Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Five

DAVE

Economics of Survival (Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Moonshine)

The rooster's name was Fitzgerald, and he had opinions about my sleeping arrangements.

"Listen, Fitz." I stood in my boxers at the murder trailer's door, addressing the bird who'd apparently appointed himself my personal alarm clock. "Harold and I were having a perfectly civilized haunting session at four AM. Your commentary isn't needed."

Fitzgerald tilted his head, considering my argument with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice, then crowed loud enough to wake whatever dead Uncle Hiro hadn't already exorcised.

"Fine. You win. Coffee first, then we discuss your volume control issues."

The compound was already stirring by the time I'd dressed and caffeinated. Kentucky mornings came wrapped in mist that made everything look like a fairy tale directed by a Tim Burton wannabe who's had a little bit of moonshine. I'd been here eight days, and the rhythm was starting to feel like home—if home included armed felons, tactical ghosts, and livestock with personality disorders.

Speaking of which.

The fence posts I'd reinforced yesterday with materials Crash and Burn had "liberated" from various construction sites stood straight and proud, but the wood itself was Kentucky standard—functional but not particularly robust. The kind of lumber that would hold under normal circumstances but might object to supernatural tantrums or territorial disputes.

"We need stronger materials." I mentioned this to Crash, who was helping me string new wire while her twin Burn supervised with the intensity of someone watching brain surgery. "There's probably some good hardwood in the deep forest. Oak, maybe hickory."

Both mountain lion shifters went still, the kind of absolute motionlessness that preceded either violence or very bad news.

"Nope." Crash's voice carried the finality of a coffin lid closing. "Deep woods is wendigo territory. We don't go there. Ever."

"Wendigo's probably just rumor—"

"Wendigo ate the last three people who thought it was 'probably just rumor.'" Burn's matter-of-fact delivery suggested this was recent, documented history. "Well, mostly ate. Left enough pieces for identification purposes."

"Noted. We'll stick with liberated construction materials."

"Smart man."

I spent the morning working my way around the compound's perimeter, fixing fence lines and discovering that Howling Pines was significantly larger than I'd realized. Past the main cluster of trailers, beyond what I'd assumed was the property line, I found Billy Ray and Johnny Ray (according to my census log), tending to goats and pigs in a ramshackle collection of pens that looked like they'd been assembled from spare parts and optimism.

"Morning." Billy Ray looked up from mucking stalls, his brother nodding greeting while wrestling a particularly opinionated sow. "You're the Council fellow."

"Dave. And you're the livestock specialists."

"Specialists." Johnny Ray grinned, revealing teeth that had seen better decades. "That's fancy. We just keep 'em fed and breeding."

The goats, it turned out, were escape artists with a collective PhD in fence manipulation. One particularly enterprising doe had managed to get her head stuck between fence slats and was expressing her displeasure with the situation in terms that would make sailors blush.

"Let me help." I approached slowly, letting her catch my scent before placing my hands on either side of her head. Easy there, beautiful. Let's get you sorted.

The goat's panic subsided as I worked, speaking to her in the wordless language I'd inherited along with my mother's healing magic. Her left ear was infected, swollen and tender, probably the reason she'd been thrashing around carelessly enough to get stuck.

This might sting a bit. I let warmth flow through my palms, drawing out infection and pain. She bleated once, then stood perfectly still while the swelling reduced and healthy pink returned to the damaged tissue.

"Well, I'll be damned." Billy Ray leaned against the fence, studying me with new interest. "You're one of them animal whisperers."

"Something like that."

"Useful skill around here. Half our livestock's got issues the vet can't fix and we can't afford."

I filed that information away with everything else I was learning about pack economics. Every small revelation added to the picture I was building for the Council—not just of criminal enterprise, but of people making do with what they had, surviving in ways that technically violated laws but practically saved lives.

"Dave!" Uncle Hiro's voice carried across the compound with the authority of someone accustomed to being heard. "Come. There are things you should see."

I found him standing near what I'd assumed was just more Kentucky woodland, but as we walked deeper into the property, the trees gave way to something that made my agricultural heart sing. Orchards stretched in all directions—apple, pear, cherry—heavy with fruit that hung unpicked and wild. Corn grew in vast, untended fields, stalks reaching toward sky with the enthusiasm of crops that had never seen pesticide or careful cultivation.

"Jesus. This is incredible. How much land are we talking about?"

"Two hundred and fifty acres." Hiro's pride was evident as he gestured toward the bounty surrounding us. "Inheritance from the selkie sisters' devoted human companion. He left them everything when he passed."

"The selkies inherited this?"

"Love makes people do beautiful, complicated things. Saul loved them for sixty years, cared for them when pack politics made their lives dangerous. They cared for him when age made his life fragile. When he died, he left them his life's work."

The romance of it hit me harder than expected. Sixty years of love, ending in this gift of land and freedom. It was the kind of story that made cynics believe in possibilities.

"But nobody's farming it."

"We are outlaws, not farmers." Hiro's smile carried decades of hard-won wisdom. "Official farming requires government oversight, permits, inspections. Paper trails that lead to people who need to remain invisible. So we let it grow wild, take what we need, and leave the rest to flourish on its own terms."

"Like ghosts."

"Exactly like ghosts. We exist in the spaces between official attention, harvesting what the land gives freely while avoiding the documentation that would expose us."

The fruit went into moonshine and bathtub gin. The corn became both food and alcohol, sustaining bodies and numbing the edges of lives that sharp enough to cut. It was beautiful and tragic and completely illegal, which seemed to be the Howling Pines way.

"This could legitimize everything." I couldn't keep the excitement from my voice. "Sustainable agriculture, land management, legitimate business enterprise. The Council loves self-sufficiency."

"If we could prove ownership without revealing ourselves. The selkies ain't too good about details."

"Let me work on that."

We walked back through paradise reclaiming itself, and I mentally added another item to my growing list of ways this pack could satisfy Council requirements if politics could be managed carefully enough.

The distillery was already humming with activity when we returned. Margot supervised the final batch prep with the focused intensity of someone handling substances that could either make people very happy or very dead, while Cheryl organized mason jars with the efficiency that had probably won wars.

"Tomorrow's the big day." Katana appeared beside me, close enough that I could smell her shampoo fighting a losing battle with copper and corn mash. "Farmers market. You ready for your first taste of legitimate commerce?"

"Legitimacy being a relative term."

"The most relative term." She was wearing different jeans today, these ones managing to stay intact, paired with a t-shirt that said f**k Off. "Just remember, you're temporary help. Don't get any ideas about long-term involvement."

The word 'temporary' hit like cold water. Eight days in, and she was still reminding me I didn't belong here. Still keeping walls up that I thought we'd started dismantling.

"Right. Temporary." I heard my own voice go flat, which almost never happened. Dave Westwood didn't get annoyed. Dave Westwood was patient, understanding, accommodating to the point of sainthood. But something about the casual dismissal made my jaw clench. "Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

"Dave—"

"I'll be in my trailer. Reviewing paperwork."

I stalked away before she could say whatever diplomatic thing would smooth over the sharp edges of honest reaction. The murder trailer welcomed me back like an old friend, Harold's ghost giving me what I swear was a sympathetic nod before retreating to the bathroom.

The Council integration checklist sat on Harold's former table, held down by the moonshine manual I'd never finished reading. Seventy-three requirements for pack recognition, ranging from territorial boundaries to leadership structure to economic sustainability. I'd been checking them off mentally for days, but now I spread the papers out and really looked at what Howling Pines had accomplished.

Territorial boundaries: Two hundred and fifty acres of inherited land, clearly defined and legally owned through the selkies' inheritance.

Leadership structure: Katana as alpha, Cheryl as beta, clear hierarchy and decision-making processes.

Economic sustainability: Moonshine, agricultural products, various other enterprises that probably violated federal law but definitely generated income.

Population stability: Ninety-seven individuals, all accounted for, all contributing to pack welfare.

Dispute resolution: Informal but effective, based on pack loyalty and Katana's judgment.

They met almost every requirement, except for the ones that demanded legal enterprise and transparent bookkeeping. And even those could be managed if someone with the right connections wanted to make it work.

Someone like a Westwood with fifty million in trust funds and a legal practice that specialized in supernatural law.

"Knock knock." Cheryl's voice came through the screen door. "Mind if I come in?"

"Pack property."

She entered with that careful step people used around unpredictable wildlife, settling into Harold's favorite chair like she was defusing a bomb.

"So. Did some more internet digging on you. Hope you don't mind."

"Should I?"

"Depends on how you feel about were-raccoon paralegals and part-time were-lynx secretaries."

I looked up from my paperwork. "You found Lamar and Janet."

"Lamar Fitzgerald, licensed paralegal, specializes in Otherkind civil rights cases. Janet Cawthorne, part-time legal research, full-time single mother of three kittens. Your practice handles everything from discrimination suits to territorial disputes, and according to your client reviews, you've never lost a case involving supernatural civil rights."

"Is there a point to this research?"

"The point is that you're not some Council stooge playing at integration." She leaned forward, studying me with the intensity of someone reading fine print. "You're someone who's spent years fighting for people like us. So when Kat gets defensive and reminds you that you're temporary, she's not pushing you away because she doesn't want you here."

"No?"

"She's pushing you away because she wants you here too much. And people who want things too much in Kat's experience tend to lose them in creative and painful ways."

"So this is protection."

"This is terror wearing anger's clothes."

I absorbed that, filed it away with everything else I was learning about the woman who'd built a kingdom from scraps and defended it with fury.

"Dinner prep." Cheryl stood, mission apparently accomplished. "Kitchen duty calls."

Cooking for ninety-seven people had become the highlight of my days, which probably said disturbing things about my priorities but felt too good to question. Tonight's menu was chicken and dumplings, comfort food that could stretch far and fill empty bellies with something approaching satisfaction.

I'd been supplementing compound groceries with supplies from my own resources, cash infusions disguised as bulk shopping and careful menu planning. Not charity—investment. The kind that improved morale and kept people fed without triggering Katana's pride-related allergies.

"Which chicken did you kill?" Little Rosie materialized at my elbow while I prepped vegetables, six years old and apparently concerned about poultry welfare.

"I didn't kill any chickens, sweetheart. This came from the grocery store."

"But where did the grocery store get it?"

"From... other chickens. Different chickens. Chickens who didn't live here."

"So Henrietta's safe?"

"Henrietta is extremely safe. She's practically immortal at this point."

Satisfied that her favorite hen would survive dinner, Rosie wandered off to terrorize someone else with ethical questions about food sourcing.

The kitchen filled with pack members as evening settled over the compound. Conversations flowed around shared tables, laughter mixed with the serious business of survival planning, and I found myself cataloging moments that felt like home.

Until Katana appeared with a dish towel and that particular expression that meant we were going to have a conversation whether I wanted to or not.

"I'll wash, you dry?"

"Fine."

We worked in silence for several minutes, her washing dishes with the efficiency of someone who'd learned that clean meant healthy and healthy meant alive. I dried with perhaps more force than necessary, still feeling raw from the afternoon's casual dismissal.

"You're angry."

"I don't get angry." The plate in my hands protested this statement by developing a hairline crack.

"Okay. You're frustrated."

"I'm fine."

"You're being an ass."

I set down the damaged plate and turned to face her. "I'm being an ass because you keep reminding me I don't belong here. Every time things start feeling... normal, you pull out the temporary card like you're afraid I might start thinking this is real."

"It's not real." But her voice lacked conviction. "You're here for eighty-two more days, then you go back to your real life. Your real family. Your real world."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Everyone wants to eventually."

"I'm not everyone."

She handed me another plate, our fingers brushing in the handoff. The contact sent electricity straight up my arm, and from the way her breath caught, she felt it too.

"You say that now."

"I mean it now."

"Now isn't forever."

"Sometimes it is."

We stared at each other across a pile of dishes and eight days of accumulated tension. Her walls were back up, but I could see cracks in the mortar. Places where light was starting to get through.

"Here." She reached into her pocket, pulled out a Snickers bar that had seen better days. "Peace offering."

"You're offering me candy?"

"I'm offering you half of my candy. There's a difference."

She tore the wrapper, broke the bar almost in half, and handed me the larger piece. Such a small gesture, but somehow it felt more intimate than anything we'd shared so far.

"Thank you."

"Don't read too much into it. I just don't like awkward silences."

"Right. Purely practical."

"Exactly."

But she was smiling when she said it, real smile that transformed her entire face, and the chocolate tasted like forgiveness and possibility.

"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I'm sorry. About the temporary thing. I know it bothers you."

"It bothers me because it feels like you're trying to convince yourself as much as me."

"Maybe I am."

"Why?"

"Because temporary is safe. Temporary doesn't ask for more than you can give. Temporary doesn't stick around long enough to see all the ways you're broken."

"What if I like broken things?"

"Then you're probably crazy."

"Probably."

We finished the dishes in comfortable silence, and when our hands met in the soapy water, neither of us pulled away. Such a simple thing—shared kitchen duty, fingers brushing over dinner plates—but it felt like negotiating treaties and crossing borders into dangerous territory.

"Tomorrow's going to be interesting." She dried her hands on the dish towel, avoiding my eyes. "Farmers market. You sure you're ready for legitimate commerce?"

"As ready as anyone can be for selling decorative lawn ornaments that happen to be illegal moonshine."

"The best kind of ready, then."

She moved toward the door, then paused, looking back. "Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For the goat thing today. Billy Ray told me what you did. Healing animals, talking to them... that's not common. Even among Otherkind."

"It's what I do."

"It's who you are. And for what it's worth, who you are fits here better than you probably realize."

She left me standing in the clean kitchen, surrounded by the scents of home cooking and honest work, chocolate melting on my tongue and something warm and dangerous spreading through my chest.