Storm of Shadows Read Free Page A

from cutting up chickens . . . all that must have satisfied their malice.

    When he was done, he eased himself out of the cave and back to the real world—a real world that would no longer call him Bitter Eagle, but Cripple Eagle.

    Very well. He had paid the price for his son.

    He lifted the jacket.

    It was so light, for a moment he wondered if the child had vanished, stolen from him by the gods while he hacked at his own flesh.

    But no. The baby was still there, no longer blue with cold, moving his arms and legs, and starting to squawk in hunger as a healthy child should.

    Perhaps the gods had been placated.

    And as soon as he had finished the thought, the first flakes of snow trickled out of the lowering sky.

    Placated? No. They were determined to mock Bitter Eagle’s struggles, and kill him and his child.

    Now Bitter Eagle set to work to make sure he and his child lived long enough to make it down the mountain. He wrapped his long johns around the bleeding stump where his foot had been, fumbled his way into his flannel shirt, painfully pulled his jeans over his legs, and put both socks over his one remaining foot. He unwrapped the baby from his jacket and placed him so they rested together, chest to chest, heart to heart. Swiftly, he buttoned the flannel over them both—then, catching a glimpse of the child’s back, he stopped.

    Lifting the baby, he wiped his thumb down the fragile spine, and stared with wonder and with dread. For there, etched in black and spreading toward the baby’s shoulder blades, was the mark of crumpled angel wings.

    Bitter Eagle knew of a legend told among his people for generations, of children abandoned by their parents, deprived of their love and care, and instead given by the great Creator gifts of power and magic. Yet never had Bitter Eagle seen the mark that set one of those children apart.

    Now he held one such child against his heart.

    No wonder the evil gods had punished him for stealing their sacrifice.

    This child was special. This child was one of the Abandoned Ones.

Chapter 1

    “I ’m looking for the antiquities librarian. I have an “ appointment. I’m Aaron Eagle.”

    “Yes, Mr. Eagle, I’ve got you on the schedule.” The library’s administrative assistant was gorgeous, lush, and fully aware of his eligibility. She smiled into his eyes as she pushed the book toward him. “If you would sign in here.” She pointed, handed him a pen, and managed to brush his fingers with hers. “And here.” She pointed again. “Then if you don’t mind, we’d like your fingerprint. Just your left thumb.”

    “I’m always amazed at the security required to visit antiquities.” Aaron smiled at her as he pressed his thumb onto the glass set into the desk. A light from beneath scanned his thumb.

    “The Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library antiquities department contains some extremely rare manuscripts and scrolls, and we take security very seriously because of it.”

    “So if I made my living stealing antiquities, you’d know.”

    “Exactly.”

    “If I’d been caught.”

    “Thieves always eventually get caught.” She had him stand on the line and took his photograph.

    “I would certainly hope so.” He stepped onto a grate that shook him hard, then through an explosives screener that puffed air around him.

    She riffled through the piles of paper on her desk, compared them to the information on her computer screen, and smiled with satisfaction. “But you seem to be exactly who you say you are.”

    “I do seem to be, don’t I?” He leaned back over the grate. “Perhaps we could discuss who you are tonight over drinks”—he glanced down at the nameplate on the desk—“Jessica?”

    “I’d like that”—she glanced down at the form on her desk—“Aaron.”

    “Great. I’ll get your number on the way out, and we can arrange a time and place.”

    She nodded and smiled.

    He smiled back and headed down the corridor, and as he walked, he peeled