Hour of the Moon

Chapter 5: Digging Deeper

Keiran

In the heart of town, Blue Bird Pharmacy looked almost too innocent to exist in Cherokee's shadowed history — a single-story cottage washed in eggshell blue, its white awning fluttering like a secret in the wind.

"This is cute," I said, taking it in.

"The pharmacy's been here at least two centuries," Amanda replied, sounding profoundly unimpressed. "Passed down through generations."

"Thanks for the mini history lesson."

I meant it. I'd always been drawn to old stories — the kind carved into the bones of a place, not printed in books.

"It's a town institution," Connor added. "The Clearwater family's practically royalty here. Some say they made a pact with wolf spirits centuries ago — shape-shifters that traded their humanity for power."

Amanda sighed. "Here we go again with the supernatural conspiracies."

I let them bicker and stepped inside.

⸻

The air smelled faintly of sage and rain — clean, medicinal, and strangely comforting. Rows of gleaming shelves stood in perfect order. Behind them, a tall woman with silver hair knelt in the allergy aisle, humming softly as she restocked bottles.

"Mrs. Clearwater?"

She looked up, and my breath caught. Her smile was small, poised, her coal-dark eyes sharp and assessing. There was a grace to her that defied age — beauty that had settled into her like a second skin.

"Yes, dear. How can I help you?"

The white coat framed a lean, elegant figure; denim and flannel softened her austerity. Her skin was the color of burnished copper, smooth and warm — and in that instant, I saw Waya in her cheekbones, the proud set of her jaw.

Maybe this was his mother.

"I just had a few questions," I said.

The phone rang behind the counter.

"Excuse me." She answered briskly, voice low and deliberate. "She needs more medication? ... I'll have it ready. Come by this afternoon."

I wandered the aisle, pretending interest in a bottle of vitamin C, trying not to seem like I was eavesdropping.

When she hung up, she brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry about that. You said you had questions?"

I lifted my recorder. "Keiran Hayes, Coast to Coast Daily. I'm new in town, working on an op-ed about Cherokee and its history."

"Ah." The corner of her mouth curved. "A newcomer with curiosity. Dangerous combination."

"I've heard your family's been here since the beginning."

She inclined her head. "That's true. Our ancestors built this town before the settlers renamed it. Most of them left when the world changed. A few stayed. We do what we can to honor what remains."

Her words carried weight, something older than pride.

"It must be difficult keeping those traditions alive."

"Yes... and no. Some things don't need to be remembered to endure. They live in the blood."

Her gaze lingered on me a second too long, and I felt it — a prickle of awareness at the base of my neck.

"Well," I said, forcing a smile, "thank you for your time, Mrs. Clearwater."

She nodded slowly. "It was my pleasure, Miss Smith. I look forward to reading what you write."