Split Feather

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  SPLIT FEATHER

  NOVELS BY DEBORAH A. WOLF

  Split Feather

  THE DRAGON’S LEGACY SAGA

  The Dragon’s Legacy

  The Forbidden City (Spring 2018)

  The Seared Lands (Spring 2019)

  SPLIT

  FEATHER

  DAUGHTER OF THE

  MIDNIGHT SUN

  BOOK ONE

  DEBORAH A. WOLF

  TITAN BOOKS

  SPLIT FEATHER

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785654480

  Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785654497

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: September 2017

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Deborah A. Wolf. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Did you enjoy this book?

  We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at readerfeedback@titanemail.com or write to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

  To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website.

  TITANBOOKS.COM

  This book is dedicated to the Lost Birds, the Split Feathers.

  May you find your way home.

  1

  The guy standing in front of me had a demon riding his shoulder.

  It was an ugly blue-gray thing about the size of a Michigan opossum, bloated like an animal that’s been dead on the side of the road for a few days, with wicked little clever hands and kind of a possum-y face, and a scaly black tail that hung down the guy’s back and curled back and forth, back and forth, like the one on that evil goddamn cat clock one of my foster grandmas used to have.

  Sigh. I’d been able to get off work early, but I never got a break from being crazy.

  I couldn’t help but stare.

  Staring at things that aren’t really there—and talking back to the voices in my head—had gotten me in trouble since I was a kid. So I kept quiet, but that was only because I’d had years of practice. I mean, if snakes or bugs or something were crawling up your legs, you’d react, right? If a bear was in your living room, you wouldn’t just sit there sipping tea and chatting. You’d freak out. Knowing a demon isn’t real doesn’t make it any easier to ignore, believe me. It’s not easy being nuts.

  The demon must have felt me staring, because it twisted its head all the way around and leered at me, red tongue lolling and sharp teeth white against that ugly face. It had tufts of white hair poofing out from its ears like an old man’s, and blisters all around its mouth.

  I’d been standing in line for like an hour, waiting to get into Honey Badger’s so I could check out this new band I’d heard so much about, and I’m not good at waiting in line. Or with crowds. Or pretty much anything else that involves dealing with a bunch of smelly, noisy people.

  I was feeling a little twitchy…

  …so when I thought nobody was looking, I stuck my tongue out at the little bugger. I mean, come on, I’m hardly going to be intimidated by a demon the size of a friggin’ cat. You should see the bitch I hang around with on a daily basis. Now, there’s a demon.

  That got me pretty much the reaction I’d expected. Demons can’t stand being made fun of, which is funny when you think about it. I mean, that something from the Land of Make-Believe might have feelings and opinions and shit. Bet if I talked to a shrink about all of this, he’d tell me that I have a very vivid imagination. Then he’d give me a fistful of pills and take away my guns.

  Nope.

  So I keep my imaginary little kingdom in my screwed-up head where it belongs, and entertain myself by aggravating demons while I’m standing in line. Real mature, I know.

  So the demon started screaming, and I grinned because nobody could hear it but me, and maybe because I’m feeling a little too closed-in by a bunch of people I don’t know, and thinking this whole get out and pretend to be normal thing was just another one of my bad ideas. Grinning or laughing is kind of how I react to stress. You don’t get locked up or drugged to the gills for grinning, not the way you do for hitting people.

  Then the guy with the demon on his shoulder jerked his head and looked over his shoulder at me. Not the shoulder with the demon, which was a relief, because for a minute I’d thought maybe he could hear it, too, and if he could see the little bastard, well… Imaginary demons were bad enough, but if they turned out to be real, that’d be so much worse.

  He was good-looking, I suppose, in a skinny-hipster-dude kinda way, though he’d have been more attractive if someone had explained to him that body spray isn’t an acceptable alternative to bathing, or that crumbs in the beard lose their appeal after a few days.

  Seriously, dude, if you’re not the Wicked Witch of the West, take a damn shower.

  He had good teeth, and greenish hazel eyes that would have been pretty if he hadn’t been scowling. Then his eyes met my boobs—kinda hard not to, since I’m six foot tall if I slouch a little, and he was shorter than I am. He turned his sneer into a leer, which was worse. Dirty Hipster Dude had his dirty thoughts all over me, until I felt like I was the one who needed a shower.

  Here it comes, I thought. Three…

  Two…

  One…

  “Well, you’re a tall drink, aintcha?” Oh, ew, he even did the indulgent-little-smile thing. “I like ’em tall.”

  Good enough. I opened my mouth to say something cutting and witty, and probably a little bit mean. “I like ’em bathed,” maybe. Then my demon showed up, put a hand on my shoulder, and whispered a suggestion into my ear.

  I just couldn’t help myself.

  “I like ’em hung,” I replied.

  “Yeah?” His grin widened, and he swayed toward me.

  “Yeahhhhh,” I said as seductively as I could manage. “Dress ’em out, hang ’em up in the shade for a few days, strip out the tenderloins and eat those first. That’s the best part, you know… Wanna know a secret? I usually take a bite or two raw. I do love a good piece of… meat.” I let my g
rin widen as I talked, and my eyes, too. Give him a little of the Harley Quinn treatment and… see?

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he backed away. Seriously, the dude stank.

  “Crazy bitch,” he muttered, and he stepped out of line. “Crazy bitch.” The demon on his shoulder screeched in impotent fury.

  I laughed out loud. “What, you don’t like deer meat?” I said. “If you hate hunters so much, maybe you should go back to the city.” A few faces in the crowd looked up at that, and turned to stare the guy down. Bearpaw is a friendly place, unless you’re one of those vocal “Save Bambi” types. There’s even a giant billboard just outside of town that proclaims, “There’s a place for every wild creature on earth… right next to the mashed potatoes.”

  Dirty Hipster Dude moved to the back of the line, hands in his pockets and lecherous eyes fixed firmly on his never-seen-the-woods hiking boots. His demon clung to his hair and hissed at me.

  My own demon stood just behind my shoulder; I could feel the satisfaction pouring from her like heat from a woodstove, but I didn’t turn to look at her, or smile, or acknowledge her presence in any way.

  I may be crazy, but I’m not insane.

  * * *

  Apparently Dirty Hipster Dude wasn’t alone in his delusions of odeur. The whole place stank. I tipped back on the hind legs of my little chair and kept my feet propped up on another one. That, my usual scowl, and a bit of a reputation kept the crowd mostly away from my table. Occasionally I’d have to break out the barbarian death glare when some hopeful Fudgie blundered into my territory, but for the most part I sipped my mead and listened to the music.

  Honey’s mead was famous—I’d heard they even served it in Paris—and the band was rockin’. Bane and the Bean Sidhe was a ridiculous name for a rock group, and they looked like punk rockers who’d been given a partial makeover by a bunch of preschoolers with an unlimited supply of glitter glue, but hot damn they could play. And when their lead singer Bane opened that big toothy mouth and just belted it out, holy crap what a voice. I’d never heard anything like it. That dude could sing. That smoky, lovely, bone-tickling voice rose up like a bird, like an eagle, effortless and powerful and huge. It made me feel free. It made me feel happy.

  He had some kind of strange accent, round and slurry. I understood like one word out of every three, but with a voice like that, so what? He could be singing about underwear, as far as I was concerned. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind…

  My reverie was broken when none other than Dirty Hipster Dude stumbled into my field of vision, came right up to my table, and tried to pull away the chair on which I’d been resting my feet. I brought my own chair down on all fours, landing with a bang, and unleashed the glare, but my powers were no match for whatever chemical cocktail he’d been marinating in. He had the strange mushroomy smell and glazed-donut look of someone who’d been using. Maybe he’d accidentally roofied himself. Somehow he seemed the type.

  “You usin’ this?” he mumbled, even as he tried to tug the chair out from under my feet. I tipped the mouth of my wineglass away from him and narrowed my eyes.

  “Piss off.”

  See? I can be both mature and subtle.

  He swayed in place for a minute or two, staring at me with his mouth partway open. The demon wasn’t on his shoulder anymore, though I could see it swimming around in his head behind his eyes, like a muskie in dark water. But if his demon was a muskie, mine was friggin’ Cthulhu, and her voice wrapped around me like a wet blanket. As always, she was full of good advice.

  Kill him, she purred. Beat him, bite him, stab him in the eye. Break your glass on the table and cut him, slice him, bleed him like a pig.

  “Shut up,” I answered wearily. I know, I know—it was a mistake to talk to her directly, but sometimes she gets to me. I just wanted the stinky dude to go away, and my stupid demon to shut the hell up so I could listen to the music. “Just shut up, okay?”

  Dirty Hipster Dude stuck both hands deep in his pockets. Maybe he’s checking to see whether he still has balls, I thought. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had that effect on a man.

  “You shut up,” he retorted. “Crazy fuckin’ bitch.” Then he stumbled off, mumbling to himself.

  Not the first time I’d had that effect, either.

  Follow him, urged the demon. Stalk him, hunt him, kill him dead. Cut his…

  “I said shut the fuck up,” I snapped, though I knew I shouldn’t. I’d have to be really careful, now that I’d talked to her twice in one day. I didn’t know what would happen if I acknowledged her a third time, but I’d always had a feeling it would make me very, very sorry. So I leaned back in my chair and sipped my mead cautiously. Stinky Hipster hadn’t come anywhere near my drink, but you can never be too careful. There didn’t seem to be anything different, so I listened to the music.

  Bane was singing about lust, I think. Or maybe love. Or betrayal? Whatever it was, that dude could sing. I’d always wished I could sing, but whenever I try, I go crashing through the notes like a bear with a sore tooth.

  Come to think of it, that’s pretty much how I went through life.

  * * *

  Even with the ethereal singing, the encounter pretty much screwed my mood. The bar seemed to be getting smaller on the inside, the people louder, and the air smellier. So when the band stopped for a break and some local warblers stood in, I put down my glass and got ready to leave. Then Honey dropped by.

  Honey is the proprietor of Honey Badger’s, and the owner of Honey Badger’s Meadery. Her round, honest face and apple cheeks smiled out from bottles of mead, cider, and wine all over the world, and her cleavage had men counting their change wrong since we were in junior high together. She’d been the most popular girl in school back in the day, and I would’ve hated her if I didn’t love her so much. Honey had always been the closest thing I’d had to a friend, and in true honey badger fashion, she didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought.

  My demon hated her. I mean, she hated everyone, but she hated hated Honey. Whenever Honey was around, I’d be treated to an endless rant of kill, kill, maim, kill, blood and death, yadda yadda. It would’ve been tedious if it weren’t so terrifying, because after a while, I couldn’t tell where the demon’s voice left off and mine began. Since it was all in my head, well… these thoughts had to be coming from somewhere, right?

  Cue the voice in Crazy Girl’s head…

  Kill the bitch. Kill the slut. Smash the glass, cut the girl, cut her face, smash…

  Enough, already. I pushed the wineglass away and balled my hands into fists to hide the shaking. Not to keep from smashing the glass and cutting anybody, though. Nope, not that far gone yet.

  …yet…

  Though I stopped myself from answering just in time, I still winced out loud at the demon’s harsh laughter. As much as she hated Honey, it was nothing compared to how badly she wanted me dead.

  I have the scars to prove it.

  “Siggy!” Honey called out over the noise. “Holy shit, girl, I haven’t seen you in a hound’s age!”

  “A hound’s age?” I said. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “Means I’m a stupid hick, duh. It’s good for business.” She blinked her baby blues at me and tugged her wench’s blouse a little lower.

  “You look like you got lost on your way to the Ren Faire, you know,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s good for business, too. You know what else would be good for business?”

  “Not again.” I groaned and rolled my eyes theatrically.

  “Yes again,” she replied. “When are you going to sell me some of that mad honey, Darlin’?”

  “Probably about the time you stop calling me ‘Darlin’.’ You know I don’t have any to sell. There’s just the one hive. It’s just a hobby.”

  “But you could…”

  “Not gonna happen, chick.”

  She sighed and blew a tendril of nauseatingly honey-colored hair out of her face. Seriously, she
didn’t dye it or anything. If I didn’t love her so much…

  “Well, I had to try,” she said. “It would be good for business, too. I’d call it ‘Siggy’s Mad Mead’—”

  Time to change the subject.

  “Looks like this Bane has been pretty good for business. Man, he can sing.”

  “Yes, he can,” Honey said. “Speaking of which, would you do me a favor? Bane went out back for a smoke and hasn’t come back yet. Would you mind checking for me, see what’s keeping him?”

  “Yeah, uh, sure,” I replied, standing so quickly I almost knocked my chair over. “Then I’m out of here. Being around so many people makes me twitchy.”

  “That’s because you’re crazy,” she teased. She laughed, because she thought it was a joke. And because she thought it was a joke, I loved her as much as I could.

  * * *

  I was parked near the back of the building, so I swung by to grab the pipe wrench out of the bed of my truck. My demon had gone quiet, and my ears were ringing like the time one of the fathers had boxed my ears—which time I can’t tell you, because that bastard boxed my ears more often than he changed his nasty brown tee shirt. My vision was going a little blurry around the edges, a sure sign that tomorrow I’d have a clusterfuck headache. It was also a sure sign that something bad was about to go down.

  That’s irony for you. Talking about things that were about to happen had been one of the reasons my ears would get boxed. I’d like to say I learned to keep my mouth shut, but that would be stretching the truth.

  I might be crazy, but I’m not a liar.

  Okay… sometimes I’m a liar.

  I’m stronger than I look, too, which is a good thing because I’m about as big around as a willow switch, and nearly as flat. Honey thinks she knows how strong I am—most likely that’s why she sent me out back to look for the singer. Even so, she doesn’t know the half of it.

  My strength is just one of the freakish things I try to keep hidden, like the way I can drink pretty much anything alcoholic and never get so much as a buzz, or my ability to sleep for two days straight without ever needing to get up and pee. Or my intense need of coffee. You’ve never seen scary till you’ve seen Siggy J. Aleksov in the morning before she’s had her coffee.