Wild and wide as it is, Durango is chock-full of such creatures—shifters and harpies and sirens and chupacabras. Normal folk don’t even see ’em, not until they’ve killed one by shooting it—or stabbing, the magic ain’t picky—in the heart. Then their eyes are opened to a whole new world of monsters, some good and some bad, just like men. They might find out their local grocer is a dwarf with glittering stone eyes, say, or that the whores at the saloon have fangs and drain a man in a different sort of way than he remembers the next morning. These four fellers are something new, though, something dangerous she hasn’t seen before.
Then again, there’s some as would consider her dangerous. She’s not only a shifter, but the Shadow, a legendary critter among the local tribes who’s dedicated to delivering justice to the much abused. The Shadow is hard to kill, and other magical things can’t tell that she’s got magic too. They just assume she’s a dumb ol’ human, which puts her at a big advantage. The Shadow’s destiny is an ornery thing that leads Nettie around to kill what needs to die, even when she’s got much better things to do. Like now, for instance.
But first, she’s got to figure out what these fellers are up to. Now, men normally build a fire by sending the most squirrelly tenderfoot to gather dry twigs and hopefully some brittle branches and maybe a stump or two. But these men are pulling chairs out of nowhere, because chasing a naked man across the desert just ain’t peculiar enough for the likes of them.
The first man reaches into nothing and pulls out a stool, looks to be made by hand and smoothed with years of use. He plunks it down in the dirt and sits, legs spread, hands on his knees like he’s bellying up to an invisible bar. He’s a rough feller in cowpoke duds with the face of the town tomcat, but still there’s a dandified air in the way he’s tied his cravat. Something about him is familiar, and Nettie wonders if she’s seen him on a Wanted poster. As he’s the one who tossed the noose and made the forest spring up in a desert, Nettie takes him for the leader.
The second man probes the air with white-gloved hands, doctor hands. He withdraws a raspberry-colored drawing room chair, plush and high-backed with an embroidered pillow. When he sits, he flips out his coattails, just so, and adjusts his little doctor glasses over his little doctor nose. His hair is parted, looks still wet from the comb, and he crosses one neat leg over the other.
The third man has the looks of a trapper as pieced together for a stage play; he’s too clean and whole to be the real deal. The chair he pulls out of nowhere is made of antlers all stuck together, with a glossy bearskin tossed overtop. He’s the only one with a beard, and it’s a thick, wavy thing that weaves into his long hair, black as his eyes. His clothes are layers of worn doeskin and homespun, and his grin flashes like a wolf’s bite in moonlight.
The fourth and final man is the squirrelly one who should be collecting firewood. He’s still got the raw cheeks and bones of boyhood about him, like his elbows and knees haven’t quite figured out where to settle down. His hair is just this side of red, and the chair he pulls out of thin air is a kitchen chair carved of shining wood. He slaps it down to complete the circle and slumps to his elbows to stare at the empty space where there should be a fire, were they men who made any sense.
But they’re not men. As they take off their hats, they reveal long, pointed ears that poke straight up through their glossy hair.
“Go on, then, Tom,” the third man mutters.
The young one leans forward, digging his hands into the dirt and pulling up flames with his bare fingers. There’s a great flash in the falling night, and he sits back, dusting his hands off, a bonfire crackles merrily as if he’d been carefully building it for an hour. There’s even a shiny coffeepot perking at the edge of the flames. Nettie has seen ghost fire before, but this ain’t it. She can feel the heat against her chest from where she hides in the bushes.
She looks down and sneers. Her chest is still there, poking out just enough to tell the world she’s not the man she wishes she was. When she travels as a human and as a man, she carries a muslin cloth to bind up her bitty bosoms and hide her secret. She looks enough like a lanky boy to play the part. But here, out in the middle of nowhere, freshly out of her feathers, she’s naked and shy. As soon as the men start arguing over what to do with their prey, she sneaks around toward their horses to borrow some clothes from their packs. Seeing as how they can pull any damn thing out of thin air, they shouldn’t mind the loss of a shirt for as long as it takes her to figure out who’s a good guy and who’s a bad guy and kill what needs killing.
Nettie Lonesome, you see, is also a Durango Ranger, charged with keeping the good people of Durango Territory safe from the monsters that lurk in plain sight. So not only does the Shadow need to know why the possum’s headed for a noose, but the Durango Ranger is charged with protecting the innocent. It’s a heavy burden, sure enough, and she’d rather be anywhere else but here. She hasn’t seen her Ranger captain or crew in weeks, maybe months, but she can still feel the weight of her badge, pushing her to doing what’s right.
The men are muddying up the night with their arguing as the possum clings to the highest branch of the tree, and Nettie feels a rush of comfort when she smells their horses. She misses her friends, but she misses horses, too. As she quietly approaches, giving them time to smell her in return, she feels her stomach somersaulting and knows that, like their riders, these horses are not what they seem. Two of ’em are unicorns, brushed whiter than most and with their horns, tails, and balls intact. One horse, a dapple gray with a mean eye, has wings folded down by her sides like a goose, dirty and rustling. The last mount looks like a horse, an eagle, and a lion spent a confusing night at a whorehouse, but it’s watching her like it can see through to her hateful heart. All the beasts are kitted up in fancy gear, dripping with ribbons and gold chains. Nettie didn’t much fancy any of their riders before now, but her feelings firmly point to nope. She has no love for a feller who can’t let his horse rest without a saddle, now and again.
Of the four critters, she’s most familiar with unicorns, having broken a few to ride in her days as a simple cowpoke. Feeling exposed as hell and raw as a chunk of meat, she sidles up to the kindest-looking stallion, cool and showing no fear.
“Hey, feller,” she murmurs, voice rusty from disuse. “How ’bout I loosen that cinch for you? Might be nice to take a full breath, don’t you think?”
His great head swings around, almost snakelike, to regard her, a king surveying a potato. Now, Nettie has a way with horses and horselike creatures, and the moment she’s tugged on his cinch, the beast gives a heaving harrumph and nuzzles her briefly. When she slides a hand into his saddlebags, he sighs in a magnanimous-type way and pretends to ignore the trespass. Her clever fingers find the likeliest fold of fabric and pull it out, where it impossibly unfolds again and again until it’s a sweeping, full-body cloak that drags the ground. She digs around the saddlebag until she finds a golden rope much like the one destined for the possum’s scrawny little neck and uses it to tie the billowy fabric around her waist. It’s somehow both heavy and soft, like wearing a winter blanket made of spiderwebs, and it moves with Nettie’s every step.
“Time to meet a posse in my pajamas,” Nettie tells the unicorn, who nods as if he understands how goddamn preposterous this is.
As she approaches the fire, she tries to figure out what’s going on.
“I don’t care if he’s fair of face. He fired a gun at me.” The first man, the leader.
“Ah, but it was dry. He didn’t actually shoot you. And you’re not allergic to iron anymore. And finally, if we’re discussing facts, you had previously asked to inspect the weapon in question. . . .” The second man, the doctor.
“And had removed all but the second bullet . . .” The third man, the trapper, while grinning.
“And then, when the gun didn’t fire, you took it back and shot him in the gut.” The fourth man, the one with the baby face, wincing as he says it. “Not that that’ll kill a shifter.”
“A
nd shooting can’t hurt you either, after all,” adds the doc, adjusting his spectacles. “It would only tickle a little.”
The first man stands, and Nettie understands that he’s not the clever, kind, brave sort of leader. He’s the sort who leads by force and fear. The sort who drinks power, all sloppy, from someone else’s glass like it’s cheap whiskey.
“Just because bullets can’t kill me and iron ain’t a problem doesn’t mean I enjoy the sensation of being shot. I still say we string him up and cut out his heart. I’d like to put it in a bell jar.”
The doc rubs his stubbled cheeks. “How many hearts do you really need in bell jars? Isn’t your shelf nearly full? Let’s just take him back to Lincoln and let the humans sort out their petty little disputes. This is why they make their laws. And why we should keep to ours.”
“I don’t want to go back to Lincoln,” says the tenderfoot boy. “Let’s go back home. I get tired of playacting so much. My ears feel permanently crushed.”
“How poetic,” the trapper says, sneering.
“Well, he is young still, Rudebaugh,” murmurs the doc.
“I’m only a century younger than you!” the boy shouts, tossing up his hands in a cloud of glitter.
“We can’t go home, and we need to feed, so you’ll keep on playacting. I’d rather play at outlaws and feed on the humans’ fear than go back to the form we used to take, as wee sprites with sparkling wings who sup on milk and grant wishes.” The trapper dances his fingers through the air, leaving a trail of golden light and twinkling sparkles behind. As the others stare into space, looking wistful, he pulls a tin cup out of nowhere and pours himself a slug of coffee. “And we can’t have coffee back home, neither.”
“I still say we kill ’im.” The leader stands, knocks the cup to the ground, and walks to the tree. He flicks the golden noose with his hand, and they all watch it swing. Up on the branch, the possum hisses like it doesn’t cotton to the idea. “If I’m not having fun, why are we even here?”
“Because you’re on the outs with the Queen again, Bonney,” the doc says, all fussy.
“So let’s take back a fine new fur cape for her beautiful shoulders.”
The trapper claps his hands and crows. “Queen Mab in a possum cloak? Now that I’d pay to see.”
“Enough. Chasing that son of a bitch through town butt-naked was fun, but I’ve drunk my share of his fear, and I’m done playing around. Let’s do this.” The leader snaps his fingers, and the possum appears in his fist, dangling by the scruff of its neck. “Damn, you’re ugly.” He laughs, shaking it. In response, it shudders, sticks out its tongue, and plays dead. He drops it and gives it a nudge with his boot. “Skin him, Scurlock, so I can string him up for trying to shoot me.”
The doc purses his pretty mouth and waves a gloved hand, and the possum becomes a man, naked and unconscious in the dust. There’s nothing special about him to draw the eye—he’s just a feller like any other. Nettie had hoped maybe she’d recognize him, but she doesn’t, which makes it all the stranger that she does what she does, which is that she stands up behind the screen of brush, holds up her hands, pitches her voice low, and shouts, “Stop right there!”
The four men are instantly on their feet, but strangely, no guns are drawn.
“Who the hell are you?” mutters the trapper.
The men’s eyes shift and meet, and they swirl as smoothly as hot grease in a pan to form a ring around her.
“I’m Rhett Hennessy. I’m a Durango Ranger, and it sounds like you fellers are an unlawful posse. So what’s this man done to you? Is he a criminal?”
As if on cue, the man wakes up and hops to his feet, one filthy hand cupping his janglies.
“I didn’t do nothin’!” he pretty much yodels.
Nettie instantly realizes he’s dumb . . . as a possum . . . and wishes she’d never shed her bird skin, much less gone poking around in the unicorn’s saddlebag. Whatever it was about the situation that drew her to it was obviously a mistake. But she won’t feel right putting her Ranger badge back on one day if she walks away and leaves him to die, either.
“This man tried to shoot me,” the leader says, his voice just a little too cultured for the outlaw he’s pretending to be. “So we’re upholding justice.”
“That’s not justice,” Nettie says, her dander up. “That’s vigilanteism.”
The doc sniffs. “That’s not even a word.”
“Illegal, then. We got courts for that, and they don’t meet in the middle of nowhere.”
The leader’s eyes narrow. “Are you wearing my cloak?”
Now Nettie sniffs. “No. This is just . . . what I normally wear.”
He starts to turn red with rage before his mouth twitches with a smile. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. What would you do to save this man? Would you . . . make a wager?”
“Oh, please. Not this again,” the doc wails.
“Yee-haw!” the trapper hollers, slapping his knee.
The young one just straightens up a little, like he wishes he could take notes.
“I’ll fight you for him,” Nettie offers. “If you’ll just lend me a gun.”
She knows that these fellers aren’t human, but she also knows that if she can hit the leader in the heart, he’s likely to die. Thanks to her own destiny as the Shadow, they can’t tell that she’s a monster. They think she’s human. As far as they know, she can’t even tell they’re doing magic. So if they hit her anywhere other than her heart, she’ll just heal up around the hole like the possum did and keep on kicking. The odds of winning, as far as she’s concerned, are pretty good. If the Shadow’s instincts brought her here, then the Shadow must have a good chance of seeing tomorrow.
Again, these fellers don’t know that.
“A gunfight. That sounds entertaining.” The leader looks to his men. “But that leaves my three friends here without their own chance for a bit of tomfoolery. Are you man enough for four challenges, winner takes the prize?”
Nettie chews the inside of her lip, considering. What choice does she have? Say no thank you kindly and mosey off into the night in this feller’s pajamas, leaving the possum to die? Even if she tried to mosey off, there’s little chance they’d let her. Folks who feel the need to string up varmints probably feel similarly about random folks who show up out of nowhere begging for gunfights. Leaving her only one choice, really.
“What kind of challenges?” she asks, one hand on her hip like it’s as simple as a game of cards.
“Oh, this and that,” the leader says easily. As if to seal the deal, he pulls a magnificent gold pistol from his holster and holds it to the man’s heart. The naked man freezes, eyes closed, and starts begging. “You’ve got until the count of three. One. Two.”
“Fine, goddamn it! But I get to name a challenge too.”
“Well then. So mote it be.”
The four men reappear in their chairs, at ease. A fifth chair has appeared, just a stump, really. Nettie wonders what a normal human would see, if it would be as confusing as being drunk, the way they’re waving their goddamn magic around.
“Have a seat, lad,” the leader says.
Much to her consternation, her body sits without asking her mind if it’s a good idea. At least she can breathe again, now that the pistol isn’t pressed to the possum feller’s heart. She can still see the indentation of the steel circle in his pasty pink skin. He’s in manacles now, gold ones, as if he’s been wearing them all along. He stares at the chain between his wrists, jaw open. Nettie grinds her teeth and reminds herself never to help a possum, ever again.
“What’s the first challenge?” she asks.
“Sharpshooting,” the leader says. “But I’ll warn you. You’ve heard of Billy the Kid?”
“Who the hell hasn’t?”
“Well.” He pulls out both guns and twirls them. “I am he.”
Nettie snorts. “Whoop-de-goddamn-do, boy. Line up the cans, and let’s go.”
But now she knows why he look
s familiar, and now she knows she can’t outshoot him.
Two apples appear in the man’s hands. “Cans? Pshaw. These’ll do.” With a hand to the possum man’s chest, the leader shoves him backward until he’s pressed against the tree, the same one from which the golden noose still dangles. The possum man is shivering in fear, eyes white all around.
“Please, Billy,” he mutters, but Billy just shoves one of the apples in the possum-man’s mouth and puts the other one on top of his head.
“What’s the rules?” Nettie asks.
“First one to hit their apple wins. I’ll mark it off.”
As he paces away from the tree, Nettie stares at the possum man and considers. She knows for sure now that these four fellers are fae. She’s heard the Captain talk about the strange folks who hate being called fairies, powerful, tricksy creatures who have big magic and love to talk you to death with their pretty lies. But if they like tricking, she figures they can be tricked back.
Thing is, Billy didn’t say, “First to shoot an apple.” He said hit.
Nettie snatches the apple off the possum man’s head before Billy can turn around, tosses it on the ground, picks up a rock, and smashes it to bits. The men in the chairs burst out laughing, and Billy spins around, gun aimed for an apple that’s no longer there.
“First to hit an apple,” Nettie says with a shrug. “Your words, not mine.”
“I— You—!” Billy splutters, his eyes burning as glittery sparks leap from his body like lightning.
“The boy got you fair and square,” the doc observes.
Billy inhales sharply and turns, his shoulders hunching as he doubles over. The fire throws his shadow against the tree and over the possum man, and the darkness unfolds to show clawed hands digging furrows through the leaves, great black antlers bursting from his head like a crown to rake the sky. When he turns back, his shadows folds back in, and he’s just a man again, trying to smile in the same way that spoiled children do when pretending they’re sorry for throwing tantrums.
“One to you, then, boy. Doc, you’re next.” Billy throws himself back onto his stool, but it somehow sprouts arms and a back and is now wide enough for him to lounge in, looking like he’s one step away from bashing in Nettie’s head with the apple-smeared rock.
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