Wings Once Cursed & Bound, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2023 by Lalana Dararutana
Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration © Nekro
Internal design by Laura Boren/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Field Notes on the Supernatural and the Paranormal
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Book Two of the Mythwoven Series
Back Cover
To the first players in Chaotic NarrativeRPG—especially Katee, Jenny, Cooper, and Gabriel. Thank you for the joy and laughter, and all of the creative energy we generated together.
One
Peeraphan
Peeraphan Rahttana closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, letting her senses expand until she was aware of every dancer waiting in the wings, of every stage tech behind the backdrops. It was a part of her warm-up when she was onstage, a way for her to get a feel for the people and space around her and prepare for the performance to come. She bent at the hips and reached forward until her fingertips brushed her pointed toes, stretching her muscles as she extended her awareness in a way those around her couldn’t—past the empty rows of seats and outward into the halls beyond until she was aware of every stir of air within the theater, of every warm breath taken and given back.
And sensed one presence entering the theatre that…wasn’t drawing breath. A person, walking across the front hall who didn’t need to breathe.
That couldn’t be good.
“Punch! I have the perfect shoes for your performance!” Sirin’s strident tone cut into Peeraphan’s head more effectively than a physical strike, distracting her momentarily from the unnatural presence she’d sensed.
Of course, Sirin had that effect on Peeraphan—Punch for short—whether the other woman screeched her childhood nickname or not. They’d grown up in the same community and because their parents had been friends, the two of them were supposed to be friendly, too, which was why Punch gritted her teeth and smiled.
“Just look at these.” Sirin opened a shoebox and shoved the contents forward, practically under Punch’s nose. “A very important patron donated these to the production. I think they’re antique or something? Either way, they have to be in the show.”
Punch straightened from her forward stretch and took the box from Sirin’s grasp before the other woman managed to actually whack her with it. She opened her mouth to respond, until the most glorious shade of red satin caught her eye and she inadvertently gasped, all irritation with Sirin evaporated, everything else forgotten. The red was luminous, spellbinding even, and she lost the whisper of control she had over her own power as she focused on the shoes.
It wasn’t just the heart-stopping color of the shoes. The heels were the perfect height and shape: high and wide enough to accentuate a dancer’s legs while still providing stability. They were elegant and sophisticated, tastefully decorated with fine crystal accents and bold enough to be noticed even onstage. They were designed to be a statement.
She needed to put them on. Right away.
Sirin was practically vibrating with excitement. “You have to wear these for the show.”
Agreed. No argument there. She needed to put them on. Now.
“No one will be able to say the costumes were lacking when the main dancer has these on her feet,” Sirin continued.
No one would be able to take their eyes away from those shoes.
“If they’re vintage, they’re in amazing condition. You didn’t want to wear them?” Punch glanced at Sirin with an effort. Looking away from the shoes for even a moment almost hurt.
But it was odd for Sirin not to want to keep something so clearly special for herself. Throughout their childhood and into adulthood, Sirin did everything it took to be acknowledged as successful. Then she claimed the best of anything she could get her hands on as her reward.
It was a trait Punch admired about Sirin while kind of hating it at the same time—the ability to balance doing well and taking credit for her accomplishments.
Punch wasn’t just Thai American—she was a full throwback to something most people in the United States wouldn’t recognize. Hell, some Thai people, including Sirin, were barely aware of the old folklore.
Because Punch wanted to keep it that way, she had to be careful to hide what she was. It was all well and good to want to stand out from the crowd, shine a little, be unique. But in a lot of ways, that wasn’t safe.
Sirin shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest, uncharacteristically chill. “It’s obvious they’re too small for me, and vintage isn’t my style. Besides, my shoes were special ordered and dyed to match my costume. You were just going to wear nude-colored character shoes. These are better. You can practice today to get used to dancing in them.”
The performance was intended to promote awareness of Southeast Asian culture and showcase a fusion of traditional dance and contemporary choreography, with all proceeds going to scholarships for students from marginalized groups. Punch’s mother had asked Punch to be a part of the performance as a favor.
“Let’s make sure they fit before we decide they’re going with my costume.” As amazing as the shoes were, Punch wasn’t going to try to wear them if they were a bad fit. Her dance performance could suffer, or worse, she could end up injured. Not worth it, no matter how gorgeous the pair of shoes. “Thai dance, even with a contemporary flair, definitely comes across different with shoes on, especially high-heeled shoes.”
She hoped they fit. She wanted them to fit. Almost needed them to fit.
Punch froze, realizing she had already kicked her other shoes off in her eagerness to try them on.
“What are you waiting for, Punch?” Sirin stressed the nickname again, making it sound obnoxious instead of fun.
It had to be on purpose.
The irony was that she liked her own nickname. She’d managed to mostly reclaim it as her own, until she’d agreed to do this performance with Sirin. Seattle was a big city, and yet, here they were, back on a stage together, and Punch was yet again wondering how she could shake off the feeling of continually returning to childhood patterns instead of actually making any kind of progress in life.
Do well, but don’t show off. Study hard, but never be a know-it-all. Excel, but never brag. Bitterness spread through her mouth as she tasted those memories. All any of it had ever resulted in was a lifetime of unacknowledged accomplishments and second-guessing her own pride in herself. Humility had been drilled into Punch so deeply, daring to take pride in anything felt like a risky dive into arrogance and vanity.
She glanced at the shoes in her hands, so gorgeous. So red. She could put on the shoes and this performance could change her life. She felt so sure of it.
There was something wrong. She frowned. Now was not the time to be pondering every personal issue great and small, and her thoughts had been wandering all over the place. She’d sensed something before and hadn’t followed up on it.
Other dancers were joining her on the stage, warm-ups complete. Punch reached out with her senses again, scanning the nearly four-thousand-seat auditorium as she did. There were a few members of the production team sitting in the nearest rows. The air stirred with each exhale, and she could feel the minute changes in heat and pressure against her skin the way she imagined fish might sense vibrations in the water around them. There was nothing else, no other living thing in the building. If it moved, even only to breathe, she’d have sensed it. But she’d detected something earlier.
Stage lights caught on the crystals decorating the shoes she was holding. Glancing down, Punch admired the glorious red satin. She could see herself dancing inside her mind, wanted to make it real.
The sooner, the better.
She gave in to temptation and bent to slide her left foot into one. The shoe was warm, probably from her own hands, and practically hugged her foot like it’d been molded to fit her specifically. Her left foot was a touch larger than her right by less than half a size—which was why she always tried on the left first—so she might need an extra heel or gel pad. Doable. Better for a shoe to be a touch too big than too small. She put on the other shoe.
Perfect fit. That was weird.
Punch straightened and took a few experimental steps forward. They didn’t pinch anywhere and her feet didn’t shift or slide around inside the shoes. In fact, the arch support was fantastic.
She couldn’t wait to start dancing.
***
Bennett
Bennett Andrews studied the woman from his vantage point far to the back of the highest mezzanine. She seemed to have been looking out into the audience, searching. Perhaps she had been waiting for someone to come watch the rehearsal. Either way, he had prudently kept to the shadows and waited.
He would have come earlier, if he could have, before the red shoes had claimed a victim.
His consortium had received a tip the other day about the red shoes surfacing at Pike Place Market. Truly, one could find just about anything there, particularly if one knew where to shop in the deeper levels of the market. He’d tracked the seller down but had encountered complications following up with the buyer until he’d been forced to retire with the sunrise. The consortium’s witch had managed to detect the presence of the red shoes in the meantime, pinpointing their location within this theater. He’d come as soon as he’d risen for the evening, sooner than any other of his brethren in the region could have.
It hadn’t been quick enough.
He was not here to catch attention, and it would be best if the woman did not remember seeing anyone out of the ordinary—assuming she survived—so he hadn’t used his enhanced abilities to reach her, instead moved into the theater at a normal human pace. As she joined the other dancers in formation and music began playing, he thought the chances of her living beyond the evening were low. Minuscule.
She had already put on the red shoes, after all.
At this point, there was nothing for it but to wait for the screams and chaos and panic, then choose a moment in all the confusion to remove the shoes from the corpse. Even if he’d failed to come in time to prevent the death of this victim, he could do his best to ensure there wouldn’t be another.
The music started, and the dancer with the red shoes was quite good, actually. Based on his research, the shoes compelled the wearer to dance, but they did not augment their skill. This woman was talented, with a compelling presence that drew the eye wherever she was onstage, whether she was the principal or dancing in a supporting role. She was incredibly expressive, every line of her body projecting her interpretation of the music, and she was light on her feet, making challenging leaps and turns look easy.
She was so full of life, he scowled. It would take that much more time for the shoes to drive her past exhaustion and beyond collapse. Thomas would call him an asshole for thinking that way, but the longer it took, the worse it would be for her. He hoped, for her sake as well as his own, that this was quick.
The red shoes were particularly cruel, according to some versions of the fairy tale, with roots in the Nordic lands of Northern Europe. If allowed to pass from hand to hand, human to human, there would be a trail of deaths left in their wake. Better for him to stop them here, after this one last death, and take them so the fairy tale could fade back into nothing but a barely remembered story.
“Okay! Let’s break for five!” The director clapped her hands.
The chaos would start soon, once the dancer with the red shoes realized she had no choice but to keep on dancing. The shoes would compel her to increase intensity and speed until she literally worked herself into oblivion.
There had been a time when he would have allowed himself more sympathy for the doomed human. He’d learned since then that the pain of such feelings wasn’t within his capacity to endure. One could only witness death so many times without developing coping mechanisms to endure. He pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and prepared to move as soon as everyone was distracted.
But the dancer not only stopped, she walked over to what were presumably her belongings and sat down, reaching for a water bottle.
Surprise rippled through him, the unfamiliar sensation like a static shock. She wasn’t even tapping her toes.
He frowned. Something wasn’t right. There must be some mistake. Those shoes might not be the ones he was here for.
He would have to get closer to be sure.
Traveling the distance from the upper balcony past the carefully preserved artwork and furniture of the lobbies of three different floors to find his way backstage took seconds. He could move at speeds that were a blur to the human eye, and as the evening was deepening to full dark, his abilities woke even further. In full night, few things in the world were safe from him. His talents had evolved to make him one of the most efficient hunters on earth, among a host of beings whose existence humankind had forgotten. Humans were not the apex predators of the world.
As he found himself an out-of-the-way spot where he could look across the stage from the wings, he realized with another jolt that the woman wearing the red shoes was aware of him. Even more interesting, she was not staring. Her gaze was cast downward as she sipped her bottle of water, and she was sneaking furtive glances his way under the cover of lowered lashes.
Based on her body posture, she was not frightened, or at least not panicked. Her back was straight, shoulders relaxed. Her feet were drawn close under her but spread enough for her to launch in whatever direction might be necessary. He imagined she was on alert and ready to bolt, but she was, he thought, giving him the most epic side-eye he had ever had cast in his direction.
And vampires at their most arrogant made disapproval and scorn an art form.
He smiled; he couldn’t help himself.
Unable to resist, he began noting details about her. She was petite, compared to him and most of the company he had been keeping lately. But then, they were mostly men of six feet in height or more. Even the women and nonbinary among his organization were closer to six feet in height. Among the other dancers, though, she was one of the larger built, with a robust frame and more generous curves. It wasn’t just tits and ass, as the old Broadway musical put to song, but the curve of well-defined muscle over her shoulders and upper arms, over her thighs and calves. She reminded him more of a warrior, capable of delivering heavy strikes and devastating blows balanced by flexibility, agility, and grace. With training, he imagined her capable of quite the killing dance on a battlefield. But those times were long gone, by human standards. Humans had invented ways to wage war from a distance with massively destructive results.
She was dressed in comfortable athletic wear, with her dark brown hair twisted up into a bun and her feet trapped in a pair of brilliant red shoes that were definitely the pair he had come to acquire. They reeked of cursed magic, a blend of seductive suggestion and poisonous animosity. They’d been imbued centuries ago with a single intent: redemption of sins or the death of the wearer.
He had not taken more than a glance at her face. In fact, he refused to learn to recognize her, if at all possible. He had only met her across a distance, and he was already sure the memory of her dancing would haunt his nightmares despite every effort he’d made to keep up an icy wall of indifference once she died. And he had an eternity to wrestle with remembrance. He had learned the hard way it was wiser to maintain as much emotional distance as possible from the mortals he met.
