Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

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.