"Let's regroup." Nic stepped out of the sheriff's office and headed for the cabin.
The door was unlocked. A note and the key lay on the kitchen table.
Don't forget to talk to Cora Kopway, I read in what I assumed was Will's precise scrawl. He'd also drawn a map to her cottage.
"Who's Cora Kopway?" Nic asked.
"Ojibwe wisewoman."
"And you're supposed to talk to her why?"
"Remember that talisman we found in Montana?"
Which reminded me...
I left the kitchen and ran into the bedroom, retrieved the icon from my sweatpants and returned with it in my hand.
Nic sat at the table, scribbling notes onto a notepad he'd produced from Lord knows where. He didn't even glance up when I entered. "What about it?"
Quickly I related what had happened since the icon came into my possession, as well as Will's thoughts and the need to talk to Cora. At least he stopped taking notes.
"You're more powerful?"
"Yes."
"And you don't know why?"
"No."
He stood. "Let's go talk to her."
I glanced at the clock. Close to 4 a.m. now. "Isn't it a little early for visiting?"
"You said she was old. She'll be awake."
Since he was already headed through the door, I hurried to catch up.
The sun wasn't even a smoky glow against the eastern sky when Nic parked in front of a small cottage several miles outside of Fairhaven. But the windows were lit, and as we got out of the car, the front door opened. A young, beautiful woman stood on the threshold as if she'd been waiting for us to arrive.
Her skin was olive, not the cinnamon shade of Will's, but her hair was just as dark, flowing to her waist like a waving ebony river. Her eyes, black and heavily lashed, gazed at us curiously, but she didn't speak, she merely waited. Talk about aging gracefully; Will's ancient wisewoman didn't appear a day over twenty-five.
"We'd like to speak with Cora Kopway," I said.
"My grandmother joined the spirits last week."
Hell. We were SOL when it came to information if Cora was dead.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Will Cadotte said she might be able to help us."
"The professor!" An expression of pure delight blossomed. "Grandmother spoke of him often. He didn't come with you?"
"He was called away."
We stood silent, her on the porch, Nic and I in the yard.
"Well - " I began.
"Would you mind if we took a look at some of your grandmother's books?" Nic asked.
"Of course not. She'd be happy to help any friend of Professor Cadotte's."
The woman opened the door wider. When she moved, a sound, like faint jingle bells, ensued. Golden bangles circled her arms; red, blue, and yellow beaded earrings tangled with her hair, their colors a reflection of the calf-length skirt and frilly peasant blouse. I caught a glimpse of an ankle bracelet, as well as several toe rings on her bare feet.
"I'm Lydia."
"Elise Hanover," I replied. "This is Nic Franklin."
She nodded in welcome to us both.
The place was lovely, overflowing with Indian paintings and sculptures. Most were of animals: bear, moose, birds, coyotes, and, of course, wolves.
One table held dried bones and what appeared to be teeth. Candles of all shapes, sizes, and colors graced the room. Pottery bowls stood on each table; some held powders, some unidentified objects.
I smelled fresh-cut grass, sandalwood, and new snow on a crisp winter night. I was reminded of Montana beneath a full moon, and for the first time in a lifetime I missed the place.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the ceiling with volumes whose spines reflected every shade of the rainbow. More cluttered the tables and the floor, some rested on furniture the hues of the earth and the sky at sunset: mahogany, sand, azure, burnt orange.
"It's beautiful," I breathed.
"Thank you." Lydia stepped into the room just behind me. "Grandmother left me the place, and I'm grateful. She'll be a great loss to the Ojibwe community."
"Will said she was quite knowledgeable."
"Very. She was teaching me, but there was so much to learn."
Here was good news. Maybe we weren't SOL after all.
"We're interested in information on shamanic totems with mystical power," I said.
"What kind of power?"
"Shape-shifting."
Her gaze sharpened. "Into what?"
"Wolf."
"Weendigo," she whispered, and one of the candles sputtered, then went out, leaving a trail of smoke behind.
"I always hate it when that happens," I muttered.
Lydia struck a match and relit the wick. The flame held steady and sure.
"What's a Weendigo?" Nic asked.
"The Great Cannibal," Lydia answered. "Ojibwe werewolf."
Nic cleared his throat, turned so Lydia couldn't see, then pointed at his teeth.
I frowned, considering. There'd been a bite mark on the single victim we'd seen. But human teeth, not wolf. No flesh removed.
What about the others that no one could find? For all we knew, they could have been sporting bite marks, too, or missing big chunks of skin - kind of hard to tell without the bodies. We had something to think about.
I shook my head, indicating we'd keep the information to ourselves for now. We were here to discuss the talisman, not the disappearances.
"Getting back to the totem," I said.
"A sacrifice would be required to imbue the icon with power."
"Rabbit," Nic muttered.
"Unusual choice," Lydia said. "But blood is blood. What is the totem made from?"
"Plastic," Nic blurted, before I could show her the thing.
He was right to be cautious. The icon was evidence - of what, we didn't know. But passing the thing around like a brand-new baby could be a mistake.