Summer Moon

by Jan Delima

  “It must be divine influence,” Dylan muttered thickly, “that my one sibling who has sought war for over sixteen hundred years would now come to understand my lectures.”

  “Even a beast can grow tired of death.” The gravel in his voice had nothing to do with his aforementioned animal. He cleared his throat. “With Rosa’s cooperation, we’ll bring Avon to our side in a way the Guardians are too arrogant to expect. If they hunt anyone, it’ll be me, and I’ll be prepared. A war has begun, but we can forestall an outright declaration for a breath longer—”

  “And possibly turn the advantage even more in our favor,” Dylan finished, mulling over the idea with a frown. “Even if the Council doesn’t immediately decide to abolish this marriage agreement, are you ready for their politics?” He paused, lowering his voice. “Are you ready for who you’re bound to see?”

  Merin. Even when left unspoken, her name hung in the air like a poisoned memory.

  Luc never thought of her as his mother. For wanting his death she didn’t deserve the sentiment. “I think the better question may be”—his mouth twitched with irony—“is she ready for me?”

  Dylan studied him for a long moment. As always, his assessment was thorough and he saw too much. “Bloody hell . . .” He let out a frustrated sigh. “The White Mountains will suit you well. And truth be told, I could use you there, but . . .” He shook his head, looked away. “Guardians and Gods be damned if I’m not going to miss you.”

  “And I you,” Luc said with more emotion than he liked to show in open company.

  * * *

  An hour hadn’t passed before Rosa wanted to kill her soon-to-be-second husband. Well, not kill exactly, but cause him an equal amount of unpleasantness. He’d brought her to his sister’s cottage—to meet Elen, which was intimidating enough—but then, right after a brief summary of events, had left her and Elen alone to “get acquainted” while he’d deserted her to gather supplies.

  If possible, Elen seemed more annoyed. “My brother should’ve stayed.” She tucked a golden strand behind her ear and forced a smile. “Luc told me you’re hungry? Are cucumber sandwiches okay?”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself,” Rosa said, hiding her disappointment. Cucumber sandwiches might appease a rabbit. And after this morning she needed a buffet, with meat, and gravy, and buttered bread. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” Elen busied herself making petite triangles with thin bread while preparing a licorice-scented tea.

  Wishing she were doing something productive, like planning for tomorrow’s strike, Rosa stood in the center of a stranger’s kitchen instead. She felt like an intruder in someone else’s space, or an eavesdropper on a secret that she didn’t want to know.

  Elen’s garden grew up every vertical surface within its green reach. Trees, fence posts and arbors had all fallen victim to its twining vines. The interior of the cottage was much the same. The power of nature breathed from its very walls and whispered temptation along her skin.

  Yet a deep sense of solitude and sadness lingered amid the enchantment. Merin’s children knew strength and unity, but loneliness too. Was it a curse of their race, Rosa wondered with some resentment, for those who had a conscience to suffer its consequence?

  “My home frightens you,” Elen said.

  “No.” Not exactly. “It calls to me.” With some relief, she turned and considered her host. “I’ll assume polite conversation is over, then.”

  She gave a delicate shrug. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear more than just pleasantries from the woman who’s just convinced my brother to marry her. Not a small feat, I might add.”

  “I have heard about your gift,” Rosa replied in return. “I was skeptical, until now.”

  Elen’s ability to pull life from one source and give it to another was of great interest to the Guardians. Plant or animal; if it grew, it was rumored that she could control its life force—or take it. One of Math’s guards had been stripped of his wolf by Elen’s hand, or so the others had said upon their return. Math and the Council had orchestrated that battle, no less than a week ago in these woods. Blessedly, they had been given a bloody comeuppance in return, with two Council members and eighteen other Guardians now dead.

  And all for this woman, who, amazingly enough, if the accounts were true, could not shift.

  “It’s not a gift.” Elen resembled her mother, tall and lithe like many Celts, with golden hair and deep blue eyes of summer, but unlike Merin she had a gentle demeanor.

  “The Guardians disagree.” Walking to the nearest window, Rosa pulled back the curtain and looked outside. A row of aspen trees had been planted for shade alongside the back porch; their leaves danced like faeries at twilight. If faeries did indeed exist, then this was a place they would want to play. “As do I.”

  Elen looked away. “Let’s discuss other things while we eat.” She placed a steaming pot of tea on a small pine table, arranged chocolate cookies on a plate and cut sandwiches on another, and then finished the meal with tulip-shaped teacups. “Please . . .” She pulled out a chair. “Come sit.”

  The cookies, Rosa admitted, had potential. She slid into the chair and snagged two. “I would like to know more about Luc . . . if you’re willing to discuss him with me.”

  “I’d be concerned if you didn’t.” She paused a moment to nibble at her sandwich, or contemplate how much to reveal. “He was married once before. Did you know?”

  “Yes.” But Rosa hadn’t given it much thought until his sister’s melancholy warned her that she should. “I’ve only read what the Council recorded in their ledgers.”

  “Ah,” she said with some amusement. “So the Council’s still keeping records of us. I’m not surprised. But they can only gather facts. The subtle details of life are always more important.” She took a sip of her tea, an innocent enough gesture until she asked, “How curious are you, Rosa? Would you like to know some of those details about Luc? The ones the Council may have missed?”

  “Of course.” Rosa paused in midreach of another cookie. “But why do I now think that knowledge comes with a price?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  Elen rested her arm on the table, palm up. “Whether or not you’re brave enough to take my hand?”

  “Why?” Rosa eyed it with open apprehension.

  “I’m a healer, among other things. I won’t harm you, but I can sense if your power is tainted . . . or not.”

  “I heal when I shift,” Rosa pointed out. “I don’t need your services.”

  A golden eyebrow rose in challenge. “Do as I ask and I won’t question your intentions toward my brother.”

  Rosa needed to reevaluate her original assessment of this woman’s demeanor. “I’ve nothing to hide.” On her person, at least; her tainted power rested in tombs at Castell Avon.

  “Prove it.” She wiggled her fingers. “Come, now, what would I have to gain by causing you harm?”

  What did anyone have to gain? And yet there were still people who did it for sport . . . and pleasure.

  However, Rosa didn’t sense that kind of malicious interest from her host. For survival, she’d learned how to tell the difference.

  With resignation, she offered her hand.

  “Ummm . . . nice,” Elen hummed when they touched. “Luc will be—” She flinched. “You’re hurt!”

  “I’m not,” Rosa immediately denied the other woman’s accusation. Warmth washed through her like an autumn breeze, carrying winter’s bite on summer’s last breath. Invisible hands found and stroked her injuries, a sensation of both pleasure and pain that twisted within her abdomen. “Whatever you’re doing . . . I would like you to stop.”

  “Oh, hush and be still. I’m almost done.” Elen’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened again, only this time they carried certainty in their soft depths. “The dama
ge is internal. Your reproductive organs are burned.”

  She could tell that with just a touch?

  Okay, Rosa silently admitted, perhaps I do have other secrets to hide. Not to mention, the Guardians have good reason to fear this woman. She yanked her hand out of Elen’s grasp and tucked it under the table. “You’re mistaken.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head slowly. “You’re hindering your fertility. With poison, I assume, since human contraceptives don’t work on our kind. Well, besides condoms. I’d be interested to learn the ingredients. I’ve never had anyone request a tonic of that sort. Our children are so rare. Why would you do this to yourself?”

  “Would you want to be mated to Math Alban, or any other Guardian who forced his seed into you?” For Rosa, the mere idea inspired nausea. To be joined to evil for an eternity was a risk she refused to take, even to go as far as thwarting the will of the Gods to prevent it.

  The bane of their existence came with the bonding instincts of their wolves. Human and animal compulsions united to form an undeniable force; dual natures weaved into one. If a child was conceived, she would desire the sire no matter his morality. She had watched mated couples, and many of them were not as kind to each other as Dylan and Sophie. Worse, hatred did not hinder their urges to reproduce.

  And if Taliesin’s prediction proved true, her child would inherit an even greater torment.

  “I understand,” Elen said with more sympathy now. “It must reverse to normal fertility when you shift. Do you take the poison every time?”

  The process wasn’t something Rosa cared to discuss. “You wanted to know if my wolf is tainted. Any other information you found is more than I offered to give.” Then a worrisome thought came to mind. “Did you heal me?”

  “No.” Elen reached again for her tea. “But I could. And you can stop frowning. Your secret is safe. That’s a matter between you and Luc, and needs no interference from me.”

  Her tension eased somewhat. “Thank you.”

  “Your power is lovely, by the way. It tastes like vanilla and Yuletide cookies.” A knowing smile turned her lips, half-hidden by the raised cup, giving her an impish look. “And that, I’m guessing, my brother already knows.”

  “You were going to tell me about his former wife,” Rosa prompted, uncomfortable with this line of conversation.

  With a slight nod, Elen went along with the changed subject. “Her name was Koko, a shortened version of kokokhas,” she explained, “which means owl in Abanaki, the language of our local Native Americans.”

  “Wasn’t her family of Romany descent?” Rosa thought back to what she’d read. According to the Council’s records, Koko had been human. More important, she hadn’t conceived Luc’s child, so therefore she had lived a normal lifespan until the early to mid-1900s.

  “They were,” Elen said with fondness. “Gypsies and Abanaki often traded goods. The nickname was given to Koko for her golden eyes and spirit, and kept by her parents because it was fitting.”

  In light of these new details, an earlier observation became troublesome. “The tattoos on Luc’s arms . . . Are they owls?”

  For Koko? His human wife who was sixty-plus years dead?

  Elen stood in haste, catching her chair just before it toppled to the floor. “I think I’ve revealed more than he’d like. I’ll pack some food for your trip, and then we’ll go in the garden and pick a bouquet for your ceremony. How does that sound?”

  Perfectly dreadful, Rosa thought. Almost as awful as Elen’s suddenly chipper voice—and as welcomed as a lifetime with a second husband whose loyalties belonged to another.

  Six

  Over the next hour, Luc made arrangements for their campaign against Castell Avon. Teyrnon and twenty-six more guards had agreed to go to the White Mountains, the most Dylan could spare without compromising the defenses of Rhuddin Village. And while he planned for war, Sophie and Taliesin arranged a wedding that neither bride nor groom wanted any part of.

  Gods be merciful, Luc swore under his breath. He’d lost his faith after Koko’s passing, but if there was a time for prayers, this would be it. He was scheduled to leave a few hours after a ceremony that he’d thought never to repeat again. May this marriage not bring more death onto a family who’s already seen too much.

  More wolves were on their way from Ontario and Minnesota. Both Daran and Isabeau, their closest allies to the north, had agreed to help. Securing Avon was as much to their advantage as it was his. They arranged to rendezvous on the Canadian border of New Hampshire in twelve hours, before moving on to Avon by morning.

  Llara wanted in as well, but had a longer distance to travel. Her territory encompassed a good portion of the current Russian boundaries. She was prepared to come if called upon.

  In the interim, he retreated to his apartments alone, ignoring stares as he walked. Word had traveled quickly to Rhuddin Village, and the townspeople had come for glimpses of Rosa. Luc had little time, and even less patience, for their awkward felicitations. He needed to shower and change, gather a few supplies, and say his farewells to a woman who no longer graced this world but continued to haunt his heart.

  His living quarters encompassed the entire top floor of the west outer building. Koko’s artwork lined the walls in an assortment of wildlife paintings in both oils and watercolors, her two favorite mediums. In her later years, his wife had moved on to sculpting wood into furniture. She’d been a practical woman, his Koko, who hadn’t understood why beauty couldn’t also serve a useful purpose.

  Luc ran his hands through his hair, ripping it loose of its tie to hang down his shoulders. He allowed himself one last perusal of her work, and then headed to his private kitchen where he dug through his utility drawer and pulled out a thin knife. He gripped the handle and worked the blade under the twine wrapped around his wrist. Normally he untied it with care before a shift, and then retied it afterward.

  “My sweet Koko,” he whispered aloud, “I’ll never forget you.”

  With one swift stroke the hemp-entwined charm fell to the counter. Setting the knife aside, he scooped the pile into his palm and crossed the hallway to his office. Bookcases lined the outer walls from ceiling to floor, filled with volumes turned ragged with use. He ran his hand over a row of beaten spines before resting on a simple leather-bound journal, a gift he had given to Koko when his denial had ended.

  Almost a century later, her handwriting had faded, the pages had yellowed, but her memory held firm, a constant torment to feed his empty soul. Out of both habit and need, Luc opened the journal and read the first passage . . .

  September 12, 1922

  It is my birthday today. This journal is a gift from my husband. Luc has given me many gifts, too many, but this is the only one that made me sad. I think he has finally come to accept that our time together in this life is limited. Luc, I now realize, wants something more than my artwork to remember me by. It is so little to ask, and yet so difficult to give. I want these final years to be happy ones, but there is darkness in my heart, because it bleeds when I think of Luc alone, without me. I am selfish, too, I think, because I want him to remember me when I should be helping him to forget.

  I have lived through sixty-eight birthdays, and while I am grateful for every year with him, my body longs for more, my heart aches for the child we never had. At night, while he sleeps, I pray that our love will be stronger than the will of his Gods. Perhaps that is why my prayers are ignored.

  Perhaps that is why I age like his precious gnarled tree, while Luc remains the same, forever young, forever strong. Perhaps I want too much.

  Enough words.

  I will stop before I blur these pages with senseless tears over something I cannot change.

  I think my pen would be put to better use if I draw my husband, for he is more beautiful than anything I could ever write.

  ~Koko

  Luc thum
bed the sketch, recalling that winter afternoon with melancholy clarity, as if he could take a walk to White Birch Grove and still find her there, sitting on a snow-covered rock, bundled in a wool coat with her legs crossed and ink on her hands. She’d convinced him to pose, like a dandy dressed in fur. He’d have done anything just to watch her worry her bottom lip while she worked, or the way her eyes glowed when they lifted up from her easel.

  Heart-burdened, he placed the twine between the pages, letting the charm dangle over the side, and slid the journal back in its place. Out of respect for another, it would be the final time he read it.

  He doubted he could love any woman as he had Koko, but then reminded himself that Rosa hadn’t asked for love. What she had asked for, he could give.

  He showered quickly, changed into rubber-soled boots, jeans and a clean T-shirt. Not the wedding attire appropriate for a queen, but somehow he doubted she’d care.

  Afterward, he packed a spare set of clothes in a waterproof hunting bag that crossed his chest like a sling. He then added a hunting knife from his armory, his two favorite swords, and an extra one for Rosa, only lighter and longer. She may have come to his home unarmed but she wasn’t leaving that way. If her parents had been sword smiths, then they must have given her some training in her youth.

  For this plan to succeed she needed to retain that golden head of hers for at least a month, long enough for suspicions to settle—or this crusade would turn ugly fast.

  While he prepared himself for battle, he thought of his brother’s countless lectures over the years. Time would tell if he’d chosen the least bloody path. He would attempt to rid Avon of its filth without death, but if the Guardians did return for blood, then it would be his hand to spill it and their necks to bleed out.

  * * *

  The ceremony took place under a grove of maple trees with mint-colored leaves of spring. Saplings lined the open trail, nourished by a few fallen trees. The setting sun cast rich shadows of burnt umber and gold in a forest of wonders, where life was continual, unhindered, and too beautiful to be real.