by Lila Bowen
“I’m sorry, Nettie. That’s horrible.”
“Could’ve been worse. Can’t somebody patch up your foot? Maybe not Dan, but… somebody?”
Winifred shrugged. “I don’t know. I figure I’ll try that dwarf sawbones in Burlesville. At the very least, I’ll get a fake leg. Maybe Dan can carve a chunk of whalebone with pretty designs.”
Gently probing her own eye, or what was left of it, she tried to get used to what was bound to be permanent. “Seems like you don’t mind so much.”
The other girl’s head flopped up to glare at Nettie. “I spent a couple of days in a dark cave, impaled on a spike by the monster my mother taught me to fear most. I can live with a limp.” She snorted in sad, sick laughter and added, “And thank you for killing it. Pia Mupitsi.”
“I’m a Durango Ranger. I kill what needs to die. And you helped, so thanks back.”
And then before she could stop herself, Nettie Lonesome was crying.
She only had one good eye, but it boiled up tears. She cried for the loss of her other eye and the loss of her history. She cried for the maybe Comanche mother she couldn’t remember and the tribe she’d never know. She cried for Monty and Chuck and Chicken and Ty and Moran and Tim and all the fellers who’d been stuck full of arrows, thanks to the werewolves. She cried for Sam Hennessy and Winifred, who’d each lost something dear. She cried for herself, as she would rather be almost anywhere else but trapped in a cave on a mountain without food or water or a decent place to piss. But most of all, she cried because she was glad to finally be free.
That was one thing she hadn’t seen when she’d looked out on the valley. No matter how hard she’d looked and how many shadows she’d hunted, she didn’t see that old Injun woman on her wet black steed.
At first, Winifred just patted her as she bawled, but then the coyote girl pulled Nettie Lonesome into her lap and held her face and stroked her cheek, muttering singsong nonsense to her in another language.
“What’s that you’re singing?” Nettie asked, as there was something strangely familiar about it that made her skin prickle all over.
“It’s a lullaby. What the mothers in my tribe sing to their babies, hoping they’ll turn out to be shifters. It’s the story of skinwalkers. Tells the babies how to change. Little one that I love, you are two creatures with one spirit. Reach down inside, deep inside, and find the golden core of you, connecting you to the earth and sky, the trail the moon leaves on water. Pull it like a rope, inside out, and know that you are perfect in either skin.”
Nettie was shaking, memories flashing behind her ruined eye. The paint horse, the cradleboard swinging, shadow puppets on walls of leather, laughing brown faces and one dark black with white, white teeth, a high fire against the starlight, holes in the red cliffs with wide windows to deep blue, gray feathers and tiny talons and wind and falling and landing. A face, glowing with love, singing that song. Shrugging out of Winifred’s arms, she looked out into the morning sky, past the clouds glittering with sunlight. A breeze brushed her cheek like a mother’s caress, and it felt right.
“Nettie? What’s wrong?”
Twitching her shoulders, Nettie pulled the harpy’s feather out of her hat and ran a finger down the quill.
“Nettie?”
Stepping to the ledge, letting her toes hang over, Nettie clutched the stone wall with one hand and the feather in the other and leaned out. The wind blew sweet against her face, and she let the feather go, watching it twirl down gently until it caught a breeze.
“Nothing’s wrong. I finally understand.”
Taking a deep breath, Nettie stepped out of her boots, stripped off her socks, shrugged out of her shirt. She untied the leather pouch around her waist and held it in one palm, memorizing the weight of it, of the memories she carried. Those strings she tied tightly around her ankle, hoping it was enough. She unwound the linen around her chest and kicked off her britches until she stood, nekkid and unafraid in the morning sun.
“If this don’t work, give my stuff to Hennessy.”
“What?” Winifred struggled to stand on her good foot, one hand on the wall and one reaching for Nettie.
But she was too late. Nettie took a step back and launched herself into the sky, arms spread wide and smiling.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I would like to hereby call out my failings as a historian and remind you that this book is in the Fantasy section for a reason. As Dr. Terry could’ve told you in my AP U.S. History class in high school, I’m here for the story, not the facts.
The journey outlined in Wake of Vultures is loosely based on the terrain I internalized from watching Lonesome Dove on repeat from the moment I saw it on live television in 1989. I did my best to piece together maps from late 1800s Texas and pinpoint where the Cannibal Owl’s lair would be and how Nettie would journey from Gloomy Bluebird to her final destination, but much of the actual route is imaginary, as is Durango Territory. Nettie’s world is a work of my imagination, so if at any time you wish to e-mail me regarding misrepresentation of facts or flaws on the map or time line, please recall that it’s chock-full of monsters and meant to be an alternate world, not the real world. It’s only going to get weirder in Book 2. The time line here is roughly analogous to our 1870s, and most of the place names (Tanasi, Azteca, etc.) are based on historical names given to lands by their original people.
My Durango Rangers, likewise, are a pastiche of reality and fiction. Many historians agree that the Texas Rangers of the 1800s, although glorified by today’s media, were the orchestrators of multiple atrocities against nonwhites. I recognize that there are two sides to every story, and that there were good men and not-so-good men among them. I will tell you that the Texas Rangers were founded by Stephen F. Austin in 1823 to protect pioneer families in Texas after the Mexican War of Independence. And you know what happens when heavily armed white folks set out to protect white folks.
Look deeper, and you’ll find more fantasy. Can a girl gentle three wild mustangs in one day? Probably not. Can a spirit quest range 150 miles without food or water? I doubt it. Did dwarves venture west during the Gold Rush? Maybe. Again, Fantasy.
As for Nettie, she’s written as a Black Indian, with her tribe most likely Comanche. The terms Injun and Indian have been used throughout the book not as a slur but as a reflection of the language of the time. Native American wasn’t in common parlance until the 1960s and felt out of place in this context, and it is my understanding that the best term to use is whatever the person in question damn well prefers. Raised the way she was, Nettie would’ve known no other way to refer to these people. If you want a truly enlightening read, check your library for Black Indians: A Hidden Heritage by William Loren Katz. Their history has been all but erased, but Nettie had a people, and they were integral to America’s history. She’s not as alone as she thinks she is.
Last, I’d like to ask your forgiveness. You can’t please all of the people all of the time, and chances are, some of the themes and terms in Wake of Vultures will cause outrage. When I committed to respecting diversity in my books, I knew that I would sometimes mess it up. When Nettie arrived in my imagination, fully formed and thoroughly, unapologetically herself, I was intimidated by the thought of writing a half-black, half-Comanche heroine raised in unspoken slavery who self-identifies as a man and is attracted to both men and women. Surely people like Nettie have existed at every point of the world’s history and in every place, and many of them have been sadly forced to hide their true selves and play along with the laws and morality of their times. Among many of America’s native people, there is a gender variance called two-spirit that is and was highly respected; the Comanche did not recognize this identity. Dan and Winifred, however, are based on the Chiricahua, so Nettie’s nature would’ve been familiar and welcome to them.
I hope I have done justice to Nettie’s struggle and inner strength and made it clear that I believe a person can be whoever and whatever they choose to be.
Happy trails
, and thanks for reading!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nettie can’t always say her thanks, but I can.
Thanks, as always, to my husband, Craig, whose support, belief, and gifts of fine coffee keep me going. Thanks to my kids, parents, and family, especially to my folks for introducing me to Lonesome Dove at a very young age. Dad, can you find Gus in here?
Thanks to my amazing agent, Kate McKean, whose skills are nothing short of magic. Thanks to my editor, Devi Pillai—I should’ve known we’d make a great team when you bought me a drink in New Orleans and we bemoaned the bartender’s lack of creativity. Thanks to Lindsey, Lauren, and everyone at Orbit.
Thanks to Chris from Jax on Twitter and Sean Patrick Kelly for playlist recommendations, to Mike Sheldon for a caffeine infusion when I needed it most, to Anamuk for chocolate hippos from far-off places, and to Julie and the Phoenix Comicon folks for my favorite cookies when I broke my back on my birthday. As always, thanks to Cherie Priest, Kevin Hearne, Chuck Wendig, Janice Hardy, the Holy Taco Church, and the Council for encouragement and a kick in the pants when needed. Thanks to all my author heroes who blurbed the book and to Matt Stover, in addition, for writing the fight scenes that have always informed my written brawls. If you haven’t read Heroes Die, please do.
Thanks to Von Tuck for the rad author photo that makes me look like a spy.
Thanks to Beth Hickman, who helped me get back in the saddle after Polly bucked me off. You learn a lot of lessons with a broken spine, and I’m glad we’re back on the trails.
Thanks to David Hale of Love Hawk Tattoo Studio, whose artwork helped inspire the book. I do believe the vulture quill on my forearm was part of the serendipity that brought Nettie to life.
This book was written to the music of Gangstagrass, the masterminds behind the Justified theme song and a fine bunch of folks who put on an amazing live show. See, Rench? I told you I’d put y’all in!
And remember: You don’t have to be what they tell you to be.
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CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
MAP
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ORBIT NEWSLETTER
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2015 by D. S. Dawson
Map illustration by Tim Paul
Jacket design by Lauren Panepinto
Jacket illustration © Shutterstock
Cover © 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: October 2015
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ISBN 978-0-316-26430-3
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