My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

Charmed by the Moon Lori Handeland

I awoke on the morning of my wedding with a big fat headache. Most likely the result of too much wine at what we'd jokingly called the rehearsal dinner but had in truth been a security check complete with steaks and cabernet. Then again, maybe the pain in my brain was a reaction to the words "marriage," "wed­ding," and "Jessie McQuade" in the same sentence.

I'd lost my mind, but I wasn't exactly sure when.

Had it been the day I'd told Will I loved him? Or maybe the eve­ning he'd asked me to marry him and I hadn't had the heart to say no again? I'd definitely been long gone when I'd agreed to a cere­mony with all the froufrou nonsense that went with it.

Groaning, I levered myself out of bed and pulled back the cur­tain. Bright June sunlight shafted into my eyes like ice picks, and I let the drape fall over the glass.

"I still can't believe you agreed to go through with this."

I gave a little yelp and spun around, wincing at the movement, then putting my hand to my head so it wouldn't fall off.

"I told you not to drink that last gallon, but you wouldn't listen."

Leigh Tyler-Fitzgerald, one of my few friends left alive, stepped into the room. She appeared too tiny, blond, and cute for this early in the morning. She always did.

"Who the hell gave you a key?"

"Ah-ah-ah." Leigh waggled a Styrofoam cup. "Is that any way to speak to a woman bearing coffee?"

"Gimme."

I held out my hands like a child reaching for candy, and she took pity on me.

I suppose I should clarify why I'm short on friends. Not that I'd had all that many in the first place. Folks who hang around me tend to wind up dead. An occupational hazard. The same could be said of Leigh, which was probably why we'd bonded.

We're Jager-Suckers, which translates to "hunter-searchers," for those of you who prefer English. We hunt things that prefer the night. Werewolves are our specialty.

Hey, I didn't believe it at first, either, but when you're staring death in the face and death has the eyes of someone you once loved, or at least knew, your belief system takes a big kick in the teeth.

The Jager-Suchers are a select, secret group of operatives attempt­ing to make the world safe, if not for democracy, at least for people who don't grow fur under the light of the moon. Unfortunately, the job is never ending. Werewolves not only like to kill; they also like to multiply—as do all their demonic cohorts.

I drank half the cup of coffee before coming up for air. My headache was still there, but it wasn't quite as bad.

"How long do I have until the wedding?"

"Long enough."

"I doubt it."

"You say that as if you're going to a funeral." Leigh sat on the bed. "What gives, Jessie? I've never seen anyone more in love than you and Will Cadotte."

Unless we were talking about her and her husband, Damien, but we weren't. At least not today.

"Love isn't the problem."

"What is?"

"I don't want to get married."

"Then why are you?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "I have no idea."

"You lost me."

"Will's been asking me to marry him for nearly a year."

I hadn't met William Cadotte under the most normal of circum­stances. We were as unalike as two people could be. Will was a pro­fessor with a specialty in Native American totems. I was a cop—or at least I had been then. He was an Ojibwe, an activist, a glasses-wearing, tree-hugging book geek.

He was also hotter than hot. Women's heads nearly twisted off their necks when he walked by. He might like books, but he also liked to work out. He'd been practicing tai chi—a type of martial art that strengthened the mind as well as the body—for longer than I'd been carrying a gun. But what had gotten to me in the end was his sense of humor, if not the golden feather that swung from one ear.

I never had figured out what Will saw in me. Guys like him usu­ally go for a girl like Leigh, but he'd never given her a second glance. I'd have thought he was gay if I hadn't enjoyed multiple evidence to the contrary.

I was a big girl—everywhere. My hair was neither brown nor blond, my eyes more shrewd than dreamy. I suppose I could have made myself presentable, if I'd cared, but I had better things to worry about.

I was tall, strong, in shape, because I had to be or die. I could drill a bullet through the eye of just about anything at a hundred yards. I had a job that I loved and a man I loved, too. Getting married . . . well, that hadn't been on my agenda.

Until the last time Will had asked me and I'd inexplicably said yes.

"I can't count how many people I've known who've gotten along just fine until they throw vows and rings and forever into the mix," I said. "Then bam, two months after the wedding they hate each other."

"That won't happen to you and Will. You'll be together forever."

"Forever isn't very long in our profession."

Understanding spread over Leigh's face. "Is that what's bugging you? That we might die tomorrow?"

"We might die tonight," I muttered.

One never knew.

"We're safe here."

'We aren't safe anywhere, Leigh, and you know it."

She shrugged. "Safer then. No one's going to sneak up on us in this place."

We'd rented out a lodge on Lake Superior in Minnesota. Will wanted to be married at the spirit tree, a twisted red cedar rumored to be three, four, even five hundred years old, depending upon whom you listened to. The tree was sacred to the Grand Portage Ojibwe, of which Will was one.

He'd grown up on the reservation, raised by his grandmother af­ter his parents took off. When she'd died, he'd been passed to a suc­cession of aunts and uncles. Now none of them were alive, either, but Will remembered this place with a great deal of fondness and the tree with a great deal of respect.

Since I had no strong feelings one way or another, Grand Portage was okeydokey with me.

"What if someone does sneak up on us?" I asked.

"Then we know they're werewolves and we blast them into the hell dimension. That's what we do, Jessie."

"I'd prefer we not be doing it at my wedding."

Hell, I'd prefer not to be having a wedding. So why was I?

Because I might be the roughest, toughest Jager-Sucher around, but when it came to Will Cadotte, I had no guts at all. I didn't want to lose him. And wasn't that just the saddest, most pathetic admission of all?

One night he'd blindsided me with a silver band and a moon-shaped diamond. With the bodies of wolves that weren't really wolves surrounding us, he'd pulled the thing from his pocket, slipped it onto my finger, and charmed me into marrying him.

Or maybe I'd just been charmed by the moon. Everyone else was.

"If Edward thinks we're safe, we are," Leigh said, and I knew she was right.

Our boss, Edward Mandenauer, was one spooky old man. But he was the best hunter on the planet. He knew how to set up a secure operation. If he said my wedding would be safe from werewolves, it would be, or he'd die trying to make it so. I trusted him with my life. More important, I trusted him with Will's.

Back in WW 2, Edward had been sent to obliterate Hitler's best-kept secret—a werewolf army. Too bad they'd escaped before Ed­ward could complete his mission. Not to worry, he hadn't stopped trying.

"Want some food?" Leigh stood.

"Gack." I imitated throwing up.

"Lovely. I can see why Cadotte's so enamored of you."

"I can't."

Leigh tilted her head. "You don't think he loves you?"

"I know he loves me. And I love him."

"Then what is your problem?"

"Marriage is an outdated custom that's run its course."

"Oookay." Leigh twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

"No offense," I said.

"None taken."

I threw up my hands. "I can't figure out why I said yes."

"You're just having cold feet."

Hope lightened the weight in my chest. "Did you?"

"Well, no."

The hope died. There was something seriously lacking in me if I was unable to commit to the only man I'd ever loved. But I'd sus­pected that for a long time.

"Maybe you should talk to Will," Leigh ventured.

"I thought it was bad luck to see him before the wedding."

"It's worse luck to get married if you aren't really sure."

She was right, except—

"Every time I see him, I pretty much want to—"

"Do him. I can understand that."

I rolled my eyes. "I was going to say 'agree with anything he says.'"

Leigh frowned. "That's not like you."

"Exactly."

Nevertheless, I needed to make one final attempt to figure out why I was in northern Minnesota with a wedding gown in the closet and an appointment with a justice of the peace at the spirit tree at just after four this afternoon.

There'd been a small amount of trouble obtaining permission to have a wedding there, since the Grand Portage band had bought the tree a few years back. A sanctioned guide was required if you wanted to go anywhere near the place.

I'd suggested a shaman perform the wedding, but Will insisted the ceremony be legal, which was a first.

He'd been arrested for more protests than he'd bothered to count. His activism on the part of the Native American community had put him on more law enforcement watch lists than even I knew about. I'd always found his police record kind of arousing. An embarrass­ment for a woman who'd always played by the rules—at least until I'd met him.

In the end Will had managed to get permission for the ceremony on the grounds that he was a member of the Grand Portage band and therefore part owner of the tree. Sounded like bullshit to me, but Will had always been very good at it.

I brushed my teeth and threw on jeans and a T-shirt; then with a wave for Leigh, I padded down the hall and knocked on Will's door.

No one answered. Maybe he was in the shower.

I used my key, stuck my head in just a little, and murmured, "Will?"

I didn't hear water or anything else. Feeling kind of guilty, I stepped inside.

The bed had been slept in. His wedding clothes were laid out. No tuxedo for him. Instead Will would wear traditional Ojibwe dress— leggings, leather overskirt, a cotton blouse with beaded panels, and a pair of brightly beaded moccasins.

All of his things were here, but he wasn't, and I became uneasy. I wouldn't put it past one of the werewolves that had escaped—and a few always did—to kidnap Will in order to get to me.

I was a hunter, Will a professor. Sure he'd killed a few fanged and furry demons, but nowhere near what I had. Next to Edward and Leigh, I was the most feared Jager-Sucher. There had to be bounties on my head, and those who'd put them there wouldn't flinch at mur­dering the man I loved.

Lycanthropy is a virus passed through the saliva while in wolf form. Until recently the only cure was a silver bullet, which wasn't really a cure, but you get my drift.

Once infected, humans can become wolves whenever the sun goes down. They live to kill, to destroy, to make others of their kind. Their selfishness, their evil, is what we refer to as the demon. It's as close a description as anything else.

There are hundreds, make that thousands, of the beasts roaming loose in this world, walking the streets as human as you and I, run­ning through the night as monsters until dawn. Any one of them could have snatched Will in the hours I'd been asleep.

I hurried to the phone, intending to call Edward, get a search party started. But as I moved past the bed, I noticed an odd bulge in the pocket of Will's wedding shirt.

Being me, suspicious always, I pulled out what appeared to be a medicine bag, though I'd only seen one in a textbook. Some of the Ojibwe kept them, put all that was important inside, but I'd never known Will to have one.

I upended the bag. Herbs, seeds, a piece of cloth, tumbled onto the pristine white sheet. Nothing unusual there. What was unusual was the tiny wooden figurines carved into the shapes of a man and a woman, then tied together.

I'd seen talismans before. Twice now the werewolves had used them to try to rule the world. But those totems had been fashioned into wolves—one black, one white, equally magic.

I had no idea what this carved wooden man and woman might mean. That I'd found them on my wedding day couldn't be good.

I stirred the herbs and the seeds with one finger, then picked up the cloth. A chill whispered over my skin. The scrap appeared to be from my favorite pair of sweatpants. I'd had them since I was in technical school and took them everywhere I went.

Feeling naked without my weapons, I stuffed everything back into the bag and hurried to my room. I wanted to examine my sweatpants.

Leigh was gone, thank goodness. I didn't have time to explain anything now, even if I could.

I set the medicine bag on the nightstand, pulled a silver switch­blade from between the mattress and the box spring, then unlocked my suitcase and withdrew my .44 Magnum.

I'd once had a boss who liked to quote Clint Eastwood. An an­noying trait, however, he had been right about the Magnum being the most powerful handgun in the world. I'd blown a lot of heads clean off. When dealing with werewolves, that was a good thing.

Suitably armed, I opened the closet and became distracted by the wedding gown I couldn't believe I'd bought.

The champagne shade of the satin sheath would make anyone re­semble a princess. Even I looked spectacular in it. So why did the sight of the garment always make me want to punch something?

Just another mystery out of so many.

I left the dress in the closet, dragged out the sweats, then searched for a rip or a hole. The idea that some dickhead werewolf, or worse, had taken a chunk out of one of my favorite things was enough to make me want to kill something.

There. That was more like me.

I didn't find any telltale signs. No hack in the knee, no slash across the butt. How could anyone have obtained a swatch without leaving a clue?

I turned over the elastic band at the bottom of each leg and found a tiny notch in the excess fabric on the right side.

"Bingo," I murmured.

But what did it mean?

I had no idea, but I would find out. After I found Will.

I spun around and would have shrieked if I were the shrieking type at the sight of a man just inside the door. Instead I drew my gun.

Luckily I didn't follow Jager-Sucher procedure and shoot first, worry about identity later, because the man was Will.

"What the hell are you doing here?" My chest hurt as my heart tried to thump its way out.

I was both thrilled to see him alive and annoyed he'd snuck up on me. He did that a lot.

"You left the door open."

"Oh."

His dark gaze lowered to my .44. "You know I love it when you point guns at me. Takes me right back to the night I first saw you."

As I'd said, we hadn't met under the most normal of circumstances.

"Ha-ha." I lowered the weapon. "Where have you been?"

"Doing tai chi."

Since he was wearing only loose cotton pants and nothing else— though he did have a shirt crumpled in one hand—I should have fig­ured that out for myself.

His smooth, cinnamon skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat that should have been unattractive but wasn't. The sheen only em­phasized the ripples and curves of a well-honed body.

In the year we'd been together, he hadn't cut his hair, and it hung nearly to his shoulders, the blue-black strands playing hide-and-seek with that feather.

Maybe we could skip the wedding and head straight for the honeymoon.

He craned his neck. "Is that your dress?"

"Back off, Slick; you're not supposed to see."

Typically, he ignored me, kicking the door shut, then crossing the room, stopping so close I could have sworn I felt steam rising from his skin.

"I'm not supposed to see you wearing the dress until the wedding—"

"I don't think you're supposed to see me, either."

He brushed my hair from my cheek and whispered, "I couldn't stay away."

When he said things like that, I could deny the man nothing. Not my heart, my body, or my future.

At the moment, I wanted to promise Will everything all over again.

Sure marriage scared me, but so had the werewolves once. I'd got­ten over it.

My panic attack was understandable given my upbringing. My father had taken off right about the time I'd started to talk—can't imagine why—and I hadn't seen him since. My mother had never really liked me.

Seriously. She hadn't. She'd waited until I turned eighteen, and then she'd taken off, too. Oh, she'd left a forwarding address, but she'd invested in caller ID and rarely picked up the phone on the few occasions I'd gotten drunk enough to call her. She hadn't bothered to respond when I'd left a message about my wedding.

Of course she was of the old school—Indians and whites did not mix; they certainly didn't match. That I was marrying one had prob­ably gotten me taken off the speed dial, if I'd ever been on it in the first place. Which was just fine with me.

The only family I had was in Grand Portage with me now. The family I'd chosen, and that was as it should be.

"You're thinking too much again."

Will's hand slid around my neck. His lips brushed the frown line between my eyes, the tip of my nose, then settled against mine. I sighed and let him remind me of the only thing that mattered.

Us.

He pulled me closer. Our bodies aligned just right. They always had. He was tall enough so I could lay my head on his shoulder. Not too short that I couldn't wear high heels if I was of a mind to, not that I'd ever be that out of my mind. He was strong enough to pick me up, sling me around, kick my ass if I let him. Everything about Will was perfect, except his uncharacteristic desire for a wife.

He tasted like a winter wind in the middle of the summer heat. I gave myself up to the lust. From the beginning we'd wanted each other, and that desire had never weakened. Sometimes I wondered if we were truly in love or only dazzled by the sex. Then again, there were worse things to be dazzled by.

The backs of my knees hit the bed, and I tumbled onto the sheets, grunting when he landed on top of me. Something jabbed me in the shoulder. My wiggling only served to rub my T-shirt against my nipples. They hardened at the contact, poking against Will's bare chest.

If his low-voiced murmurs and the sudden thrust of his erection were any indication, Will believed the wiggling was encouragement.

I considered ignoring the pain, focusing on the pleasure, until Will tugged at the button on my jeans. The resulting shift of his body weight made me say, "Ouch!"

Will's fingers stilled. "Ouch?"

"Get off a minute, will you?" Without question he rolled to the side.

I reached behind me and came up with the medicine bag. Before I could explain, he snatched it from my hand and leaped off the bed.

"Hey!" I protested, but he was already picking up his forgotten shirt from the floor and removing his glasses from the pocket, before pouring the contents into his palm.

For a minute, I was transfixed by him. Besides the earring, his glasses really did me in. That absentminded-professor thing always made me want to jump him.

"Love charm," he muttered. "Ojibwe."

"What does it do?"

"Uses magic to make one person love another."

"You believe that?"

He tilted his head. "Don't you?"

Something in his voice made my eyes narrow. "Wait just one damned minute. You think I made this? I don't know jack about Ojibwe love charms. Besides, smart guy, I found it in your shirt."

"Mine?" He patted his chest, realized he wasn't wearing anything above the waist, and frowned. "Huh?"

"In your wedding outfit."

He froze. "You were in my room?"

He said it as if I'd stolen his diary and read the good parts on CNN.

"Is that a problem?" I asked. "You have something to hide?"

Although I was angry at his accusations, I was starting to get un­easy, too. Maybe Will did have something to hide. Like a love charm.

I'd wondered why I'd been so damn agreeable lately to every­thing he said. Sure I'd joked about being charmed by the moon, but I'd never considered a literal love charm. Really, I should have.

"If I'd concocted a love charm, I certainly wouldn't leave it around for you to find. I also wouldn't be studying it like I'd never seen one before. Which I haven't."

He was working up a good head of steam. Usually Cadotte was calm as still water, but when he got mad even I trembled.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I see your point."

"If this were my medicine bag," he continued, with deceptive tranquillity, "you shouldn't go rooting through it like you'd found my secret stash of Godiva chocolate."

"That was only once, and you said they were for me anyway."

He ignored the excuse now as he had then. "In the old days the Ojibwe hung medicine bags outside in a tree for safety. Even chil­dren knew not to touch them. They're to be opened with great ceremony, only by the owner. They're never to be touched by a stranger."

"Stranger?" My voice had gone high and squeaky as my own anger—fueled by nerves and uncertainty—returned. "Do you want me to slug you?"

He sighed and looked away, slowly removing his glasses and set­ting them aside. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm I'd come to rec­ognize. He was doing his tai chi breathing. Gee, I guess he wanted to slug me, too.

I'd consider that foreplay if I wasn't so furious.

"Let's just calm down," he murmured.

"You expect me to calm down when you accuse me of using a love charm to get you to marry me? You asked me, Slick. More than once."

"I know."

"I've been wondering why I said yes. Why I've been so damned easy to get along with lately."

He snorted. "You're a lot of things, Jess, but easy isn't one of them."

I jabbed a finger toward the closet. "I bought a dress for you. If that isn't the result of magic, I don't know what is."

"Wait a second." Will frowned at the herbs and seeds. "There should be a scrap from the clothing of the beloved."

"I found a piece of my gray sweatpants."

Will's eyebrows shot up. "Uh-oh."

He knew what those things meant to me.

Will dug a finger into the bag and came up with the fuzzy scrap. He carefully set all the items on the nightstand, then took me in his arms, leaning his forehead against mine.

"I swear I didn't do this. I want you to marry me because you want to, not because you're compelled to."

In his arms my anger left me. "I shouldn't have accused you."

"You had pretty damning evidence."

"I found the medicine bag, but then I couldn't find you. Considmany condominiums they could build on the shores of the lake, or maybe the Ojibwe had found better lawyers. These days it was preferable to fight injustice with an attorney instead of a tomahawk. Although I kind of liked the old way better.

Will slowed when we reached the community of Grand Portage where the tribal buildings and most of the homes were congregated. Several old men lounged on the front porch of a weathered gray ranch. Will stopped the car and stepped out.

"Nimishoomis." Will addressed the man who appeared the oldest by the respectful tide of "Grandfather." "I'm William Cadotte. I lived here as a boy. I am of the wolf clan."

In Ojibwe culture each family is believed to have descended from a clan animal. Those of the same clan are related, so even if a man was of the Grand Portage band and a woman of the Lac du Flambeau, if they're both wolf clan they're of the same blood and can't marry.

That Will was wolf clan and theoretically descended from the wolves I hunted had caused no small amount of trouble when the truth had been revealed. The memory of that trouble lay in the bullet-shaped scar on Will's arm.

"I have a question for your shaman," Will continued.

The man pointed, never saying a word. We followed the direction of his slightly crooked finger to a wigwam just visible past a brick house surrounded by towering evergreens.

"Thank you," Will said, and we headed in that direction.

"Did you see the wigwam when we drove up?" I murmured.

"Nope."

"Was it there?"

He slid a glance toward me, then away. "What do you think?"

"I hate it when you ask me that," I grumbled, and didn't bother to answer.

Had the wigwam materialized when we requested the shaman? A year ago I'd have laughed myself sick at the idea. Since then, I'd seen so much weird shit, nothing surprised me anymore.

Of course the day was young.

We stopped in front of the domed structure that measured about ten or twelve feet in diameter. The underlying branches were cov­ered with birch bark, keeping the inhabitants dry during the summer rains and warm in the winter snows.

"Nimishoomis," Will called. "I'm Will Cadotte of the Grand Portage wolf clan. My weedjiwagan and I have a question."

"Your what?" I snapped.

"Partner in the path of life."

Well, that was true enough—at least until we discovered whether what we felt was real or manufactured. The idea that all we'd shared, all I'd believed, had been a lie made me want to commit violence, but then a lot of things did.

"Come in," called a voice from the other side of the leather flap that served as a door.

I shouldered Will aside and, with my hand on my gun, ducked into the surprisingly cool interior of the wigwam.

Light streamed through the smoke hole in the roof. The ground was bare except for the woven mats around a cold cooking fire.

On the opposite side of the structure sat a very old man. From the looks of him, he'd wandered the woods with this wigwam on his back in days long before the white men screwed everything up. Nevertheless, his eyes were clear, his gaze lucid.

White hair hung past his waist, braided and wrapped in cloth. He wore leggings and a buckskin tunic, the everyday dress of the old times. No beading, no porcupine quills, his moccasins, too, were plain.

The sense of having traveled back in time was so strong, I was tempted to step outside and make certain we hadn't been trans­ported to another age along with the wigwam.

"You have trouble, my brother?"

The old man motioned for us to sit. I took the mat that allowed me to see both him and the door. Habits became habits for a reason.

He wasn't holding a weapon that I could see, but I didn't relax my guard. Monsters often lurked behind seemingly innocent faces.

"You're wolf clan?" Will asked.

"Yes."

Will quickly explained what we'd found and why we'd come. The shaman, who'd introduced himself as Thomas Bender, held out his hand. Will put the medicine bag into it. Instead of pouring everything out, Bender held the charm tightly and closed his eyes. "What is it you wish to know?"

"Who did this?" Will asked. "Why? How can we break the spell?"

"You want to break the spell?" Bender glanced back and forth be­tween us. "But she is your weedjiwagan."

"Because of the charm, or because she truly is?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," I said.

The old man sighed. "The only way to know the truth is to ask the spirits."

"How?"

"Sit on the water beneath the spirit tree."

"Sit on the water?" I blurted. "Do I seem like much of a walking-on-water type to you?"

Thomas Bender's gaze was bland. "Use a canoe."

"Oh."

Will laid a hand on my knee—his way of telling me to put a sock in it.

"Ask the spirits to reveal the truth."

"Thank you, Nimishoomis."

As we drove away, I glanced back. Where I'd thought the wigwam had been, instead there stood a white birch. I hadn't seen any birch trees when we'd arrived.

I faced front, muttering, "Must be the angle. Wigwam's just hid­den by the house."

Will looked in the rearview mirror. "Sure it is."

We headed back the way we'd come. Will parked the car and to­gether we climbed out, staring at the gnarled limbs of the spirit tree reaching toward the sky. By all rights the ancient icon should have tumbled off the stone ledge and into the water long ago. But magic trees so rarely did.

"You think it's going to speak to us?" I asked.

I had a sudden flash of the apple trees from The Wizard of Oz. They'd always scared the crap out of me—before I'd discovered so many better things to be afraid of.

"I have no idea," Will murmured.

The wind picked up; the branches swayed and creaked. What if the tree suddenly yanked up its roots and began to walk around like the ones from Lord of the Rings? I hadn't liked them, either.

I caught the scent of rain. Dark storm clouds tumbled across the western horizon.

"If we're going to do this," 1 said, "we'd better do it."

Will followed my gaze and frowned. "That's a thunderstorm."

"So?"

"We shouldn't be on the water if there's lightning."

"We shouldn't do a lot of things, Slick, but we always do."

For an instant I thought he'd refuse. Instead he shrugged. He knew me well. I'd only go alone if he wouldn't go with me.

"We'll need a canoe."

"You're sure we can't do . . . whatever from here."

"On the water means on the water, Jess."

"I thought Ojibwe ceremonies were vague."

"The legends are vague; the ceremonies are pretty specific. When an elder says sit on the water—"

"We sit on the water. Fine. The lodge rents canoes."

Will followed me down a set of steps to a shack not far from the water.

The attendant, obviously a surfer wannabe—though why he was in Minnesota I have no idea; despite the ten thousand lakes, there aren't any waves worth riding—was tying down the canoes so they didn't fly off in a high wind.

"No more rentals until the storm passes."

Understandable. If a tornado could pick up a cow—and it could—a canoe, or twenty, would be no problem. Nevertheless . . .

"DNR." I pulled out my badge. "There's trouble on the lake, and I need a canoe. Now."

He snapped to. Must be from around here. Though the Depart­ment of Natural Resources—better known as the hunting and fish­ing police—was not well liked in the north woods, they were respected. The kid rented me a canoe.

As we glided onto the lake, the tourists raced in the other direc­tion. By the time we'd paddled to the area just below the spirit tree, the water was deserted, the storm bearing down on us.

"Isn't rain on your wedding day good luck?" I asked.

"Sure," Will answered.

"Are you just saying that to shut me up or do you actually know?"

"To shut you up."

"That's what I thought."

Thunder rumbled. The clouds cast shadows across the water, dis­turbing the fish, making them dart about beneath the surface as if they were crazed. The wind whipped my hair into my face and made Will's earring dance madly. The lighting flashed and I shivered.

"You want to go inside?" Will asked. "We can do this tomorrow."

"Our wedding is today."

"We can postpone it."

"No. I can't go through another night without knowing."

Though it was awkward, Will leaned across the canoe and kissed me. "Then we won't."

The storm and the current had dragged us a few yards away from the tree. We paddled until we were in front of it again.

"Now what?"

"According to the shaman, we ask the tree for the truth."

"So ask."

Will shrugged. "Spirit tree, we seek the truth."

The wind howled. The tree bent and swayed. We got nothing.

"You try," Will said.

"You're the wolf clan dude."

"Which is irrelevant for once. The charm was made for you. Maybe you have to ask."

"Hey!" I shouted. "How about some truth!"

"Nice."

"That's me."

Once again, nothing happened.

"Maybe I need to hold the charm or something," I ventured.

Surprise spread across Will's face. "Good idea."

"Why are you so shocked? I'm not a complete magic moron."

I'd had too much on-the-job training.

Will pulled the medicine bag from his pocket. As I reached for it, the water sloshed, the canoe dipped, and our hands smacked together with the talisman in between.

A mighty flash and a thunderous crack were followed by the scent of brimstone. Flames shot toward the sky.

"Uh-oh," I muttered.

The tree had stood for centuries unharmed. One day near me and it was on fire.

"Did someone request the truth?"

The voice seemed to whisper on the wind, but I recognized it anyway, and my heart sank. Of all the possibilities in heaven and earth, the universe had to send her?

"Figures I'd smell hellfire just before she arrives."

"Jess," Will admonished. "Remember last time."

I remembered all right, which was why I wasn't too happy to see Cora Kopway standing on the ledge next to the flaming spirit tree.

A high-ranking member of the midewiwin, or the Grand Medi­cine Society, a secret religious fellowship devoted to healing through knowledge of the old ways, Cora Kopway had spent her life studying dusty texts and communing with the spirits in her visions.

She'd once taken away my voice with a mere flick of her wrist and some weird purple powder. The woman was quite powerful.

She was also quite dead. Had been for about six months now. That hadn't stopped her from sticking her nose into Jager-Sucher business at least once.

Better make that twice.

Cora looked the same in death as she had in life—tall, willowy, with flowing black hair that held only a trace of gray.

"For a dead old witch, she's surprisingly pretty," I mumbled.

Will gave me a glare that would have melted silver. I stared at Cora, who'd begun to walk . . . right across the water, stopping a few feet in front of the canoe.

"Isn't that blasphemous?" I asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "I silenced you once; I can do so again. Per­manently."

The woman had a stick up her butt a mile wide, but since Will liked her, I did my best not to annoy Cora too much.

Unfortunately, my best was never good enough. I was a cop—or had been when I met her—a white girl, and a smart mouth. The top three sins on the Cora Kopway sin-o-meter.

"Why are you here, N'okomiss?" Will asked.

"I was enjoying my time in the Land of Souls."

Aka Ojibwe heaven.

"I would have preferred not to be torn out of it to help you." She wrinkled her nose in my direction. "But I had little choice."

"So head back to Deadville. If I'd known you were coming, I wouldn't have asked."

"We want the truth," Will snapped. "What difference does it make where we get it?"

"Can we trust her?"

"She's never lied to us."

There was that. As annoying as Cora could be, she'd been truthful, as well as helpful. Alive or dead, she knew more about Ojibwe woo-woo than anyone.

"Fine," I muttered. "But I don't know why the spirit tree couldn't just tell us."

"That's not the way things work," Cora said. "You wanted the truth, and I'm the only one who knows it."

"How's that?"

"I made the talismans."

All I could do was blink at her.

Why on earth would Cora use magic to make me fall in love with Will? Unless she'd meant for me to love him, but he'd never love me back.

Ha! That had backfired on her ass.

The storm was coming in hard; whitecaps formed in the center of the lake. We needed to finish chatting and get off the water or we might just join her in the Land of Souls much sooner than we'd planned.

It probably seems odd that I believe in the afterlife. I admit that before I became a Jager-Sucher I hadn't. However, I'd come to the conclusion that if there's evil, there's good; if there are demons, there are also angels. And if Satan walks this earth—and he does, in the guise of more horrible beings than you can even dream of—then God has to be out there, too.

"I made the talismans," Cora said, "so you'd fall in love."

Hovering just above the swirling water, she wasn't transparent as a ghost should be. If not for the floating issue—and the DNA test that had identified her body—I'd think she was alive.

"Again, I gotta ask why?"

She made an exasperated sound and threw up her hands. "Haven't you learned anything?"

"Why don't you clue me in?"

"Love is stronger than hate, more powerful than evil. Together you're more than you could ever be apart."

Will and I exchanged glances, then returned our attention to Cora.

"Okay," I said. "Still don't get it."

"I knew your talent with weapons of destruction, combined with Will's intelligence, would make you a nearly invincible team. All you needed was something to bind you together forever. I gave it to you."

"But the charm was to make me love Will. How could you be certain he'd love me back?"

She frowned. "I said 'talismans.' Plural."

"Yeah." I held up the man and the woman. "Two of them."

She shook her head. "There is another."

"Have you been watching too much Star Wars?"

"In heaven? I don't think so."

"There's no Star Wars in heaven? I'm not going."

"I doubt you are." Cora sniffed. "But that's beside the point."

I scowled, and my fingers curled around the little man and woman.

"Take a big breath," Will murmured.

"You talk to her, Slick. I've had enough."

He sighed, though I wasn't sure if he was disappointed in me or in her—probably both of us.

"N'okomiss, you're saying there's another medicine bag?"

"One for each of you."

I couldn't speak, even without the magic powder. It had been bad enough wondering if I truly loved him, but to know that he didn't truly love me . . .

I felt lost, uncertain, alone, as if everything good in my life was a lie. Probably because it was.

"We found one medicine bag in my ceremonial dress."

"There's another in her makeup case."

Will did a double take. "You've got a makeup case?"

"Not that I use it or anything."

"Obviously," Cora drawled.

I ignored her because something else was bothering me and I couldn't quite get my mind around what it was. My focus had been shot to hell by an overwhelming sense of sadness, as if someone I loved had died.

My gaze wandered over Will's beloved face as the memories of all we'd shared filtered through my mind. The analogy was more apt than I cared for.

"You're saying you hid a medicine bag in each of our things to make us fall in love with each other?" I clarified.

"Yes."

I forced myself to concentrate, to isolate the kernel of informa­tion that was poking my brain like an annoying thistle in the thumb.

"We didn't meet you until after we fell in love."

My hope that this was all a big mistake, an April Fool's trick a few months too late, the Ojibwe idea of a practical joke, died at her shrug. "Time's not the same in the Land of Souls. We aren't on a lin­ear plane."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Will interjected, "that she was able to go back to a time before we were in love and plant the talismans."

"Which makes no sense."

"You're looking at things with human eyes."

"That's all I got, Slick."

"And a human brain."

"Ditto."

"The other world follows different rules than this one."

"I'll take your word for it." I turned my attention to Cora. "How could you make the love charms if you're a ghost?"

"Who said I was a ghost?"

"What are you then?"

"Midewiwin."

Which was so helpful. Not.

"She was powerful in life, Jess. In death there's no telling what she can do."

Cora smiled, and the expression reminded me of a big snake watching a little mouse.

Terrific.

Lightning flashed again. Rain began to fall. The flames on the spirit tree hissed and sputtered. Cora glanced to the west as if some­one had called her name. "I have to go."

"Ke-go-wcty-se-kah," Will murmured.

At my glare he translated, " 'You are going homeward.' We be­lieve to the west lies the Che-ba-kun-ah, the road of souls."

AC/DC began to sing "Highway to Hell" inside my head. I sti­fled the music lest Cora could hear it, too. I wouldn't put it past her.

"One more question," I said. "How do we stop it?"

"Stop what?"

"The love spell."

"You want to make the magic go away?" Her forehead creased. "Isn't love better than hate?"

"Yes. But truth is better than a lie."

She tilted her head and contemplated me with a bemused expres­sion. "Maybe I've been too hard on you."

"You think?"

Her eyes narrowed as her be-ringed fingers stroked the pocket of the same colorful skirt where she'd once kept that silencing purple powder.

"Leave well enough alone, would you?" Will muttered.

I tightened my lips and refrained, barely, from slapping my hands over my mouth for good measure.

"The choice is yours," Cora said. "If you wish to live in the world the way it would be if I hadn't interfered, all you need do is crush the icons beneath your feet."

"That's all?" Will asked.

"That is all."

Thunder crashed. I blinked, and she was gone. Will stared at the place where she'd been.

"Did I flip out and see something I shouldn't?"

"Cora was here," Will said. "Or as here as a dead woman gets."

Lightning split the sky directly above us. We put our paddles to the water and headed for the shore as warm summer rain tumbled down.

After turning the canoe over to surfer dude, we climbed into the car. Luckily the seats were leather, because we were both dripping.

Will slowed to a crawl as we reached the spirit tree; then he stopped completely. We both peered through the windshield.

No smoke, no blackened limbs, there wasn't a sign of the flames we'd witnessed from the lake. The tree was exactly as it had been when we'd left, except for being as wet as we were.

I was beginning to doubt everything I'd seen. What else was new?

"The tree was on fire, right?"

"Right." Will put the car into gear and drove the rest of the way to the lodge.

Leigh wasn't in my room. Neither was Edward. There wasn't any note, and no voice mail, either. Apparently, no one had noticed we were gone.

"You're cold," Will murmured.

I hadn't realized I was shivering.

"Why don't you get out of those wet clothes? Take a shower?"

I opened my mouth to invite him to join me—he was shivering, too—then snapped it shut again. If we shared water, we'd share a lot more. We always did.

I couldn't bear to make love to him now and find out it had only been sex later. Even if all the love of the past year turned out to be nothing but lust, and maybe not even that much, I wasn't going to compound the pain by adding more of the same.

"Let's just get this done," I said, and yanked my makeup case from the closet.

Shiny pink vinyl. I'd torn off the Barbie emblem only last week. I'm not sure why I'd kept the ghastly bag, except it was one of the few things my mother had given me besides an inferiority complex. I remembered very clearly how she'd come home from work one bright summer day when I was twelve and handed me the gift.

"Try being a girl," she'd ordered.

I'd tried, but I'd never been very good at it. After one pathetic at­tempt to use the powders and potions inside, I'd picked up my pellet gun and gone squirrel hunting. Gotta stick with your strengths.

"That's awful small," Will observed. "How could you have missed seeing a medicine bag in there?"

"I never open the thing. I only brought it along because . . ."

I shrugged, not wanting to admit I'd planned to dazzle him on our wedding day. A dress, jewelry, makeup, and a hairdo. He wouldn't have known what hit him. He probably wouldn't have known me.

I yanked on the zipper and upended the bag on the bed. Two lip­sticks, one blush, mascara, and a trial tube of base tumbled out along with a second medicine bag. Inside were figurines that matched the others, the same herbs, similar seeds, and a tiny swatch of stone-washed denim.

Will fingered the cloth. "I wondered how I put a hole in those pants."

"Ready?" I asked.

Grim determination came over his face, and he gave a sharp nod. I stuffed the figurines, cloth, and other items into the bag, then tossed it onto the floor and lifted my foot.

"Wait."

Will dropped his talisman next to mine, then grabbed me around the waist. His lips were soft, his hands hard, and as always, when he touched me I could think of nothing but him.

From the beginning we'd felt more for each other than two people should so quickly. I'd shoved aside the unease, convincing myself we'd been under stress, fighting for our lives. We'd almost died. Of course what we felt was intense beyond all reason.

Once the danger was over—or as over as it got for Jager-Suckers— I'd continued to delude myself, rationalizing that we were lucky to have found each other, thereby avoiding the whisper in my head that insisted I was the lucky one. I shouldn't question or probe because Will might come to his senses and see that he could do so much bet­ter than me.

In a few minutes he would come to his senses, and while I couldn't bring myself to get naked with him one last time, I also couldn't deny myself one last kiss.

He lifted his head, brushed his thumb across my cheek. He was so beautiful he made my eyes ache. What had he ever seen in me? Nothing that hadn't been put there by magic.

"We'll destroy the talismans," he murmured. "But I'll still feel the same."

I smiled softly and took his hand, then touched my lips to his knuckles. "I doubt that, Will."

His eyes flickered. I so rarely used his first name. When I did, life was about to get serious.

I moved toward the talismans. He held on tight. "Let's throw them in the lake."

"What?"

"I love you. You love me. Cora was right. Love is stronger than hate. We're better together than apart. I don't want to lose you, Jess."

"You don't want to be with someone you don't really love." I took a deep breath. "I know I don't."

"We'll love each other even without the magic."

"Then it won't hurt to destroy the talismans."

Silence fell between us as he considered my statement.

"Okay," he said at last. "If that's what you want."

What I wanted was him and me together forever. I saw that clearly now; I couldn't believe I'd doubted it before. Why do we al­ways have to lose something to know how much it means to us?

Oh yeah, human nature.

I took another deep breath. "It's what I want."

"All right," he said. "On three. One, two—"

We lifted our feet.

"Three."

And brought them down on the medicine bags. The little wooden people crunched beneath the sole of my hiking boot. I winced at the sound, like tiny bones breaking.

The earth rumbled, lightning flickered, and a chill wind swept through the room, ruffling my hair, making Will's earring twirl.

I glanced at the window. Not only was it shut, but the sun was shining. I waited for a sense that something had changed inside of me.

Our gazes met, and I realized that something had. I loved him even more.

I held my breath, terrified Cora had wreaked her last vengeance, leaving me to desperately love a man who couldn't abide the sight of me.

"Jess," Will said, and in his voice I heard everything I'd ever dreamed of.

Or at least I thought I did. Being me, I had to make sure.

"How's the heart, Slick? Any changes in it?"

"Not a one."

Was that good or bad? My confusion must have shown on my face, because he tugged me into his arms and held on. His lips brushed my temple. I hate to admit it, but I clung.

My eyes were drawn to the window again as a shaft of sunlight beat down on the spirit tree, turning the arching dark limbs a bur­nished gold.

"Look," I whispered.

"I think that's an omen," Will murmured. "Don't you?"

I'd always known that the love of my life was Will, but I hadn't truly believed the opposite was true. I did now.

"Yes," I answered.

From his smile he understood I was saying yes to more than just that question.

"How do you feel about kids?" he asked.

I choked.

Ah, hell. Kids were not an option. Not in a world where anyone could turn into a monster at any time and everyone we loved was considered wolf bait. Will could take care of himself, but a child—

I couldn't do it.

"If you want kids, Slick, you're gonna need a bigger charm."

"My thoughts exactly."

"You don't want children?"

"Not in our world, Jess. I wanted to make sure you didn't."

"Can you see me as a mother?"

"Actually I can, or I wouldn't have asked.''

I shook my head, amazed. "You always think more of me than I could ever be."

"No, I don't."

Another reason I loved him.

He tugged on my hair. "We can skip the wedding if you like."

"I thought you were set on making an honest woman of me."

"You're the most honest woman I know."

A definite compliment from an Indian. They'd been lied to enough.

"Besides," he continued, "for the Ojibwe, living together for a year is as good as a marriage license."

My eyes narrowed in mock fury. "You couldn't tell me this before I bought a thousand-dollar gown?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "We don't need the wedding. In my heart we've been married from the first day we met."

"You are so full of it."

"I know." He took my hand again. "But I only want this if you do."

"A hundred werewolves couldn't keep me away," I whispered.

I put on the dress, the shoes, even the makeup. I let a stranger do something froufrou with my hair; then I walked out of the lodge and into the sunlight.

I let an ancient wolf hunter walk me down a gravel-strewn path to the spirit tree, and put my hand into the hand of an Ojibwe wolf clan member. Hard to believe, but then most things in my life were.

"You will take care of her," Edward said.

"I can take care of myself," I snapped.

"Then what are you marrying him for?"

I stared into Will's eyes. "I can't help myself-"

Edward snorted and joined the others—hunters all. My wedding looked like an armory had exploded, weapons, weapons everywhere, and silver bullets, too. The justice of the peace we'd hired from Duluth appeared ner­vous in the midst of all the guns and ammo, but he managed. "I now pronounce you man and wife." Funny, that didn't sound right. "We're weedjiwagan," I said. And Will answered, "Partners in the path of life."

LORI Handeland is the author of the bestselling Nightcreature novels. The first in the series. Blue Moon, won the RITA Award from the Romance Writers of America for Best Paranormal of 2004. Lori lives in Wisconsin with her husband, two teenage sons, and a yellow lab named Elwood. She can be reached through her Web site: www. lorihandeland.com.