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A little vindictive? Sue me.

“How do we find it?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought finding these things was what you did.”

“If it was that simple, everyone would do it.”

I was in no mood for jokes. “Why isn’t it simple?”

“Do you know what a witch looks like?”

“Bad teeth, warts, long, gray scraggly hair?”

“Could be. Could also be you, me,” he spread his arms wide, “everybody.”

“How do we figure out who it is before someone else dies?”

He indicated the desk. “That’s why I’m translating your great-grandmother’s papers.”

“I thought those were cures.”

“Cures can have more than one meaning—medicinal cures for human ailments and supernatural cures for monstrous entities. Most of the papers of great medicine men and women also contain legends that were passed down through the generations. Stories of beings from ancient times—both good and bad.”

“Why do you think my great-grandmother’s papers contain information about the Raven Mocker?” I paused. “You were already here when the storm arrived on the night of the Thunder Moon. You said you knew the witch was coming, but how?”

“I’m A ni wo di.”

“A paint clan medicine man. I know.”

“Paint clan are more than medicine men; some of us are sorcerers.”

I waited to see if he’d laugh, but he didn’t. “You’ve been reading way too much Harry Potter.”

“While I do enjoy Harry and clan, I was a sorcerer long before he showed up. Besides, he’s a wizard.”

“Wizard, witch.” I threw up my hands. “What’s the difference?”

“I’ve never met a wizard, so I’m inclined to believe they don’t exist, but I could be wrong. A witch can be either good or bad, depending on the witch. And a sorcerer, in the world of the Nighthawks, is a medicine man with a little something extra. Magic.”

“Right,” I said. “You bet.”

“You don’t believe me?”

I’d seen magic, both as a child and as an adult. I’d shoved aside the memories of my great-grandmother’s gifts, refusing to believe what my eyes had seen. Then last summer I’d had no choice but to believe when I’d witnessed men and women turn into beasts and back again.

“What kind of magic are you talking about?”

Ian didn’t answer, at least with words. He closed his eyes and began to chant in Cherokee. The air thickened, shimmered, changed, and when he opened his eyes, they weren’t human anymore.

“Eagle eyes. You’re a shape-shifter?”

“Not completely. After years of practice, I can draw from the essence of my spirit animal, take on some of its powers.”

“Can you fly?”

“Not yet.”

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