Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(87)

"Whose place is this?"

"Medicine man."

"Right."

He cast a quick glance in my direction as he stopped the car. "There are medicine men and women. Most Navajo still take part in the Blessingway."

"Which is?"

"Rites to promote happiness and wisdom. They also have sings or chantaways to promote health."

"And that's what this guy does for a living?"

I contemplated the house. There didn't appear to be too much cash in the venture.

"As well as hunting the occasional skinwalker."

I looked at him. He wasn't kidding. What else was new?

Philips climbed out of the car. "Hello?" he called. "Joseph Ahkeah?"

No answer. Not a flicker of the curtains. Nothing.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," I murmured.

"Joseph is an expert on skinwalkers. He'll know what yours is up to with the stalking and the not killing, even though you've been a sitting duck."

The image was disturbing. I'd been alone. Staring at my computer, listening to my music, obsessing over a deadline.

Considering the last few hours, a book was hardly worth the worry. I still didn't believe we were dealing with a werewolf, but there was something funny going on. The guy who'd been playing peekaboo at my window was nuts at the very least. He'd blown up my house, melted my car.

Even if Philips was on the fruity side, too, he hadn't tried to kill me. Yet.

He knocked on the door. We listened, but all we heard was the wind. He peered into the window.

"You're asking to get your head blown off."

He glanced at me. "My boss was supposed to call Joseph and tell him I was coming. I don't understand why he isn't here."

Philips reached for the doorknob, and at his touch the portal swung open. Shrugging, he stepped inside.

"Hey!" I hovered on the porch. "Is that legal?"

"What if he slipped in the tub, cracked his head? What if he's fallen and he can't get up?"

"Rationalize much?"

"Every damn day."

Since I did, too, I followed him into the medicine man's home.

The cabin was small, dark, hot. Stuff lay all over. Joseph really needed a housekeeper, although most women would never touch what I saw spread around.

Bones, large and small, the skull of an unidentified animal, skins of every shape, size, and color. Uh-oh.

Philips made a beeline for them. I was right behind him until I stepped on something crunchy. Looking down, I discovered what appeared to be the thigh bone of a— "Ew!" I skittered after Philips so fast I slammed into his back. "Is that human?"

"Not anymore."

He pulled his Beretta and quickly checked the house. There wasn't much to see. A single living area with a kitchen, small bedroom, an even smaller bath. No sign of anything alive.

The skins were spread across several tables at the north side of the room. In contrast to the rest of the house, they were organized and labeled with anal precision. A small piece of paper had been taped beneath each one.

"Fox. Bear. Coyote," I read. "What's with that?"

In the midst of reading the top sheet on a huge stack of papers, Philips looked up. Eyes unfocused, at first he didn't appear to see me. I waved my hand in front of his face until he blinked.

"What? Oh, a skinwalker can take many shapes."

"I thought it was a werewolf."

"Right now. Most likely for endurance and tenacity. Wolves have the ability to run for miles, then accelerate. They're quick, smart, and they can be vicious when provoked. But a skinwalker could become a fox, a bear, a coyote." He spread his hand, indicting the skins in front of us. "All he has to do is change his skin."

"You're telling me that this thing could have morphed into another animal?"

"Possibly. The fox is for cunning, the bear for strength, coyote for speed and agility. Still, from what I've been able to gather in my studies, most skinwalkers stick to the one animal they identify with."

"In this case, a wolf."

He grunted, already returning his attention to the books and the papers.

With nothing to do, I wandered down the row of skins. Deer. Elk. Raven. Eagle. The display was quite creepy.

"The sturgeon moon," he muttered. "Hell. That's soon."

"The what-who?"

He lifted his gaze. His eyes were all dreamy again—lost in the book. Funny, I never would have pegged him for a scholar.

"Back when the Indians owned the earth, they gave each full moon a name. The wolf moon was in January because the wolves howled with hunger in the middle of winter. There's the harvest moon in September. The blood moon is October—"

"Sounds like one we want to avoid."

Philips gave a small smile. "Also called the hunter's moon, because in that month meat was stockpiled for the winter."

"I take it the sturgeon moon is August."

"Bingo. The fishing tribes christened that one because the fish are easily caught at this time of year. But the August moon carries other names, too, from other tribes. The green corn moon, the grain moon…"

"What happens under the sturgeon moon?"