Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

When she turned, I jumped in her car—actually her dad’s old Ford Focus—locked the doors, and drove off. I’d rather have her mad at me than dead.

Claire’s pho

ne rang as I left the parking lot. The caller ID read: Town Hall. I ignored it. Claire would only yell at me, and I wasn’t in the mood.

Though I doubted Quatie would be stupid enough to go back to her cabin, I checked the place anyway. Empty, as I’d expected, with no evidence of two people living there, either. Sure there were two sets of clothing, but since Adsila couldn’t fit into Quatie’s things and vice versa, that was understandable.

But all the clothes, old woman’s and sweet young thing’s, hung in one closet. Despite there being two bedrooms, only one showed signs of use. There was a single coffee cup, cereal bowl, spoon in the sink, and there wasn’t a suitcase, backpack, or overnight bag to be had. Maybe Quatie had taken it with her, but I doubted it.

I ransacked the drawers, the garbage, tore every book off every shelf and shook them out, upended knickknacks trying to find some clue to where she’d taken him, but there was nothing.

I stepped onto the porch and contemplated the sun falling down. I didn’t have much time. She’d stolen Ian in the daylight, but she’d kill him in the dark. I knew it as surely as I knew I’d never get over him.

But why had she stolen him now? If she knew we were on to her, that we were working together to end her reign of death, why hadn’t she killed us both instead of giving us time to figure out her true identity?

“Grandmother, where are you when I need you?”

The wolf didn’t come. The last time I’d seen her, the thing had disappeared. Had she gone away forever? How could I bring her back? I needed Ian, in more ways than one.

I let my eyes wander the tree line, hoping the wolf would appear; then my gaze caught on the sharpened sticks still buried in the ground at the four corners of the cabin, and the light dawned. Even if she could hear me, she couldn’t come to this place.

I ran down the steps and into the woods, calling for her, but still she didn’t arrive. I was at a loss until I saw the glimmer of water nearby. I sprinted for it, losing my clothes as I went. By the time I reached the creek, I was naked, so I jumped right in.

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?