breasts loose from the tight leather vest that was struggling to contain them. She wasn’t Rick’s type, but she was certainly making an impression on the wiry specimen she was dancing with.

  “What’ll you have?” The bartender was a woman. Petite and pretty, she reminded him of Josette with her dark blond hair and compact build. He was surprised to see a woman bartender in a place like this. Then again, she had the kind of no-nonsense attitude that let him know trouble wouldn’t be tolerated. Tough, she was definitely tough. But when she smiled it lit up a pair of wide greenish hazel eyes and flashed straight white teeth and deep dimples.

  “Samuel Adams dark and a menu. I’m starved.” Rick took a seat on the nearest wooden bar stool, making himself comfortable as she used a cloth to wipe the bar in front of him before setting down a coaster, bottle, and glass. She pulled a laminated menu from the pocket of the black apron tied around her waist, set it in front of him, and waited.

  “I’ll have the hamburger platter, rare as I can get it.” Rick started to pass the menu back, and then turned at a chorus of cheers and groans from the pool area. Elation and frustration filled the room simultaneously, and he struggled against the strong emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. They pressed against his skin like a raging tide of water, only a thin film of magic held them back. His words came out breathier than he planned, but at least he could talk. “Someone lost a bet.”

  “Yup, a big one.” She took the menu from his hand and waited as he retrieved his wallet with a shaky hand to pay. He wasn’t positive he’d be able to do so a second time if the emotional tide kept up.

  “Can I run a tab?”

  She shook her head no. “Sorry.” She pointed to a large handwritten sign taped to the mirror behind the bar. “The boss got burned one too many times. Even he pays cash as he goes.”

  “Fair enough,” Rick nodded to let her know he wasn’t offended. When she counted out his change he gave her a generous tip.

  He watched her walk to the door of the kitchen over the rim of his glass, admiring the movement of her hips as she walked before realizing the admiration wasn’t his. One of the drinkers down the way was smitten with her—couldn’t take his eyes off the waitress.

  Raising his shields a little higher, he took a deep breath and realized a shifter had come in the bar. His hand tightened on the mug by reflex and his mind focused in on that one smell without giving any outward appearance he noticed. A wolf, by the scent, and powerful enough to tingle his skin. He certainly wasn’t up to the level of Lucas, but then, who was?

  “Very nice.”

  The voice was similar to the one on the phone. Rick turned to greet the man who’d joined him at the bar. Yes, this had to be Raven Ramirez. He had a strong resemblance to some in the Alaskan pack, with hair the color of dark chocolate that hung well past his hips. He had it pulled back and held in place with black rubber bands that were nearly invisible against the midnight leather of the biker jacket he wore unzipped. His jeans and boots were black as well. His shirt showed a mouse giving the finger to a striking bald eagle with the caption, “The Last Great Act of Defiance.” A casual observer would know at a glance he was dangerous. They wouldn’t know he was a werewolf.

  “You must be Raven. How’s your dad?” Even though he didn’t know the man, it never hurt to ask after kin.

  “Better now that Jack’s gone,” Raven said with deadpan seriousness. “He’s got a new mate who’s keeping him on his toes. I don’t know if you heard it from Lucas, but he moved to Albuquerque with her. Denver’s not quite the same without him.” Raven raised his hand to get the attention of the barmaid. Not that he’d needed to. Rick could tell she’d been aware of the big man from the second he’d walked in the door. He could feel her lust like a living thing, but she was feeling shy and nervous as well. “He told me to give you his best and if you find Aspen, to let her know how much he appreciated the tip.”

  “Tip?” He noticed his brows raise in the mirror and turned his head just enough to see the other man.

  “Yeah. Aspen apparently called the head of the pack in Albuquerque to suggest that Carly call Dad. Like always, she didn’t say why. But when that particular seer speaks, people listen. And they jump because she always calls right in the nick of time.”

  Rick nodded. “She was always like that. Never altering the future, but sort of…steering it when she could because she was looking at it backward and sideways.” A chuckle escaped him. “She was hell to play chess with.”

  A brilliant smile made a few years lift from Raven’s shoulders. “I’ll bet. I sure wouldn’t want to play a game with her. But let her know there are a lot of people indebted to her. I guess I’m one of them, too. Her name comes up over and over in th
e files. A sentence here, a cryptic comment there, just enough information to the right people to avert disaster. Speaking as someone who has to clean up the mess, I appreciate her efforts for the agency.”

  “The weird part is—that would surprise her. She never thinks about people appreciating her gift. Josie always looked at the negative side…who would be angry with her for her failures?”

  A quick nod before shrugging off his jacket. “Granddad’s like that, too. They accept the responsibility that comes with being gifted, but hate it. Anyway, Dad wanted to let you know you’re welcome to stop by any time if you make it down that way.”

  “I may just do that.” Rick refilled his glass with beer from the bottle and took a drink, marveling at the taste on his tongue. He didn’t get beer up at his cabin often, and he’d forgotten just how rich and complex it was. Sweat dripped down the iced mug to land on the polished bar as he took another drink. While he couldn’t get drunk because of his body’s ability to heal itself before enough brain cells were killed, he remembered occasionally “cheating” by sitting at a table of happy drinkers. Their euphoria would bleed into him, giving him a close enough approximation that he understood why people sought out bars.

  “Is that your Indian out front?” Raven changed the subject easily, and didn’t even try to keep the admiration from his voice. “I’d heard you had a nice ride.”

  He nodded as he swallowed the last bit and set the empty glass on the bar. “Yup. Lucas mentioned yours isn’t half bad either.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve always wanted one like yours.” Ramirez turned his attention to the barmaid, giving her a smile with enough amperage to make the pulse in her throat jump visibly. “I’ll have a bottle of MGD and a burger plate.”