Skinwalker Moon

a novel by hl montgomery

 

 

 

 

It's always darkest before the dawn.
Especially on the night of a skinwalker moon.

He loved her, and so one day he returned for her...

 

Mystical visions of fire and smoke. Flames bathed tormented, half-seen images in lurid shades of red and black. Hawk groaned in his sleep, struggling with demon-spirits that danced to the rhythm of his blood, casting spells and breaking them as they whirled him away across a surreal dreamscape. There was a loud pop-a dream sound that jolted him fully awake. His eyes flew open. He lay motionless, sweating beneath the heavy down coverlet, and tried to hear past the pounding of his heart to what had awakened him.

The call of a night bird.

A whisper of wind.

The lap of water against the boat.

The voice of a Spirit with a secret message.

What message?

He cast back into his dreams, trying to remember. It was too late. The message was gone, escaped beyond the diversion of a dream sound, leaving him nothing but the nagging sense that he'd forgotten something terribly important.

Outside, a sliver of moonlight reached through the broken clouds to touch the Lucky D. It dappled the windows with shades of pearl and ice, creating a contrast that lent power to the shadows trapped inside. Hawk let his gaze slip furtively around them, already suspecting there was no movement to see.

He was right.

He drew a deep breath, let it back out. The air inside the houseboat was stuffy and warm. It tasted flat in the back of his throat, robbed of vitality by confinement. Sometime during the night the power had come back on. False stars twinkled overhead like broken promises, and his back ached from the unaccustomed softness of a mattress. Outside a whippoorwill began a song of its love of the night: a wistful sound, muffled as it was by four walls and a ceiling that enclosed him like a tomb.

Hawk shivered as if his sweat was turning to ice on his skin. No wonder he'd had wicked dreams. Who could sleep in such a place?

Sara could. His love lay beside him breathing softly, her slumber deep and undisturbed. Quietly, so he didn't rouse her, he slid out of bed. Titian lay curled at the foot of the bed. She raised her head slightly at the movement, her cat-eyes slitted as she watched him steal across the room and remove a leather bag from his rucksack.

He let himself out quietly, amazed by how much difference one step could make. In just one step, he'd crossed the boundary from one world to another. The chirr of crickets welcomed him back into nature; a gentle breeze dried the icy sweat of his nightmares. He breathed deep of air rinsed clean by the storm, and settled cross-legged onto the damp deck of the Lucky D. Pulling a hand-carved pipe from the buckskin bag, he filled it with sweet wild tobacco. He lit it with the tiny flame of a disposable lighter and shrugged to himself. One didn't always have a proper fire for lighting one's pipe.

But the spirits weren't particular about how he lit his pipe-only the quality of the prayers that he chanted softly to the four directions, and to the Creator and to his Earth Mother. Gratitude for a safe journey, and for finding Sara safe, and most of all, for the cover of the storm that had concealed his arrival from hostile eyes.

As the storm had been fierce and beautiful, so was the remainder of the night calm and serene. The last of the clouds drifted away to the east, tugged along by the breeze that followed in the storm's wake. Moon shadows flitted through the trees further down. Water spirits, barely visible in the starlight, danced in rows across the surface of the river. The on-again off-again spark of fireflies winked at him from pockets of deep shadow. It was beautiful, and it was magic.

Yet for all the peace and subtlety of the night, danger lurked beneath the shadows. His skin prickled at the touch of wild eyes on the bank on the opposite side of the river. In the distance, the screech of an animal was suddenly cut short. Hawk was a hunter, too. He understood these things. One was either predator or prey. But the tables could turn quickly, and even hunters had to be careful not to become the hunted.

After a time the ashes in his pipe grew cold. He let them blow away on the breeze. As he rose to go back inside, his eye was drawn by the flickering light of a television glowing red against the windows of the houseboat at the far end of the row. Startled, he froze in place, his pulse thundering. An old woman had lived there once. Did she still? It was late, and often the old slept little. Had she seen him?

A shiver crawled down his spine and he shifted his gaze to the stars overhead. The night was dangerous, and not every hunter was human...or even animal. Without a sound, he let himself back inside the Lucky D. His path was clear. He had come for his woman. Tomorrow, she would leave with him.

One way, or another.

About the Author

Helen Lloyd Montgomery has been a writer since the third grade when she successfully negotiated a deal with her teacher to write stories using her weekly spelling words rather than write them out ten times each.

She and her cat Turbo Tasha currently reside in Minnesota, where Helen is driven by the bitter winter weather to keep warm by exercising her fingers over a hot keyboard.

She invites you to visit her website at www.hlmontgomery.com.