Page 1 of The Devil’s Feather

1

MEASURING LIFE IN COFFEE SPOONS

“And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts

To every ticklish reader! Set them down

For sluttish spoils of opportunity

And daughters of the game.”

-William Shakespeare, “Troilus and Cressida,” Act IV, Scene 5

Anxiety twisted my gut into a snake eating its own tail. No, I could do this. I’d already driven all the way to San Francisco from Mountain View. I forced myself to breathe, thumping my fists down the sides of my arms and shaking out my hands.

Raymundo Alvarez, the manager of Applecore Books, had given me permission to sign their copies of my books. He’d even offered to host a formal signing event, but I couldn’t stand the thought of that much socializing, despite Deandra and Annie’s encouragement. Nope, no thanks.

I fluffed my bangs in the rearview mirror. They refused to fall in artful swoops since I’d been cutting them myself for at least six months, as evidenced by the amount of tinsel-streaked, dark roots in my faded pink layers. I gave up.

“Women pushing 40 have no business dying their hair ridiculous colors,” Mom had said, but she’d said that about every new hair color.

I scowled at myself. Six months wasn’t nearly long enough to avoid another conversation with that woman. When it was fresh, my hair had been a blazing hot pink. Maybe I’d redo it when my book took off.

I’d just run into the bookstore, sign however many copies of Dragonsoul were on the shelf, and duck out before anyone clocked me. Not that anyone would. I didn’t have the readership for that kind of recognition. Still, it felt like I was gearing up to commit petty larceny. God, if no copies were out, I’d feel ridiculous.

I pinched my cheeks and grimaced at how ingrained that behavior was. Mom always told me to pinch my cheeks for color since I was so pale. Never mind that I was already wearing blush.

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Here we go.” I patted my little robin’s egg blue Fiat on the hood for moral support.

The scent of leather and binding glue welcomed me like an old friend. Even though Applecore had a used paperback section and a rare book room, the bookstore never smelled like dust or mildew. If they bottled their scent as a perfume, they’d never have to sell another book to make rent. I slinked past the litfic and mystery to science fiction/fantasy.

There it was: a bright red dragon streaked across a stormy sky over a woman in armor fleeing the rain. My debut novel. I blessed whichever employee had set it facing cover out. With my trusty silver sharpie in hand, I flipped open the cover. And froze.

What was I doing? This was absurd. No one would care that these books were signed. Hardly anyone read them! My eyes stung. Don’t quit your day job, Elaine.

A tickle of a familiar refrain distracted me from the looming tears. Cellos and double bass rose, overtaking mournful violins. Uilleann pipes joined in. French horns and bass backup vocals wove through the background. No lyrics, just sensual, dark instrumentals. Where had I heard this song before?

The tempo picked up. Timpani boomed and swept me into the rhythm. Oh, it was the main theme song from that art house horror movie, Blood Thaw. Gruesome, weird, more than a little sad, and exactly my vibe. I’d meant to add it to my writing playlist. I shimmied in place, mood buoyed by the rising swirl of music.

Floating on the song, I signed my name with a flourish as my hips swayed. I spun the book like a dance partner and snapped it closed—revealing a wall of man dressed in black. I cranked my neck up to meet a piercing, ice blue stare.

My face flared red enough to signal the space station. Almost as deep a red as the long waves of hair the giant wore pulled back into a low ponytail. I took an involuntary step back. Damn, his shoulders must be as wide as my entire 5’8” height!

“S-sorry, I just love this song.” I shoved my book haphazardly between two others on the shelf.

He blinked, and that severe expression relaxed. Something about him struck me as familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

In a voice so deep it buzzed in my ribcage, the huge man said, “I did not mean to interrupt. It is rare to encounter anyone enjoying this kind of music with such abandon.” He spoke slowly and softly, with deliberate enunciation.

A slight accent underlined his words—maybe eastern European? God, I’d never heard such a deep voice. Velvety and resonant, like a double bass upright hitting the lowest notes.

“Have we met? I feel like I know you.” An itch I couldn’t scratch, that familiarity nagged at me.

One peaked brow rose. “Not to my knowledge.”

Right, silly. I’d definitely remember meeting a giant redhead. Where had I seen his face before? I recognized him somehow.