Thunder Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “Only what the legends say.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your great-grandmother never told you?”

  I shook my head.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Family stuff mostly.”

  Since my mother had taken off and my grandmother died before I was born, Rose had been concerned that the family history would die with her. Unfortunately, all that time spent on who was related to whom had left precious little for lessons in language and mysticism, even if I’d been open to them.

  “This is what the old men told me when I was a boy,” Walker began. “When someone from the Darkening Land must commune with those still of this world, a messenger wolf is sent from the west.”

  I glanced at the trees where the animal had appeared. Yep, west all right.

  “To the Cherokee the wolf is sacred,” Walker continued. “He is not to be killed for fear we might extinguish the messenger as well as the message.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “Have you ever killed a wolf?”

  “Not yet. How would you kill a spirit wolf anyway?”

  “I always figured the messengers were actual wolves,” he said, “hence the taboo on killing them. Unless you’re a wolf killer.”

  “Is that like an eagle killer?” My gaze rested on his feather.

  “Exactly.”

  In Cherokee tradition, only certain people could kill an eagle—those who’d been trained in the method and the prayers that would allow such a great warrior bird to be taken without having a curse fall on the hunter and all his descendants. I’d heard the same rules applied to wolves—kill one and be cursed forever, along with your children.

  “Are you an eagle killer?” I asked.

  Though the title was one of honor, the words sounded more like a taunt. I hadn’t meant for them to.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  “You know only great warriors are supposed to wear the feather of an eagle?”

  He turned away, resting his gaze on the slowly falling sun. “I know,” he whispered.

  I meant to ask what he’d done to be considered a warrior, but when he faced away he presented me with his back, and I saw the tattoo. High up on his left shoulder blade flew the image of an eagle, talons outstretched as it swooped down on unsuspecting prey. I’d never known a Cherokee to have a tattoo. Slowly I reached out and touched it.

  He moved so fast I didn’t have time to draw back, let alone get away. The beer I’d been holding fell to the ground, tipped over, and melted into the grass. My hand was left hanging in the air where his shoulder had been; his fingers closed around my wrist.

  “What—?” was all I managed before he kissed me.

  I didn’t fight; I didn’t want to. His mouth was already familiar, his taste one I already craved. The air hummed with awareness, or maybe just cicadas.

  His tongue tasted of beer, not unpleasant considering the heat and my thirst. I licked the inside of his mouth. His lips were cool; I wanted them to touch me everywhere.

  Wait. There was a reason I shouldn’t be doing this.

  I tugged on my wrist; he let me go, his mouth stilling on mine as our breath mingled. Instead of pulling myself away, pushing him away, I let my hand trail over his beautiful skin, down his belly around to his back, then up to his shoulder. My finger worried the area of the tattoo—it felt almost feverish—so much so that I remembered everything I should never forget.

  Sometimes people weren’t people all of the time.

  A shadow passed over the dying sun. An eagle lazily circled the creek. And if the eagle was up there and Walker was right here—

  Well, there could be two, but since there weren’t supposed to be any...

  My mind filled with all sorts of interesting codas to that sentence, even as my libido screamed for the only one that mattered—forget about shape-shifters and kiss him again—still, I hesitated.

  Earlier a simple embrace had sent him to a darkened room where he had mourned next to a picture of his lost wife. I didn’t want to upset him further, but I also believed that he needed to move on. Probably because I wanted him to move on to me.

  I stood, and Walker eyed me warily, as if he thought I would stomp my feet and order him to leave in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice. I might be Cherokee, but I was also Scottish and Southern. I could Scarlett with the best of them.

  Instead, I pulled off my shirt, my skirt, my underwear; then I held out a hand for his. “You say you never get to go to the water?”

  He shook his head mutely, his gaze wandering from my thick dark hair tumbling over my breasts to my waist, past where other dark hair swirled, all the way to my toes, which wiggled in the steadily cooling grass.

  Mist tumbled from the mountains, skating across the tops of the trees, reflecting every shade of sunset. Soon it would settle over the water, going silver along with the moon. I wanted to bathe in that mist, sink into the creek, as Walker sank into me.

  I flexed my fingers, and spellbound, he put his hand into mine.

  Chapter 10

  He would have walked into the water still wearing his pants if I hadn’t stopped him with a hand on his chest. The heat of his skin distracted me, the smoothness of it beneath my own, and I lifted both arms, running my palms across his pecs, over his shoulders, down his biceps.

  The scent of him mingled with the scent of the trees, the mist, the water. I had to taste him or die, so I put my mouth where my hands had been, running my tongue from his collarbone to his nipple, then tracing the line of his ribs.

  His fingers clenched in my hair, not pulling me away but holding me close. Slowly I straightened, cupping him through the thick material of his jeans, sliding my thumbnail down the zipper until he moaned.

  “The water,” he said almost desperately.

  “We’ll get there.” I flicked open his jeans and reached inside.

  Hard and hot, thick and full, he pulsed against me. “Grace, I haven’t—”

  I squeezed him once and he came, spurting against my belly. “You have,” I murmured, continuing to work him in my fist.

  His face was beautiful in the fading light, his profile harsh yet familiar, eyes closed, mouth slightly open and relaxed. Leaning up, I brushed my lips against his, and his eyes opened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “I’m not.” I’d followed my instincts, and they’d been right. He hadn’t done this in so long, he had no control. Now he would.

  I waded in until the water reached my waist, then turned and waited for him. He stood on the bank, staring at me as if I were a water nymph emerging from the depths.

  As I did every time I came to the water, I lifted my hands to the moon and said the words of my great-grandmother. When I lowered my arms, he still watched me.

  “There is another world beneath our own,” he said. “It’s like this one in every way, except the seasons are opposite. Which is why the moving waters are warmer in winter and colder in summer than the air.”

  I smiled, enjoying the way he told the tales he’d heard from the old ones whenever something reminded him of them.

  “To reach the other place we walk the trails of the springs that come down the mountains. The doorway lies at their head where we can slide in and the beings there can slide out. You’re so beautiful, Grace, you seem from that other world.”

  I shook my head, and my hair skated across the surface of the water, tossing droplets every which way.

  As a child I’d been stared at and pointed at so much that by the time I’d grown into my legs, my mouth, my nose and teeth, I no longer believed I was anything but strange.

  “I’m cold,” I said, as my nipples tightened, and my body seemed to come alive in a rush of blood just beneath my skin. “Warm me.”

  Ian lost what remained of his clothes and stepped into the creek then immediately went below the surface, bobbing up, then dunking himself again. Once, twice, he kept at it until he’d doused himself seven times. Most every Cherokee ritual
involved the sacred number seven.

  At last he burst from beneath and stayed there. “Before you come to the water you should fast.” He cast his eyes to the rising moon. “The ritual is performed at daybreak.”

  I reached out and pulled him closer. “Forget about the old ways for a minute.”

  I slipped my arms around his waist and licked a cool drop from his hot skin. At first I thought steam rose from his body, until I realized the mist skimmed across the surface of the creek like a snake, swirling around and over us.

  “Grace,” he began. “I haven’t been with anyone...”

  His voice faded, and his face darkened. He stiffened as if he might pull away, and I kissed him. Open-mouthed, lots of tongue, as I gripped his biceps and poured all that I wanted, all that I needed, into this single embrace.

  He hadn’t been with anyone but his wife—maybe ever, but considering his reaction to just the sight of my body, the touch of my hand, definitely since he’d lost her.

  Walker was a naked man in the water with a naked woman. Eventually he kissed me back. He didn’t stand much of a chance.

  I believed he needed to connect with someone; I certainly needed to, and not in a nudge-nudge, whisper, snicker, connect-with-me-baby kind of way. I needed a connection, the sharing of bodies, some kindness and awareness in a world where there’s so very little.

  If, in some tiny corner of my mind, I thought, Maybe he’s the one, the one who won’t leave, I didn’t know it then. Then all I knew was the taste of his mouth, the sleek, wet expanse of his skin, the scent of the water and the wind and the night. We both belonged right here, right now, with each other. I’d worry about later... later.

  His hands raced over my body, slipping, sliding both above and below the water; the sensation of his hot flesh and the cool creek, his slightly roughened fingers on skin that hadn’t been roughened at all, made me moan. He traced a palm over my hip and swooped up, cupping one breast, then the other, before scraping his thumbnail over each peak.

  My head fell back, my eyes half-open so I could watch his head descend and his lips close over me. His tongue pressed my nipple against the roof of his mouth, suckling me as one finger dipped below the surface of the water and stroked.

  The moon was satin on my cheeks, his mouth like silk. The lap of the creek, the pressure of his hand, I came apart in his arms just as he’d come apart in mine. He held me as I gasped, and pressed soft kisses across my chin, even as his fingers drew out the magic.

  I met his eyes. “Sorry,” I said, and he smiled, hearing the echo of himself.

  “That was ...” He paused, uncertain.

  “Amazing? Astounding? Fantastic?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about one more?” I headed downstream, tugging him along after me.

  “Life-altering? Mind-boggling? Mood-shifting?”

  I glanced over my shoulder, pleased at the happiness on his face. Until now, he’d only looked sad.

  “When I said, ‘How about one more?’ I didn’t mean an adjective.”

  The water deepened until it was over our heads. I dropped his hand and began to swim.

  “What did you mean?”

  He swam, too, following me around the bend and into the secluded cove where the water remained warm nearly the whole year through. I don’t know if an underground spring fed the pond or if the smaller, somewhat enclosed area held the heat of the sun longer than the moving length of the creek. Either way, this was my secret place. I’d never brought anyone here, not even Claire.

  At the center, I let my feet drift to the soft bottom, then rose into the moon-shrouded air like a mermaid. The water lapped at my rib cage. Droplets shone like pearls on my skin.

  “I meant, how about one more?”

  “Oh!” He dragged his gaze from my chest to my face. “Yes.”

  I floated across the few feet separating us, stopping when I was so close my breasts brushed his chest. Then I bobbed up once and sank beneath the surface.

  Chapter 11

  “Grace!” He grabbed at me, but I was too quick. As soon as my mouth closed around him, he understood I’d meant to submerge.

  I could hold my breath for a very long time, even without the added incentive. The water was warm, welcoming. Beneath the surface everything was dark.

  He was already hard; I wasn’t surprised. Even though I’d taken the edge off earlier, he was still a desperate man. I’d never known I had a thing for desperation until I’d tasted it in him.

  Lazily I ran my tongue along his length, then drew him deep within. The swirl of water past my face revealed movement even before his hand cupped my head, showing me the rhythm. In and out he pumped against my lips. Long before I was ready, he urged me upward. I shook my head, suckling him hard, grazing him with my teeth before I gave in and burst from the water.

  His hands found my arms; he dragged me against him, the poke of his erection insistent. He tasted of need. I wrapped myself around him and held on.

  He fell back, taking me with him, and side-by-side we floated, kissing, touching, arousing. My shoulders bumped against the mossy bank, and I twirled with the current until he was braced against it, then slid up his body until we were face-to-face. His hands spanned my waist; my legs opened, then closed around him.

  He seemed to know my body better than, or at least as well as, I did, slowing, shifting, taking the pressure away from one place and applying it to another. His lips traveled everywhere, first soft, then hard, a nip of the teeth, a stroke of the tongue, just enough, not too much. There, yes there.

  I wanted the release; I begged for it, too. He made me wait, nearly gave it to me, then made me wait some more. The moon shone, round and impossibly white on my upturned face as I rode him, desperately seeking something.

  His body convulsed, triggering an answering convulsion in mine. The sharp, hot puff of his breath against the damp skin of my breasts made my nipples tighten, the reaction echoing in the deepest part of me.

  In the aftermath, I lay draped over him. He was strong; he kept us both above water. The warmth, the gentle lap of the waves that slid into the cove from the moving creek, lulled me. I almost fell asleep.

  “Is this where you bring all the guys?”

  I stiffened, lifted my head, and met his curious eyes. I could see how he’d think that. We’d only just met and now we were naked. Maybe I was a slut, but most men had the sense not to say so.

  “You’re the first.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  “Ass.” I shoved myself off him, scooting backward in the water. “I didn’t mean first, first. I meant first person I’ve ever brought here. This place is special, but you, Doctor, are not.” I began to swim home.

  He caught me before I reached the colder, faster rushing water of the creek, grabbing me around the waist and hoisting me against him. I struggled, but he was bigger, stronger, more determined than me.

  “Hey.” He set his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry. That was ... stupid.”

  “You think?” I kicked him in the shin. Since I had no leverage and the water dulled the blow, it was a childish gesture, but I felt better.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m no good at this.”

  “What? Speech? Social niceties? Tact?”

  “All of them. Since my wife—” His chest rose and fell against my own. “I haven’t been with anyone and I’ve never been very good at keeping what’s in my-head from shooting out of my mouth. I like you and I didn’t want—” He broke off. “I’m making a bigger mess of this now than before, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” I pushed against his shoulders, and this time he let me go.

  “I don’t sleep around. This is a really small town, and it’s bad for business.” I shoved my hand through my dripping hair. “Sleep with a guy, he expects privileges.”

  “What kind of privileges?”

  His face had hardened, his biceps, too, as his hands curled into fists. I
found myself charmed by his defense of me, as well as the flex and flow of his muscles. God, I was pathetic.

  “Fixed parking tickets. Free rein to speed wherever and whenever. Leniency for all his kith and kin.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “I can see why you’d be leery. So why me?”

  I didn’t want to explain about two years of celibacy, exacerbated by the way he smelled, the way he looked, how he’d made me feel when he’d touched me. I was pitiful, but I didn’t want him to know that.

  I let my gaze wander from the top of his sodden feather to where his spectacular chest disappeared into the water. “Why not you?”

  “You don’t think I’ll ask for favors?”

  I tilted my head. “Will you?”

  “No.”

  “We’re adults,” I said. “We both needed the release. We can just leave it at that and go back to being...” I spread my hands. “Whatever.”

  “You think I can go back to being whatever with you, after this?”

  I held my breath. I didn’t want to go back to being “whatever” with him, but I’d had too many years of being the one left behind, even figuratively, to put myself on the line like that ever again.

  I thought about the guys who had come before. Not a one of them had ever had a problem with a few days of sex and then never seeing me again. Of course none of them, for several years anyway, had lived in Lake Bluff. Not that any of the townies had had a problem calling it quits with me, either.

  For that matter, neither had my mother.

  When I didn’t answer, he made an aggravated sound. “I’m not a robot, Grace. If I share myself with someone, I do it for a reason.”

  “Sex.”

  “I’m not made that way.”

  “You’re a guy. Don’t tell me you haven’t had meaningless sex and walked out the next morning.”

  “I didn’t say that. But this wasn’t meaningless and you know it.”

  I did, although I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. Not love. But definitely a step above a quickie in the night.

  Something swirled through the water near my hip. I jumped, thinking snake, until his hand slid into my own. “Why don’t we see where this goes? We kind of went at things out of order, but what would you say to a date?”