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The ancient prophecy, spiritual warfare, fierce love, and a destiny written in the stars. |
Chapter 1 Scene 3 Word Count: 1533 January 27: Early Morning The plan began with a single phone call. Pearl dialed her dearest friend, Mildred Diamond. When Mildred answered, Pearl spoke only one line: “I’m going on a trip.” Then she hung up. Nothing more needed to be said. Promises had already been made, oaths already sworn. Pearl could never repay Mildred for all she had done, but she would be grateful for her loyalty until her last breath. Mildred, understanding at once, began her own preparations. She booked a commuter flight under the name Sarah Margaret Diamond and contacted a trusted friend at a small regional airport, who was holding an envelope for pickup. The plan was simple: Mia would collect it on arrival. Inside was a short note: Mia, The enclosed will serve as your ID, tickets, and a photo of my husband, Davis. He will meet you at the airport when you arrive. If you miss a connection, I’ve included a charge card for tickets, food, or shelter. The cell phone is for you to call me if you need anything. Lay low and stay safe. I will see you soon. — Mildred Pearl sent Mia to change into her travel disguise. When she returned, she wore camouflage pants and shirt, heavy men’s steel-toe boots, and a wool cap pulled low. Her long hair was braided tight and wrapped around her head beneath the cap. In those loose clothes, she might pass for a boy. Pearl smiled despite the ache. “You’re far too beautiful to look like a boy,” she murmured. “But with luck, no one who matters will look too closely.” She reminded Mia to keep her eyes down, avoid contact, and speak as little as possible while traveling. Then, with her heart breaking, she pressed the Jeep keys into her daughter’s hand. “Remember,” she said softly, “leave the keys under the floor mat when you park. They’ll be picked up later, just like we planned.” Their hug was long and desperate—Pearl memorizing the warmth, the scent, the feel of her child one last time. Mia gripped the keys so hard she could feel them imprinting on her palm. Holding on to them tight, maybe it would help her hold on to her mother just a little longer. Finally, Pearl let go, kissed her cheek, and sent Mia on her way. She stood in the doorway, eyes stinging, as the Jeep rattled down the snow-dusted drive and vanished into the trees. When the taillights disappeared, despair surged like a wave. Pearl swallowed it down and forced herself to move. Inside the cabin, she staged the rooms to look lived in: meat thawing in the sink, a kettle half-full on the stove, the table set for supper. Then she walked the small house one last time, fingertips brushing the life she was leaving behind—the cream-and-sage afghan draped over the sofa (Mia’s favorite), the chipped blue mug that had been Oldkoda’s, the pine cross above the door he had carved long ago. These are the things I will miss, she thought. The small, quiet things. She gathered her pack, tucked the express-mail envelope beneath her arm, and stepped out into the cold. At the post office, she slid the package across the counter. “Express, please,” she said evenly, not allowing her voice to tremble until the receipt was in her pocket. From there she drove to the junkyard on the edge of town, handed over the old truck’s keys, and watched the owner—Eli, a man who knew when not to ask questions—nod once. Pearl spoke only to remind him the Jeep’s keys would be under the mat as prearranged. By nightfall, there would be no trace. Her last stop was the cemetery. The graveyard crouched at the edge of the forest, half-buried beneath drifts of snow. Wind rasped through the winter grass, and the ironwork gates wore a lacework of ice. Crows perched along the fence, watching her in solemn silence. Pearl walked slowly among the leaning stones until she reached the marker that twisted her heart most—a granite slab etched with her daughter’s name: MIAKODA ZARIA WHITEHEAD Beneath it lay Oldkoda—human, friend, protector—who had died six months earlier. The false stone had been necessary, its secret purpose known only to Pearl and the caretaker who owed Oldkoda a favor. But standing there now, gazing at her child’s name carved into cold rock, Pearl felt destiny’s weight press down upon her chest. She touched the frozen stone. “Goodbye, Oldkoda. You kept us safe as long as you could. And forgive me, Mia, for what this stone must bear.” Her breath clouded in the air. For a moment, she thought she heard a rustle—the echo of a man’s spirit stirring in the wind—but perhaps it was only her heart reaching for comfort. For more than four years, she and Mia had lived quietly on the English River Indian Reserve near Grassy Narrows, Ontario, a refuge born of Oldkoda’s kindness. No one could have traced them there. The land was peaceful, blanketed in spruce and cedar, wrapped in snow half the year. It had been a haven—a place where wolves could rest without fear of hunters or laws. Oldkoda had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she had clung to him like a grandfather; in her darkest hours, he had been the one to bring light. He had come into her world decades earlier, working for Mildred’s father at the Diamond estate. Even then, he carried the calm of an elder who listened more than he spoke. When grief hollowed her out after Mac’s death, it was Oldkoda who taught her to breathe again—who reminded her that faith was not the absence of pain, but the courage to walk through it. Later, when she fled Orson and the Whiteseh Pack territory—her home in Northern Canada—it was to him she ran. His cabin on the reserve became her sanctuary. He taught Mia to fish in the frozen river, told her the legends of the animals, and whispered the old prayers in his lilting voice. For a time, they were a family. But six months ago, Oldkoda had gone home to the Creator. His laughter was now only wind through the pines. His death had left a hollow space where protection once stood. Now Mia was gone too. And Pearl was alone—left with nothing but her prayers and her wolf. The wind lifted, cold against her face. She rose slowly, whispering a final goodbye. The trees loomed close, their branches heavy with snow. The air was sharp with pine and frost. Every sound—the snap of a twig, the distant cry of a hawk—rang too loud. The silence between them was heavier still. Pearl adjusted the strap of her pack, squared her shoulders, and started toward the mountains. The cave—her last refuge—was many miles away. No human stride could cross that distance before dark. Only the wolf was fast enough. At the tree line she paused, scanning the ridge. Then she slipped behind a screen of fir and stripped quickly in the knifing cold, teeth chattering as steam rose from her skin. Her clothes went into the oilskin bag; inside it, she wrapped her Bible, a few photographs, and what little money she had left. She tied the bag’s strap into a short loop—easy to grip between a wolf’s teeth—and set it on the snow at her feet. “Lord, guide my steps,” she whispered, and let go. Heat rippled along her spine. Her form stretched and reshaped, guided by the wolf awakening beneath her skin. Her senses sharpened: the far cry of a hawk, the breath of a rabbit beneath the snow, the silver thread of water running unseen under ice. Scents bloomed like color—pine resin, fox trail, the iron tang of distant rock. She lowered her head, gripped the oilskin loop between her teeth, and ran. Snow swallowed her footfalls. Her breath came in rhythmic clouds. The world narrowed to cadence: pads, heart, wind; pads, heart, wind—as the ridges unspooled beneath her. She followed old game trails, shouldered through snow-laced pine boughs, skated across glare ice where the creek had frozen, and climbed—always climbed—toward the hidden cleft that held her If she reached shelter before full dark, she might buy Mia a few more hours. But as the light bled from the sky and shadows deepened beneath the trees, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold settled in her chest. The forest thickened. She paused. The trees stood still, the air pressing close, holding its breath. Far below, beyond the frozen ridge, a pale wolf ran into the rising wind. Behind her, the mountains kept their secrets, and snow began to fall—soft, endless, and silent as prayer. This is my supernatural romantic saga, Super Blood Wolf Moon: Legacy. I’d love to know what emotions it stirs and whether the pacing pulls you in. Thank you for reading the book opening. I appreciate all comments or reviews. Kind wishes, Tee |
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