Guns of Perdition

by Jessica Bakkers

  “The wonders of La Chatte Affamee must be sampled to be truly appreciated. I could tell you what you might discover between the silks, but it would be so much more satisfying to experience it for yourself. Are you quite sure I can’t help you?” She gazed into Kaga’s dark eyes. His mouth fell open as her fingers crept along his jacket to curl around the ends of his silken hair. “An exquisite specimen such as yourself could have any girl in this establishment. Any girl...”

  Mozelle arched her back and pouted her lower lip. Kaga slowly leaned down.

  Grace shouldered into Kaga and jostled him from Mozelle’s grip.

  Jessie shuddered with suppressed fury as he watched the intimate scene. He didn’t know who’d sparked his ire—Mozelle for flirting with Kaga, or Grace for her possessiveness over the native man. Jessie didn’t know and didn’t care. He only knew the thundering anger rippling through his head.

  Grace’s nose screwed up and she leaned in close to Mozelle. “Yeah, I see now why that dog George Richmond couldn’t get enough of this place. Bunch of leeches.”

  Mozelle drew back and scowled at Grace.

  Jessie took a shaky step between them. “That’s enough! Grace, we didn’t come here to cause no ruckus. These ladies ain’t seen the dude we’re looking for, so why are you haranguing them?”

  Grace’s eyes widened. “Jessie! You remember what Richmond did to his wife on account of being all plummed here in this establishment. These ladies gotta bear some blame for that hash.”

  Jessie’s lower lip trembled as he stared into her outraged eyes. He remembered well what Richmond had done to his wife. He remembered well that animal look of aggression and hostility that had blazed in Richmond’s eyes. He remembered and recognized it, for it was the same hostile aggression that swelled in his breast now. He drew a deep breath and spoke in a measured tone. “You know men get awful sonkey and out of their heads after coming to a place like this. You think the likes of Minnie Richmond could ever shake up George’s blood again after he’d had his taste of these dolls?”

  Grace shook her head. “I cain’t believe you’re defending that low-life barrel boarder.”

  Jessie frowned as Grace turned and pushed away through the crowd. “C’mon. We’ll get no skinny here. Maybe a rash is all,” she called out over her shoulder.

  Kaga blinked rapidly, shot a quick look at Mozelle, then turned and trotted after Grace. Tokota followed without a word.

  Jessie cussed loudly and glanced at Mozelle. “Sorry about her. Grace is kind of fixated on finding that dude. Makes her an ornery cuss at times.”

  “An ornery cuss you feel obliged to make excuses for,” Mozelle said as she pushed against Jessie and slid a hand into his hair.

  Jessie’s brows crumpled as he looked into her large eyes.

  Mozelle held a long finger to his lips and silenced the words on his tongue. “An ornery cuss you couldn’t keep your eyes off, looking at her like a man dying of thirst looks at a cool spring.” Mozelle’s long fingernails scratched his scalp as she played with his hair, sending chills racing down his spine. Her fingers seemed to tap out a rhythm against his skull, a Cajun dance rhythm.

  “Don’t try to deny it, lovely, it’s clear as day; the ornery cuss has stolen your heart.”

  Jessie’s eyes dropped as a hot flush crept over him. He stiffened but couldn’t shake Mozelle’s entangling embrace. She cooed at him and squeezed him in her arms. Jessie’s temples pounded and sweat broke out across his upper lip.

  “Oh sweetling, but it’s unrequited. She doesn’t look at you the same way?”

  Jessie flinched and scowled. Against his better judgement—as though the words rolled off his tongue without his approval—he spat, “Kaga. It’s damn Kaga’s fault. Without him maybe she would be interested...” He trailed off.

  Mozelle’s fingers found the hollows in his cheeks and she turned his face toward her. She peered into his eyes and Jessie’s head swam, his vision fogged. There was something in her eyes, something commanding...something reptilian. All he could hear was frenetic pounding, and he didn’t know if it was Cajun dance music or his own heartbeat.

  “You love her, Jessie. So take her.”

  Jessie’s mouth gaped. “But...Kaga—”

  “Take her.”

  The smell of horse manure and fresh hay filled Jessie’s nostrils as thickly as imagined music filled his ears. He jiggled his feet nervously as his head pounded. The stable seemed unnaturally dark, but he couldn’t be sure if it actually was, or whether that strange red haze—red fog—had clouded his vision again.

  His impatience mounted as he waited.

  Surely Kaga couldn’t be far away. On their return to the bunkhouse he’d spoken of the horses, of feeding and watering them. Tokota had snapped that he’d tended to the beasts already today, but Kaga insisted on running his eyes over the nags, much to Tokota’s apparent disgust.

  It seemed not only Jessie had troubled feelings when it came to the man...to the shifter.

  Even thinking about the tall man sent a renewed surge of rage-induced adrenaline coursing through Jessie’s body. He drew a deep breath of musty air and flinched as Crowbait nickered. The sounds of soft footsteps penetrated the din in his head, and Jessie turned to the stable doors.

  Kaga moved with sublime grace and exuded an aura of otherness, an aura—or a scent—detected by the horses, who shied and pawed at their doors. Kaga wandered deeper into the stable and approached Crowbait. The finicky nag let him brush her long nose, though she snorted powerfully.

  Jealousy and something far more disturbing swirled in Jessie’s breast as he pushed off the stable wall. Kaga’s head snapped up at the sound, his dark brows drawing together. When his eyes fell on the lad he smiled.

  “Jessie. What are you doing here?”

  Jessie slowly walked toward Kaga.

  His vision was red. Music thundered in his ears.

  Take her.

  The knife in his hand caught a beam of torchlight and flashed in the darkness.

  Jessie stood before the closed door and rested his sweaty head against the coarse wood for a moment. From behind the door, he could hear splashing. His pulse thrummed as he imagined her dripping water down her naked body, washing road grime and dust from her lean muscles and supple breasts. Rapid thoughts flitted through his fevered brain like silverfish, too quick and slippery to hold onto. He tore his forehead from the door and with a trembling hand, turned the doorknob.

  As the door creaked open, Grace called out, “Hope you don’t smell of horse, Kaga. I just washed up and don’t—” She broke off abruptly as she looked in the mirror’s reflection and saw Jessie in the doorway. She turned from the basin and faced him.

  She’d ditched her cowboy duds and donned a flowing prairie skirt. To beat the heat? Or to impress Kaga? A hot flash of anger whipped through Jessie as he mused on Grace’s choice of attire. Her camisole was drenched and her skin glistened with water splashed from the basin. Her dark-blond hair hung down her back and shoulders in wet tendrils. The first three buttons of her camisole were undone, revealing her tanned cleavage.

  Jessie’s breath was ragged and strained as he stood in the doorway, devouring her with his eyes. His fingers tapped out a frantic beat against his thigh, and he blinked to try to clear the red haze that tinged his vision.

  “Jessie. What do you want?” Her tone was irritated.

  Jessie stood tense and alert in the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared into the room but didn’t answer.

  Grace frowned, ire clear in her dark eyes. “What is it?” she asked again.

  Jessie pushed off from the doorframe and stalked into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. As he crossed the room, he watched Grace take in his appearance: the rumpled shirt, the torn sleeve, the dark spatter across his waistcoat.

  “Jessie, is that blood?” She stepped across to him and reached for the stained material. Jessie snatched her wrist and yanked her hand aside. Grace sucked in a quick brea
th and raised her eyes. Jessie’s pounding heartbeat thundered in his ears and adrenaline coursed through his body. The red haze across his vision tinted Grace’s room pink. As reason and sensibility were swept away in a foggy soup of rage and lust, Jessie’s fist tightened around her wrist.

  “Jessie!” Grace admonished. “Quit it!” She grabbed his arm with her free hand. Jessie batted her hand away and delivered a stunning open-handed slap across her face. Grace rocked to the side and gaped at Jessie. His blood sang, and power suffused his being. He lunged and grabbed her arms and flung her backward onto the bed. Grace’s head cracked against one of the bedposts and she drew a sharp breath as Jessie knelt astride her and pinned her down. He looked into her wide, stunned eyes and all he could see was red; all he could hear were drums. His head bobbed down and he ravaged her mouth with his. Lively music thundered in his ears as he tore her camisole. Buttons flew as they popped free. One hand brushed against her sweaty naked skin, and he shuddered at the feel of her soft flesh. He buried his face in her breasts as his fingers hooked her skirt and tried to yank it down.

  “I love you, Grace!” Jessie’s deranged muttering was muted as he pressed his lips against her flesh.

  As his hands raked her flesh, Grace—as though broken free from the initial shock of Jessie’s actions—uttered a feral growl and grabbed a fistful of his hair. She yanked his head back and rammed her knee into his balls. Jessie’s eyes went wide, and he screamed in agony. He flopped uselessly on top of her, blind to everything except excruciating pain.

  Grace shoved him and slid out from beneath him as Jessie lay in a fetal position on the bed and wept soundlessly, tremors of agony wracking his swollen balls.

  “What in blazes, Jessie!” Grace roared.

  Jessie peered up at her with watering eyes as she stood over him, vibrating with rage. Her skin was splotchy with red marks and she bore scratches across her chest. She held her ruined camisole together with one hand as she grabbed the washbowl. She upended the contents over Jessie, who gasped and spluttered.

  “Grace! I...love...you...” he howled as he glared at her with feverish eyes.

  Grace’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “Lord, not this again! I told you before, Jessie! Not gonna happen! You’re a boy! And I’m with Kaga.”

  At the mention of the native man’s name, the quivering, alien ache inside Jessie’s heart abated. His addled head was filled with a soothing, staccato beat, and his scalp prickled as though Mozelle’s long fingers were playing with his hair.

  Something must have changed on his face; something reptilian must have shown in his eyes. Grace took a step backward, a horrified expression on her face. The bowl slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.

  “What did you do, Jessie?” Grace breathed.

  Jessie’s lips twisted into a grin and he fingered the bloodstained waistcoat.

  “I love you,” he said simply.

  Grace spun and ran from the bedroom without pausing, even as broken ceramic pieces tore into her foot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The pain had abated somewhat by the time Jessie staggered back to La Chatte Affamee. The earlier raucous crowd had died down. By the wee hours of the morning it seemed most customers had been sated, most thirsts slaked, and most coin made. Jessie rubbed his groin as he lurched into the grand parlor. His balls ached, but far worse was the pounding in his skull—the pounding, the fuzziness, and the cold, clammy hand of dread that lay heavy on his brow. Something was wrong—very wrong. His attempts to woo Grace had failed miserably, despite Mozelle’s assurance that he should just take her. But worse than that failure, something else had happened. Something he couldn’t remember but that gnawed at his subconscious like a dog with a bone. Something that told him he’d be better off well clear of the bunkhouse. Something to do with the blood on his shirt...

  He stood on shaky legs in the middle of the grand parlor as the remaining customers languished on lounges with girls draped by their sides and sipped bourbon from crystal glasses.

  Jessie sank into a loveseat and dropped his aching head into his hands. Snuffling into his sweaty palms he bawled, “Mozelle!”

  The patrons murmured at the pathetic cry.

  “Mozelle!” Jessie moaned again.

  Murmurs turned to ugly jibes as the other patrons grew distressed and upset at Jessie’s mewling. Jessie didn’t care—he didn’t even notice the growing undercurrent of anger in the parlor. He opened his mouth to bawl again when soft, gentle hands brushed against his arm.

  He flinched violently, shook off the hands, then frowned as he recognized the redheaded girl squatting before him. “Viola? Where’s Mozelle? I need to see her!”

  Viola stepped closer to Jessie than was necessary and brushed the back of her hand against his face. She tried to shush him and soothe him with soft words and gentle caresses.

  Jessie gritted his teeth and flinched away. “Not now! I need Mozelle!”

  “She’s busy. But I’m free.”

  Jessie scowled. “What about Ruby then?”

  Viola pouted. “Ruby’s entertaining someone.”

  “Ruby said she don’t see johns anymore,” Jessie said.

  Viola frowned for a fleeting instant, then smiled a wide, toothy smile. “She’s not with a john, you silly bug! She’s with the owner.”

  Jessie frowned as Viola’s insistent hands caressed his face, his hair. The tension in his shoulders began to ease and the knot in his stomach melted away. The drumming reverberating in his temples eased at her touch. “The owner?”

  Viola nodded and nibbled the nape of his neck. One hand wiggled down to his breeches, played with the leather tie. “Mm hm.”

  Jessie breathed out and murmured, “I thought Ruby owned the place.”

  Viola giggled and slid one hand into his trousers. Jessie jerked as her cool fingers brushed against his swollen, sore parts.

  “Oh, poor Jessie. Who’s been hurting you?”

  Jessie frowned as words tumbled through his mind. Take her, take her, take her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Viola swooped in and filled his mouth with her tongue. She sucked and nibbled until Jessie returned her kiss. His private parts grew more swollen.

  “Who’s causing such a ruckus down there?” The voice floated down from the second floor, and when Viola withdrew, Jessie blinked vapidly and saw Ruby leaning against the railing, Mozelle idly languishing by her side. The two women glided to the great staircase and slowly descended. Jessie’s gaze was transfixed on them as they moved with languid grace. He didn’t notice the figure who walked the landing in their wake.

  Ruby descended and a smile lit her beautiful face as she spoke. “Couldn’t get enough of our lovely girls?”

  Mozelle slipped past Ruby and made a beeline for Jessie. She sank next to him on the loveseat and took him in her arms, her hands taking over from Viola, who made a discreet exit. Ruby approached more cautiously, a smile on her lips that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Jessie frowned—unsettled by the incongruence between Mozelle’s insistence and Ruby’s hesitancy—and shoved Mozelle away. “No! That’s not it at all. Mozelle, I did like you said. I went to make Grace mine—to take her—but she fought me!”

  Ruby’s eyes widened and slid to Mozelle. She took the last step and crossed the floor toward them. Behind her, another person strode down the stairs, spurs jingling with every step.

  “You told him to take her?” Ruby’s voice was quiet as though she was trying not to draw attention to her words.

  Mozelle’s upper lip drew upward. “So what if I did?”

  “Because that wasn’t part of my plan, Mozelle,” a drawling voice, discordant in the quiet parlor, cut through the pounding in Jessie’s skull like a hot knife through butter. The fog of the past couple days, the hazy otherness pulled low over his eyes like a Stetson hat, suddenly lifted, and Jessie’s eyes fell on the tall man striding behind Ruby. The madame lowered her eyes as the Darksome Gunman approached and stood at her side like a terr
ible statue of some ancient Roman god.

  Jessie’s stomach heaved in terror. One part of his mind was conscious of Mozelle sliding to her feet and lightly slipping across the parlor floor to stand before the black-clad fiend. Jessie wrenched his gaze from the Gunman to Ruby, who stood silently beside him, head bowed, eyes downcast. Though her face was heavily made-up, the translucent powder couldn’t quite disguise the deep shadows beneath her eyes.

  The Darksome Gunman gazed down at Mozelle as the girl demurely bowed her head before him. He casually reached out and brushed her cheek with his gloved hand.

  “Ah, Mozelle. You interfered where it was not necessary.”

  Mozelle’s head lurched up, and Jessie could feel the panic radiating from her. “But they were asking about you! I thought I could distract them. Separate them...”

  The Gunman’s stroking hand slid down Mozelle’s tanned cheek and his fingers wrapped around her throat. Jessie tried to swallow and found he had no saliva. His gaze flitted to Ruby, and she frowned at him and shook her head.

  “Did I ask you to distract them? Did I ask you to separate them? No, I didn’t. In fact, I invited them here, Mozelle. Just imagine that. So, what do you think your interference might have cost me? Might’ve cost me everything...”

  Mozelle opened her mouth and a strange half gurgle, half squeak tumbled from her tongue. Jessie’s breath hitched in his throat. Ruby closed her eyes.

  The Darksome Gunman sneered and shook his head. With a sudden twist of his wrist, he snapped Mozelle’s neck.

  Jessie screamed and lurched up from the loveseat. Before he could take more than one step forward, he was surrounded by the brothel’s male customers. Strong hands grabbed his arms, and despite his struggles, he couldn’t move. He swore and kicked but received nothing but blank stares and grim expressions in return. Jessie cast his wild gaze across the room and stilled when he saw the Darksome Gunman standing before Ruby, one finger holding up her trembling chin so he could peer into her lovely eyes.