Thunder Moon

by Lori Handeland

  Sun sparkled on the water. I sank in to my neck and recited the only chant I knew. “I stand beneath the moon and feel the power. I will possess the lightning and drink of the rain. The thunder is your song and mine.”

  Holding my breath, I waited. But nothing came.

  I smacked the top of the water. The words said in English were worthless, but I didn’t know them in Cherokee.

  Frustration clawed at me. I began to jabber every Cherokee word I knew.

  “Nakwisis. A ni sa ho ni. A ni tsi s kwa. A ni wo di.”

  Nothing.

  Finally I closed my eyes and shouted, “E-li-si!” I repeated the word seven times, and when I opened my eyes, the wolf stood on the bank of the creek, proving once and for all that the messenger was my great-grandmother.

  “Rule of seven.” I should have known. Every Cherokee ritual involved the sacred number seven.

  I climbed out of the water and used my uniform top to dry myself, which left me looking like an entrant in a wet-blouse contest, but I didn’t care.

  Once dressed, I followed the wolf to the cabin. She wouldn’t go near the house but stayed at the edge of the trees. Considering those sharpened sticks were supposed to shoot into the air and kill her if she came too close, that was understandable.

  “Which way?”

  The wolf stared north. I stepped in that direction, and she growled, then glanced toward the car. Woof.

  “I need to drive?”

  I didn’t wait for an answer—which would only be woof—but climbed in and followed Grandmother down the drive to the highway.

  Last summer, when we’d had our own wolf problem, I’d done some research. Wolves can run 40 miles per hour. They’ve been known to travel a hundred miles in a single day. They can chase a herd for five or six miles, then accelerate.

  According to my speedometer, at 55 miles per hour Grandmother was one fast wolf. Of course she wasn’t a real wolf, but I was still impressed.

  I hoped we didn’t have far to go. The sun seemed to be falling faster than usual. I knew that wasn’t true, but I was afraid. Afraid I’d find Ian, but too late. Afraid I’d never find him at all.

  My hands clenched on the steering wheel as another thought occurred to me. What if I found him changed into something evil just like Susan had been? I didn’t think he could become a Raven Mocker—didn’t we need a Thunder Moon for that?—but if Quatie was a witch and she was becoming more and more powerful, who knows what she might be able to accomplish?

  Would I be able to kill him as I’d promised? I didn’t want to make that choice.

  Ian had been forced to kill the body of the woman he loved, even though he knew the spirit that inhabited it was no longer human. I was struck anew by his courage. Certainly he’d lived with the guilt, thrown himself into his job, probably taken chances that he shouldn’t have ever since, but he’d done what had to be done and it had not been easy.

  The sun went behind a cloud, throwing shadows across the road, and I panicked, pressing down on the accelerator, trying to get wherever we were going faster. My bumper would have sent the wolf sprawling, if she’d had a butt to bump. As it was, the metal just passed through her tail and she shot me a snarl over her shoulder, so I eased off the gas.

  I had to find Ian before Quatie did her worst. If she ate his heart, would she gain his power, too? Considering what she’d gained so far, I had to think so.

  Perhaps she’d stolen him more for his magic than his knowledge. To possess the heart of an A ni wo di, a paint clan sorcerer, would make her infinitely more dangerous. If she accomplished it, I had no doubt we were all doomed.

  I came around a corner and suddenly knew where we were going.

  “Blood Mountain,” I whispered.

  And the wolf disappeared.

  Chapter 36

  The peak of Blood Mountain loomed over me. Though the sun still shone, the shadow thrown by the massive summit made me shiver. I knew without a doubt that this was where Quatie had brought Ian, even before I saw the flash of red in the trees.

  I slammed on the brakes and swung around, unsurprised to find my truck abandoned a few yards down a dirt track. I got out of Claire’s car, approaching my own cautiously, gun drawn, but no one was there.

  I’d learned how to track at my father’s heels. He’d been the best and now I was. Though the past few days of heat and sun had dried the rain from the last storm, I could still find traces of a trail headed upward.

  Blood Mountain might not be the highest peak, but it wasn’t low, either. Most estimates put the elevation at 4,458 feet. There was no water at the top; countless people had fallen prey to dehydration climbing this mountain.

  I hadn’t brought a canteen, but it didn’t matter. The sun was falling; I wouldn’t reach the top before nightfall, which meant I’d be lucky to reach Ian before the witch killed him. Dehydration was going to be the least of my worries.

  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t run. I had to be alert for signs that Ian and the witch were still on the trail or that they might have left it.

  About halfway up, I found just that. A tiny scuff of a shoe at the edge of the dirt, then broken twigs and leaves and indentations in the softer ground beneath the canopy of trees. They were headed parallel to the ridge instead of up.

  What would I do when I found them? I had silver bullets in my gun, but I wasn’t sure they’d be of any use. I should shoot Quatie in Adsila form—witches could die, couldn’t they?—but I wasn’t certain I’d be able to. As Adsila, or Quatie, she was a person. As Quatie, she was a person I loved. But if I waited for her to become the Raven Mocker, then she would be damn hard to kill, damn hard to see, too.

  The heat made my already-damp shirt damper. Bugs flew into my eyes, stuck to my sweaty face, and all the time I was conscious of the sun tumbling down. The shadows lengthened. In the distance, thunder rumbled. The scent of rain rode in on the breeze.

  I caught sight of a roof ahead and approached cautiously, scooting from tree to tree, just in case Quatie was watching.

  The tiny log cabin in the clearing had seen better days. The porch was mostly kindling. The roof had a hole so big I could see it from here, and the windows were nothing more than shards of glass.

  I pulled my gun from its holster and hurried across the open space to the rear of the structure. I made it without an outcry or hail of bullets. Maybe they weren’t even here.

  After peeking into the window, I jerked quickly back. Someone lay on the bed. Since the shadows of the unlit cabin had combined with the increasing darkness of the coming storm, I couldn’t determine if the lump was Ian, Quatie, or someone else entirely.

  I slid along the wall, checked the corner, then did the same down the side and the front, until I was at the door. Taking a deep breath, I gave it a shove and went in low.

  Nothing moved. No one spoke. Was the body on the bed another corpse?

  I inched forward, gun at the ready, then I tugged the thin blanket with my free hand.

  “Ian!”

  Someone had beaten the crap out of him. The same someone, I was sure, who’d tied him up. My hand clenched on the edge of the cover until my knuckles went white; then I felt for a pulse and found one. He was unconscious. From the amount of blood on his face, he had a head injury. I only hoped it wasn’t a serious one.

  “Ian,” I tried again, got no response. I looked around for water to throw in his face or at least wet his lips. I was out of luck there, too.

  As much as I’d like to, I couldn’t carry him down the mountain. I checked Claire’s cell phone. No service. I hadn’t really expected any.

  I patted his face, gently, because of the blood. I had no idea where it had come from—head, nose, cheeks, or chin. I didn’t want him to awaken in pain.

  My eyes burned with tears; I leaned over and kissed his big fat lip. Beneath mine, his mouth moved. I reared back, my own eyes widening when his opened.

  “Grace?” His voice was thick, hoarse, confused.

  “I�
��m here.”

  “How?”

  “My father didn’t leave me out in the mountains when I was four for nothing.”

  “He what?” Ian jerked upward, then moaned and fell back.

  “Hey, relax. I just meant I know how to find my way around, how to follow someone. She didn’t stand a chance.”

  “It’s Adsila.”

  “I know. She’s Quatie.”

  His face screwed up, then straightened out as he hissed in pain.

  “Killing young, healthy people made her younger and healthier. I saw a picture of Quatie when she was about my age. Spitting image of Adsila.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, great stuff,” I said impatiently. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. She said she’d be back when the sun died and the thunder was born.”

  The shadows had lengthened, and the storm had begun to swirl old dead leaves across the stubbly grass. “Soon. What did she do to you?”

  “Tied me up and beat me bloody,” he said, as if what had happened were nothing more than a normal day’s activities. I had to wonder what his life had been like in Oklahoma.

  “Why now?” I asked. “She knew I had Grandmother’s papers.”

  “She also knew you couldn’t read them until I showed up; then she lit your house on fire.”

  “How? She could barely walk.”

  “She could fly.”

  I recalled the blaze of sparks in the sky as I’d driven from Quatie’s place to my own. I guess flying instead of limping, growing younger instead of dying, was some kind of rationalization for why Quatie had decided being evil was better than being herself.

  “She flew to my house and used the sparks flying out of her butt to flame my roof?”

  “Or a match.”

  I guess it didn’t really matter how she’d done it.

  “The joke was on her because you’d already taken the papers.”

  “Then we foolishly let her know we still had them.”

  Whoops.

  “Even though she didn’t think I knew how to kill her,” I said, “it would make sense, in an evil villain sort of way, to kill me, just in case.”

  “She was fond of you, at least until the Raven Mocker took over completely. The more lives she ate, the less Quatie she became.”

  “Then why didn’t she tear out your heart before now?”

  “She needed more power. I might not be strong enough to end her, but I had enough juice to keep her from ending me—until today anyway.”

  “Then why are you still alive?”

  Realization spread over his battered face. “I’m the bait. You’ve got to go before she comes back.”

  “Like hell.” I set to work picking at the knotted rope around his ankles.

  “She read your great-grandmother’s papers. She knows that the only way to kill her is for a sorcerer of greater power to see her in raven form.”

  “I thought it was great power, and it didn’t work. You couldn’t see her, even with your eagle eyes.”

  “The writing’s faded. The word was ‘greater,’ not ‘great.’ “

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

  “I couldn’t see her because my power is from the eagle—a great war bird, but a bird just the same. I’m of equal power.”

  “Still not getting how I can help.”

  “You’re a panther, Grace. Much greater power than a raven.”

  “I’m not a panther.”

  “You could be. Remember what you told me about your great-grandmother and the bear? She could access the panther.”

  “Just because she could doesn’t mean I can. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “She left the spell in her papers. All you have to do is believe.”

  I snorted.

  “And say the words.”

  “I have a better idea.” The ropes fell away from his ankles. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I reached for the ties that bound his hands, and lightning flashed overhead so brightly I could still see it when I closed my eyes. The thunder that followed shook the mountain. When it faded, another sound drifted in on the wind. The caw of a raven, the beat of supernatural wings.

  “Forget the hands. You can run without them.” I yanked him to his feet, but when I headed for the door, he didn’t follow. “Ian, let’s go.”

  He stared at the hole in the roof, head tilted, listening. “It’s too late, even if I’d planned to run,” he lowered his gaze to mine, “which I didn’t. I came to kill this witch, and I’m not leaving until she’s dead.”

  “You came because she dragged you here and beat you bloody. And if we stay she’s going to send us to the Darkening Land, then feast on the rest of my town.”

  “Not if you do what I say.”

  My heart pounded so loudly I couldn’t hear the beat of approaching wings anymore, but I felt the Raven Mocker riding in on the storm.

  I kept picking at the knots holding Ian’s hands together. “What do I do?”

  “The spell’s simple. Words and belief. I’ll say the Cherokee; you repeat.”

  “I won’t understand what I’m saying.” I gave an impatient tug on the rope, and it fell away.

  “What we’ll be saying is this: ‘I feel the power of my past. I walk the path of my people. Give me the knowledge, the strength, the magic of the panther.’ Got it?”

  I nodded, then flinched as the horrible shrieking commenced from above.

  “Repeat after me,” he shouted.

  We said the words. I had a hard time concentrating as the wind swirled through the windows, the door, the roof, sweeping past my cheeks like the beat of invisible raven’s wings. The shrieking increased. I wanted to put my hands over my ears. Then suddenly my chest began to ache as if someone, or something, had punched my solar plexus.

  The witch was here.

  “Do you see it?” Ian asked.

  I shook my head, and the ache turned to sharp, shiny needles of pain. I fell to my knees; I could hear nothing but the thunder that pounded in my ears like the beat of my dying heart.

  Ian fell onto on his back, eyes wide, face contorted. He groped at his chest. Beneath his palms, beneath the tatters of his shirt, his skin rippled and pulsed as something fought to break free.

  “No,” I managed. “Take me.”

  Laughter swirled around the room—both human and birdlike—mocking my foolishness. The Raven Mocker was going to take us both.

  My chest on fire, my head threatening to explode from lack of oxygen, I reached for Ian’s hand. I was surprised when his squeezed mine.

  “Say the words,” he whispered. “Believe the magic.”

  I tilted my face to the night, felt the rain on my fiery skin. I shouted the words in Cherokee into the raging night. I knew what every single one of them meant.

  The air hummed, electricity all around. Behind my closed eyelids I saw my great-grandmother leap onto a boulder, heard her growl at that bear. I knew she’d had magic, and I wanted magic, too. I would do anything to keep the witch from hurting the one I loved.

  Ian cried out; a snarl burst from my lips. Feral fury, the need to defend my mate, a prowling wildness erupted within, and I opened my eyes.

  The Raven Mocker hovered in front of me—a huge bird with a wingspan that brushed the walls of the cabin, red glowing eyes in a black beaked face; its shriek shook the mountain. The creature looked nothing like Quatie, not that a resemblance would have stopped me from doing what I had to do.

  “Die,” I said in a voice that hovered between woman and beast.

  Sparks blazed from the wings; lightning flashed above, seeming to spill a celestial glow in a column from the clouds to the earth; thunder rumbled, first loudly, then softer and softer until it blended in with the sound of the rain.

  The Raven Mocker screamed one last time before crumpling to the ground, and the pain in my chest eased.

  Ian struggled to sit up. I scooted closer, put my arm around him, and t
ogether we watched as the raven became Adsila, then her face took on the countenance of everyone she’d killed, ending with Katrine. I wondered if we’d ever find her body.

  Last, she became Quatie again and I experienced a moment of sadness for the loss of the woman she’d once been; then she slowly turned to dust and blew away on the remnants of the storm.

  “You did it.” Ian brushed his fingertips along my cheekbones, his expression full of wonder. “You have the power of a panther.”

  I didn’t feel any different, although I could see a lot farther than normal in the total darkness of the mountain beneath a cloud-filled sky. I could hear tiny, furry things rustling in the bushes; I could smell them, too, and my stomach contracted in hunger. I had to fight the urge to run into that darkness and hunt those scrumptious creatures.

  “How do I put myself back?” I asked, a little weirded out by the temptation to chase and to kill.

  “Close your eyes and say, ‘Ahnigi’a.’ “

  “Which means?”

  “ ‘Leave.’ “

  I did as he said, and when I was through I couldn’t see past the threshold or hear much beyond the whirl of the wind.

  “You were amazing.”

  He kissed me, and I clung. I’d nearly lost him. Hell, I’d nearly lost me. The remnants of what I’d done made me shaky, but I also felt stronger, better, more myself than I’d felt in my whole life.

  “Ow.” Ian’s hand went to his damaged mouth.

  “Sorry.”

  “I kissed you. I thought we were dead, Grace.”

  “You and me both.”

  “What changed? The first time you said the spell nothing happened.”

  I was uncertain if I should tell him what I knew. That he was my soul mate, my future, my everything. I wasn’t certain I could survive if he left me, too. Not after this.

  “I remembered my great-grandmother, how she’d protected me, and—” I stopped, uncertain.

  “You did the same.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “You took care of not only yourself but me, too.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “Was it?” he asked. “Just your job?”