Dark Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “No kidding. I’d be on the next transport to a little white room.”

  In truth, I wanted Nic to stay. I had no idea what to do. Not that he’d know any better how to figure out why a body—or ten—had disappeared into thin air. But at least he was someone who had dealt with death before. Still, there were other issues we had to get straight before we could work together.

  “We can’t—”

  “Sleep together anymore? I figured that out for myself, Elise.”

  “I was going to say ‘keep sniping at each other,’ but that, too.”

  There was no way I would continue an affair with a man who found me disgusting—especially when I still loved him. I might be pathetic, but I wasn’t stupid.

  “Fine.” His jaw tightened.

  “We’ll work together.” I held out my hand. “But nothing else.”

  He stared at my palm for several seconds, then spun on his heel and headed into the trees.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I shouted.

  The ride to Fairhaven was silent. We reached town about 3 a.m.

  “Looks like the deputy’s back.” Nic's gaze was on the sheriff’s office, where every light blazed.

  “Guess we should tell him he’s been promoted.”

  “He’s not going to be happy.”

  “Why not?” We crossed the quiet, peaceful street. “Fairhaven seems a decent place to be a sheriff.”

  “It was.”

  “He’s a cop. He’ll do his job.”

  “I don’t doubt he will. But small towns usually hire retired law-enforcement officers—old men who don’t want any more hassles.”

  That explained why Basil might not be thrilled to learn of his sudden promotion to head cop of a town with serious troubles.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to actually tell him what’s going on,” I said.

  “We don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Then there shouldn’t be any problem. But werewolves, disappearing bodies. Let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we?”

  “What if we tell him what we know? As little as that is.”

  “Rule number one,” I recited. “No truth for civilians. They panic, then they call the press. The National Enquirer would be a real pain right now.”

  Together we climbed the steps to the sheriff’s office.

  “I don’t like keeping law-enforcement officials in the dark,” Nic said. “This guy should know what he’s facing.”

  I reached for the door just as it opened, and I nearly fell into the man on the other side.

  He wasn’t old. Though at least twenty-one, since he was a deputy, Basil Moore appeared much younger. His long, wheat-shaded hair was tied in a ponytail. His cheekbones were high and sharp, his eyes bright green. He could have been a model, except for the scar that bisected his right cheek. What a waste.

  Then again, the scar gave him the air of a pirate in a modern world. The perfection’s marring only seemed to highlight how perfect he was.

  “Deputy. I’m Elise Hanover. This is Dominic Franklin.”

  “FBI.” Nic offered his hand, and in doing so, including me as one of them.

  I let it pass. If Basil thought I was FBI that saved a lot of questions as to what I actually was.

  “More FBI?” Basil shook Nic’s hand, then nodded to me.

  “More?” Nic asked.

  “That tall gal and the Injun.” His lip curled. “Too damned friendly, if ya ask me. What is she thinking?”

  I recalled Will’s description of Basil—not an Indian lover. I’d heard people like him existed, but I hadn’t really believed it.

  Basil kept on talking in a striking bass voice that would have been lovely if he hadn’t been such a racist. “They were FBI, too. Why on earth the government would hire a red man, I have no idea.”

  Nic cast a narrow glance at me and I shrugged. I wasn’t surprised Jessie and Will and probably Edward, too, had identified themselves as FBI. We lied all the time so we could do our jobs with the least amount of questions asked.

  Besides, our usual lies—we were with the DNR, there was rabies, and so on—wouldn’t work in Fairhaven. There weren’t any wolves.

  “Yes, well—” Nic cleared his throat. “Will and Jessie found Sheriff Stephenson.”

  “I’d hope so since I told them exactly where he was.”

  “You didn’t tell them he’d be dead.”

  Basil blinked. “Dead?”

  “As in ‘not alive,’ ” I offered.

  “I guess that makes you the acting sheriff,” Nic continued, ignoring me. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling since the body was discovered.”

  “I was talkin’ to some folks around town. They’re upset. People disappear, and they start whisperin’ about black magic, Devil worship, witches. You think something like that is going on in Fairhaven?’

  “Nothing like that,” I said.

  “Should I grab Dr. Watchry and head to the crime scene?” Basil asked.

  “The doctor’s been there already. He examined the body. Before—” Nic broke off and Basil sighed.

  “Gone again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Don’t suppose anyone saw who stole it this time.”

  “One minute it was there,” I said, “the next, poof.”

  Nic lifted a brow in my direction. I ignored him. People hear what they want to hear, and Basil was no different.

  “I wish I knew who this crazy was, and how he managed to steal bodies with no one seein’ him.”

  “What was Sheriff Stephenson doing out there?” Nic asked.

  “Report of a grave desecration. Happens sometimes, here and around. Usually kids.”

  “Has it been happening a lot lately?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “And what’s usual for something like that?”

  “Now and again. Few times a year maybe.”

  “Hmm.”

  I understood Nic's concern. Anything odd, especially anything odd that had to do with the dead, was cause for inquiry—both in his world and mine.

  “I didn’t see any graves. Did you?” Nic asked.

  I shook my head.

  “There are graves all over the woods,” Basil said. “Folks buried their dead wherever they dropped in the old days.”

  “And this grave?” Nic pressed. “Whose was it? Who called and said it had been disturbed?”

  “I didn’t take the call, but from the location I’d say that was the Anderson homestead. You’d have to look at the plot maps to be sure.”

  “I’d also like to see the paperwork,” Nic said.

  “Paperwork?”

  “On the grave desecrations. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “I can’t think that there’s paperwork on something so simple.”

  Though murders were rare, mischief was not. Bored kids did a lot of drinking in the woods, at the end of dead-end roads, on dusty trails, then they got into trouble. Until recently, a little grave-digging was probably the most excitement anyone got in Fairhaven.

  “I suppose this means you Feds are going to be taking over the case,” Basil muttered.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what it means.”

  Chapter 21

  “Let’s regroup.” Nic headed for the cabin.

  The door was unlocked. A note and the key lay on the kitchen table.

  Don’t forget to talk to Cora Kopway, I read in what I assumed was Will’s precise scrawl. He’d also drawn a map to her cottage.

  “Who’s Cora Kopway?” Nic asked.

  “Ojibwe wisewoman.”

  “And you’re supposed to talk to her why?”

  “Remember that talisman we found in Montana?” I left the kitchen and ran into the bedroom, retrieved the icon from my sweatpants and returned with it in my hand.

  Nic sat at the table, scribbling notes onto a notepad he’d produced from Lord knows where. He didn’t even glance up when I entered. “What about it?” />
  Quickly I related what had happened since the icon came into my possession, as well as Will’s thoughts and the need to talk to Cora. At least he stopped taking notes.

  “You’re more powerful?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t know why?”

  “No.”

  He stood. “Let’s go talk to her.”

  I glanced at the clock. Close to 4 a.m. now. “Isn’t it a little early for visiting?”

  “You said she was old. She’ll be awake.”

  Since he was already headed through the door, I hurried to catch up.

  The sun wasn’t even a smoky glow against the eastern sky when Nic parked in front of a small cottage several miles outside of Fairhaven. The windows were lit, and as we got out of the car, the front door opened. A young, beautiful woman stood on the threshold as if she’d been waiting for us to arrive.

  Her skin was olive, not the cinnamon shade of Will’s, but her hair was just as dark, flowing to her waist like a waving ebony river. Her eyes, black and heavily lashed, gazed at us curiously, but she didn’t speak, she merely waited. Talk about aging gracefully; Will’s ancient wisewoman didn’t appear a day over twenty-five.

  “We’d like to speak with Cora Kopway,” I said.

  “My grandmother joined the spirits last week.”

  Hell. We were SOL when it came to information if Cora was dead.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Will Cadotte said she might be able to help us.”

  “The professor!” An expression of pure delight blossomed. “Grandmother spoke of him often. He didn’t come with you?”

  “He was called away.”

  We stood silent, her on the porch, Nic and I in the yard.

  “Would you mind if we took a look at some of your grandmother’s books?” Nic asked.

  “Of course not. She’d be happy to help any friend of Professor Cadotte’s.”

  The woman opened the door wider. When she moved, a sound, like faint jingle bells, ensued. Golden bangles circled her arms; red, blue, and yellow beaded earrings tangled with her hair, their colors a reflection of the calf-length skirt and frilly peasant blouse. I caught a glimpse of an ankle bracelet, as well as several toe rings on her bare feet.

  “I’m Lydia.”

  “Elise Hanover. This is Nic Franklin.”

  She nodded to us both.

  The place was lovely, overflowing with Indian paintings and sculptures. Most were of animals: bear, moose, birds, coyotes, and, of course, wolves.

  One table held dried bones and what appeared to be teeth. Candles of all shapes, sizes, and colors graced the room. Pottery bowls stood on each table; some held powders, some unidentified objects.

  I smelled fresh-cut grass, sandalwood, and new snow on a crisp winter night. I was reminded of Montana beneath a full moon, and for the first time in a lifetime I missed the place.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the ceiling with volumes, their spines reflecting every shade of the rainbow. More cluttered the tables and the floor, some rested on furniture the hues of the earth and the sky at sunset: mahogany, sand, azure, burnt orange.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Lydia stepped into the room just behind me. “Grandmother left me the place, and I’m grateful. She’ll be a great loss to the Ojibwe community.”

  “Will said she was quite knowledgeable.”

  “Very. She was teaching me, but there was so much to learn.”

  Here was good news. Maybe we weren’t SOL after all.

  “We’re interested in information on shamanic totems with mystical power.”

  “What kind of power?”

  “Shape-shifting.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Into what?”

  “Wolf.”

  “Weendigo,” she whispered, and one of the candles sputtered, then went out, leaving a trail of smoke behind.

  “I always hate it when that happens,” I said.

  Lydia struck a match and relit the wick. The flame held steady and sure.

  “What’s a Weendigo?” Nic asked.

  “The Great Cannibal. Ojibwe werewolf.”

  Nic cleared his throat, turned so Lydia couldn’t see, then pointed at his teeth.

  I frowned, considering. There’d been a bite mark on the single victim we’d seen. But human teeth, not wolf. No flesh removed. What about the others that no one could find? For all we knew, they could have been sporting bite marks, too, or missing big chunks of skin—kind of hard to tell without the bodies.

  I shook my head. We’d keep the information to ourselves for now. We were here to discuss the talisman, not the disappearances.

  “Getting back to the totem,” I said.

  “A sacrifice would be required to imbue the icon with power.”

  “Rabbit,” Nic muttered.

  “Unusual choice. But blood is blood. What is the totem made from?”

  “Plastic,” Nic blurted, before I could show her the thing.

  He was right to be cautious. The icon was evidence— of what, we didn’t know. But passing the thing around like a brand-new baby could be a mistake.

  “Also unusual,” Lydia continued. “But Grandmother always said it’s not the vessel that matters but the magic. The power behind the plastic is what counts. A spell, correctly performed by a shaman, could make anything a conduit. However, there aren’t a lot of people left with that kind of power.”

  “Could Cora have done it?” Nic asked.

  “If she wasn’t dead.”

  Nic dipped his chin in acknowledgment before asking, “I don’t suppose you know any others of Cora’s stature?”

  “No, but I can ask around.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Nic removed a card from his pocket and handed it to Lydia. “You can reach us at this number.”

  “Do you have volumes on shamanic transformation?”

  “I haven’t seen any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Help yourself.”

  “I’ll take a quick look.” Nic headed for the nearest stack.

  Silence settled between us. We smiled, glanced away. Now what?

  I’d never been good at making friends. Becoming a werewolf and being relegated to a compound in Montana hadn’t improved the skill.

  Crossing to the window, I peered out. The forest came right up to the cottage. Most people would be claustrophobic, but to me the trees were soothing, both refuge and retreat.

  Lydia joined me. “I’m not very good with people. Comes from spending too much time with just myself and my books.”

  She thought she was being geeky. Her insecurity called out to my own.

  “I have the same problem.”

  My gaze was caught by a shadow. Something slunk low to the ground. Something furry, with ears and a tail. “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “There.” I pointed. “A wolf.”

  “No wolves around here. Probably a coyote.”

  The shadow had seemed damn big for a coyote, but then, shadows were like that.

  “You’ve never seen any wolves?”

  “Not since I moved in. Coyotes, though. A lot of them.”

  And where there were a lot of one, there weren’t any of the other. Wolves would tolerate foxes in their territory, but never coyotes. Another of nature’s little mysteries.

  “I’ve heard there are quite a few crows, too. They usually hang around wolves.”

  “I read something about that in a book on Chippewa legends,” Cora said.

  Chippewa being the misspelling of Ojibwe by the government on treaties and other official documents. The mistake had made its way into common usage.

  “I meant Ojibwe,” Lydia said quickly. “The author kept using the term Chippewa legend. I can’t get it out of my mind.” She smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand.

  A second shadow skirted the cool confines of the forest, distracting me.

  “What’s so interesting?” Nic stood behind
us.

  “Elise thought she saw a wolf.”

  He stared out the window for several moments. I held my breath. Did I want him to see a wolf, or didn’t I?

  “Nothing.”

  “Must have been a coyote,” Lydia said again.

  Was I jumping at shadows? Probably. In my world, shadows often turned out to be real.

  “We should go,” Nic said.

  “You didn’t find anything useful in Grandmother’s books?”

  “No. But thanks for letting me look.”

  “Nice meeting you.” Lydia followed us to the door. “Come back anytime.”

  I stepped outside and sniffed, but the wind blew toward the forest—the wrong direction for me to scent anything but grass and trees, a few squirrels.

  The sun just peeked over the horizon. Werewolves, for the most part, exist from dusk to dawn. However, the exact minute of dawn is hard to put a finger on without an almanac.

  “What’s the matter?” Nic asked as we climbed into the car and drove away.

  I flipped my finger toward the sky. “Too close to sunrise to have been anything but coyotes. Or real wolves.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then again, maybe not.”

  “Because?”

  “The Jager-Suchers have encountered beings that could shift anytime they want to—like the Weendigo—which could also shift into any shape he saw fit. Luckily, he’s dead, thanks to Damian and Leigh.”

  “There can’t be another one?”

  A cheery thought, however—

  “No. Or at least not right now. A Weendigo is made between the harvest and the hunter’s moon.”

  “Which means nothing to me,” Nic pointed out.

  “Harvest moon is in September, hunter’s October. Since it’s November we’re headed for the beaver or the frost moon.”

  “Where do you get this stuff?”

  “From books. The Indians coined names for each full moon. In November, the swamps freeze and the beavers wander. The People would set traps and make winter blankets of the heavy pelts.”

  “A kind of calendar—a way to mark time by the moon.”

  “Right. But I don’t remember reading anything about the beaver moon and disappearing bodies. I’ll have to talk to Will.” I held out my hand. “Cell phone?”

  “That’s a for-sure thing? The moon influencing—”

  “Werewolves?” I interrupted. “Oh, yeah.”