Amy's Hunt: Solstice Quartet, #2

Amy’s Hunt

Solstice Quartet #2

Catherine Peace

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

Amy’s Hunt

Solstice Quartet #2

Copyright © 2022 Catherine Peace

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-953335-99-9

(print) 978-1-7373794-4-7

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Inkspell Publishing

207 Moonglow Circle #101

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

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Cover art by: Fantasia Frog Designs

Edited by: Yezanira Venecia

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DEDICATION

To Landra and Kat for helping me wrangle these wereswans and keeping me inspired.

PROLOGUE

Amy dug through soft dirt, pushing aside growth that had overtaken the familiar land over the last decade. The wind carried with it the clean scent of the nearby lake, and her heart broke at the memories Ember didn’t have, the ones Papa refused to discuss. With the back of her hand, she wiped away a stray tear, told herself she just had something in her eye. She hadn’t cried since ...

Stop, she commanded the memories. Phantoms of her iwi, her tribe, surrounded her. Just beyond the forest, where the lake sat, she caught the gentle flapping of dozens of wings; they faded one by one until only the frenzied beating of her own remained as she struggled to keep up with her father’s stronger form.

She’d never forget the chaos. Ember’s tie to their small village was severed by death. As for Amy ... if she were honest, she’d never belonged.

She crept through the ghost of the old village as though she’d disturb the bodies that had long ago been given to the dirt. All around her, she still saw their homes, the Solstice bonfire, her family and friends sparkling in the warm glow, Dia shining among them like a star.

And the claw marks from the dingoes, the tree limbs shattered by hunters’ gunfire. The swans falling one by one at their most vulnerable.

She’d sworn never to be caught off-guard ever again. So far, so good.

Finally, she reached what used to be home, though this place was like a coat that never fit quite right—a hand-me-down life. Taking her hand from the .45 tucked in the back of her jeans, she dropped to her knees and began to dig.

Clearing off a layer of dirt, she discovered the box. It was a simple box, made of kauri wood and carved with koru to signify Mama’s new life among the Whakamanu and feather designs—for obvious reasons—surrounding the symbol of their god, which always reminded Amy of a dragon. She ran a finger over it. Papa had made it for Mama as a wedding present, and she’d stored her most precious things in it. Fresh tears pricked Amy’s eyes, too many to blame on anything but being a motherless child without a home.

On the drive back to the motel, she side-eyed the box at every red light and stop sign. Calm yourself. Thing’s not haunted. Still, something inside her recoiled at the thought of opening it, like doing so would resurrect all the memories she’d buried, or worse, would disturb Mama, who deserved her rest. A simple pinewood box terrified her more than when Papa had found her pot stash or the fifth of vodka under her bed, though they were all that helped with the nightmares. More than his beaming pride at the violet moko on her chin, which she’d gotten when li’l sis had gotten her Matariki done. More than all those nights she and Papa had fought so much that Ember burst into tears and hid in the closet of their shared room, and Amy would have to sit on the cramped floor with her until she stopped shaking. Li’l sis had just wanted to learn about her heritage.

Thank the gods the hunters hadn’t found the box.

She sat it on the cardboard-grade nightstand and debated opening it. Took a shower and debated opening it. Watched some TV and debated opening it. Part of her feared she wouldn’t be able to contain the hope it might unleash; after all, if she learned about Mama’s tribe, she’d have to enact her plan of finding them and all it entailed.

Including the possibility they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help her.

She had to find Dia. Every avenue had been exhausted and every lead followed to its bitter end. The eldest sister, the once future Tane of their iwi, had vanished into a field of stars and never returned. Papa had given up on her years ago. Ember ... poor Ember. She cooked as both a beacon and a coping mechanism, neither of which their father appreciated, and so finding Dia fell to Amy.

She took a deep breath. Like ripping off a bandage, yeah?

Not even close. More like ripping out the stitches that had held her together for ten years. Tears streamed like rivers this time, droplets plopping onto the dirt-stained wood. Mama and Dia may have shared similarities in appearance, but Mama had told her more than once that they were cut from the same cloth. She realized the truth more than ever—they’d both left their families—Mama for love, and Amy for reasons she had yet to fully understand.

In one quick motion, she raised the lid. Inside sat three downy feathers, the first inklings their mother, Trina Ngata, had had of the women her daughters would become: Dia’s as shimmery as new-fallen snow; Ember’s as bright and vibrant as the Solstice bonfire; and her own, a small amethyst piece of an overwhelming puzzle. With their baby feathers from their first moltings sat one of Papa’s jade feathers and one of Mama’s citrine. She ran her fingers over the gold quill and up the spine to the tip, wishing for guidance and wisdom. For comfort. After one more deep breath, she reached for the real reason for her journey to the past.

Mama’s journal was simple, leather-bound with loose-leaf pages that were tied together by thin leather strips. Carved into the cover was a design Amy thought she recognized. Mama’s people said the Thunderbird, a creature able to transition between bird and man, created them, not Tane, the Maori god of birds and forests to whom all swans belonged; however, the resemblances between the two deities were so evident a child could find them. She ran a finger over the time-softened leather, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs it almost knocked the breath from her.

This entire venture—hell, her entire life since the massacre—had been a long shot, a result of visits with hypnotists and palm readers and psychics, anyone who might be able to help her work through the fuzzy memories. It’d been a hypnotist in Leipzig who’d unlocked the memory of the box, a time capsule Mama had called it. We can dig it up in twenty years and show your kids, she’d said with one of her warm smiles. Amy had just giggled.

A few years early, Mama, she said to the box, to the air. Hope you don’t mind.

#

Chapter One

The wolves took Margot. I want to find her, but Pere won’t try to get her back. Instead, I have to take her place.

On the flight to Nova Scotia, Amy stared at the first three sentences of the first page of Mama’s journal. She recognized the flowing script and the ornate uppercase letters, heard her mother’s voice in the words, the lightest French accent tinging each syllable. In her mind’s eye, she saw her parents happy and madly in love. I have to take her place? Those first three sentences did not sound like a woman in love.

Mama said once that she’d been promised to the Whakamanu, to Pou Ngata, the future Tane. Amy never imagined that first, someone else had been promised to Papa, and, second, that Mama hadn’t wanted to marry him.

And wolves? What the hell?

As she drove her rental into the small town of Windsor, Nova Scotia, she replayed her entire life with her parents. Every interaction, every touch, every glance. On either side of the main drag sat small shops, cafés, a couple of law offices and the like, but they faded into the background of this new mystery. I left my family to be with your papa, Mama had said more than once with pride. I loved him that much.

Why didn’t you ever tell us the truth?

Between buildings, she caught glimpses of the Avon River and imagined it full of swans for the Solstice, the one time of year swans, no matter who they believed in, reveled in their true forms under the watchful gaze of the Seven Sisters. Five more weeks ... Maybe this year, the Seven Sisters would bless her with a lead about her sister, and maybe the chance to spend the Solstice among her own blood, but what if they didn’t know anything? Or didn’t care that Dia was gone?

Where would that leave Amy?

She pulled into the Sunbright Inn; the only place she’d find a room according to the gas station attendant outside town. A nineteenth-century Victorian, it was painted in a creamy yellow with dark blue trim. The window boxes were full of brightly colored flowers, and the front door was a shade of orange that reminded Amy of Ember’s eyes. Dia would have loved a place like this—the perfect blend of traditional and contemporary. The way she lived her life.

No. Lives it. I will find her.

After their conversation on the way from the Halifax airport to Windsor, she fretted more over her little sister than she ever had before. She knew Papa’s brand of education all too well—stay away from pākehā, anyone who isn’t Maori—and that would not help Ember, considering people who weren’t Maori populated all of Wyoming. And the U.S.

And Canada. Hell, his children were half-pākehā.

Hoisting her duffel onto her shoulder, she stepped onto the wrap-around porch and prepared herself. Her moko always took people by surprise. Behind her back, she’d hear things like, But she’s such a pretty girl, or Why would she do that? and bite her tongue. People’s cultural ignorance wasn’t her concern. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the Inn.

The girl at the counter, while looking pristine in her navy blue suit and blue-and-white striped shirt, put Amy at ease. Cascades of pastel rainbow hair spilled over her shoulders and disappeared underneath the counter. Mama had always spoken of kindred spirits; about damn time she found one of her own.

Hi—oh, whoa. The clerk’s grin split her face. Hello, there.

Mornin’, Amy replied. Or I guess it’s afternoon now, yeah?

Yeah.

Amy chuckled, heartened by the look of awe on the other woman’s face. Reading her nametag, she said, I need a place to stay for a while ... Journee?

It was supposed to read ‘Jo.’ HR didn’t pay attention, she grumbled, leafing through the small ledger on the front desk. The mask of professionalism slipped over her features, making her face placid. Lucky for you, I have plenty of availability. She glanced up. How long are you planning to stay with us?

Month? Maybe more, maybe less, depending on how things go. Amy hadn’t gotten that far in her plans, but she could always check out early if need be.

Okay. Let’s get you registered.

After filling out the appropriate paperwork and paying a lot less than she’d budgeted, Amy took the key from Jo.

So, what brings you to my sleepy little town in the off-season anyway? the clerk asked.

Research, Amy answered. It was the story she’d come up with on the plane, and not too far from the truth. Looking into some mythologies and how they interconnect.

Sounds interesting.

It’s not. Amy chuckled. Not to many other people besides me, anyway. But it’s a passion of mine.

Well, I know a great place to start. Jo scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to Amy. There’s a bookstore about four blocks from here. The owner keeps a pretty eclectic collection, stuff even the library doesn’t have.

Wow, thanks. Amy stuffed the paper into her jacket pocket. Anything else I need to check out while I’m here?

Oh, absolutely. Journee grinned. I’m a font of knowledge.

Journee hadn’t been kidding. By the time Amy reached the room, she was loaded down with information on Downtown Windsor, a slew of restaurants within walking distance, and a couple of breweries she’d check out if she weren’t on a mission. Exhausted, she collapsed onto the stately four-poster bed and stared at the ceiling. Everything hinged on finding her mother’s clan. Her heart ached for her sister, and globe-hopping hadn’t brought them any closer to a reunion.

What have I gotten myself into? She’d never been one to put all her eggs in the same basket, so to speak, but she just wanted so badly. The last decade with Papa and Ember had been a never-ending battle, and her little cygnet had gotten caught in the crossfire every damn time. They weren’t a family; they were three people who happened to share blood and trauma. She hated herself for abandoning her sister, but Papa made living in Casper absolutely unbearable. And considering he never spoke of Mama, well ... the betrayal of Trina Ngata’s memory had been the opening shot in their conflict and Ember their only casualty. It was a wonder that l’il sis loved either of them.

If Amy found Mama’s clan, if they helped her ... it might change everything. She hadn’t thought too far past her hunt for Dia, but in her fatigue, she allowed herself to daydream for a moment. Of Mama’s people welcoming her with open arms, of bringing Dia into that fold, and then maybe Ember. Would she be able to convince her little sister to abandon their father? Em’s sense of familial duty kept her bound to the old codger, but he’d forced them to live through a hell of his making. They deserved a chance at a real life. A good life. Papa wouldn’t change, wouldn’t let Ember spread her wings beyond an empty café, and that was one girl who deserved to soar.

After a hot shower, she changed into a clean pair of jeans and a tank top. It was too warm to wear sleeves under her leather jacket and too chilly for sleeves alone. She checked her reflection and snickered. As if the moko wouldn’t leave enough of a lasting impression.

She tucked her hair up under a knit hat and shrugged her jacket back on. The paper with the bookstore’s address crinkled in her pocket. She could grab coffee on the way; the coffee shop was only two blocks from the bookstore, a fact Jo was more than enthused to point out.

No point in delaying. The sooner she started, the sooner she’d have her answers.

***

Watch her. Maxime skulked around like the predator he was, but Marrok rolled his eyes anyway. Their cousin, Gaspard, the runt of their decimated Pack, worshiped the ground the Alpha walked on, as did most of the other cubs, and that didn’t bode well for the swan daughter on the other side of the door.

Somehow, Marrok held his tongue until he and his twin were alone. As Pack Beta, he was supposed to support the Alpha in everything, but over the last several years his twin had grown more and more unhinged. Sometimes Maxime accepted Marrok’s voice of reason. Other times ... Do you think this is a good idea?

His brother snorted. This is chess, the Alpha replied. "The swans think they have us trapped, but no wolf will ever fall to them again."

Of course. It always came back to Laurent. Their younger brother had become Maxime’s shield, his justification for every terrible plan, every hate-filled scheme since he became the latest casualty in their conflict with the Kaqtukaq swans. I despise them as much as the next, I promise you, but—

In a flash, the Alpha pinned him against the wall, forearm braced against his throat. Marrok’s heart sped up as his muscles seized. His vision became pinpoint-focused on the face in front of him, so much like his own and yet so unfamiliar. He’d thought he knew his twin as well as he knew himself. I do not need you going against me, brother. The not again wasn’t spoken but definitely implied. The Alpha moved back, and Marrok rubbed his sore neck, heart still racing like a frightened deer. I’m searching for a way to end this.

By stealing a swan daughter in the middle of the night? Do you think Laurent would have wanted this?

Laurent is dead, Maxime said, heartbreak tinting his voice—the first hint of emotion apart from anger he’d shown since they buried their younger brother. Because of them, he doesn’t make choices anymore. I will make them for the good of our people. I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect your support.

Stunned into silence, Marrok watched his brother slink away. A wolf’s pride never fully recovered from slights, not even Maxime’s.

On his way to the bookstore, Marrok tried to remember the last time his brother smiled or cracked a joke or, gods forbid, laughed. Since their baby brother’s death, the Alpha had become a different man altogether, one the older Pack members feared—though they’d never say it—and one the younger warriors wanted to emulate. Marrok hated what losing Laurent had done, the shadows it cast in Maxime’s eyes and the weight it pressed on his shoulders. Abducting one of the swans wouldn’t lessen either of those burdens; at this point, nothing would.

Marrok had failed in his role as Beta. Failed to contain Maxime’s revenge plots, which jeopardized their small Pack more and more all the time. Failed to work through his own grief, a wound still as fresh as the day Laurent was struck down. Before that, a part of him had hoped that the Windsor Pack and the Kaqtukaq would find a way to reconcile and push past the animosity that had plagued both their houses, but it was the wish of someone who had read too many books where everything works out in the end. As he often had to remind himself, life wasn’t a novel; it didn’t have to make sense.

For about twenty minutes, he stared at the Closed sign in its place on the door. He needed to flip it, but now that he wasn’t occupied with driving, he could only remember Maxime’s arm around his throat, and the scar on his forearm pulsed in sympathy. His chest tightened and his heart raced with the imagined danger. He’d gotten so good at keeping control during these altercations, which were happening more and more now, but the memories popped into his mind like revenants with Maxime’s snarl and his sharp teeth. Going against his brother almost killed Marrok once, so why did he try this time? Why was he so damned stupid?

It wasn’t enough that Marrok had allowed Maxime’s lapse in judgment. Or that their mother wanted him to leave his Pack—his home—because the Alpha grew more unhinged all the time. Or that their small village had gone to shit because he was too weak to stand up to the Alpha again. In all honesty, it was a miracle he escaped with only the slashed arm when it should have been so much worse. When he should have joined Laurent in the Great Pack of their ancestors.

He forced himself to breathe. To focus on the here and now. The scent of the books filling his store with their peculiar perfume, the sound the overhead cooling system made on this abnormally warm summer day. He took a mint from a drawer in the counter and focused on its crunch between his teeth and the flavor dancing on his tongue. The spearmint opened his airways and eased the tightness in his chest—an asthmatic’s trick he’d picked up that seemed to help with his attacks.

It was moments like this that reminded him why he’d been resigned to Beta. Why his brother was Alpha. Why the