Wings Once Cursed and Bound

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 (630) 961-3900 sourcebooks.com 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