Hour of the Moon

Chapter 4: Buried and Explored

Waya

The woman's name was Keiran.
I learned it in passing, a whisper from the bartender after she left, like it was too precious to speak aloud.

She'd been gone only minutes, but her scent still lingered — black currant, mandarin, and the faint sweetness of lily of the valley. I nursed the last of my whiskey, letting it burn through the ache in my chest.

I should've gone home hours ago. Cars weren't going to fix themselves, and the pack didn't take kindly to hung-over Alphas. But I sat there, staring into the glass, wondering why a stranger's presence could unsettle the part of me I'd spent years trying to bury.

By the time the lights dimmed and the band began to pack up, I finally stood. Her name still echoed through me like a heartbeat I couldn't unhear.

Keiran.

Keiran

The weekend passed in fragments — hangover, unpacking, silence. I told myself it was a blur of exhaustion, but that wasn't quite true. Every now and then, I'd catch a flash of something I couldn't name: black eyes in the dark corner of a bar, a scent I couldn't place, a voice that sounded like thunder half-asleep.

When Monday came, dread arrived with it.

Stop thinking negatively, Keiran.

I'd whispered the words to myself while buttoning my cream blouse, pairing it with black slacks and my Mary Janes. Safe. Unthreatening. Professional enough for a town where I didn't yet understand the rules.

Savannah texted right on time.
Outside in five, sugar.

I'd tried to insist on walking, but she'd insisted harder.

"Good morning!" she sang as I slid into the passenger seat. Her accent was thicker than usual — sweeter, somehow, under the low hum of country radio.

"Morning," I croaked. My voice still felt like it was wrapped in velvet and regret.

"I figured you'd need caffeine." She gestured to the cup holder. "Didn't know if you take light or dark roast, so I brought both. And bagels."

"You didn't have to—"

"Darlin', it's no trouble. First week's the hardest. We take care of our own down here."

Her warmth was genuine, almost disarming.

As the road wound deeper into town, she chatted about the paper, the people, the stories waiting to be told. She spoke with a reverence that almost made journalism sound holy.

"I know Amy had you buried under celebrity gossip in California," she said, "but here, we tell stories that matter. She says you're one hell of a writer."

That made me pause. "She said that?"

"Absolutely."

Strange. Amy's last words to me were anything but flattering.

When Savannah parked beneath a gray-stone building with mirrored windows, I expected creaks and peeling paint. Instead, I found polished oak floors, pewter walls, and the faint scent of cedar polish.

"Five floors," Savannah said proudly as we stepped into the elevator. "Production, advertising, finance, circulation — and us, the heart of it all: editorial."

The fifth floor opened into a hive of motion. Desks lined in neat rows, papers stacked like battlements, voices trading quick bursts of urgency. There couldn't have been more than a dozen people, yet the room buzzed like an entire city desk.

"Take that one." She pointed to an empty station beside a man red-faced and fuming into a phone. "That's Calvin. Try not to mind him — he's been at this longer than God's been keeping score."

Calvin slammed the phone down, muttering curses before catching sight of us. His expression softened instantly. "Ah. You must be the import from California."

"Keiran Smith," I said, offering a hand.

"Calvin Miller," he said, shaking it firmly. "Welcome to our madhouse."

Savannah guided me across the room to a red-haired woman with sapphire eyes sharp enough to slice glass, and a young man in a loud green shirt hunched over a monitor.

"This is Amanda, Senior Editor — she runs the entertainment column. And Connor, our resident sports savant."

Amanda smiled, all teeth and honey. "A pleasure, Keiran. I hope you like small towns."

"I'm learning," I said carefully.

Connor waved, grinning. "Welcome to the jungle. Don't mind Amanda; she bites when stressed."

"I do not," Amanda purred, proving him right.

Savannah laughed lightly. "Now that the introductions are done, let's talk shop."

⸻

Her office was immaculate, cold in a way that didn't match her warmth. Only a single photo broke the sterility — Savannah with her children, arms around them, no husband in sight.

"So," she said, turning her computer screen toward me. "Ready for your first assignment?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"I want you to lead a feature on the recent deaths in the Cherokee National Forest."

That jolted me upright. "Deaths?"

"Officially, drownings. Unofficially..." She hesitated. "Something else."

She slid a file across the desk — photographs of victims, crime-scene reports, clippings. "Six deaths in as many months. Teenagers, hikers, tourists. No signs of struggle, no punctures or bruises. Only wolf tracks left near the bodies."

"Wolves?"

"Red wolves. Supposedly. But the species has been nearly wiped out. The authorities are calling it coincidence."

I flipped through the images — the lake at night, ripples glinting under flashlight beams, footprints pressed deep into the mud. None of it made sense.

"This hasn't hit national media?"

"They're burying it," Savannah said flatly. "Politics, pressure, pride. The sheriff's office is controlled by men who like their peace quiet and their scandals quieter."

"Then why risk publishing it?"

Her eyes hardened. "Because the families keep calling. Begging someone to listen. You're not from here — that gives you freedom. Anonymity. You'll go to the lake, talk to locals, see what the police missed."

I stared at the list she printed, names in neat black ink. Nearly thirty in total — rangers, witnesses, residents. And then one name stopped me cold.

Waya Clearwater.

The letters blurred for a moment before the memory snapped into focus: the man at Moody Blues, obsidian eyes, voice like thunder through smoke.

The bartender's words echoed faintly: "Handsome and brooding's got a fiancée."

Why would he be listed as a witness?

A slow unease crept up my spine.

This town, I realized, had a talent for secrets. The kind that whispered from beneath the water and waited for the right moon to surface.

And somehow, Waya Clearwater was at the center of them.

Tender-Trouble