Shadow on the Moon Page 11

  Lily assured him he'd find his answers. They met with gypsies and shamans, with village mayors and natural healers, whose fantastic stories disappointed Morgan and failed to give him the desired insight. He asked Lily for more.

  Finally, atop a stony mountain bordering the fabled Transylvania Basin, Lily gave him more than he'd asked for. Much more.

  Now, as he raced through the thickening forest above Ebony Canyon, the extent of Lily's betrayal fueled his rage to volcanic proportions. He hated her, hated Boris for precipitating his trip to Europe. Even hated the colleague who'd introduced them. Finally, he hated Dana for putting her life in his untrustworthy hands.

  Tightening his flanks, he skidded to a stop, scattering powder with the weight of his enormous body. He sniffed, hoping to catch the scent of some creature cut off from its burrow by the storm. None would be out willingly. Nature's beasts retreated from inhospitable weather, even the ones that were distant kin to him.

  He, of course, was not like them. They fed a hunger of the body, an instinct to sustain themselves. His was a sick and twisted need. Yet he knew his smoldering rage could only be cooled by spilled blood, by the death cry of some living, breathing creature.

  Creeping forward, he sniffed the ground and scanned the white-on-white terrain for some subtle hint of shadow that would betray a quarry's presence. His sensitive nose caught the pungent musk of fear and he followed it. The scent grew nearer, stronger, leading him on.

  Suddenly, snow flew everywhere. A pale rabbit darted from beneath an exposed tree root, heading for the deeper forest. In one enormous leap Morgan was upon it. His mouth opened above the quivering body, but even before his teeth clamped down, he felt the shudder of escaping life.

  He gave the limp form a threatening and useless shake, then dropped it in shame and defeat. The rabbit lay before him, nearly invisible on the white snow.

  It had died of fright.

  Morgan thought he knew and understood sorrow, but now a piercing despair, unlike any he'd ever experienced, engulfed him. Sinking to his haunches, he lifted his powerful head to the angry sky and let out a long and mournful howl.

  Dana! Daa-na, Daa-naa, Daa-naaaaaa!

  Chapter Twelve

  Something wet and cold poked at Dana's face. She brushed it away, but it came back more insistently, and she opened her heavy lids just in time to see a pink tongue dart toward her nose. She dodged too late, then abruptly sat up and wiped off the aftermath of Ferris's affection. Her head ached from the quick movements and she felt a bit stiff, but the debilitating despair with which she'd fallen asleep was gone.

  Giving the runt an absent pat on the head, she wondered what time it was. A glance at the window showed a dull light. Apparently it was morning. She threw off the blankets, shivering as she walked over to look outside.

  Gray scudding clouds dimmed the sun, the land was covered with boiling windswept white, and she was damned near freezing. She wanted to wail and gnash her teeth and whatever else people did when they were frustrated. Obviously, leaving this place wasn't in the cards this morning, since a new storm was clearly on its way.

  The fire sputtered inside the glowing skeletons of logs remaining from the night, and Dana moved to add more firewood. As she stoked the flames to life, she noticed the wood supply was low again.

  Warming her backside before the fire while she dressed, she thought about how different everything looked during the day. She couldn't quite fathom why she'd been so badly frightened, and she felt a bit ashamed. After all, she was a wildlife biologist specializing in wolves. She'd explored some of the world's most rugged terrain, often alone; with nothing but her backpack and knowledge to sustain her. She'd faced down bears and cougars, climbed inside wolf dens.

  Yet two people-emerging mysteriously from a storm and an imaginative book about mythical creatures had turned her into a shuddering mass of phobias. For a brief moment, she toyed with the idea that werewolves did exist. After all, new species were still being discovered. But where would such creatures come from? And how could something that large escape the attention of curious scientists seeking new life forms? This fell in the same category as Bigfoot and the Abominable Snowman. Nothing in her background supported such a wild idea.

  But she did know that Ebony Canyon set her nerves on edge. Mission Lobo aside, she wanted to get away from the place as soon as the storm broke again. With or without Morgan's help.

  Feeling more herself, she began rummaging through the pantry, discovering some beef jerky behind the canned goods and a cache of pecans and walnuts. Next, she gathered all her stray belongings and shoved them into the duffle bag. With luck, the blizzard would move on during the day, and when it did, she'd head straight back to civilization.

  But what about Morgan? The thought evoked a sudden ache in her heart and she placed a hand on her chest to ease it. Would she leave without so much as a thanks? After all, he'd saved her life. Unfortunately, he was rapidly beginning to seem more like a jailer than a savior.

  Maybe she'd leave a note, send him some flowers. She tried to smile at the idea of an HD delivery person attempting to find his remote cabin, but her heartache persisted and she looked for another way to keep busy.

  The nearly empty wood rack provided just the task.

  * * *

  A short time later she was standing on the snowy porch, snowshoes in hand, gazing out on the swirling landscape. Although she reminded herself she hated snow, she still felt glad to be out in untouched wilderness.

  Feeling more cheerful because of it, she picked up the shovel leaning against the wall and began digging. Her stiff muscles warmed and relaxed. She found herself enjoying the pull of the laden shovel on her back.

  Occasionally a bark came from the kennel, and now and then a bird cried, but otherwise she was completely alone. As she threw a final for-good-measure shovelful over the porch railing, she heard wings flapping behind her. She turned to see a large white bird land on the rail. Tilting its head in curiosity, it inspected her with dark eyes.

  Birds weren't Dana's specialty, but she was sure this was a hawk. An unusual specimen, to be sure. Totally white, and considerably larger than any she'd seen before.

  "My, you're a beauty," she said, leaning the shovel against the wall and moving in for a closer look. The hawk displayed no open fear, but gave a shrill call and hopped back several feet. Dana took another step forward. Again the bird hopped back. They repeated the process several times. Finally Dana gave up. She picked up her snowshoes and started for the steps, giving the bird one final glance over her shoulder. It was gone. When she returned her head back, she gave out a tiny squeal.

  A man wearing a fur cloak stood at the base of the stairs. His face was shadowed by a hood shaped like a hawk's head. The beak rested just above his eyes.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you." His voice was smooth and rich, and though the words clearly came from his mouth, the beak moved in unison with them, creating an odd illusion.

  He tilted his head back and the hood fell to his shoulder. Muted light shone on his heavy dark hair, which was tied at his neck with a thong.

  "Where did you come from?" she asked sharply, angling the snowshoes in front of her like a shield, although she wasn't truly afraid. His tanned, angular face clearly showed Native American heritage, and though obviously no more than thirty-five, he reminded Dana of an ancient warrior. She almost felt as if he'd been sent to protect her. "Do you live up here?"

  "I came to help you shovel snow. I see I'm too late."

  "Who are you?"

  "The People call me White Hawk." He smiled, showing bright, even teeth. "Others just call me Tony."

  "Well, Tony," Dana replied, trying to regain her composure. Would mysterious visitors never stop appearing? "You still haven't told me how you got here." She waved her hand toward the clearing. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's been snowing like crazy."

  "I noticed. As I said, I thought you could use help. With the wood, perhaps?"

  "How
did you know I was— Never mind. You probably won't answer that, either."

  "Wise woman, but them much was foretold."

  "Do you always speak in riddles?"

  "I try to." Again he smiled.

  "I thought so."

  "How about that wood?" He gestured to the snowshoes. "You'll need to put those on, of course."

  The sky was thickening with the approaching storm. Two could haul twice as much as one. She nodded and dropped the snowshoes off the porch, then descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she saw he too wore snowshoes, only his were of wood and leather, looked handmade, and rather resembled tennis rackets.

  "Those work?" she asked.

  "You'll see."

  While she slipped her feet into the snowshoes, he disappeared around the corner of the cabin, returning shortly with a long sled. "This will make our task easier."

  He smiled at her astounded expression.

  "You're making me nervous." But she didn't really feel nervous, because she instinctively knew he meant no harm. "I didn't know Morgan had put the sled there. How come you did? For that matter, how did you know I was here?"

  "Mysterious powers." He tapped his temple, then laughed. "I ran into Morgan a short while ago. He told me you were visiting."

  Dana laughed too. "Don’t you people up here know enough to come in from a storm?"

  "When you're used to them, they aren't so fearsome. As you'll soon find out." With that, he turned away, pulling the sled behind him. Dana quickly caught up and fell into step with him.

  They skimmed through the undulating snow in silence, and loaded the sled with effortless cooperation. Tremendous claps of thunder accompanied their last trip—which was what made it their last trip, since Dana was on a roll and would have preferred stacking the porch with a week's worth of wood.

  "One must work in harmony with nature," said Tony, when Dana started to venture out again. "To know when enough is enough."

  "Umm, sure," Dana said, remembering that her father often gave her similar advice. "But it would be nice to know we won't run out."

  "All is cared for by Grandfather Sky," he said. "Your upcoming lesson will teach you that quite thoroughly."

  She looked over to see if he was kidding, but found his face entirely serious. "You speak of the future like you know what will happen, but nobody knows that."

  "Not all of it. But we can foretell more than you think."

  He pulled his hood up, arranging it until the beak was again in the middle of his forehead. His earlier playfulness disappeared. In the distance Dana thought she heard drums beating, but decided it was thunder. Still, she grew uneasy.

  "A giant woman shall emerge from the storm on a red steed and tame the wild beast." Tony spread his arms. "So it was told, so it shall be."

  This time Dana would have sworn his words did come from the beak. To relieve her edginess, she feigned offense. "I know I'm tall for a woman, but giant? That's a stretch."

  Tony's expression softened for an instant. "Some meanings are unclear. Giant in spirit, perhaps. Nonetheless, Dana, you are here for a purpose. Destiny cannot be denied." He reached somewhere inside his cloak, coming out with his hand curled around something. "I brought gifts to ensure your success."

  He lifted Dana's hand and dropped several paper capsules onto her open palm.

  "Smelling salts?" She giggled stupidly. Still, although she had no idea why, she stuck the capsules in a pocket. "I'm supposed to tame a beast with smelling salts?"

  Tony's hood fell back; his seriousness fell away with it. "An old-fashioned term. I think they're now called ammonia inhalants. But you know what Shakespeare said about the rose."

  "Tony, I do believe you're nuts."

  "You may very well be right." He chucked her beneath the chin. "Hang on to those, anyway. They might come in handy when you least expect it."

  Then he turned and glided across the snow with immense grace, especially considering his crude shoes. Dana watched him until his cloaked form began melding with the snowscape, then she gathered up a pile of wood and carried it inside.

  When she came back for a second load, she saw a white bird soaring against the thunderheads.

  * * *

  Will Schumacher, esteemed captain of the Arizona Highway Patrol, was beginning to think he'd lost control of his men. Several of them had jumped visibly at the last clap of thunder, and the young officer examining the half-buried Ranger had even let out a yelp.

  Unlike his skittish officers, Schumacher wasn't afraid. Although he couldn't deny that finding the mutilated body had given him the willies—hell, that much carnage would have rattled even Rambo—he was only shivering because of the cold.

  "Just get on with it!" he yelled impatiently to the man by the vehicle, who was now muttering curses and rubbernecking at the sky.

  "I need you to look at something first."

  "This better be goddam good." Schumacher stomped over, ready to read him the not act if he'd been summoned for a trivial reason.

  "The snowbank completely covered this car when it collapsed," said the officer, pointing at the driver's door of the four-by-four. "And it's unlikely the occupant could have forced the door open though that much snow." He turned and sketched a ninety-degree radius around the vehicle with his finger. "See those clumps?"

  "Yeah, yeah. What about them?"

  "I'll bet my badge they came from here."

  "You must be going nuts. Some of those clumps are over fifty yards away."

  "I know. But there's no other explanation. Someone dug the occupant out from this side and the snow had to go somewhere. I didn't want to open the door until you saw the situation for yourself." A befuddled look crossed the officer's face. "Must've been some bull of a man to throw snow that far."

  Schumacher bent and examined the vehicle. Small chunks of snow still clung to the window ledge and mirror, and several deep scratches marred the red paint. A cliff of sheared-off snow hung precariously in front of the driver's-side mirror, resuming at the midpoint of the rear door. Beneath the body of the vehicle ran a horizontal ridge that had clearly been lopped off by an opening door.

  Beyond, in the area pointed out by his officer, were scattered mounds of snow. A solid chunk of ice here, a broken-up clump there. Further out, probably a hundred yards by his estimate, were a number of smaller pieces. The captain didn't even want to consider that they also came from this source. Still, his officer was right. There wasn't any other explanation.

  "Wouldn't want to meet that guy in a dark alley." He tightened the neck fastenings of his jacket against the cold. "I hope he's on our side."

  "Yes, sir." For a second, the two just stood and looked at each other. Schumacher remembered the bits and pieces remaining of Deek Kowalski, but he couldn't say what his officer was thinking.

  "Should, er, should I open her up now, sir?"

  "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, then remembered who he was, what he stood for—the best of the Arizona Highway Patrol. "Look, kid," he said harshly. "Don't go sissy on me. We're here to rid this forest of those killers, or die trying. So buck up, do your job, and report as soon as you have an ID on the vehicle. Got that?"

  "Yessir!" Yet Schumacher still saw poorly disguised terror in the younger man's eyes.

  The remaining officers had fanned out in all directions, searching for the missing occupant or occupants. Two were on a snowmobile, traversing a large meadow. Another man had just entered a snow-dogged path leading up the mountain.

  "Anything yet?" he called as he approached the sergeant in charge.

  "No, sir."

  "Well, step it up! We don't have all day!" "Yes sir." The sergeant turned away and delved into the dark, thick forest. Schumacher stared after him until he disappeared. Soon he heard the plop of falling snow, which was followed by a curse. Obviously a tree had dropped a load of snow on the man's head. Another time the captain might have smiled, but not now.

  He didn't like this place.

  True, they were
miles from those goddam black fingers and that shredded body, but even the base of the mountain seemed to have the same dead feel. It wasn't in Schumacher's frame of reference to call it cursed, yet if he'd searched the depths of his soul with any kind of rare honesty, he would have admitted he felt just that.

  It was so cold here. A deep, piercing cold that reached a man's marrow. He stomped his feet to get more blood flowing and moved into the sunnier meadow. Here the snow billowed constantly in the ceaseless wind, so even the sun failed to warm him.

  The officer assigned to the vehicle came running up, waving a piece of paper. "This does belong to the missing biologist, Captain." He handed over the Ranger's registration, which Schumacher saw was from New Mexico. It listed the owner as Dr. Dana Gibbs.

  "Should we step up the search, sir?"

  Schumacher hesitated. The public was screaming bloody murder about the wolf slaughters. This was, after all, Mission Lobo. Yet to leave a well-known scientist to fend for herself in this horrendous weather wouldn't exactly garner good press either. Still, he only had so many men to spare. Which choice would be best for his career?

  "Captain!"

  The call came from somewhere in the trees and pushed the dilemma from the captain's mind. The officer at his side started racing toward the darkest part of the forest, but Schumacher hesitated for the space of several quick heartbeats. Then, because he knew his duty, he moved forward.

  "Here, Captain," someone called from inside the forest. "Over here."

  Concentrating on not tripping, he wended his way through the many twisted roots. Jesus, it was dark in here. The boggy ground sucked at his boots like it wanted to swallow him, and he was regretting the thirty extra pounds he'd added over the years.