Moon Runner 01 Under the Shadow

  Jane Toombs

  MOON RUNNER: BOOK I

  UNDER THE SHADOW

  copyright © by Jane Toombs, Dec., 1998

  Chapter 1

  He floated alone in darkness, the tiny flame of his awareness the only light in the Stygian gloom. The flame flickered, fading, he had no will to keep it aglow. As he drifted closer to the dark shore of no return, a beam of

  blue energy seared across the blackness and, drawn to the power, his life force flared anew, growing as it fed on the surging fountain of energy.

  Before he came to full awareness, the source he fed from cut off abruptly. He mouthed a soundless cry and opened his eyes. Pain speared through his head.

  He lay naked, sprawled on his back on damp sand, just beyond the sea's reach. Overhead, fog blanketed the sun. Though the sand chilled the bare flesh of his back, he was covered with cloth that snagged on his roughened hands as he fingered its smoothness. Silk?

  A midnight blue silken cape.

  "I was right!" a woman's voice cried in triumph. "You see, Tia Dolores, he lives."

  His mind automatically translated her words into his own language. Making a major effort, he tried to turn his head toward the speaker. A woman's pale face appeared in his vision as she bent over him. Dark eyes gazed worriedly into his. Her black hair, partially covered by a shawl, framed an attractive oval face whose soft pink lips looked more accustomed to smiling than being tightened in distress.

  He'd never seen her before. Where was he?

  His heart leaped in panic as he reached for memories and found a gray blankness. Pain tightened pincers against his skull as his mind roiled desperately, searching for a clue. Somewhere in the grayness a spool unwound a tiny thread of recollection--a man naked on a beach, a beautiful woman coming to his rescue with her servants; a princess rescuing a half-drowned adventurer.

  "Nausicaa," he whispered, identifying the princess.

  "I can't hear you," she said. "Is that your name?"

  His name. He closed his eyes in despair. A man was no one with his name gone.

  What was his name?

  "I tell you he is of the dark one," a second woman's voice, this one cracked with age, warned. "Diablo's servant."

  "He's no more of the devil than you are, Tia Dolores." Nausicaa said tartly. Her fingers brushed his forehead, light as alder down.

  He opened his eyes again, searching for the second speaker. She stood to one side of Nausicaa, an ancient crone in black glaring malevolently at him. A glimmer of blue energy crackled around her and he drew in his breath as he recognized the life source he'd fed on. The old woman possessed power.

  Nausicaa's energy aura was normal, no more than a faint reddish glow.

  How did he know these things and not his name?

  "Who are you?" Nausicaa asked softly.

  She wasn't Nausicaa, he realized confusedly. What he'd remembered was a tale--a Greek tale of a shipwrecked sailor cursed by the sea god who was washed onto the Phoenician shore where he was befriended by the king's daughter. The name of the god-cursed sailor Nausicaa had rescued slid into his mind.

  "Ulysses." He had difficulty pushing the word past his bruised throat.

  "Les?" she echoed.

  "Diablo," the old woman muttered. "His name is El Diablo."

  He caught sight of a small black animal at the corner of his vision, an animal edging around a boulder to pad toward Nausicaa. A dog?

  It stopped suddenly, turning its head to stare at him, then spat, tail erect, fur bristling.

  "Koshka!" he exclaimed hoarsely, naming the cat in his own language. The black cat flew to the old crone and hid behind her skirts.

  A witch, he thought. She's a witch and the cat is her ally.

  "You see," the witch hissed. "Sombrito knows him for what he is."

  Sombrito, the man repeated to himself, translating.

  The cat's name is Little Shadow. They're speaking Spanish and I understand the language though it's not mine. What am I if not Spanish?

  "Senor Koshka?" Nausicaa said.

  Mr. Cat. Why not? His true name was beyond his reach and Senor Koshka was as good as any other.

  "Where am I?" he asked, trying to ease himself to a sitting position.

  Nausicaa reached to help him sit, her hands white and soft as they grasped his arm. His head whirled dizzily and he stifled a groan as his bruised body protested the shift in position. The blue silk cape fell to his waist and he adjusted it hastily around him, noting an already healing gash on his chest. He lifted a hand to his aching head, finding sticky, matted hair over a painful lump.

  "You are on the Alvarado rancho, my father's land," she said.

  "Don Alfonso won't like this," the witch muttered.

  He stared at Nausicaa. Alvarado land. Spain? He looked around at the boulder-littered beach, at the golden hills rolling away from the water.

  "Senorita Alvarado," he said. "Where is your father's land located?"

  "To the south of San Francisco," she told him.

  A word slithered free of the grayness clouding his mind. California. He was on a California beach.

  The old woman ventured close enough to tug at Nausicaa's arm. "Come away," she urged. "Your soul is in peril."

  "Tia Dolores, you're making me impatient," Nausicaa declared. "Senor Koshka is injured, he needs our help and all you can do is mutter about the devil."

  "What will Don Alfonso say when you arrive at the

  casa with a naked stranger wrapped in your cape?" the old woman demanded.

  Nausicaa flushed, he could see she was embarrassed and upset by the witch's words. The black cat leaped atop a rock and glared down at him balefully. His head throbbed with pain and confusion.

  "Senor Koshka, I mean to help you but there is a problem," Nausica said finally, clasping her hands together tightly. "If you were to come with us now my father might not--understand. But if someone brought clothes to you--" She paused, her eyes traveling over him shyly but with determination as she estimated his size. "You are tall," she added. "What clothes we have may not be a good fit. "Tia Dolores will--"

  "No," the witch muttered. "I won't bring him clothes. Such as he deserves nothing."

  "You'll see that it's done or I'll never forgive you in this world or the next." Nausicaa's voice rose angrily. "Mind what I say."

  The old woman glowered at her in silence.

  "I'm sorry to make you wait." Nausicaa bit her lip as she looked at him. "I can see you're in pain. A man will soon come with clothes and help you to our hacienda."

  "You've already saved my life, senorita. You and your companion." He glanced at the old woman as he finished speaking, wondering if she knew he lived because of her energy transfer.

  Her malevolent gaze told him she did and regretted it. Why? What made her so certain he was allied to the devil? Who was he? What was he doing in California? How had he been hurt so badly he'd almost died?

  His mind provided no answers to any of the questions. Why couldn't he remember?

  "I must go," Nausicaa--no, Senorita Alvarado--said, leaving him with a farewell smile.

  He watched her walk away, carrying herself with the proud confidence of a princess. Neither she nor the old crone looked back. The cat had disappeared. A snippet of memory teased him. Something about cats. Cats were dangerous.

  Dangerous? He blinked. Cats were a source of danger only to small rodents and birds. Why to him? He seized his head in both hands, squeezing, trying to force his mind to disgorge what lay hidden from him in its depths. A dizzying jab through his skull was the only result. He dropped his hands, defeated.

  Forcing himself to his feet, he noted that moving hurt less than it had at first. To be exp
ected. His kind recovered quickly.

  His kind? What in the name of God did that mean?

  His mind refused to answer.

  Gathering the silk cape, he wrapped it around his hips and thighs, tucking it in tightly at the waist. The smooth material stroked his bare flesh as he limped into the surf. He looked to the north, seeing smoke beyond the hills that lay between him and what Senorita Alvarado had called San Francisco. He knew the name. And more.

  Gold. San Francisco and gold. California and gold. Nothing else surfaced. He gave up the effort to remember and gazed southward. Not even smoke, nothing but hills and the sea. The Pacific Ocean. With the scent of brine in his nostrils, he stared westward over the waves, seeing the black smudge of islands, but what their names were, he didn't know.

  Far out on the water a three-master sailed northeast. Had he been in a shipwreck? He stared around him. No telltale debris from a wreck littered the sands. Possibly he'd been a sailor who'd fallen overboard.

  Then why the bruises? He glanced at his chest. The wound there, a knife slash by its looks, had all but closed over. Gingerly, he felt his head. The lump was smaller. He healed fast.

  They meant to kill me. He didn't understand how he knew this, but he did. He had no idea who "they" were or what he'd done to invite slaying.

  Alone and naked, no possessions, not even a name. He wouldn't know an enemy from a friend. He could trust no one, with the possible exception of Senorita Alvarado. She promised to be a friend. He desperately needed a friend but Tia Dolores was already an enemy. He'd have to watch her carefully since she'd set herself so determinedly against him.

  He searched for the Spanish word to describe her. Curandera, a healer? More than that. Bruja, witch, was a better name for her. He'd do well to steer clear of her entirely.

  He paced back and forth along the water line, his legs strengthening as he walked so that his limp grew less and less, finally disappearing. The bruises changed from ugly blue-black to an equally unappetizing yellow-green, the knife cut closed over, the lump on his head vanished. Should he stay or leave?

  Senorita Alvarado had promised clothes; he needed them. Unfortunately she'd left it up to the bruja to order them sent. Obviously, the old woman would prefer to give quite another command to whoever came. And might well do so.

  If he did leave, where would he go? Whatever he decided, he had to regain his strength fast. Since he had no weapons, there was nothing else to depend on. Once he was back to normal, he'd be difficult to kill.

  How did he know that? Damn his memory for teasing him with bits and pieces and refusing to yield the whole.

  He windmilled his arms, then twisted his torso one way and another, exercising, keeping a wary eye and ear out.

  Time passed. The sun's rays splintered the fog into wisps that the sea breeze scattered into nothingness. Warmth caressed his bare shoulders. He squinted at the sky. Near noon. Hunger gripped his stomach.

  He forgot the pangs when he heard hoofbeats. One horseman. Had Tia Dolores sent friend or foe? Or was the rider someone else, someone who knew him? Assume the worst. He chose a fist-sized rock from those scattered on the sand, and, holding it, concealed the rock among the folds of the cape. Feet apart, his back to the ocean, he faced the rise, waiting.

  A mustached vaquero dressed in working clothes rode onto the beach. He was a big man, in his thirties, hard-faced and unsmiling. The man reined in the horse and stared down at him.

  This man was no friend.

  He met the vaquero's hostile gaze. "You bring me clothes. Where are they?"

  The horseman hesitated an instant too long. In one smooth motion, the man on foot flung the rock. It struck the vaquero's temple and a half-drawn pistol fell from his suddenly limp grasp. He swayed, sagged, and slipped off the horse's left side, slumping unconscious onto the sand.

  "Easy, boy, you're with a friend," the man on foot crooned to the sidling horse, grasping the reins. When he had the stallion calmed and tethered, he bent over the vaquero.

  "How kind of you to bring clothes for me," he said, his face twisting into a grimace as he caught the rancid odor.

  "I could wish you were taller and that you washed oftener." Otherwise, the horseman's clothes, including his excellent boots, weren't a bad fit.

  "Ulysses Koshka," he muttered to himself as he rode with the still limp, but now naked, vaquero draped across the horse in front of him. He allowed the stallion to choose direction, certain it would head for the rancho.

  He'd face more danger there, of that he was sure, but he knew its source and confronting the bruja was preferable to being chased as a horse thief. He didn't care much for the name he'd concocted. Still it was a name and so better than the blank in his mind. It was all he could offer to Don Alfonso and he was aware it might not be enough when the rancho's owner asked who he was and where he came from. Neither he nor the name were Spanish, though he spoke the language with little effort. The don would certainly recognize this, despite the fact he was as dark as most Spaniards. He had to have a story ready, it was perilous to tell the truth, to admit he had no memory of how he came to be lying more than half-dead on Don Alfonso's beach. A man with no memories was, in a sense, defenseless.

  Ulysses was sure the vaquero had meant to kill him but he also knew there'd been no recognition in the man's eyes. The horseman, he had no doubt, had been sent on Tia Dolores's orders to get rid of a dangerous stranger. She might hate and fear him but she'd made it clear she'd never seen him before. Nor had the senorita. This didn't mean it was safe to bet the don didn't know him but he had a hunch it was the truth.

  Ulysses Koshka, flotsom from the sea. He nodded. He'd make his a story of betrayal, one he vowed to avenge someday. For all he knew, that might even be what had happened. Pray God he'd soon remember. Meanwhile, he'd keep the pistol handy.

  He rode over hills golden with long grass. Here and there clumps of trees clustered along water courses. In the distance, long-horned cattle foraged. Higher hills humped to the east. Had he ever seen California before? Nothing looked familiar but Ulysses felt a tug of belonging. The land appealed to him.

  He topped a rise and the hacienda spread out before him, adobe walls sealing in the red-tiled casa. Could he reach the gate without challenge? A compadre of the vaquero would certainly recognize this spirited stallion. If the man also recognized the clothes Ulysses wore there'd be trouble. Ulysses slowed, removed the folded blue cape from a saddle bag and wrapped the silken folds around him to conceal as much of the clothes as possible. He have to trust to luck no one would recognize the cape as Senorita Alvarado's.

  As he neared the walls, an armed horseman rode to intercept him, commanding him to halt.

  Ulysses slowed the chestnut stallion but continued to ride toward the rancho. "I bring an injured man to the hacienda," he shouted. "He needs care, let me pass!"

  "El Duro!" the vaquero cried, his eyes on the horse Ulysses rode.

  Ulysses knew he couldn't give the man time to think. "Tia Dolores will know what to do for El Duro's master," he said, pushing the stallion on toward the wooden gate set in the adobe walls, hoping he was right about the old woman's status in the Alvarado household.

  The vaquero hesitated, eyes flicking from the chestnut to Ulysses. Finally he wheeled his horse to ride alongside them just as the naked man draped across El Duro groaned and twitched. The chestnut danced sideways. Putting what he hoped was a quieting hand on the still limp figure sprawled in front of him, Ulysses leaned forward to murmur into the stallion's ear. The horse calmed.

  Ulysses looked up to find his escort staring at him with his mouth open. He tensed but the man made no move. Then they were at the gate and the Alvarado horseman dismounted to open it. He waved Ulysses inside the gate and closed it behind horse and man, remaining on the other side.

  The injured vaquero groaned again.

  Ulysses slid off the chestnut. "Not just yet, amigo," he said under his breath. "My story gets told before yours." He yanked off the silk cape
and crammed it back into a saddle bag. Leaving horse and man, he strode up the white path, bootheels crunching shells. The red-tiled adobe was two story, with a balcony, a rambling casa built around a courtyard. Red and pink flowering shrubs sweetened the air and a brilliant magenta vine clung to the house wall.

  Ulysses reached the massive oak door and lifted his hand to the iron knocker, shaped like a double eagle. He froze,

  a revelation flickering evil as a corpse light, something from the depths of his soul that chilled his blood. Before he could grasp its import, the memory winked out.

  Shaking his head, he grasped the knocker firmly, raised the black eagles and let them fall against the iron plate.

  A woman, old and dressed in black like Tia Dolores, opened the door, frowned at him, then gaped past him at the horse and the naked man on El Duro's back.

  "Find Tia Dolores and bring her to care for the man," Ulysses ordered, "but first take me to Don Alfonso. Pronto!" Without speaking, she led him through the house to the courtyard. As he passed the rooms, Ulysses noted that the furnishings, though not cheap, seemed slightly shabby.

  In the courtyard, Don Alfonso stood beside a flower- girdled pool where fish glinted gold in the still water.

  He stood a head shorter than Ulysses but his erect carriage made him appear taller than he was. The gray in his hair and the lines in his thin, tanned face marked him as old, at least fifty. Cold dark eyes measured Ulysses as he crossed the bricks toward the don.

  Ulysses bent his head briefly in greeting. "I am Ulysses Koshka," he said. "I brought one of your men back unconscious. Your housekeeper is tending to him. I regret the necessity of having to borrow his clothes and his horse." Don Alfonso's eyes widened momentarily as re-examined Ulysses, taking special note of the boots he wore. "You speak of Don Rafael?"

  Ulysses shrugged. "Your vaquero produced a pistol rather than his name."

  "You wear Don Rafael's clothes. Are you telling me you rode El Duro?"

  "I rode a chestnut stallion with a white blaze. He now stands before the casa with his master lying across his back."