Werewolves are bad, but ice age predators are worse, especially werepredators...
Being a bush pilot is the third most dangerous job in the world. Piper Tikaani takes that in stride. As an Inupiaq shapeshifter, flying is second nature, whether under her own power, or tackling the skies in her Super Cub.
Strong winds, rugged terrain, and rough clients, were all the excitement she had room for until a mysterious death and hidden treasure led Piper to a new and dark reality. One where the people she trusts hide things from her, and ancient beasts stalk the land.
Now with the help of her friends and her new lover, she must discover the truth. The truth about the treasure, the truth about her clan, and the truth about herself. Unfortunately for her, this may mean exposing her secrets to the very creatures that are hunting her. You see, the dark gods of her people are back and they are hunting the shadow wingedâlike Piper.
If you like unique Urban Fantasy based on Native American mythology along the lines of Patricia Briggs, CE Murphy, and Faith Hunter, youâll love this new series!
Werewolves are bad, but ice age predators are worse, especially werepredators...
Being a bush pilot is the third most dangerous job in the world. Piper Tikaani takes that in stride. As an Inupiaq shapeshifter, flying is second nature, whether under her own power, or tackling the skies in her Super Cub.
Strong winds, rugged terrain, and rough clients, were all the excitement she had room for until a mysterious death and hidden treasure led Piper to a new and dark reality. One where the people she trusts hide things from her, and ancient beasts stalk the land.
Now with the help of her friends and her new lover, she must discover the truth. The truth about the treasure, the truth about her clan, and the truth about herself. Unfortunately for her, this may mean exposing her secrets to the very creatures that are hunting her. You see, the dark gods of her people are back and they are hunting the shadow wingedâlike Piper.
If you like unique Urban Fantasy based on Native American mythology along the lines of Patricia Briggs, CE Murphy, and Faith Hunter, youâll love this new series!
The rugged cliffs of the Alaska Range darkened as the clouds pressed from above. I decreased my air speed and descended another hundred feet, hugging the right side of the steep mountain and giving myself room in case I had to turn around in the narrow pass and go back to Anchorage. We were close enough to the side of the mountain to observe a band of grizzlies under my right wing. Most of the animals cringed when we buzzed past, but a huge boar looked up, challenging us. My client barked out a quick laugh. Â
Iâd already sunk four hundred feet on my way through the pass, and we flew along at an altitude of eight hundred. The lowering ceiling kept forcing us down as I raced an incoming front. I cleared the pass and zoomed out over open ground, trees, and tundra.Â
Suddenly, a black cloud materialized in front of me. I slowed further, trying to dip below. As I grew closer, I realized it was a cloud of dark birds. My heart sped up. I dipped my right wing to avoid them, but they moved almost as if they were trying to hit me. Â
I increased the dip further, and accidentally stalled the wingâlosing lift. We dropped fast. My passenger gasped loudly. I grimaced; teeth clenched with concentration. After some quick maneuvering, I recovered from the stall, sweat running down my back.
A flash of black feathers and a loud whump were all I saw as the ravens bounced off the
plane. âShit!â I yelled as I dove further to avoid the rest. We were down to three hundred feet. The clouds were still pressing on us, and I worried about the damage the large birds might have caused the cloth covered Super Cub.
âWeâre going to have to land.â I straightened out and looked for somewhere to put down. âI need to assess the damage.â
He grunted affirmatively. Rough maneuvering like that can leave your passengers a bit green, so I hoped he was doing well and wouldnât spray my cockpit with vomit.Â
Luckily, we were over a river and even though it seemed to be running higher than usual, there had to be a gravel or sand bar somewhere big enough to land a good bush plane on. The Cub bounced and swayed in the strong wind, and the sky continued to threaten as I located a potential landing spot on a gravel bar.  Â
A quick glance back showed my passengerâs white knuckles clinging to the back of my seat. I buzzed the gravel bar twice, mentally checking the length, and circled back to land. I came in at an angle, fighting the crosswind, and straightened at the last second to avoid the possibility of the wind flipping us. I could smell the sharp, quick scent of fear. Mine and the strangerâs. It filled the plane as the sudden deceleration pushed us into the seat belts.
The Super Cub is the workhorse of the bush. Itâs small, likes to fly, carries a good load, and can take-off and land in a very short distanceâluckily. I dragged my oversized Bushwheels through the water, slowing the plane, and bounced gently down the short, makeshift runway. I turned and maneuvered it for a quick take-off before I powered down.
âYou doing okay back there?âÂ
I got another affirmative grunt.Â
âYou might as well stretch your legs; I know it gets a bit cramped back there.â
I pulled off my headset and opened the door. The wind tore my long braids free and whipped them around my head. I cursed quietly and grabbed my red Tulugaq cap and jammed it down firmly, holding my hair in place.
âThat was some pretty good flying.â His voice was husky, deep, and rumbled from his chest. Â
I shrugged. I wasnât happy with my flying right now. âItâs like they came out of nowhere.â I scowled up at the darkened sky. âItâs weird. I thought ravens were too smart to hit a plane,â I spoke quietly, mostly to myself.Â
I didn't let on about it freaking me out. Ravens are a personal animal for me. Hitting them made me feel slightly nauseous and unbalanced.Â
I helped him remove the bags and gear that were pinning him down, and he stepped out.
 A quick chill raised the hair on my neck and peppered me with gooseflesh. I looked around to see if anyone besides my passenger was around. No one. I brushed off the feeling. How dumb, by worrying about the ravens Iâd spooked myself! Â
I frowned slightly at my passenger, trying to remember his name. He had a bemused smile on his face. He pushed his hat back a little. His auburn hair was peeking out, some pressed against his head with sweat. He pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his face. When he looked up, his bright blue eyes immediately drew me in. Wow. He hadnât looked more than average at first glance, but those eyes were something. I looked away quickly. Â
He took a deep breath of the cool, clean air and looked around. âI can see how this country can get under your skin,â he said. âCan I help you with anything?â he added after turning back to me.
âThanks, uh, Vanice?â I stumbled through the name, hoping Iâd got it right. I thought for a moment longer; no, that was right, Vanice Fletcher, but he had some kind of nickname. He flinched; I should have paid closer attention to dad when we were loading up.
âCall, me Fletch or Fletcher,â he said. âVanice was my grandfather.â
âOkay, sorry. Iâm Piper, by the way, like my airplane. Itâs a Piper Super Cub. Only Iâm Piper Tikaani. I was a little distracted before. I donât remember if I told you my name.â I was babbling. I shut my mouth, held out my hand, and we shook. âIâm good, with the plane, I mean. Why donât you have a look around while I check it over? Just keep an eye out for bears.â
âSure.âÂ
As he wandered away, I looked for damage. There didnât seem to be any marks, blood, or feathers on my propeller, which was good; I didnât think the ravens hit it, and I hadnât heard any change in the engine. I checked the leading edge of my wings. There was a small tear in the fabric on the right wing. I got out a roll of duct tape and fixed it. It wasnât pretty, but it would get me to Vaniceâs, ugh, Fletcherâs cabin and back home. I didnât see anything else other than some blood down the side. I wiped it off. We were good.
I got in, pulled on my headset, tuned the radio to our air serviceâs private channel, and pushed down the talk button on my throttle. âTulugaq base, dad, pick me up?â
âYeah, I got you, Pipe, okay.â
âHey, dad, we had a bird strike, Cubâs fine. I had to put us down forty-two miles north- northeast of Clydeâs. The front has pushed the ceiling and visibility down, and weâre going to be hustling to the cabin. Would you please have mom or Baylee call and see if they can get me a later hair appointment tomorrow? I donât know if Iâll make it back tonight, okay?â
âSure thing, Piper, dad out.â
I was delivering my passenger to an old family friendâs cabin who had died this past fall. Fletcher had inherited it from Clyde and had never been there before. I turned off the radio and climbed back out.
 I groaned inwardly. This was my third drop off flight of the day, and I was ready to be done. All I wanted was something warm in my belly and to stretch out on my comfortable bed.
The wind amped up even more. I looked up, concerned at what I saw. The clouds bore down, and the sky grew heavier and darker. I radioed Anchorage and got a weather report.
âDamn,â I mumbled to myself. âFletcher?â I called out tentatively, still not sure about his name.
âYeah, Iâm over here.â He waved his hand at me from the brush over by the tree line about fifty yards back from the river.Â
His neutral clothing blended in well. He wore a tan shirt and faded blue jeans. He seemed to be five ten or eleven. I was average height for a woman, so he was probably only a few inches taller than me. He started back. Just then, I saw him jump to the side and whirl back to look at the tree line. I walked over to join him, concerned. I scanned the tree line to see what made him jump.
âSomeone threw a rock at me.â The sunglasses were back down over his eyes.Â
Raven gives me better eyesight than anyone I know, but there wasnât anything to see through the trees and the brush. I took in a deep breath to see if I could pick up a foreign scent.Â
Just then, a loud noise came from behind us and to the left, a thwack like wood being struck against wood. We both turned and faced that direction, spooked. I didnât have my weapon; it was in my backpack back in the Cub, but I reached behind me to the holster that I usually kept there when I was in the bush.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, again, this time rhythmically and quick. It was about five hundred feet in yet another direction; the wind had shifted, so I still couldnât pick up a scent. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I was sure we were being watched.
âItâs too loud for a woodpecker, or a ground squirrel,â I mumbled.
He grunted an affirmative. We walked faster back to the plane. Fletcherâs hand was behind his back, and I wondered if he had a weapon within reach like I should. I kept catching movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to look, nothing was there. A large rock landed to the left of us. We picked up the pace.
           âI think someone is screwing with us,â Fletcher growled.Â
           âWho?â I asked.
There wasnât anyone here for miles. No cabins. I hadnât seen any other aircraft from the air, although it was possible some hunters had this area staked out and were trying to scare us off, but I hadnât seen any signs when we flew over. Bears donât throw rocks, though.
I quickly got Fletcher resituated in the back seat, and all the gear packed back in. I climbed in and pulled on my headset, checked that Fletcher was wearing his, and flipped the intercom system on. Â
           âThe weather report stated that the ceiling is down to five hundred feet and visibility is below one mile, weâre going to have to go fast or stay here for the night. Itâll be rough. Are you ready?â
           His answer was immediate. âYes.â
           Just as I was about to shut the door, I thought I heard an unrecognizable, eerie howl. It sent a primal shiver down my spine, but I shrugged it and the feeling of being watched off as the wind and my overactive imagination. I pulled my door shut securely and fired up the engine. I blasted down the short gravel bar and the Cub lifted fast into the air, the wind screaming over the wings.
           There are a few unwritten rules of the bush pilot. One is to never fly too low with a client. Alone, I had no qualms pushing myself or my ride, but itâs safer to have extra air between you and the ground in case anything happensâlike the raven incident.Â
Iâd have to skim the bottom of the clouds to get us to the cabin, but I figured it was worth the risk to make it to shelter before the storm opened up and stranded us in the wilds with whatever had stalked us.
           I fought the wind all the way to Fletcherâs cabin. Luckily, I could see the landing strip before the low ceiling and the wind forced us out of the sky once again.
           A landing strip in the bush is not a paved or even an oiled dirt road; itâs equal to a cleared area where there may be a smoothed-out section, or it may just be mown grass, gravel, or a break in the trees. Clydeâs strip was well used in the past, but it hadnât been tended to for over ten months. Granted, most of that was winter, and it was early enough that the grass that was growing wasnât very long. There was still snow hanging on in patches amongst the trees, but no brush had quite covered the strip yet. I circled it and scrutinized it thoroughly for branches or other debris before I put down.
Fletcher was quiet the whole way. Not because he was uninterested in talking, but to let me work through the turbulence. Now, we sat and listened to the pinging of the cooling engine. The trees blocked the wind somewhat, but an occasional gust would rock the small plane. Â
I radioed Tulugaq and let dad know we were here. The ceiling had dropped again, and it looked like the front that seemed to want to blow past had decided to drop a wallop of a storm after all. Iâd be staying until morning. I sighed. Why did I bother making a hair appointment, anyway? Iâd just make do, as usual, with hot rollers and charm for my date tomorrow night.Â
I huffed out a small laugh at myself, like charm was anything I had to offer.
I was shaky from fighting the stick the last forty or so minutes, and I was starving from the calorie draw. I pulled off my headset and opened the door to help Fletcher unload and get out. We secured the aircraft and started hauling his gear to the cabin.
The cabin was old, but Clyde had done some work to modernize it. It originally had one small window in the front by the door. Heâd cut a window into each wall and added good, insulated glass, which slid open and had screens. The door was sturdy, handmade, solid wood. Â
Logs are naturally very insulating, but when Clyde had replaced the sod roof, heâd added more peak and insulated under the steel. Heâd covered the inside of the roof with boards Iâd hauled in with my plane. The floor was also wood, and since the cabin was older than Clydeâs time, Iâm sure that originally it had been dirt. He had a wooden framed bed in the far corner with a thick memory foam pad; Iâd brought that to him. It was a lot more comfortable for aging bones than the old camp pads heâd used for years.Â
The other main corner had his stove. Clydeâd had steel flown in and built his own cook stove. Clyde liked to cook and can. He kept his kitchen area clean and neat, and the stove was a piece of functional art. You filled it with wood, and it doubled as a heater. He kept a small kerosene heater as well; I assume for when it got too warm using the stove. He had a small wooden table, two wooden chairs, and a wooden rocking chair next to a small bookcase, all hand made. There was electricity wired to the house, one outlet, an overhead light above the kitchen, and a lamp by the chair. He kept various things hanging on the walls, furs, a moose rack, some old photosâdad had taken most of thoseâand shelves with various things. It was a well lived-in home. Â
When we walked in, it smelled a bit musty from being shut up for such a long time. It was dusty and damp. Dad had locked everything up and taken care of any perishable foodstuffs by taking them out to burn, so it didnât smell of any rot; however, it was going to need a good scrubbing just the same.
I wrinkled my nose. âMaybe we should open the windows for a short time and air this place out.â
âGood idea,â Fletcher agreed.Â
I opened the windows. I knew we wouldnât be able to keep them open long, the temperature was dropping too fast, and the wind was still ramping up. I dug through my stuff for the matches and gathered wood to start a fire in the cookstove. Clyde had at least two years of split wood piled up along the house and shed, so it didnât take too much time or effort to build up a blaze. Clyde also had water piped to the house from the river, so I put a pot of water on to boil. Cocoa sounded good, something warm and sweet.
âIâm going to go have a look at that generator,â Fletcher said after he finished stacking his gear neatly inside by the door. âIâll see if I can get it up and running.â Â
I cleaned most of the surface dust away, washed off the table and chairs, and swept the floor while the water boiled. There wasnât much more cleaning that could be done without a day and a good scouring, but with the windows open and the bit of cleaning Iâd done, the place smelled noticeably better. I have an extremely sensitive nose, so that was an instant relief. Plus, the cold wind dried out the collected moisture quickly. I was wearing my fleece-lined windbreaker, having left my heavier jacket in the plane. It was getting too cold to have the windows open, so I shut them.
Once the water was rolling in the kettle, I poured it into two mismatched, quickly cleaned mugs for the cocoa. The lights blinked on as I was stirring. Fletcher had gotten the generator running.
Weâd brought up some lamp oil and candles, but we knew Clyde had refilled his fuel storage before heâd died, so we didnât need to bring any other fuel with us. The extra light unveiled the cobwebs in the corners, and the dust that had collected on the inside of the logs. I tried not to let it bother me. It wasnât my place; I could live with the dirt.Â
With the windows closed, the place grew toasty quickly. My stomach rumbled, and I had the beginnings of that grouchy, lightheaded, âI need to eat soonâ feeling. I donât let myself get too hungry; I have a lot less control over hiding my differences when I am. I pulled a military Meal Ready to Eat cheese tortellini entrĂ©e out of my backpack. Fletcher walked in with a blast of icy air as I sorted through my backpack for a candy bar.
âWow, itâs really picked up out there,â Fletcher said.
I looked around; it had grown darker. I could hear the brush of tree limbs against the metal roof, and the rattle as debris blew clear.Â
âDo you think it might snow?â
I frowned. It wasnât out of the question even in June, but I didnât want to get trapped here if a major snowstorm came through. âI hope not, but I guess itâs possible. The weather service predicted wind, followed by fog with a slight chance of precipitation.â I handed him the other mug of cocoa. We sat at the small table. âI just boiled water, and I was thinking of opening an MRE. Are you hungry?â I asked politely, although I planned to eat whether I had company or not.
âStarved. Let me dig something out of my stash,â he replied.
I heated my MRE as he mixed up some of his freeze-dried food.
âDid Clyde ever mention being afraid of something out here?â he asked as we started tearing into the food like refugees.
âNo, why?â I replied, curiously.
âWell, Iâve noticed a couple of odd things. First, look at the doors into this place.â I glanced at the rear door that led to the woodpiles and outhouse, and then the door we had come in. âWhat about them?â They didnât look any different from the last time I was here.
âTheyâre absolutely solid.â He opened the door so I could see the edge. âThey have a steel core. Look, why does he have these reinforced bars?â Â
He lifted the wooden bar and slid it into its slots after he shut the door. Clydeâs doors had those old-fashioned steel brackets bolted into them and the cabin, with thick boards that slid into them. I just assumed he liked that look, and it was cheaper to make them than to buy some deadbolt set. Â
âWhy did he need floodlights?â
I thought about it for a while. Even having something that needs a light bulb, let alone a generator and electricity in the bush, is beyond extravagant. Everything that canât be brought by river had to be flown in and was extremely expensive.
Fletcher continued, âThe windows are also too small to allow anyone to crawl through them. They should be bigger to let in light.â
âI donât know, maybe he liked the way it looked?â I said uncertainly.
âThere isnât another cabin or person for miles. He built this place like a fortress. Whoâs going to break in?â
âI guess I just assumed all gold miners are a little paranoid.â
âThe shed is the same way. Itâs also built from logs. He has enough steel roofing out there he could have much more easily built a metal covered shed. Yet, it has the same handmade steel core doors, and wooden braces, same with the outhouse. Also, both have food and water stashes.â
I frowned; how had I failed to notice those things during the many trips Iâd made here? Especially since Iâd spent my growing-up years exploring every inch of the property in my various forms.Â
âI just never thought about it. That is odd. Iâll ask dad when I get back to town if Clyde had ever said anything to him. They were friends. He hasnât ever said a thing to me, though.â
I thought a little longer; my rational self overruling the nagging, instinctual alarm in the back of my head, âThere is a rational explanation for everything if you think about it. In the winter, it is possible to get lost in a whiteout from here to the shed or the outhouse; there probably should be an emergency stash of food and water if you get caught in one.Â
Also, Clyde was a craftsman. He liked to make things; the doors could simply have been something aesthetic and functional to him. Same as the logs, they all match, and you have to admit the place looks good because itâs not all mismatched and rusty.Â
âHe also liked to work with metal.â I gestured around the room at the various handmade metal objects, like the stove. âThe windows are small to conserve heat and the bars, well maybe they were the easiest way to secure the doors, short of going into town and buying a lockset. It also gets dark in the winter, maybe he had the floodlights just so he could see from here to the shed.â
There, that made me feel better. Everything could be rationally explained, even though it was totally impractical and expensive to haul such things out to the bush.
Fletcher frowned. âYeah, youâre probably right. I guess the way he died is making me suspicious of everything.â
âNo worries. I will ask, though. Iâm sure there isnât anything really mysterious, but you never know.â I paused for a moment, not sure if I should continue. The primitive urges to hide and flee, flirting in the back of my head, were making me uncomfortable and antsy. So, I shared them. Logically.
âOn the other hand, this area, around the lake, has a history of strange happenings, unexplained lights, glimpses of unknown animals, disappearances, UFOs. Lake Iliamna even has a monster like Loch Ness!â I said lightly, jokingly, anything to lighten the mood. Clydeâs place had never felt spooky to me like some places could, but these observations of Fletcherâs were turning the tide on that. It was time to change the subject.
âYou know, if you want to solve a mystery, hereâs a good one. Clyde always paid us in small glass bottles of flour gold.â I paused for dramatic effect. âHe didnât always know when we were coming, so I know he kept a stash somewhere that was readily available. Also, he mined all the time. So, whereâs the gold?â
âYou think he found enough to bother hiding?â Fletcher asked.
âYes, so does dad. We spent a lot of time trying to guess where Clyde had his gold stashed. It wasnât serious like we would look for it; it was just fun to guess. These old gold miners are notoriously paranoid and overly protective of their stash. Not that I blame them with the price of gold like it is.â
           âThe attorney mentioned Clyde had paid him with gold. Heâd left enough with the attorney for his burial, and the taxes on this place, so I didnât have to come up with anything when I took it over,â Fletcher said.
âI guess it is possible he spent whatever he found to survive, but I bet he has something stashed around here, hidden. It might be fun to look.â I shrugged.
âIt will give me something to do after I inventory everything and decide what I need.â Fletcher was quiet for a while, thoughtful, then he looked around the cabin. âI feel sort of strange going through this manâs things, living in his home, talking about him, and I donât even know what he looked like, but here I am a stranger, dissecting his life, living in his personal space.â
I threw up a hand. âHold that thought!â I grabbed my backpack and dug around. Iâd slipped in a couple of photos of Clyde, thinking it would be nice to show them to the new owner, who I thought would be a relative of some sort, but then in the midst of all that had gone on today, Iâd forgotten. I handed them to him.Â
âThis is a picture of Clyde and dad the summer before last. They were fishing on Ship Creek for kings.â I lifted an eyebrow in question. I didnât know if he knew what king salmon were, but he nodded. I let him examine it. âThis one is Clyde, here, in front of my plane.â I watched Fletcher study the photos for a minute, and I tried to look at Clyde with fresh eyes. He had always appeared to be a man haunted to me. His mouth was smiling in the photos, but his eyes were always sad, in pain. He never spoke of what had driven him into the bush, but it must have been devastating to fill his eyes with such despair.
âI have dadâs police statement, about Clydeâs death. Iâm not sure if you want to read it, itâs a little disturbing, and since then, my dad wonât talk about it. Reading it is better than me trying to tell you everything that happened, even though I know you know the basics. Dad was quite thorough in describing exactly what happened. I thought it may be something youâd be interested in.â I was nervous about showing the report to him. It felt personal, because dad explained his thoughts and feelings as well as the details of finding his dead friend. Still, I figured it was more Fletcherâs business than mine at this point.
He took the paper gently from my fingers, glanced at me a moment, and bent his head to read. His face remained stoic throughoutâeven though I knew the content was disturbing.
âYour dad is a descriptive writer.â
âYeah, he doesnât talk much, but he gets a little wordy when he writes.â
âThanks, Piper. I appreciate you sharing this with me.â He handed it back. I folded it and stuffed it back into my pack. âDid the police ever discover any reason why he was on the roof?â
âJust guesses, but the fact he had pulled up the ladder throws all their guesses off.â I shrugged, tired of guessing and of wondering what had happened.
I hurriedly changed the subject. âYou said you were a stranger. I thought you were Clydeâs relative?â
He looked at me for a moment. âNo. Clyde left everything to my grandmother. I donât know how they were involved. Iâm the only one of my family left, so I inherited everything by default.â
I didnât know what to say, so I nodded. âAny particular place you want me to sleep?â I asked, although my heart was set on the foam bed.
He gave me a sexy crooked smile, mischief glinting in his eyes, and I gathered up a short retort, when he said, âYou have your pick of any spot,â he paused. âOn the floor.â He laughed as I turned pink, anticipating some chauvinist remark.
Realizing what he said, I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought.
He chuckled. âYou can take the bed, but Iâd like to know what you thought I was going to say.â
âI bet you would,â I mumbled as I spread my sleeping bag out over the memory foam.
*
The morning found me waking up disoriented, too hot, and trapped. I lay still and tried not to panic as I attempted to orient myself. Slowly, it came back to me as I focused on the log wall. I was at Clydeâs, no⊠Fletcherâs cabin, in his bed, with his arm around me. I relaxed.
âWhat!â I thrashed. âGet off me!â I wiggled my bag to the bottom of the bed and stood up. âWhat do you think youâre doing?â
âWell, I was sleeping, finally,â He stated groggily.
âI thought you slept on the floor,â I whined.
âI tried to,â He yawned. âBut between your snoring, and the stench down there, I wasnât having much success.â He rubbed his face. âThen you turned over and faced the wall, and left that invitingly empty stretch of bed, soâŠhere I am.â
âI didnât think youâd try something like that.â
âLike what? You were in your sleeping bag, and I was in mine. Itâs difficult to steal someoneâs virtue from inside a mummy bag.â
Iâd lost the argument. It was his bed, after all, and I was as alone in my sleeping bag as he was in his. It didnât keep me from glaring at him as I redressed in my bag from the clothes Iâd shoved down at the bottom the night before. Sure, they get a few wrinkles like that, but theyâre toasty warm when you put them back on. After nearly dislocating my shoulders, I was redressed and free of the bag. I yanked on my shoes and my jacket.
âIâm going out to check on the Cub and the weather,â I said as I pulled open the door. It was completely still outside. There was a light fog, but it was enough to make the silence eerie. Iâd grown up here more or less. Never did I have as intense a feeling of being watched as I did now. The eerie silence felt sinister.
My radio call ensured that Anchorage was clear, so once the fog burnt off here, I was free to go. I took my time going back to the cabin, embarrassed at how Iâd acted. I was mad at being spooked by the fog, and sad to abandon a place that felt like home to a stranger. So, I took my time looking over my plane, did my preflight, and checked on my repair job, all before heading back in. Â
âIâm sorry about the way I acted,â I said as I walked in.Â
Fletcher was sitting on his bed, dressed, rubbing his hands over his face and hair to wake up. âDonât worry about it,â he replied.
           âI can leave as soon as this fog burns off. Why donât I load our numbers into your sat phone while we wait, so you can get a hold of us as you need?â
           âGood idea. Harder to lose that way,â he replied.
           I loaded the numbers to Tulugaq, my satellite phone, and my personal cell into his sat phone so he could reach our flight service anytime. I stuffed my sleeping bag into its compression sack and picked up my small mess. âDo you want me to help you check out the meat cache before I go? I could hold the ladder.â I was still trying to make up for biting his head off for no reason.
           âSure, at least Iâll have an idea what Iâm up against,â he said with a smile.
           I peered up at the meat cache, a good ten feet in the air above my head. The wind had stirred and picked up, slowly clearing the fog. It was blowing away from me, so luckily, I couldnât smell it, but I could imagine that it wouldnât be pleasant. Fletcher leaned the ladder he had brought over from where it lay against the house onto the small ledge that ran in front of the cache. I held it steady as he climbed up and opened the door to glance inside.
           âItâs empty,â he yelled down at me.
           âWhat? That canât be! I know it was full before Clyde died. Was the door secured?â
           âYes, it has the same mechanism as the house, just on the outside,â he started down. âGo have a look.â
Curious, I started up the ladder. There was no way that meat cache should be empty, unless Clyde had emptied it shortly before he died. It should be full of meat. I looked inside. I believed Fletcher, but I was still surprised it was perfectly empty. Only the long-gone whisper of old bloodstains and the slight smell of old blood remained. I climbed down.
           âWell, at least you wonât have to clean it out,â I said as I shook my head. âThatâs just bizarre.â
           âHe could have just cleaned it out before he died, planning for new meat,â Fletcher said.
           âI guess, but I swear dad said he helped Clyde put some fresh moose up there only a week before he died,â I replied, but I could be off by a few weeks. It was hard to remember for sure.
           âMaybe it went bad, and he disposed of it.â
           âYeah, Iâm sure itâs no big deal. At least you donât have to deal with the stench.â
He looked thoughtful and glanced back up at the cache, measuring its height with his eyes. âI am curious about one thing, though. Last night, on the floor, I got a distinctly rotten odorâsomewhere between dead meat, burnt onions, and skunkâcoming in on the wind from under the door. It lasted for some time, so I climbed up into the bed. Last night, I told myself it came from the meat cache. The question is, what was it?â
Shadow Winged is the debut novel of Jileen Dolbeare, and I'm willing to admit that it was the cover that immediately caught my attention here! Though what kept me interested was the description. I need more urban fantasy in my life!
Piper Tikaani is one of a kind â no matter how you look at it. She's a female bush pilot and an Inupiaq shapeshifter. Neither are exactly common, but Piper is proud of what she has made of her life. It helps that she usually doesn't have to deal with anything worse than an annoying tourist here and there.
Right up until something awful happened, of course. Now a family friend is dead, a death that kicked off a whole series of events for Piper to have to deal with. Now she's in a race for her life â quite literally.
"Werewolves are bad, but ice age predators are worse, especially werepredators..."
Can we just take a second to appreciate that tagline? Of course, I was going to read Shadow Winged after seeing that! Shadow Winged is the first novel in a series of the same name, and guys, I am SO excited that there's going to be more of this.
Shadow Winged was such a fun and thrilling read! Picture urban fantasy with a MacGuffin-esque plot, with a dash of danger and romance on the side. It's a perfect combination, and it certainly worked to keep me invested for the entire read.
Personally, what really sold me on this story was the main character, Piper. I loved getting to know her. And trust me, there's a lot to learn about her. The bio alone probably made that pretty obvious, though, huh?
As I'm sitting here writing this review, I'm finding myself wanting to go back and read Shadow Winged for the second time. That's probably the best praise I can give this read. So please, consider reading it.
Thanks to Ice Raven Publications and #Reedsy for making this book available for review. All opinions expressed are my own. Â