Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

She was kind of amusing when I didn’t have to look at her. Elise was a perfect example of Aryan beauty. Hitler would have loved her.

“Listen,” I said. “This wolf’s a messenger wolf—a spirit, maybe a ghost. No worries.”

Silence came over the line. Hell. I hadn’t complained about a wolf but birds. I should never be allowed to speak without first drinking at least two cups of coffee.

“There’s a wolf in Lake Bluff and you’re asking questions about ravens and crows?”

“The wolf’s nothing. My great-grandmother came back from the Darkening Land. Wants me to keep an eye on her friend. Forget it.”

“I’ve often wondered what people would say if they listened in on some of my conversations. This one’s a beaut.”

“Lucky no one can listen in, then.”

The Jäger-Suchers had all the best toys in security and electronics.

“I’ve dealt with ghost wolves before,” Elise said. “They aren’t anything to screw with.”

“What kind of ghost wolves?”

“Ojibwe legend. Witchie wolves guard the resting places of warriors, and they aren’t nice about it.”

“How much damage can be done by a non-corporeal animal?”

“You’d be surprised,” Elise murmured. “You do realize that crows are an indication of werewolves?”

“And ravens?”

“Them, too.”

“I’d heard that crows increase in rural areas when the timber wolf population increases. I wasn’t sure about werewolves.”

“Works the same way.”

“I’ve only seen one wolf and, as I said, not really a wolf. You don’t need to get your knickers in a twist, Doctor. I know what I’m doing.”

“That remains to be seen. What, exactly, have your crows and your ravens been up to?”

I told her, finishing with, “I think the birds are out of whack because of the storm. I even saw an eagle a few times.”

“And that’s out of whack why?”

“They usually stay south, especially at this time of year.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Let me do a little checking on eagle shifters.”

I opened my mouth, shut it again. What could it hurt?

“Next time you see any bizarre animal behavior, call me first,” Elise said. “Don’t make me hear it through the grapevine. That always pisses me off.”

“And I do live to please you,” I muttered, but she’d already hung up.

I was wide-awake now. No chance of going back to sleep. Usually I hit the snooze three times before rolling out of bed, but today I was so far ahead of schedule, I not only made coffee and toast, but also read the paper while I enjoyed them.

Since our last newspaper editor was still listed as a missing person—though Claire and I knew better—we had a new one who was doing a very nice job. Balthazar Monihan had treated the Gazette like a small town Tattler, printing all the gossip and running embarrassing photos of the citizens, which is probably why no one made much of an effort to find him. Not that they would have.

I turned the page, planning to glance over the smattering of obituaries published weekly, and paused. An entire section was taken up with names, dates, and survived bys. Mostly elderly, a few terminally ill, nothing odd in the least—except for the large number.

I knew that during storms maternity wards were packed, with deliveries taking place in the hall, the elevator, the lobby. I blamed the barometer.