Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“I thought so.”

My bad attitude didn’t seem to faze him. He was a very calm guy.

“Too bad you had to give up the old ways when you became a doctor.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I wouldn’t think the AMA would be too happy about an M.D. who prescribes roots, berries, and bathing in a cool mountain stream.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You do that?”

“If the illness warrants it.”

My eyes narrowed. “Do you have a medical license?”

“Of course.”

“From a real medical school?”

“Does Baylor College of Medicine suffice?”

Even I knew that was a good one.

“I also studied at the British Institute of Homeopathy in Canada.”

“Sounds like hoodoo to me.”

“It’s not.”

I grunted, unconvinced. I enjoyed studying my heritage as much as the next guy. I was interested in the cures my great-grandmother had used. I might use them on myself, if I could figure them out, but I’d never presume to prescribe them to others. I considered a doctor who?

?d do so nothing less than a quack. People like Walker gave Native Americans a bad name.

I didn’t trust him. I didn’t much like him, although I did kind of like the way he smelled. I rubbed my forehead, wincing when I touched a bruise.

“Let me give you something for that.” He inched past me and through the open door.

I caught a whiff of him again and had to bite back a sigh. I needed to get laid, then maybe this obsession would go away, but that wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

In Lake Bluff everyone knew everyone and their mother, father, sister, and brother, too. I’d dated a few guys, slept with a few more. Every one had been a disaster of epic proportion. If they hadn’t expected special privileges from the sheriff’s daughter, they’d definitely expected them from the sheriff. When they hadn’t gotten them, each and every guy had turned into a whining child.

I’d sworn off locals, which meant the only sex I’d had in years had been during the festival when we were overrun with tourists. Sadly, I’d missed any kind of action last year due to our werewolf problem. No wonder I was so on edge.

Walker reappeared with a jar in his hand, unscrewing the top as he approached. The balm was pale yellow and carried a scent I didn’t recognize. He dipped a finger into the muck and spread some down my nose before I could protest.

“Hey!” I began, but he ignored me, smoothing the medicine over my bulbous nose and the bruised area beneath my eyes. The pain faded on contact.

“Close.” He spread one thumb over my brow bone.

What the hell? I thought. The stuff was already all over my skin. I let my eyes drift shut.

His fingers were gentle but firm. Everywhere he touched, the pain went away. He chanted words I couldn’t understand, in the language of our ancestors.

Outside I heard again the low, rhythmic beat of wings. My eyes snapped open. His face was so close his breath puffed against the moisture on my face, and I shivered.

His eyes, eerily light, seemed to darken as his pupils expanded. I could see myself in them as he leaned closer. My chest hurt; I wasn’t breathing. He was going to kiss me, and I was going to let him.