Split Feather Read online

  19

  Dawn is an odd thing in the land of the midnight sun. The sun has only just dipped below the horizon when it begins to rise again. The birds have hardly finished their goodnight songs before it’s time for them to get back up and hunt for the early worm.

  I knew just how they felt.

  I’d taken to piling pillows on top of my head to keep out the light—two or three usually did the job—and I’d rigged up maybe a mile’s worth of mosquito netting to keep the bloodsucking little fuckers away from my exposed flesh as I tried to sleep. By little, of course, I mean mosquitoes the size of Volkswagen Bugs and with all the malicious zeal of religious fanatics, bent on driving me insane with their evil buzz, and then sucking the last drops of blood from my corpse.

  Emily told me that Raven, having created the world and everything in it, decided that humans had it too easy, and invented mosquitoes to even things out. Raven and I needed to have a talk about that. I’d take a plague of demons over Alaskan mosquitoes, any day of the week.

  Pillows over my head didn’t do the job the night after the dance, and a couple of mosquitoes got through the netting somehow—my guess is they had tiny bolt cutters—and bit the crap out of me. So I wasn’t even close to evolving into my human form when I stumbled downstairs only to discover that we’d drunk all the coffee the night before. We were out of coffee. I mean, who runs out of coffee?

  Emily was there, and she stared as I found maybe half a spoonful of stale grounds in a can stashed behind the pilot bread, and ate it dry. She laughed so hard I thought she’d split in half, like Rumpelstiltskin.

  “Don’t judge me,” I snapped. Anyway, it didn’t work, and I weighed my options—get dressed and walk to the store for more coffee, or don’t get dressed and walk to the store for more coffee.

  A knock came at the door.

  This wasn’t the polite tap-tap-tap of a neighbor asking for a cup of sugar, and it wasn’t the muffled thud-thud of Grandpa or Garvin with their arms too full of wood. This was the precise, no-nonsense knock of Satan herself, come to steal a child.

  “Emily,” I said in a low voice, “go upstairs and hide.”

  And poof, she was gone.

  Fuck getting dressed. If she didn’t want to see me in my skivvies, the bitch should mind her own business. I jerked the door open, teeth bared in a half snarl, and shot Monday the blackest, meanest scowl I knew. No human in their right mind would have stood to face Decaf Siggy at her worst, standing in the middle of a room full of guns in her tee shirt and undies, itching for a fight.

  But this wasn’t some human in her right mind. It was The Man herself, Angela Monday, and it would take more than dropping a house on this bitch to slow her down. She stood face to face with me, dressed for action in a dull gray suit and yet another pair of expensive pumps, smiling her bloody smile.

  “Sigurd,” she said, “so nice to see you again. May I come in?”

  “No,” I said. “You can fuck off, though.”

  My demon laughed her death-rattle laugh.

  “You are a charming young lady. A fine example for a child, wouldn’t you say, Geoff?”

  Slit-Throat Dude glowered at me over her shoulder and made an awful rasping noise that made all the hairs on my arms stand straight up. I’d convinced myself that it couldn’t possibly be the guy I’d seen die—of course I thought that, because what the fuck—but that sound changed my mind. That wasn’t a human sound, no ma’am, no sir. I took half a step back before catching myself and squaring my shoulders.

  I’d faced down scarier characters than these two. I was pretty sure I had, anyway. None came to mind, but that was because I hadn’t had my coffee yet.

  “Emily’s fine,” I said. “She’s safe here.” I even tried for a reasonable tone, though a nagging voice at the back of my head told me that reasonable wasn’t going to fly with these folks. That maybe keeping Emily safe wasn’t on their bucket list. “A lot safer than she’d be in State care. Been there, done that, got the scars. Wanna see ’em?”

  Then came a glimmer of hope. They couldn’t hear what I did—the rattling cough of Grandpa John’s truck and the giant-mosquito whine of Garvin’s four-wheeler as they returned from seeing Sam off. Backup was on the way.

  Please don’t stop for anything, I prayed silently. Unless it’s coffee.

  “Frankly, your presence in this home is a big red flag,” Satan said. “I’ve seen your files, Sigurd, and I’ve heard the stories. They still talk about you back at the office. Sigurd Aleksov, the child nobody wanted. Bad things happen wherever you are, don’t they, Siggy? Dead kittens…”

  “I didn’t do that!”

  “… false allegations of molestation against two… wait, no, three different foster fathers—”

  “False?” I took a step forward, shaking all over, fists clenched so hard it hurt.

  Do it, howled my demon. Dooooooo it. Slit-Throat Dude jerked as if he’d heard her, but I didn’t care.

  “And fires, right, Sigurd?” Monday had enough Southern in her voice that it sounded like she was calling me Sugar. “Fires always happen when there’s a bad kid in the house. Tell me, Sigurd, why have you come here now? Didn’t I hear that your shitty little trailer… excuse me, your home… burned to the ground?”

  The dark fog crept around the edges of my vision on little demon feet, and the crickets chirped kill-er, kill-er, kill-her. Monday’s eyes glittered pale and mad as a husky’s.

  “I can see it in your expression, Sigurd. The anger. The madness. I can taste how badly you want to kill me.” A kitten-pink tongue darted out, and she smiled, so sure of herself and her power over me. “Now, do you really think someone like you should be allowed to care for an innocent child?”

  “So, I’ll…” I started, then I blurted out, “I’ll leave.”

  “You’ll what?” Monday smiled. “I didn’t quite catch that, Sigurd.”

  “I’ll leave,” I said. “If my being here is so bad for Emily, I’ll be on the next plane out of here.” The words hurt worse because I meant them. Monday’s smile just widened and she laughed with delight.

  “Oh, brav-a! Such heroics! I knew you had it in you. But do you think that will stop me?” She leaned forward, eyes glittering, and whispered, “Stay here, go back, I really don’t care either way. We don’t want you anymore, you’re too old. We’re taking the girl, one way or another, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Sigurd.”

  The roar of Garvin’s four-wheeler grew louder, louder, and Slit-Throat Dude gaped and rattled, reaching for Monday’s shoulder. To warn her, to protect her, it didn’t matter. Rage and grief tore through me, shattering the human mask I’d worked so hard to perfect, and my demon howled victorious as my fist smashed into Monday’s face. I don’t know what she’d been expecting, but it sure as shit wasn’t that. Her smile split in two as I hit her again. And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And…

  Someone dragged at my arms, my shoulders, trying to tear me away from my prey. I screamed and twisted, a wild thing, striking out at whoever it was trying to keep me from killing Monday. A thin voice cried out in pain, and a stronger one, next to my ear, called me by name.

  “Siggy, stop! Siggy, you’re hurting him!”

  Siggy. Siggy. My name.

  I’m Siggy, I thought. Strong arms wrapped around me from behind, lifted me into the air, and I let myself go limp. I’m Siggy. I’m not a killer. I’m Siggy. I could feel the torn skin at my knuckles—they hadn’t felt like that since I’d attempted a four-board break—and the muscles in my arms and back felt hot and rubbery. I was shaking, and the fog still swirled behind my eyes, as Garvin half-carried, half-dragged me back into the cabin. I heard the door shut, and I heard voices, but I couldn’t see past the shadows.

  Strong arms shifted, lifted me, held me as if I was no bigger than Emily. Strong arms held me close, and I could smell woodsmoke, and motor oil, and the musky-sour smell of a favorite shirt. I buried my face in Ga
rvin’s shoulder, afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

  “Did I kill her?” I whispered, and held my breath when he hesitated. “Did I kill Monday?”

  What answer was I hoping for? I wasn’t sure.

  “No,” he answered finally. “You didn’t kill her.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yes, Siggy,” he said. Was he crying? Why was Garvin crying? “That’s good.”

  Strong arms tightened around me, and he stroked my hair. I opened my mouth to say something, or to ask something, I really don’t remember. Because I burst into tears instead. I cried as Garvin held me tight, murmuring and shhhh-ing and humming to me as if I were a child and not a monster. I cried for the little girl I’d been, and I cried for Emily, and I cried because I thought I might have hit Grandpa John, and I was sorry Garvin had had to drag me off Monday before I could kill her.

  Mostly I cried for myself, because deep in the pit where my soul used to be, I was sorry he’d stopped me.

  * * *

  Grandpa sat across from me, nursing a cup of coffee—I hadn’t known he had an emergency stash—and a black eye. I tried to apologize for like the fucktillionth time, but he just waved it away.

  “Not the first time I’ve had a shiner,” he said.

  “Grandpa used to be a bouncer at Koot’s,” Garvin explained, grinning.

  “Koot’s?”

  “Chilkoot Charlie’s,” Grandpa said. “It was a job, that’s all.”

  “He was a total badass.” Garvin winked. “Runs in the family.”

  I still felt like a jerk. “There’s gonna be trouble when the troopers get here, isn’t there? I’ve really fucked up this time.”

  Garvin grunted.

  “I don’t know,” Grandpa said, and he frowned a little. “I told those two that we were gonna get some troopers out here looking for Trudy and Mike, and they didn’t look too happy with the idea. Something’s going on with those two. I wonder if they’re even really with the State.” I opened my mouth to tell them about Slit-Throat Dude, but closed it again.

  I saw Monday’s bodyguard get his throat cut by a sparklepunk assassin… yeah, that didn’t sound crazy at all. Maybe I should just have another cup of coffee and keep my trap shut.

  “What is it, Siggy?” Grandpa asked.

  “You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

  “We already think you’re nuts.” Garvin smiled. “You’re an Aleksov, aren’t you? That’s almost as bad as being a Hooper.”

  “Shut up, Hooper.” But I smiled into my coffee. It did feel like family, kinda-sorta-maybe. Garvin was trying, and that meant a lot to me.

  “What is it, Siggy?” Grandpa asked again, ignoring us. “Do you know these two?”

  “I think…” I took a deep breath.

  “Wait, hold up.” Garvin held up his hand. “Before Siggy spills her guts, maybe she could put some clothes on?”

  I made a rude noise and pretended I was going to punch him. Fortunately, he ducked, ’cause smacking him would have hurt me a lot more than it hurt him, as Grandpa had swaddled my poor hands in like five rolls’ worth of gauze and medical tape. That bitch had really busted up my knuckles with her face.

  “Put some clothes on, Siggy,” Grandpa sighed.

  I was halfway up to the loft when I remembered. “Emily! I told her to hide when they knocked on the door, and she’s still up there!” I ran the rest of the way up the stairs, and Garvin was right behind me, skivvies or no. “Emily!” I hollered. “You can come out now. Emily?”

  “Emily!” Garvin called. “Lee-lee! Where are you?”

  There was really no place to hide in the loft. It held a mattress and an old steamer trunk, and that was all. Garvin opened the trunk and started digging through my clothes, though really there was no way she’d fit in there. I pulled all the blankets off the bed, remembering how I could hide under a thin sheet as a child and be all but invisible. But I stopped and stared at what I found, heart pounding, heart broken.

  I knew before Garvin pushed open the little round window, which was usually latched. I knew before he found the sheet tied to a big nail just outside, hanging down the side of the cabin. I knew as soon as I saw the ravenstone Emily had found, staring up at me from my pillow.

  She was gone.

  20

  I dashed from the cabin, tripped over Grandma’s walking stick, and fell down the stairs.

  “Wait, Siggy!” Garvin called, hurrying to catch up. “Wait!”

  “How’d that thing get there?” I rubbed my knees and glared at the damn stick. “Fuck!”

  “Siggy, you can’t just run off like that here. This is Alaska—you’ve gotta be prepared before you go chasing into the wild.”

  “What do you think I need?” I replied, glaring at him. “Guns? GPS? Maybe a Humvee?”

  “How about pants?”

  “You’re not taking this very seriously,” I said, glowering.

  “And you’re moving too fast—you’ve got to slow down. Emily’s got a fort we built for her behind my mom’s house last summer, hidden in the willows, and I’m pretty sure that’s where she went. She likes to hide out there with one of the dogs when she’s upset.”

  “But what if Monday…”

  “If she’s in her fort, she’s got Huggy Bear with her. And if she’s got Huggy Bear with her, she’s safe.” He smiled, but I could see now the tension in his eyes and the way he held his shoulders. “I’m going to head over there and make sure she’s okay.”

  “We’ll head over as soon as Siggy’s dressed.” I looked up to see Grandpa standing in the doorway, the snub over-and-under tucked into the crook of his arm. He looked entirely too comfortable with a shotgun at his hip.

  “Sounds good.” Garvin headed out the front door, hopped onto his four-wheeler, and hauled butt down the trail, kicking up a cloud of silt dust as he went. I untangled myself from Grandma’s walking stick, grumbling, and went to get a pair of jeans. Coming back out, I pulled them on as I walked, but then I stopped—looking at the way the stick was lying, and the shadow it cast, and the raven’s feathers fanned out against the hard ground. I blinked. And blinked again. There was a message here, meant only for me.

  Reading it was as easy as breathing.

  Emily, the walking stick and the stones said.

  Danger, the feathers and the shadows warned. Danger.

  Grandpa’s old legs were so twisted with age that he walked half-sideways down the porch steps. He might be good with that gun—I’d bet on it—but with all of the recent events, he was showing his age. If there was a fight, he’d just get in the way. Or worse, he’d get hurt again.

  “You go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll catch up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I banged up my knee pretty good,” I lied. “Won’t be any good if we have to move quickly. I’m gonna wrap it and catch up with you guys—be right behind you.” Grandpa John stared at me for a long while, and I had the uncomfortable thought that he could see through me easy as looking in a window.

  “Humf,” he said finally. “Don’t get lost.”

  I’ve been lost all my damn life, I thought sourly, but I smiled and batted my eyes at him. That may have been too much. The old man grunted again—I was fairly sure he didn’t believe me for a minute—but he got in his truck, shotgun and all, and rattled away down the road.

  It was just me and the walking stick.

  “Come on, then,” I said, picking it up. “If you’ve got some kind of weird voodoo-hoodoo or something, help me find that girl.”

  This way, the stick urged.

  Hurry, agreed the raven’s feathers.

  Nooooooooo, howled my demon—and that decided it.

  I zipped up my pants, shoved the ravenstone into my pocket, and hauled ass.

  * * *

  As I neared the boat launch, I saw the print of a small heel, and then again, and then a full, small footprint. Emily had come this way, and she’d been running.

&nb
sp; Damn kid, I thought, and then admitted I’d probably have done the same thing. She was scared, and when a little girl is scared she wants her mama. Even when her mama doesn’t want her…

  …and I knew where Emily thought her parents had gone.

  Oldtown.

  I know how to drive Garvin’s boat, she’d told me, and sure as shit there were scrape marks in the mud and rocks where one of the flat boats had been shoved into the river. It was probably a good thing she’d been well out of hearing just then, because the blue streak I cussed probably would have stunted her growth or something. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. And so on.

  Taking off my shoes I tossed them in another boat, grabbed hold of the butt-end and winced as it scraaaaaaaped along the rocks. Winced again as I stepped barefoot into the frigid waters.

  Well, at least I’d put my pants on first.

  The flat-bottomed boat was steadier than the pointed things I was used to, but fishing was kind of my thing, so I knew my way around a motor. I pushed away from shore with Grandma’s walking stick, lowered the motor into the water, and we were off.

  Only… it wasn’t quite as easy as that. I was used to fishing, sure—there are like a fucktillion little lakes all over Michigan, and on any given weekend you could find me on one of them. But those tame little puddles had done very little to prepare me for the Kuskokwim. You can see from one bank to the other, and from a distance the silt-brown water looks calm. Safe. Up close… up close you can smell the river, you can hear her ancient song, feel her rolling beneath you, ancient and powerful and alive. She wasn’t sleeping, not by half, and she didn’t care whether I lived or died.

  There was a buzzing against my leg, and I’d reached into my pocket for the cell phone before realizing I hadn’t so much as thought about the damned thing since coming to Tsone. I pulled out the ravenstone, which hummed oddly against the palm of my hand, making the skin itch. I understood the stone, just as I’d understood the raven feathers. Holding it up to my eye, I looked through the little hole, and I saw…