The Gunslinger's Man (22 page)

“
You
want to murder him.”

When Angelita finally spoke, her voice came from a few feet nearer than Asher anticipated. He peered up to find the copper pitcher held out in a trembling hand.

He took it with silent thanks.
“Wanted
. Gave it my best effort… But bygones are bygones, right?” The lie rolled easily off the tongue, as much survival tactic as reminder of what he’d dared in the past. What he could do in the future, if he was brave enough.

Water sloshed down the sides of the pitcher and ran down his chin to soak into his shirt. Asher wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

“Don’t worry,” he told Angelita. “I’m perfectly harmless now.”

Her eyes narrowed. For the briefest of instants, Asher could have sworn that creeping shadow was in his head again, stealing his breath just to prove that it could. He tripped over his breaths and it pulled away again, just as Angelita retreated to the window.

“You’re not, though, are you? Harmless, that is.” He didn’t need her confirmation to know he was right. “What’s your story? Defective bloodsucker? Another of my uncle’s creations? Doc seems like a fan—although if he’s hoping to fix you up with a pair of metal plates, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

At least that earned him Angelita’s attention, however briefly, her gaze dipping to the metal scales peeking out of his damp collar, the articulated joints and plates on his hands. But still, there was no answer.

“Couldn’t help notice…there’s no key on your side of the door.” No key, no lock. No way for Angelita to bar the way. “Why is that? You’re far from helpless.”

“Sometimes.”

Eureka.
“I remember you were pretty darn worn when I last saw you. Doc must be working some miracles in here.”

Angelita peeled back the lace curtain from the window and peered out over the dusty street. She seemed almost
normal
like that, a portrait of a girl waiting for her sweetheart to come home—one that no paper would print it with her
en deshabillé
.

“Do you love him?” Asher blurted.

“Dr. Matheson?” For the first time, a show of emotion flashed through Angelita’s expression.

“Ambrose.”

At that, she gave a minute toss of the head, tendons tensing beneath the fragile skin of her neck. “Do
you
?”

“Said I got over wantin’ to kill the guy. Didn’t say I had a complete change of heart.”

“I meant the other one.” Angelita bit her lip. Her frown seemed genuine enough. “His name… I forget these things.”

“Halloran?” Asher suppressed a quiver in the pit of his stomach. “Of course not.”

“But you’re his.”

His to use when Halloran wanted. His to lock away to his heart’s content. Asher drummed his fingernails against the pitcher. “And you belong to Ambrose.”

Angelita nodded. “Exactly.” Her gaze flew to the window, as if hooked on a line. “You have to go now.”

“Why?” Asher staggered to his feet. If his short stint in Redemption had taught him anything it was that whispers like that demanded to be followed.

“They’re back from the farm.” Angelita glanced back, something stony and dangerous in her inky eyes. “Leave the key.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The last hay bale dumped into the trough, Asher dragged his sweating palms over the sides of his pants and called it a job well done. Or well enough. Ranch work was more strenuous than he’d anticipated before he got roped into it, but horses and cattle needed to be tended to and being outside was easier now that the summer had well and truly packed up.

A thin, misting rain greeted him as he stepped out of the barn. Between the low cloud and evening gloom, Sargasso was a flickering beacon in the heart of the valley. The only beacon left, with New Morning gone and Redemption burned to smithereens.

“Won’t be no picnic gettin’ back,” he volleyed once safely behind Willowbranch’s wooden walls. Water droplets flew off when he scraped a hand through his hair, spattering his cheeks and nose. He didn’t relish the prospect. The thirsty dirt would be sopping with mud and slippery puddles by now, and chances that a horse would throw a shoe increased tenfold when it rained.

Asher didn’t much care about interrupting the poker game going on in the parlor, either. The Riders had never striven to ignore him and his unsolicited contributions in the past. They seemed content do so now, barely glancing up when he entered the room.

Only Halloran glanced up from his cards. “We ain’t.”

“Ambrose’ll hit the roof.” Like all men used to getting their own way, the mayor weathered disappointment poorly. One only had to see his bruised house staff to grasp as much.

“Mayor’s got more to worry about than where you put your head,” snapped Halloran. He threw down two cards as though they’d personally offended him, and, grimacing, picked up the pair Blackjack slid his way.

Standing behind Blackjack and Maud, Asher could see that they didn’t have much of anything, either. A measly three of a kind would be enough to carry the hand.

“What about the rest? Isn’t this leaving Sargasso undefended?”

“Ain’t no cattle in Sargasso,” Blackjack pointed out.

Those weren’t cattle rustlers.
Halloran had said so, but only for Asher’s ears. It seemed strange that he wouldn’t trust his outfit with that suspicion.

“Still—”

“If it’s Malachi you’ll miss,” Nyle offered, “I can help with that.” His fangs gleamed like ivory in the gaslight.

“Leave him be.”

As astonishing as it was to discover Halloran kept secrets from his crew, Asher was more surprised to hear him speak up in his defense. Of course, of all the people to rebuke for taunting him, Halloran had picked the most harmless.

Nyle recovered quickly. “Why the hell would I? We all know he’s fighting fit again. Heart’s going tic-toc, ’specially now he’s been working out those kinks in the yard.” He grinned at Asher. “How about it? You and me go upstairs, play a few games of our own?”

Asher rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass. I’ve never been much of a card man.”

“Wasn’t talking about cards, boy.” By way of demonstration, Nyle folded his hand and started to rise. “They don’t need a fourth—”

Without so much as a glance, Halloran grabbed Nyle by the shirtfront and slammed him back into his seat. The chair creaked. The table rang with the impact of Nyle’s bony elbows. Unruffled, Halloran returned to his cards, which he exposed with little artistry.

Two pairs, jacks over nines.

“You lose this one too, boss.” With a self-satisfied chuckle, Maud revealed her kings and tens. “Just ain’t your night, huh?”

“It ain’t fair, is what it is,” Nyle spat.

Asher was close enough to the action to see Blackjack stiffen, tension injected into his lazy sprawl.

“Careful,” Blackjack warned. “Ain’t nothin’ but a game.”

Halloran slanted a long, brittle look at his second-in-command. “Think Lucky here might be talking ’bout Asher.”

“Damn right, I am! You’ve been hoarding him since you got him. That may be ’cause he was all beat up and feeble—”

“Hey!” Asher protested, more affronted by the insult than he was by the whole argument.

He was ignored. Nyle went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “But he ain’t feeble no more. And you always said in this outfit we share
everything
. Meanin’ loot and pay
and
bloodbags.” Each item was a stab of the finger against the wood grain of the table, punctuating the terms. “Maybe I ought to have made you put it in writing.” His snort brimmed with contempt. “Not that you can—“

“He
is
talking about Asher,” Blackjack agreed lightly, addressing only Halloran.

Nyle paid him no mind. “I’ve been patient. I’ve brought his food and carried his fucking chamber pot. I’ve given
enough
,” he growled. “It’s time I got
my
reward.”

“Hang on,” Asher interjected, “I never asked for any of that…” His freedom had been forfeit or he would’ve seen to his own chamber pot, thank you very much.

Across the table, on the other side of the scattered pairs and lonely queens, Halloran levered his gaze to meet Asher’s. Aggravation twitched in his jaw. “The answer, Nyle, is what it’s always been.” He favored the Rider with a mirthless smile. “No.”

Relief barely settled into the hollows between Asher’s ribs before the table was battered aside like scrap of paper.

Nyle launched himself over it, his fangs bared in a snarl. Blackjack parried the attempt, sending him flying off his trajectory.

The ground shook with the impact of Nyle’s body. Maud took over from there. She tackled him to the floor, cards and coins sprinkling the boards around them.

Their struggle was only visible to Asher in split-second bursts. One moment Nyle was on his back, the next on top. Blood spattered the floor where his fist connected with Maud’s face. Someone snarled in pain and anger. Nyle freed himself with a backward lurch, one of his eyes leaking red.

He looks like Moreau. He looks like Nyle.

He looked like Moreau.

Asher stumbled back a step, bile rising in his throat. To move was a mistake.

At the sound of his boot scraping the floorboards, Nyle turned his head and flashed a horrible, greedy smile. Gone was the vampire who’d delighted in teasing and annoying Asher. In his place stood a foreign creature, hunger written stark across its face.

“You won’t win this fight,” Halloran drawled, the only one of them still in his seat. “But if you leave right now, I’ll give you a head start. Five minutes before I come after you.”

Nyle let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I ain’t scared of you, Halloran! You’ve gone soft, hiding behind Ambrose’s skirts and letting this one push you around… You used to be a leader. Now you ain’t nothin’!”

“You think you could lead this outfit better than me?”

“I’d prove it,” Nyle snorted, “in a fair fucking fight.”

Maud snapped her fangs at him from the floor. The tear in her cheek was already closing, though the blood remained, tinting scarf and short brown hair a deep shade of burgundy.

She glanced at Halloran when he stood.

So did everyone else.

“Then you’ll have a fair fight. Two shots, fastest draw gets to walk away with his life.” Halloran nodded to Blackjack. “Get him a pistol.”

No.
Asher shook off the fear immobilizing him. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He didn’t remember Halloran’s strides being so wide. Trying to keep up with him was like sprint. “Halloran, no—what if he gets lucky?”

“He won’t.” Halloran wrenched the door open.

Whatever God still roamed this valley had really turned up the tap on the rain outside. Halloran was drenched with three steps of the porch. Droplets showered Asher’s face as he made to follow.

A hand grasped his shoulder. “This ain’t up to you,” said Maud.

He broke free, but his retort died on his lips. Blackjack in tow, Nyle sauntered out of the farm with a big grin.

The idiot was whistling.

Asher made to grab him. He didn’t know why, having seen what Nyle had done to Maud, he thought he might fare better. Their one and only scuffle in Uncle Howard’s shop didn’t mean a thing. Nyle had been holding back. He’d been making a point.

“Stop this!” Asher shouted over the pelting rain, as if a plea might achieve what violence could not. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re not—”

“Keep him quiet for me, Maud,” Nyle laughed. “Wouldn’t want him to scream himself hoarse before we even get started, hmm?”

Thunder roared over the valley, drowning out his cackle. He seemed as impervious to the foul weather as he was to the peril before him. Twenty paces away, drenched to the bone, Halloran stood as immobile as a block of marble. Runoff dripped from the tips of his fingers, which hovered just above the pistol holstered at his hip.

“Stop!” Asher yelled again, for all the good it might do any of them.

Lightning split the sky, casting the world under a shard of light so bright it scorched the eye. Another clap of thunder followed quick on its heels. Its din masked the first gunshot.

The second rang out like an echo.

Asher’s breaths snagged on the barbs inside his throat. Both Halloran and Nyle were still standing. Both had their pistols drawn.

What were the odds that both of them had missed?

A twitch of movement drew his eye to Halloran, who shifted his weight, boots slipping in the soft mud. The tension in his shoulders leached out as he slid his Colt back into its holster, as calm as if he’d been shooting cans for target practice.

Nyle dropped his pistol into the pool at his feet. It took Asher a moment to realize that it wasn’t rain he was seeing puddling before him, but blood—a vampire’s blood, and enough of it to suggest Halloran had clipped an artery.

Asher had seen what happened when a silver bullet pierced a vampire’s flesh. The memory gave way to fresh horror as Nyle crumbled to his knees, two red flowers blossoming between his shoulder blades even as the rest of him contracted, warped by the poison spreading through his body.

Dry heaving, Asher had to glance away. He had to lean against the porch rail to keep from sinking to his knees like Nyle.

He was dimly aware of Blackjack stepping out into the downpour to retrieve Nyle’s fallen pistol. If there was any sign regret in the gesture, it was lost to the gray, filmy rain obscuring Asher’s vision.

“Told you,” Halloran said grimly on his way back into the farmhouse. “He wasn’t that lucky.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Once in the valley, rain clouds could and did settle there for days at a time, disgorging every last bit of the ocean they’d swallowed up on their journey inland. Drab sheets battered the cracked earth, filling every crevasse with treacherous sand. Runoff flooded the gutters and wore furrows into the dirt. Timid droplets clung to the windows like tears, refracting what little light morning brought.

It oughtn’t to have been a surprise to find the sky leaden and mournful the next day and it wasn’t surprise that kept Asher from climbing out of bed as sleep released its hold on him.