Read Online The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) by Beth Trissel - Free Book Online
Authors: Beth Trissel
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food tasted better simmered over a fire, or they were diehard reenactors.
For some reason, possibly reincarnation, Aunt M. claimed she should’ve been born in colonial America and had dragged Morgan and Jimmy all over Williamsburg. Thanks to the tour guides, Morgan knew the hinged, iron arm attached to one side of the fireplace was called a crane . S-hooks and trammels connected to it raised and lowered the kettles over the flames. The cast iron skillet resting on the trivet in the hot coals had fried the bacon. Bread and pastries were baked in the oven built into the bricks at the side of the hearth.
Given blacksmith tools, genius Jimmy could probably knock out a selection of iron implements. A sword would top his list. He’d fit right in with the Wapicoli who crafted everything by hand, like the oak table stretching over floorboards in the center of the room. Benches lined both sides. Chairs with carved backs stood at each end. A cupboard laden with pottery was against one log wall; food heaped platters on a sideboard along another. A narrow table held crocks, an old box-style coffee grinder, and other antique kitchen paraphernalia. This room was a living museum.
One exception to the colonial era brought to life before her was the white porcelain sink built into a cabinet. The sink was vintage, but had taps for running water and a dish drainer alongside. The pantry she spied off the kitchen had more provisions and a fridge, also white, that likely dated from the mid-twentieth century. Hey, as long as it worked.
Heck, Wapicoli Lodge was so well stocked and fortified, they could totally wait out the zombie apocalypse here—if Morgan weren’t anticipating a werewolf one, of her own making.
All this flashed through her mind in moments, and she focused on the people gathered around the table. They appeared normal enough, in a Native American way, but were all either a shifter, part space alien, or possessed the knowledge of this strange realm and its unlikely inhabitants—except Jimmy.
He high-fived her from his spot on the bench, and continued devouring syrupy corncakes. The kid adapted quickly to the vagaries of life , as Uncle Don termed any hurdles in their path, so maybe he’d fare better than she feared with what lay ahead. Her turning into a werewolf was one heck of a vagary, though.
Miriam smiled from the end of the table near the fire. “Morgan. I’m glad you’ve come. Jackson, introduce your family.”
He’d scarcely had the chance, and Morgan hated it when Aunt M. pounced on her to remember her manners, but he dutifully gestured at the woman seated beside two men. Lovely gray-green eyes reflected Miriam’s warmth, with a touch of shyness. Her hair was soft brown with a few silver threads streaked through the spill. Her face was smooth except for tiny lines at her eyes, and her slender figure clothed in a beaded jacket and skirt.
“Morgan, this is Aunt Willow, my mother’s sister. Her husband, my Uncle Buck, is beside her. That’s my father, Peter Wapicoli. Both sisters married Wapicoli men,” he added, and indicated the teen seated by Jimmy across from the trio. “Uncle Buck and Aunt Willow’s son, Hawthorne.”
Hawthorne grinned, showing dimples similar to Jackson’s in his lightly tanned face. Brown hair, not as dark as Jackson’s, fell well below his shoulders. The curious eyes exploring her were hazel like his mom’s. He was super cute, a little younger than Morgan, maybe a newly turned sixteen.
He lifted his hand in greeting. “Hey, Morgan.”
“Hey.” She gave him a wave.
Hawthorne and Willow, she liked immediately. The men were more unnerving, especially Jackson’s brooding father. No one had mentioned what became of his mother, likely a painful subject.
Peter Wapicoli, a sturdy man of medium height with rugged Native American good looks, wore his long black hair in a braid, and favored denim and leather. He seemed less than thrilled at her arrival. The expression in his
For some reason, possibly reincarnation, Aunt M. claimed she should’ve been born in colonial America and had dragged Morgan and Jimmy all over Williamsburg. Thanks to the tour guides, Morgan knew the hinged, iron arm attached to one side of the fireplace was called a crane . S-hooks and trammels connected to it raised and lowered the kettles over the flames. The cast iron skillet resting on the trivet in the hot coals had fried the bacon. Bread and pastries were baked in the oven built into the bricks at the side of the hearth.
Given blacksmith tools, genius Jimmy could probably knock out a selection of iron implements. A sword would top his list. He’d fit right in with the Wapicoli who crafted everything by hand, like the oak table stretching over floorboards in the center of the room. Benches lined both sides. Chairs with carved backs stood at each end. A cupboard laden with pottery was against one log wall; food heaped platters on a sideboard along another. A narrow table held crocks, an old box-style coffee grinder, and other antique kitchen paraphernalia. This room was a living museum.
One exception to the colonial era brought to life before her was the white porcelain sink built into a cabinet. The sink was vintage, but had taps for running water and a dish drainer alongside. The pantry she spied off the kitchen had more provisions and a fridge, also white, that likely dated from the mid-twentieth century. Hey, as long as it worked.
Heck, Wapicoli Lodge was so well stocked and fortified, they could totally wait out the zombie apocalypse here—if Morgan weren’t anticipating a werewolf one, of her own making.
All this flashed through her mind in moments, and she focused on the people gathered around the table. They appeared normal enough, in a Native American way, but were all either a shifter, part space alien, or possessed the knowledge of this strange realm and its unlikely inhabitants—except Jimmy.
He high-fived her from his spot on the bench, and continued devouring syrupy corncakes. The kid adapted quickly to the vagaries of life , as Uncle Don termed any hurdles in their path, so maybe he’d fare better than she feared with what lay ahead. Her turning into a werewolf was one heck of a vagary, though.
Miriam smiled from the end of the table near the fire. “Morgan. I’m glad you’ve come. Jackson, introduce your family.”
He’d scarcely had the chance, and Morgan hated it when Aunt M. pounced on her to remember her manners, but he dutifully gestured at the woman seated beside two men. Lovely gray-green eyes reflected Miriam’s warmth, with a touch of shyness. Her hair was soft brown with a few silver threads streaked through the spill. Her face was smooth except for tiny lines at her eyes, and her slender figure clothed in a beaded jacket and skirt.
“Morgan, this is Aunt Willow, my mother’s sister. Her husband, my Uncle Buck, is beside her. That’s my father, Peter Wapicoli. Both sisters married Wapicoli men,” he added, and indicated the teen seated by Jimmy across from the trio. “Uncle Buck and Aunt Willow’s son, Hawthorne.”
Hawthorne grinned, showing dimples similar to Jackson’s in his lightly tanned face. Brown hair, not as dark as Jackson’s, fell well below his shoulders. The curious eyes exploring her were hazel like his mom’s. He was super cute, a little younger than Morgan, maybe a newly turned sixteen.
He lifted his hand in greeting. “Hey, Morgan.”
“Hey.” She gave him a wave.
Hawthorne and Willow, she liked immediately. The men were more unnerving, especially Jackson’s brooding father. No one had mentioned what became of his mother, likely a painful subject.
Peter Wapicoli, a sturdy man of medium height with rugged Native American good looks, wore his long black hair in a braid, and favored denim and leather. He seemed less than thrilled at her arrival. The expression in his
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