The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) (5 page)

She gulped and nodded. Power emanated from this mystical chief, as it might from a pulsing orb in the galaxy. “Can you break the curse?”

Those eyes stared right through her. “I am the one who placed the curse on your family.”

Her stomach knotted. “But—I don’t even know you.”

A flash of impatience lit his gaze like lightning streaking across silvery clouds. “In time, you will understand. Few see me. Fewer still, speak with me. You are fortunate, Morcant girl.”

She didn’t feel very fortunate.

His eyes assumed a softer sheen. “We will speak again.”

He seemed on the verge of going. “Wait—what of Jimmy? Is he cursed too?”

“No. Your brother is spared, if you choose to spare him.”

“Why wouldn’t I? He’s my brother.”

“Because you are Morcant.” He spoke as if it were self-evident.

“That makes no sense.” Even as she argued, Okema faded from her sight and was gone.

Chapter Five

The Curse

What just happened?
Morgan sat staring at the place where the older warrior had been only moments before.

She ran her gaze over the room, slanted with dark shadows.
Nothing.

“He can’t just disappear like that,” she argued aloud, fully aware this was precisely what he’d done.

Jackson strode through the timber framed doorway on her left, from the hall. “Actually, he can.”

“How? Is he a vampire?” She instinctively clutched the blanket around her throat.

Dimples made cute indentations in Jackson’s cheeks when he smiled. “Of course not. Vampires aren’t real.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. So what was that, a magic trick?”

“No trick. He’s not a magician like David Copperfield.” Jackson bent near the hearth and tossed an armful of split logs onto the fire. Sparks flew up, and the wood hissed and popped.

“Are you telling me he does
real
magic?” She’d suspected as much.

“Yes, and no. Okema is more than you can wrap your mind around.”

“Like what?”

“He’s not a wizard, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know what to think and am increasingly baffled by the minute. What’s going on here?” She didn’t add, ‘Who are you people?’ but was tempted.

He straightened and turned toward her, pushing back lengths of loose dark hair. He’d ditched the pony tail for the evening. Leaping flames bathed his tall figure in an orange glow. He looked hotter than the fire. If he had an aura, it would be golden and sizzle.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” she challenged.

The ghost of a smile curved his lips. “The last time you said that, you agreed my Shawnee name was unpronounceable.”

“This is different,” she reasoned.

“Sure is. It’s ten times worse. Make that a hundred.”

She patted the leather couch beside her. “Considering he claims to have cursed me, I’d say I have the right to know. Come sit with me and try to explain.”

“Have some soup while he does.” That voice belonged to Miriam.

When did she arrive? The woman was as stealthy as a cat. Maybe all the Wapicoli were.

“You slept. Now eat. Both are needed for strength.”

So was sanity. “I could use a double dose.”

“Begin with this.” Miriam carried a steaming blue and white pottery bowl on a matching plate with a chunk of yellow cornbread and a mug wafting smoke.

The savory aroma made Morgan realize how hungry she was. “That smells delicious, Miriam.”

Smiling her gentle smile, she handed Morgan the plate with the bowl, a wooden spoon, and a tie-dyed cloth napkin. “Venison stew, my mama’s cornbread recipe, and hot chocolate.” She set the mug on the end table on a nut-brown woven mat.

“No more of the herbal tea?” Morgan asked.

“Not unless you need more.”

“No,” she hurriedly amended. “This is perfect. Thanks—I mean,
megwich
.”

Approval warmed Miriam’s eyes. “You learn fast.”

“I’m told I must.”

“Yes. Quick learners are the best survivors.”

Sobering words. Morgan wondered if she were a participant in some form of the TV show,
Survivor
.

Miriam laid a hand on her head. “How do you feel?”

“Better. Apart from being freaked out. If Okema is Jackson’s grandfather, is he your husband?”

Jackson coughed behind his hand as if he’d inhaled a bug.

Miriam gave him a look, then returned her sympathetic gaze to Morgan. “I am a widow and the mother of Jackson’s father, Peter. Okema’s wife died a great many moons ago.”

“You can say that again,” Jackson interjected.

Morgan shifted her scrutiny to him. “So, he’s your great-grandfather?”

“More greats than one.”

“He doesn’t look
that
old. Not at all decrepit.”

“He’s anything but.” Jackson regarded Morgan as if she’d missed the obvious.

“I don’t understand.”

Miriam patted her hand. “There are none like Okema. Eat now. Before your food grows cold.”

The mystery only deepened, but Morgan obediently dipped her spoon into the meaty stew heaped with carrots, potatoes, and she wasn’t sure what else. She sampled the tasty mouthful. “It’s really good.
Megwich
. Where’s Jimmy? Is he OK?”

“Your brother is well and sleeps in the room Jackson shares with his cousin, Hawthorne,” Miriam assured her. “When you are ready, Jackson will show you upstairs to your room. Your bag is there. I left fresh clothes for you in the wardrobe, and you will find a clean towel and washcloth in the bathroom. It adjoins the guestroom.”

“Wow. You have running water?”

Jackson smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. A generator supplies electricity, but we don’t use a lot. We’re energy conscious. The original
Greenies
. We’ve even installed solar panels on the south side of the lodge.”

“You shall see more in the morning.” Miriam gave Morgan’s shoulder a parting pat. “And meet the family. At least, those who normally dwell here.”

“Where are they?”

“Jackson’s Aunt Willow is helping me in the kitchen. His father and Uncle Buck are out. Hawthorne’s with them. Okema is wherever Okema is.” With that vague reply, Miriam left.

Jackson padded noiselessly across the room and sat beside Morgan. He smelled of the autumn forest, wood smoke, and his own unique scent she found appealing. “Keep eating and I’ll answer a few of your questions.” He held up a cautioning hand. “Not all tonight. It’s too much, and you’ll probably forget half of it by morning.”

“Why?”

“The bump on your head.”

“That may account for some of the weird stuff I’ve experienced, but not everything. I didn’t hallucinate Okema.”

Reluctance shadowed his eyes. “No.”

“Well,” she nudged him. “Tell me something. How about beginning with why I’m cursed?”

He groaned under his breath. “It’s complicated. I might as well begin with how the world was created. According to Shawnee belief, it rests on the back of a great turtle.”

“Jackson—”

“All right. I’ll start by telling you when Okema was born. 1730.”

“You mean 1930.”

He shook his dark head.

“Impossible. That’s two hundred and eighty-five years ago.”

His solemn gaze never left hers. “Right.”

The mind-blowing ramifications of his assertion swept over her. “Where are we?
Wonderland
? I feel like I’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole.”

“You have. Actually, you were already down it, you just didn’t realize.”

She stared at him, started to speak, hesitated, and tried again. “I’m guessing there’s a lot to this story of yours.”

“Yep. And even if you take the blue pill, like they offer newbies in
The Matrix
, you can’t go back to
normal
.”

“Cripes, Jackson.” She braced herself. “What’s the deal?”

“No deal. Just fate.”

Mystified, she swallowed a spoonful of strew. “Go on.”

“Your family is interwoven with mine since the American Revolution. The hint lies in your name.”

“Morgan Daniel?”

“No. Daniel Morgan.”

“You mean,
the
Daniel Morgan? The Revolutionary War hero we studied in school?”

“The same,” he confirmed.

“But we’re not related to him.”

“
Au contraire
, Miss Morgan.”

“Why are you
au contrairing
me? Jimmy would’ve bragged to every history buff he came across if we were kin to the guy. Is this whole curse thing based on some mistaken identity?”

Jackson eyed her with the pity he might bestow on a dog about to be put to sleep. “You descend from the Morgan line who separated from the rest of the family and altered their name to hide their identity.”

“Why would they do that?”

He simply waited.

“Oh—to escape the curse?”

“Yes. It didn’t work.”

He seemed bent on snuffing out any glimmer of hope she might have. “About that curse—”

“Okay. I’ll tell you. But Grandma Miriam is gonna want to see the bottom of that bowl.”

“How am I supposed to eat at a time like this?”

“You better learn to eat when you have the chance.”

His caution pierced her. Ladling another bite, she waited.

Firelight and candles illuminated his dark good looks as he spoke. “The curse came about after General Washington instructed Daniel Morgan to build the first road into Fort Valley. The hidden valley was to be Washington’s hideout for his Continental troops if Yorktown failed and the British forced them to retreat. Morgan’s intrusion into sacred land infuriated Okema.”

Taking a long swallow of the hot chocolate, she tried to envision that distant era. “It was such a long time ago.”

“The curse is hereditary. And not optional.”

“But Jimmy’s exempt?”

“Yes. It only falls on the eldest daughter of each generation of these Morgan descendants.”

“Which, apparently, I am.” She offered him a swallow of the chocolate, her eyes lingering on his lips as he sipped. “Why our particular line and why the women?”

He sighed. Plainly, he’d rather be doing most anything else than walking her through this trek into the past.

“Okema cursed Daniel Morgan for trespassing and bringing white men here. He fell deathly ill and was carried in the back of a wagon to his home near Winchester, Virginia.”

“Why isn’t this in any of the history books?”

Jackson gave her a meaningful look. “Because of what followed.”

She waved him on. “Sorry. Please continue.”

“Daniel Morgan’s strong will kept him alive until his daughter, Sarah, a healer with much knowledge of herbs, saved his life.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“For him. Not Sarah. The curse fell to her and her descendants.”

Morgan had a sinking feeling. “Oh.”

“Right. You are the only one since the original Daniel who bears his full name in reverse. Your clan claims the Celtic version of Morgan. Morcant. It’s Welsh.”

“Morcant is the name Okema used. I didn’t even know I belonged to a clan. Why haven’t I heard any of this before?”

“Your aunt should have told you. Or your parents before her.”

“They died in a car crash when I was young. Perhaps Aunt Maggie made references and I didn’t realize.” Morgan struggled through the cloud of disbelief hazing her mind to recall any shreds of information she may have discounted.

She gazed up at Jackson. “I got nothing.”

A soft light touched his dark eyes and gave them a golden glow. “You’re the key to everything.”

Her heart made an odd flip. Here she was threatened with a curse, she’d seen an old warrior vanish right in front of her, and at this moment, all she could think of was Jackson’s eyes.

“Is any of this real?” she whispered.

He touched her cheek. “I am. That food is. Grandma Miriam. This place. Even Okema is real, in his way.”

Tiny shivers darted through her. “It seems like a dream.”

“While you’re dreaming, do you want to know more?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Will I survive this curse?”

A deeply pensive look came into his eyes. “Most do. You are strong, the strongest of the Morcant women.”

“How can you tell?”

“I see your strength, and the prophecy speaks of you.”

Goosebumps rippled over her. “I’m in a freaking prophecy?”

“So am I.”

“This gets weirder and weirder. How does it end?”