Free Dark Moon Walking by R. J. McMillen Page A

mind slow. He thought that perhaps he had always had the ability to sense the presence of another person—it was probably what had made him so successful at break and enter back in the city all those years ago, but he hadn’t really been conscious of it then. It was only after he had come back to the village, had spent all those evenings talking with the elders, absorbing the culture and the lore he had previously disdained, that he had thought about and embraced it.
    The elders told him that it was as if the lines of the universe bent a little around each living thing—and that he had the gift of reading that disturbance. At first, he had scoffed at the idea: he certainly hadn’t read the cops arriving at the bank too well, had he? But deep within himself, he sensed the truth of what they were saying, and secretly he was pleased. He had had few if any gifts of a practical kind given to him in his short life, and he was honored to think that the Creator might have chosen one for him. Proud that the elders recognized it in him. He started working to develop it, finding quiet, hidden places and sitting for hours, eyes closed, reaching out with ears and nose and skin and fingertips and, finally, with his spirit. He didn’t know how long it had taken for awareness to move into his conscious mind and he couldn’t have explained how it worked. He just knew it did. Now he closed his eyes and reached out into the gloom. Claire was still out there: he could feel her. But where was she?
    Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he peered down at the rocks below him. They were hidden in deep shadow, their outlines dark, blurred by a couple of twisted trees and broken by crevices, but as he let his gaze slide slowly along the contours, he saw that there was something there. Just the faintest hint of movement disturbed the stillness. A deeper shade of black. It might be a raccoon, or even an otter, but he didn’t think so. It was too big, too still, and the location was wrong. It felt human.
    He glanced down to the shore below. There was no boat there, no kayak, no dinghy, and there was no way to get up that steep cliff from the water anyway. Whoever was there—if it was someone and not something—had to have come around the island from the other side, scrambling over the rocks. Had she—or he—heard him? He had made no attempt to silence his approach, and he was very aware of how much noise he had made. Was it fear that was causing the stillness or simply a desire for concealment? Was it Claire or was it one of the men searching for her?
    He twisted himself up and moved about twenty feet to the left, hoping to get a better view from the side, maybe catch an outline against the rock face. He tried to keep quiet, but he thought that any sounds he was making would be blocked and reflected by the angles and planes of the cliff. Carefully, he lowered himself to the ground and peered over the edge. And there, silhouetted against the fading sky, he saw the girl. She was slumped against the trunk of a stunted spruce tree that twisted out of the rock, facing the ocean.
    If she had heard him, she had made no attempt to move, and she was not looking up to see who or what was above her. In fact, she was sitting absolutely still, tension written in the taut, clenched lines of her body, her gaze apparently focused on the waters that lay in front of her. He could sense fear, smell it drifting up to him on the dark breeze, and he searched for a way to get her attention without startling her. He couldn’t be certain there was not someone else there, someone she was watching, so calling to her was out of the question.
    He picked up a handful of pebbles, small and few enough to sound natural when they fell but sufficient to create a sound, and let them slide down the rocks. When she didn’t respond, he did it again. And again. Finally, it caught her attention. Her head snapped around and she slowly looked up,