Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek

  Crow’s Caw at Nightmoon Creek

  By Calinda B

  Published by Sumner McKenzie, Inc.

  Kingston, WA, 98346

  Ebook Edition

  Copyright ©2015 Calinda B

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art copyright by The Art and the Writing

  Editing by Tina Winograd

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, but it can be lent according to the retailer’s coding. If you would like to give this book to another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Appreciation

  Limitless love and thanks to the Official Sweetie Pie, my loving partner, and truly honest guy, John. Thanks to Jenny for always inspiring me to head back to reality when it comes to animals. Thanks to Tina Winograd, the boss-dog editor of editors!

  And thanks to Ron, as always, just because.

  Table of Contents

  Crow’s Caw at Nightmoon Creek

  Appreciation

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  For more maps and information, please visit the

  Woodland Creek Website

  http://woodlandcreekseries.com/

  Caw, caw.

  I hear the sound, but can’t discern the common communication. It’s a dialect I don’t understand. Cajun maybe? Russian? A stranger, not from these parts. Looking for the uninvited guest, I lift my beak from the delicious bit of grisly meat I’ve been pecking and pulling for the last ten minutes or so—the dried, decaying remains from last week’s roadkill on Lake Tyler Road. The one I’m probably going to hurl when I shift back to human female form, wishing I’d never seen it, let alone consumed it like it was the tastiest treat I’ve ever eaten.

  Ignoring the cry, a sickening thought pushes through my small skull. I wonder if I’m eating a friend of mine. Nah. Funny the thoughts that roll through my head when I’m shifted into crow…sort of. Not really. And then I think if it is, I’m doing my part for him or her, and for crows everywhere who usher the dead to the other side. We crows have an important job. Matter of fact, I hope I’ll be allowed into the Sacred Order of Soul Snatchers someday. It’s been a dream of mine for a long time, even though I’m a woman. It’s old school sexism, but males are usually ordained. That’s total birdshit, pure and simple.

  It takes a while to learn your purpose, once you’ve learned you can shift. It can happen any time before age thirty. I still have five years to figure it out. I hope mine has something to do with the souls of the departed. The human townsfolk will never know, but I’ll know—I’m serving the needs of the dead. They know me by my human profession -- a potter -- my sideline as a volunteer on the Domestic Violence Hotline, and my lifetime status as a resident of these parts.

  Caw, caw.

  Outsiders, I think. Always stirring up trouble. I cock my head, decide the call means nothing, and get back to the dead bits plastered to the asphalt road leading out of Woodland Creek, my hometown. The tugging and tearing serves to loosen the soul from the flesh so Odin the soul snatcher crow can do his job. Some souls are more stubborn than others. This one is requiring some muscle, I think, as a bloody bit flies free from my beak.

  Caw, caw.

  There it is again. That blasted alarm call from another crow. It sends a strange shiver through my body that makes my feathers ruffle in the air, like a strong wind. It sounds frantic this time, but could mean anything…danger...snacks for all…food fight. It’s a lingo I’m not familiar with. Must be an out-of-towner zooming through the region kind of bird.

  I ignore the call. My inky blue-black eyes blink. It seems strange that my eyes go blue-black when I’m in crow, when my human eyes are a honeyed hazel. But then, I don’t have feathers for hair, either. I let out a little bird-like chuckle, more of a raspy rattle. I’m in such a great mood this evening, full of frisky thoughts. A couple hours ago, I finished throwing pots in my pottery studio. Free flight beckoned. I love free flight. I love soaring through the sky, unhindered. It makes me feel like an outlaw. It makes me feel alive.

  I blink a few more times, my three eyelids making a clean sweep and then turn my attention every which away, searching for signs of one person in particular. Feeling especially brave when I left the house, I set out to spy on Lennon Lusk, that tall, lean, hunk of love who moved to town last year. He doesn’t seem to notice I exist. I’ve tried to dive-bomb him a few times in crow form, kinda playful and fun, but he thought I was on the attack and ran for the house. Humans. Sometimes they have no sense of humor. At least I know where he lives, now.

  Caw, caw.

  Goddamn it, there it is again. Torn between the feast before me, and finding out who’s doing what and why, I yield to my impulses, spread my wings and launch into the night realm.

  The indigo sky is softly lit by a waxing moon, making way to All Hallows Eve, a favorite holiday. Fabulous, free food is everywhere, dropped by the greasy, snotty hands of little kids tromping through the streets, stuffing their sacks with candy and treats.

  The crisp stillness of the night is a balm to my soul as air currents sweep along my wings and body like cool fingers. Other winged ones appear to the left and right of me. I look to see where they’re headed. What? Nightmoon Creek, same as me. Get out of here, I want to shout. That’s my creek. All I can manage is a raspy, rattle-like croak. One of my most cherished places to hang in human form, I don’t like to share it. An oasis of calm, spectacular beauty, it’s usually void of anyone when I’m there, which is how I like it.

  I fold my wings and dive-bomb one of the crows to my left.

  Caw, he screeches.

  I know he means “back the fuck off.”

  Caw. I return the cry. He knows I mean “you first, this is my territory.”

  We all flutter through the forest, popping through the trees like black balls flung by skilled baseball pitchers, to the bubbling waters slashing the earth in a silvery stream.

  A bunch of crows, some friends, surround a body. This can’t be good. It’s a human. Already flies and wasps buzz the body, searching for entry. I scan for Odin, the soul snatcher. He’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t snatch souls, yet. Only an ordained crow can get the job done.

  The others hop, flutter, and vocalize, murmuring their delight at the bounty before us. Get away, I want to shout. This isn’t food; it’s one of my kind. It’s a person. I skitter and skip, flutter and squawk, dive and soar, trying to get them off the body so I can see who it i
s.

  A glimpse of white-blond hair flashes in the moonlight from beneath the fall colored bushes at the water’s edge. A purple scarf lay raised through the lingering orange and yellow leaves. A stain of deep red blood on the dark green, wool sweater. I land before her face, peering at the vacant, milky blue eyes, staring at infinity. If I could, I’d gasp. Instead, I let out a garbled croak. I know this person. Can crows cry? I’m about to find out. It’s Elena Iris, my best friend in the whole damn world. And Elena’s dead. There goes my good mood.

  The crows surrounding the body suddenly take flight, alerted by sounds I can’t understand in my human form. A few minutes ago, I shifted back to human, figuring I could do better shooing away the others with flailing arms and colorful shouts and curses, than as a hysterical, wing flapping bird.

  My body’s covered with gooseflesh. What seemed pleasant and soothing a few minutes ago, now feels like frigid fall. I lack the covering of feathers and the quick metabolism of my bird self. More to the point, I lack clothes.

  “Is anyone there?” a husky male voice calls. “Hello?”

  Shit. It sounds like Lennon Lusk. He’s got a voice that falls into the low registers of sexy. I’ve been mesmerized a time or two listening to it. Crap, crap, crap. In my current state, I’m not particularly mesmerized. More like alarmed. While he might not pay me any mind about town, he’s surely going to give me his attention—probably in the form of gawking laughter—in my current naked form.

  I despise being laughed at. Hate to be the butt of a joke, ever since age thirteen when I was in the school play and I fell onstage. My costume tore down the front so when I got up, my budding breasts were revealed. I was already ashamed to be getting them. They got in the way of my activities, and boys stared at them. So onstage, I stood, frozen, while the audience roared with laughter. Never again.

  Unable to think straight and shift back to crow, I scramble toward the water and fling myself into the yard deep liquid, assuming a crouch until I notice my wretched white breasts bobbing in the water like small soccer balls. Damn. On your tummy, girl.

  “Hello? Who’s out here?” He steps into the small clearing, peering into the shadowy dark.

  Can’t he see the body? Can’t he sense death before him? I realize it’s dimly lit out, but sheesh. There’s plenty of light from the waxing moon. Humans can be so dense. I wait for him to leave, while I float underneath the overhang of trees, breath caught in my fast-freezing throat as the surrounding water leeches the heat from my skin.

  As he stands at the forest’s edge, inspecting his surroundings, I study him. Lennox Lusk is a handsome man. He’s got muscles that come from hard work building houses, pounding nails, hefting lumber. He’s got greenish eyes that match the forest in color, and the wildness I see from soaring through the treetops. He’s got short hair the color of the rich, cedary-red shredded bark I use to accent my garden.

  My fingers tremble with the desire to touch him. They fucking tremble like I’m some candy ass little bitch. Like the sensual pleasure I get from manipulating clay, I long to shape his muscles into yielding submission, to caress and mold, to listen with the tips of my fingers, trying to discern the possibilities between us. I let out a shuddering sigh, pissed at myself for getting all vulnerable and wanting. Like he’d ever want me.

  “Who’s there?” His face furrows as he squints, facing the water.

  My hand claps over my mouth, creating in a splash of droplets.

  “Come on, I won’t hurt you,” he calls. “You’re safe.”

  The silence in the surrounding forest hangs thick, pregnant, weighted; hidden sounds ready to burst from the night’s womb at any second. I know at least a dozen or more crows clutch the overhead branches, waiting for the intruder to leave. A fox slinks through the underbrush. A bobcat hunts nearby. A pair of wood rats scurry into their den, eager to be out of sniffing range from the predators. Lennon has no idea they’re there. Our kind—the non-two-legged—knows how to be stealthy.

  When my trembling hands turn into quivering limbs, accompanied by the castanet chorus of my chattering teeth, I know I’m screwed. My teeth let out a violent tippity, tap, tap, tap. I can’t control it. I try to force my jaw shut, imaging it to be vice grips, but no luck on that attempt. If I’m fortunate, maybe Lennon will think it’s the clack of a nearby bear’s teeth, the kind of advanced warning some of them give when they’re afraid.

  “Come on out, whoever you are. You sound like you’re going to catch your death. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

  “N-n-n-n-no,” I manage to say. “Th-th-thanks.”

  “Mercedes McCartney? Is that you?” He puts his hand over his eyes as if that will help him see in the dark.

  I guess he does know who I am. If I weren’t so cold, I might be pleased with this knowledge. “M-m-maybe.”

  “What the heck are you doing in the creek in this weather? It must be in the forties, if that. Water must be colder.”

  “Had a hank-k-kering for a swim.” Damn, I can’t feel my fingers or feet.

  “You sound like you’re freezing. Get on out here now that you know it’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “N-n-no clothes.” I can barely form words, let alone coherent thoughts.

  A spluttering laugh greets my ears.

  “You’re skinny dipping? Are you one of those health nuts who thinks the cold improves your circulation?”

  “H-h-ha h-h-ha.” Good grief, my thoughts are growing dim. Am I becoming hypothermic? Holy hell, I could die out here. “T-t-turn around. D-d-do you have a c-c-coat?”

  “Of course I have a coat. Do you think I’m stupid? Not that I meant you are. Where are your clothes? I’ll lay them at the edge of the creek.”

  “L-l-lost them.” They’re hanging from a tree about a mile away, in one of my secret caches.

  “This is getting funnier and funnier,” he says with a chuckle.

  “N-n-not for m-m-me.” The guy must be an idiot to not know the dangers of hypothermia.

  “Okay, I get it. I’ll let you borrow my coat. I’m taking it off. Laying it alongside the creek and…” His words break off. “Mercy, there’s a body in the bushes. Christ almighty. His head whips back, as if trying to dodge a fist. He pushes aside branches to find what I already know to be true. “Oh, my fucking God,” he says.

  In my state of chill, I didn’t stop to think of the ramifications of my being out here, alone, sans clothes, with my dead best friend a few feet away. Then again, who knew anyone else would be here. Maybe Lennon is the culprit. My eyes narrowing into slits. Maybe the whole “Oh, hey, a body,” is a front for a crime he committed. The thought is like a sucker punch to my frozen gut, breaking free my iced torpor.

  I get my body into a shivering crouch, prepared to bolt toward the plush coat beckoning from the bank. Splashing as I run, a large rock grabs my foot as I reach the water’s edge, managing to toss me with a splat on top of his fur-lined coat.

  “Huh?” he says, as if he’s forgotten I’m here. “Whoa,” he says. “You really are naked.”

  “D-d-don’t look.”

  He swiftly turns away. “Not looking. Wrap the coat around you, fast. We’ve got to get you warm and call the police. We don’t need another dead body on our hands.”

  What? Who’s we? Is this a confession? My movements are clumsy, like I’ve drunk a fifth of scotch. With fumbling fingers, I manage to wrap myself inside the coat, taking a long, deep whiff of healthy male. Damn. My new favorite scent. But then I remember Elena. And me, the only one present before Lennon arrived; and Lennon out here by himself in the woods.

  His coat is roomy, hanging down to my thighs. Clutching it tightly, I say, “Ok-k-kay to turn around.”

  He turns slowly, as if anticipating what he might see, or else fearing what he’ll find.

  Does he think my hands will be all bloody? Does he wonder if I cleaned them in the creek? What’s going through that mind of his? My thoughts run like hamsters set free from their glass
pen, chaotic, fast, frantic, not knowing where to stop.

  He’s studying me in the same way he probably looks at construction diagrams, assessing the placement of wires and plumbing, windows and doors. It’s odd to be surveyed this way. Does he find the design pleasing? Is it missing details? What?

  I examine him as well, wondering what, exactly, he’s doing out here. Should I be looking for signs of a struggle? Blood under his fingernails? Elena told me Lennon flirted with her last week. I told her, “Hey, that’s cool,” when, in fact, I wanted to throw her in the lake. Did they go on a date? Is he some sort of drifter, mass murderer, moving through town on a killing spree?

  Finally he says, “I need to get my phone.” His acute gaze makes me feel like I’m standing in front of an X ray machine, beyond naked, viewed to the bone.

  “Uh, sure.” My jaw aches from my attempts at clenching, but my teeth have lessened their caffeinated flamenco dance. “Do I h-h-have it?” I lift a hand, disheartened to realize my limbs are still shake, shake, shaking. I can’t seem to locate the pocket.

  “Allow me.” He steps too close, fishes free his phone, shoves it in his jeans pocket, then takes both my hands between his warm palms. I sigh. He’s got an intense metabolism to be rocking so much heat. Then I stiffen, not letting my guard down.

  His knifelike gaze continues to study me. “I’ve got to call the police and tell them what I found. A woman’s body; you, out for a swim in the three-dog night temperature creek. That’s a chilly ‘need to nestle under the covers between bunches of mutts’ phrase from the Australian outback, in case you wondered. I’ve been there, and man, does it get cold at night. What possessed you to do that? And Elena…” He shudders. “It’s horrible. I’ve never seen a dead body, let alone one I….”

  He doesn’t appear all that horrified. He appears cold, too calm for what he’s discovered. He also seems to be holding me up with his eyes like he’s worried I might disappear, like I’ll escape, a convict screaming through the woods.