Wake of Vultures

by Lila Bowen

  Halfway down the ragged path, he finally answered.

  “We’ll be there. But I suspect it won’t matter. All fights, all battles, lead to the moment where two beings test their tenacity, their will to live. One will die, one will prevail. No matter how many bodies clog the river, the last man standing is the only man that counts. And all the signs point to you.”

  “I’m the last man standing?”

  He looked her up and down. “Hopefully not. I’d like to stand, as well.”

  She wouldn’t let herself think about Winifred’s foot and whether the girl would ever stand on it again. Could it be reattached, if Nettie managed to kill the Cannibal Owl before it ate Winifred?

  “That’s another question I got, Dan. How can this monster eat monsters? Didn’t the Rangers tell me that monsters would burrow back out of you? And when you kill them, don’t they turn to sand? So how can that valley be full of little baby bones?”

  Dan shook his head. “Magic doesn’t care for logic. Maybe that’s why it only eats children, because they stay put in its belly. Maybe because they have small teeth and can’t chew their way out. Maybe all the bones are from human children. There is plenty of sand in that valley, too. No, I don’t wish to know what laws let the Cannibal Owl rule over death. I just want to know the laws that will let death finally rule over the Owl.”

  Nettie had to concentrate on every step down the butte, as the path was invisible until Dan had trod it. By the end, she could barely walk, and her hands stung like hell. With a final hop, they landed on the prairie. Nettie felt smaller down here, tiny and useless and altogether too squishy and easily killed. On top of the butte, she was an eagle; down here, she was a rabbit—and not the kind with fangs. She didn’t know where the Cannibal Owl’s heart might lie, but the creature knew exactly how easily her own life could be snuffed. They might call it an owl, but whatever it truly was, it was clever enough to avoid detection, to send pointed messages in the form of body parts.

  And to swoop down and take its tribute from a new mother, snatching its prey from the middle of a carefully guarded, civilized town. Poor Regina.

  Nettie couldn’t help wondering what exactly it was that separated man from monster. Vultures with blue eyes, wolves that could walk as men. Was evil only evil if you did it on purpose? She’d always figured predators were predators and prey were prey. But then again, she’d always figured men were men and women were women and men wanted to be with women, and…

  Hellfire.

  The world was not a place of black and white, night and day. It was shades of gray and shadows, dusk and dawn, in-between moments and shifting sands. And somehow, knowing that nothing was permanent or real made it easier for Nettie to slip into her own skin. For the first time, she stopped trying to be something else and accepted that what she was was as real and fine as what anybody else was.

  Her hand caught the small leather bag tapping against her hip and holding all the bits and bobs that had outlined her life, right down to one of Scorpion’s wolf teeth, added just last night. The vampire’s fangs, her first nickel from Monty, a chunk of arrowhead, even the tip of the mesquite thorn Dan had pulled from her shoulder—he’d added it while she was unconscious, that night, along with a smaller pouch that he told her not to open.

  “Guard your magic,” he’d said. “Even from yourself. Until you need it most.”

  She liked that—carrying her magic with her. Everything she’d been through, good and bad, had brought her to this moment, to this task.

  They wanted her to be the Shadow?

  Fine. She was the Shadow.

  Because a shadow was a thing that defined itself, and Nettie didn’t have to fit anyone else’s shape. From the knife in her boot to the gun hanging low on her hip, she didn’t mind shooting anybody or anything that disagreed.

  She stepped into the camp a man of her own making, a Ranger and the Shadow, unstoppable.

  “You look different, Rhett. What the Sam Hill did y’all do up there?”

  Nettie’s gaze swiveled over to Hennessy, who seemed somehow shorter than he’d been. She couldn’t explain everything that had happened on the butte, couldn’t quite put it into words in a way a feller as simple and pure as Sam could understand. Seeing Winifred’s foot, watching the harpies play among the skulls, absorbing her destiny like parched land sucking up the long-awaited rain. Instead of answering, she looked up at the butte, to where she’d stood and looked down. The harsh red rock was impossibly tall now, with no visible path to the summit. Shielding her eyes, she thought she saw a figure there, looking back down, a little girl with long pigtails and a patched nightdress staring back at her. When she blinked, the figure was gone.

  Once, she’d answered whenever a white man had spoken to her.

  Now she understood that silence was sometimes the only answer.

  When Nettie didn’t respond, Sam cocked his head and wrinkled up his nose. “Did Dan work his Injun magic? Did you find your spirit animal or something?”

  Dan snorted, and Nettie raised her chin. “I’m my own spirit animal,” she said.

  And walked on.

  In the valley beyond the horses, the Rangers were practicing with their guns, shooting cacti full of holes while training the newer horses not to care about the sound of bullets.

  “Care to fire off a few rounds?” the Captain called.

  Nettie shook her head. “Reckon this fight’ll be more personal,” she answered.

  When she walked on, he didn’t protest. Just turned back to shooting the world full of holes.

  She went to the horses next, said sweet, earnest things to the ugliest mare in the valley. Ragdoll forgave her, at least enough to use Nettie’s butt as a scratching post for her nose. Fat little Puddin’ was back, too, all scratched-up and skitty and wearing a sweat stain in the shape of Winifred. Nettie rubbed him over and fed him a handful of grain, sorry he hadn’t been fast enough to keep Winifred safe. She wondered who would ride her ponies if she died. And because they were quiet and didn’t care who she was or ask anything of her, she stayed among the horses until the sky went soft and purple-gray, the clouds roiling low and dark and the hangnail moon rising.

  At some point in time, Dan disappeared to his own devices, and that was fine. For once, it felt good to be lonesome.

  By the time she found the Rangers and dinner, Delgado’s pot was as empty as his smile.

  He showed her both.

  Nettie realized Delgado did not like her.

  And she realized she did not like Delgado.

  Coyote Dan sat a little away from the Rangers, wearing her old clothes and squinting at his newly made blades. When she jerked her chin at him, he rose. Together, they walked away from the camp, away from the river and the bones and the harpies. Without speaking, companionable as wild things, they aimed for a green muddle of scrub and mesquite. Nettie pulled one of Dan’s stone knives from her boot, pricked a finger, let her blood drip down on the prairie.

  When the rabbits came near to lick up the red drops, she caught two by the ears.

  Dan made the fire. Nettie stripped the skins and tossed the fangs into the flames. They roasted the meat in silence. This time, Nettie took as much as she wanted. The leather bundle twitched beside Dan’s knee but did not deflate into sand. As Nettie sucked the hot bones clean and looked into the small fire, the sun curved downward and lit the sky in reds and violets, blood and bruises.

  “Soon?” she asked.

  “Midnight,” Dan answered.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  As if sensing it was a bigger question than usual, Dan put down his rabbit and stared at her, really stared at her. He nodded once.

  “The Injun woman… she told me in a dream that the Cannibal Owl knew my past. Knew my… my tribe. Do you think that might actually be true, or was the ghost just trying to give me another reason to go do her revenge?”

  Dan shook the rabbit bones off his roasting stick and used it to draw figures in the sand. Since Net
tie didn’t have any school, she didn’t know if they were letters in English or some other language, or if maybe he was just giving himself some time to think.

  “The ghost has no reason to lie. And if she did, how would she know the one thing you most long to know? The workings of gods and monsters is beyond what most of us can reckon.”

  “So you think it might actually give me answers?”

  “They call Pia Mupitsi the Ghost Mother. Maybe sometime, long ago, it had a heart.”

  “That don’t make me feel any better.”

  He cracked the stick in half and tossed it in the fire. “I can’t imagine what would.”

  The moon was as tiny and thin as it could get before it was nothing, and Nettie held her thumb over it for a moment, wishing she could shove it back down like a fishbone and lure the sun back up in its stead. “I reckon this is how a feller feels waiting for the noose.”

  “Then you’re looking at it wrong.”

  “How you figure that?”

  Dan’s grin was a feral, sharp thing, his eyes coyote green. “Don’t you see? You’re the one holding the noose.”

  Nettie went back to settle with Hennessy and the Rangers for a bit, as Dan said he wanted to be a coyote for a while. He figured he’d be more useful if he could sniff around for more clues that the nose of a sensitive critter might pick up more readily with no men around to mess things up. Nettie still didn’t know how she was supposed to get to the Cannibal Owl, and she knew Dan was her best goddamn chance to find its trail, so she gave him his space, and welcome.

  The last thing he said to her was “Don’t leave without me.” And then hair was sprouting up his back like pea shoots in spring, and he curled over and yipped as he ran away.

  Nettie had nudged his leather bundle with a toe and watched him go, her pockets heavy with his stone blades. Funny, how a feller could tell you not to leave without him while he turned his back on you and ran. And where had he left his bow? She understood that he thought it would be a close fight, but she’d enjoyed knowing that Coyote Dan would be waiting somewhere out of sight with his arrow nocked and ready. Destiny was fine and all, but she’d rather have the deck stacked in her goddamn favor when it came to killing unkillable monsters.

  “Take a seat, Rhett. You got to be plum tuckered out, after a day in the sun.” Hennessy scooted over in a puff of sand, patting the ground beside him.

  “Reckon I’m too jumpy, other Hennessy, although I thank you kindly.”

  Right that moment, Nettie wished for nothing more than to be alone with Sam Hennessy. Not for any untoward reason—just because there was a comfort in a friendship where a feller knew exactly who she was and didn’t want much from her, other than companionship. But as Nettie watched, Hennessy gave a great, jaw-cracking yawn and nodded, staring dreamily off into space.

  “Care for some whisky, Rhett?”

  The Captain held up the bottle, but Nettie noticed he didn’t drink from it himself. Come to think of it, she’d never seen his whiskers moist with liquor. The rest of the Rangers had surely had a sip or more. They sat around the fire, some flopped back against saddles and some squatting and others perched on rocks they’d rolled over from nearer the buttes. It was right comforting, being among the men again. Their empty, dented bowls were stacked and tossed beside gooey spoons that Delgado should’ve already been scouring off with sand.

  The Rangers were doing their level best to give off an air of relaxation and ease, but any feller with sense could see that underneath the calm they were jittery as junebugs at a jaybird party. Jiddy’s flat stare would’ve made Nettie’s skin crawl just a few short days ago, but now she knew it for what it was: fear.

  “No thanks, Captain. I had enough the other night to last me awhile.”

  The Captain nodded and handed the bottle to the next feller. “Reckon you did. You eaten your fill? Ready for what’s coming? We took down a little mountain goat earlier and got Delgado to cook up a second round of stew. Better by half than the beans we had earlier.” He inclined his leonine head slightly, inviting her to sit, and Nettie squatted down by his side. She’d never felt the equal of such a grand man and might’ve fallen over, if she’d stayed standing. Her belly was flip-flopping all over, thanks to sitting between the Captain’s pocket watch and Jiddy. “Delgado. Get Rhett a bowl. Best supper the bastard’s ever served up.”

  The scrappy little cook hurried over with a blue bowl brimming with steaming hot stew, but the smell turned Nettie’s already wiggly stomach. She shook her head and held up a hand.

  “I already ate some rabbit, thank you kindly. If I’m to die tonight, I’d rather it not be from Delgado’s cooking.”

  With a strained grunt, Delgado pushed the bowl at her more forcefully, slopping meat and gravy onto her boots.

  Nettie stood and knocked the bowl to the ground. Half the contents spilled into the fire, and Delgado jumped back, his hands in fists.

  “Don’t push me, Delgado.”

  She’d have punched him right there if the Captain hadn’t hollered, “Stop, boys!”

  Nobody could move a muscle when he spoke in that voice. Nettie and Delgado were squared up, hands in fists, fire flickering over their faces. She was taller than him, but he was a wiry feller, in his forties at least and built like a handful of stiff rope, covered in the scars of past fights. Had they been in a fair tussle, she didn’t know if she could win. And as it was, she had no rightly idea why the rest of the cowpokes were just flopping around like sleepy cows instead of jumping up at the prospect of a brawl. Even the Captain was still sitting, for all his shout had rent the night. And then, slow as you please, the bowl slipped from his hands and clanked against his spurs.

  Nettie looked down to find him blinking, all sleepy-like. Jiddy let out a rip-roaring snore, and Sam snuggled deeper down against his saddle. All the men were slopping over, breathing deeply, mouths open.

  Asleep.

  “Captain?”

  “He can’t hear you no more. Only Pia Mupitsi hears you now.”

  She looked up at Delgado in confusion, lips drawing back in disgust when she saw a long, black snake’s tongue flicker out of his mouth.

  “You can talk, Delgado? What the hell are you?”

  And that was when he shot her.

  CHAPTER

  25

  It hurt like a sumbitch, first of all.

  The bullet slammed into her shoulder and sent her left arm numb.

  Nettie grunted and staggered back, tripping over Hennessy’s feet. That was what saved her, considering Delgado shot again and missed, the second bullet hissing off the rocks.

  But the first bullet—sweet hellfire, that bullet.

  It hit harder than Pap’s whip or Mam’s hand, sharper than a wasp and hotter than a mesquite thorn in full fever. But like all those pains she knew so well, it pissed her off beyond all reason, and she managed to pull her own gun as she scrambled away, squint around the rock, and fire for Delgado’s grinning, snake-tongued mouth, fueled by the pain shooting through her veins.

  The bullet hit Delgado in the stomach, and he staggered back and doubled over, arms curled around his faded blue shirt, howling. Nettie fired off another round, right into his chest, and he fell to the ground. Not a single cowboy stirred, but Nettie figured that in between a gut shot and a lung shot, she could probably afford to hiss and poke a finger into the wound in her shoulder, right above her armpit.

  She expected the pain. She expected blood and the feeling of bone scraping on bone.

  What she found was a flat piece of steel, pushing its way out of her body.

  Just as it plopped out like a worm oozing out of an apple, she caught it in one hand and held it up. Nettie had never seen a bullet pulled out of a body before her time with the Rangers, and she’d never seen one covered in her own blood. She took the time to dump the dang thing in the pouch at her waist before running blood-wet fingers over the hole in her shirt.

  The skin there was unbroken, save for a tiny, raised sca
r.

  The hole was gone.

  Which meant…

  Aw, shit. It meant she was… something.

  She looked at her hands. Just a few hours ago, they’d been ripped, torn, bleeding, blistered. Now they were smooth. Completely healed. She hadn’t even noticed.

  Quick as a snake, she crawled to the Captain, just behind him, and shook his shoulder.

  “Captain? Captain, you in there? I’m something, Captain. I’m one of them. I need…”

  “You need to die.”

  She felt the bang before she heard it, and half her world went out in a flash. The punch of the bullet was wet and hot, a thousand fireworks in the dark.

  In her eye.

  Delgado had shot her in the hellfire goddamn son-of-a-bitching eye, and… and the bullet wasn’t popping out like it should have been.

  And Delgado wasn’t dying like he should have been, neither.

  But, then again, a feller with a snake tongue had only one sure spot to aim for, didn’t he?

  One-eyed and covered in blood, Nettie aimed her pistol at the crouching man and emptied it, four shots in quick succession that sent him barreling back into the fire as she screamed herself raw. He tripped in the flames and went up like a pile of tinder, his scream higher and more frantic than hers. Still half blind and rage full, Nettie slipped the Henry from the Captain’s side, aimed it at the burning form of the crappiest cook in Durango, and pulled the trigger sixteen times. At some point, she must’ve hit the bastard’s heart, as he exploded in sand that sent the fire crackling into the sky. But she kept pulling the trigger and screaming because she wanted the son of a bitch who took her right eye to die and be gone forever.