Guns of Perdition

by Jessica Bakkers

  There was a hideous wet sound as Cottonmouth plunged his hands into Jessie’s chest cavity. He peered at Jessie’s gray face and shook his head. “And the irony is, she won’t even shed a tear for you.”

  Jessie gave one last strangled gurgle, then he heard no more.

  Cottonmouth rose to his feet. His hands, drenched in blood, clutched Jessie’s warm heart. He turned and tossed the heart into the blood pool, where it skidded for a moment, then squelched to a stop. As the blood boiled Jessie’s heart began to take on the shape of Pride.

  “And after all, it was man’s pride that afforded his greatest betrayal and undoing.”

  Pride rose up from the blood, a powerful silhouette drenched in vitae. Unlike the stick-thin figure of Greed or the sallow, jowly Sloth, Pride was the pinnacle of male perfection. As he moved his physique rippled beneath the layer of blood. His firm pectoral muscles jounced with each step, and he gazed down an aquiline nose at the prostrate young man.

  Cottonmouth raised his arms and Pride went into them willingly.

  The prospector’s hands slid up and down Pride’s naked skin and when he pulled away he was coated in slimy blood.

  “Your warden is dead. The Angel of the Abyss who kept you locked away for eons is gone. I have let you loose on this earth. Go...have fun.”

  Pride turned and gazed at Wrath. Envy looked to Greed. Silently they backed away from Cottonmouth, away from their birthing pool, and drifted away. They went separately, silently into the darkness of the church and quickly vanished from sight.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Crowbait foamed at the bit as she tore through Worm Wood, a streak of light through the otherwise gloomy town. Grace was unforgiving as she yanked on the reins. The bit sawed into Crowbait’s mouth, who bucked and kicked but kept pounding the ground as she streamed toward the church.

  Grace was driven by a sense of death. A feeling that somewhere close, someone was dying...and dying bad. The sense of death had been enough to rouse her from her bedroll and see her take to Crowbait without even pausing to wake the others. Without really understanding why, she’d driven Crowbait hard across the mesa, tugged onward by the sense of death.

  Jessie’s death.

  Crowbait neared Worm Wood’s church, and Grace yanked the reins. Before Crowbait had even come to a stop, Grace flung herself from the saddle. As Crowbait neighed in outrage at her treatment, Grace pounded the steps and burst into the church. The scent of death she’d been following reeked inside the church, and the scene before her brought her to a dead stop. Two bodies mirrored one another, one crucified and hanging, the other splayed and ruined on the floor.

  “Jessie.”

  Grace thundered through the church, kicking candles in her haste, and dropped hard to her knees beside Jessie. The blood dripping from the grotesque pool on the pulpit mingled with Jessie’s blood, and Grace knelt in both as she leaned over the young lad. Horror and revulsion clutched her stomach as she looked at his mutilated body. The great, gaping wound across his chest should have been enough to tell her he was gone, but Grace pressed her fingers against his blood-spattered neck anyway. His skin was already cool to the touch.

  A gulping sob was wrenched from her throat as she lowered her face to Jessie’s shoulder. She grabbed his vest and dragged his lolling body up to her face as she cried.

  Great wracking sobs shook her body as she held Jessie and wept.

  “Everyone wails for the lamb, even as they stuff themselves on cutlets.”

  Grace dropped Jessie and spun around. Justice and Mercy found their way to her hands as she peered down the aisle. A grizzled old man strode between the pews, headed for her with palms up, indicating he wasn’t packing iron.

  Beneath the dirt and grime from the hard ride, the sweat stains, tear-streaks, and Jessie’s blood, Grace was still a hardened gunfighter, and her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man shrugged. “Guess I’m the butcher.”

  Grace’s lips curled in a snarl. Justice flared and thundered in the church, and a bullet slammed into the approaching man. A heartbeat later, Mercy boomed. The man staggered but kept walking.

  Grace swore and fired both guns again. He barely hesitated and continued down the aisle. Grace gritted her teeth, rose to her feet, and emptied the chambers dry. The man was smiling by the time he reached her. Striking with uncanny speed he slapped Mercy to the ground and blocked as Grace tried to club him with Justice. Grace used her weight and experience to barrel into the old man and sent him staggering backward. Her eyes widened in shock. She was sure the blow would’ve floored the old timer. He grinned and caught her fist mid-swing and wrenched sharply. Grace screamed as her arm snapped. He yanked her broken arm up, spun on the balls of his feet, then elbowed her in the face.

  Grace grunted and went down heavily on one knee. She glanced up in time to see him lunge and thump her broken arm. Grace screamed and dropped to her stomach on the floor. She rolled around in agony, her hair trailing in Jessie’s blood, as the man stood over her. Her cries subsided as she scrabbled backward, her hand slipping on the slick floor. Her arm burned like wildfire as she peered up at the old man, who perched against a front-row pew. He tapped a rhythm against the wood as she tried to put some distance between them.

  “You know, this ain’t how I wanted to meet you, Grace.” His drawl was that of a countrified prospector, and his smile was affable, if at odds against his blood-and-gore-covered clothing. His bushy gray mustache and beard nearly swallowed the lower half of his face, but his twinkling eyes gave away his mirth. “You and me, we got far too much in common to be scrapping like a couple of chickabiddies.”

  “Jessie,” Grace gasped. “You killed him.”

  The man pouted. “Sacrificed. And well, to be fair, he sacrificed himself. He always had his part to play. Just maybe not in the way he thought.”

  “I’m gonna kill you, you lily liver.”

  He yawned in response. “Well you can sure try, but it might be an idea to ride out with your posse next time. You all are called the Four Horsemen for a reason, right?”

  Grace glared and bared her teeth. “I’m gonna track you down—”

  The man raised a hand. “Let me save you the bother. You cain’t kill me. I ain’t some limsy chupacabra or piddling blood-sucker you can gun down with them equalizers. I ain’t even a vexatious angel you can outplay at his own game of sharps.”

  He pushed off the pew and took a step toward her. “Walk away, Grace. The lamb has been sacrificed. The Abyss is open. The Deadly Seven have been freed, and it’d take someone with a much purer soul than yours to stop them. Walk away. You ain’t got the juice to tangle with the serpent.”

  His final word was laced with threat. His gaze met Grace’s, and they had a whole unspoken conversation in that single look. She saw beneath the prospector, beneath his watery eyes, and recognized the serpent for who he was.

  Chills raced down her spine as she looked at him. “I’m going to reap you, you sonuvabitch.”

  The serpent pouted. “Tell you what, darlin’. You go on ahead and come for old Clinton Cross and try it.”

  And with a chuckle on his lips, the serpent turned and strode out of the church.

  It was far too fine a night for a funeral. The heat of the day had broken with twilight, and there was a refreshing cool breeze wafting through the cemetery. The scent of lavender pervaded, stirred up by the gentle breeze; it was these silver-gray stalks with their stunning purple petals that were laid beside the freshly dug grave. Flowers weren’t common in Worm Wood, yet lavender seemed to grow in abundance around the small wrought-iron fence circling the cemetery. It was barely twenty feet by twenty and bore two wooden crosses and a single headstone.

  Tokota and Aaron Boothe dug the hole. Ruby collected the lavender while Kaga kept a close eye on the township.

  Whatever otherworldly beings had populated Worm Wood the previous night had fled and not returned. The entire town was lifeless. Tokota
and Boothe had gathered up their horses and led them to the single tree beside the cemetery. There was no water trough for them there, but by unspoken agreement, none of the Four wanted to leave their mounts tethered inside the town. “Cut the hell out as soon as possible” had been Boothe’s exact words.

  As soon as possible meant as soon as Jessie had been laid to rest.

  While the others busied themselves preparing for the burial, Grace sat in the cemetery cradling Jessie’s ruined body, his head resting in her lap. Grace had done her best to wrap his four bloody stumps with a shredded silk slip given up by Ruby. She’d tied another piece of silk across his forehead to cover the gaping holes where his eyes should have been. Boothe had silently offered his own jacket to lay the boy in, and when Grace’s broken arm and shaking fingers prevented her from fastening it, Boothe had buttoned it up and hid the terrible wound in the lad’s chest. As the others dug and worked, Grace dabbed a piece of cloth in a wooden bucket and washed the blood off Jessie’s face.

  “Why’d you come back here, Jessie?” She wiped the cloth across his brow and rinsed it in the bucket. The water turned pink.

  “Why’d you leave in the middle of the night?” Grace lowered the cloth to his brow.

  But she knew why. The answer had been in the frowns that crossed Jessie’s sun-touched face whenever Kaga and Grace held hands. It had been in the set of his shoulders when Grace smiled and patted the wolf. It had dwelled in Jessie’s cornflower blue eyes every time he looked at her. Any other man might’ve stood up and fought for the woman he loved. Kaga would have. Tokota fought for Enapay. Even Aaron Boothe was passively fighting for Ruby’s attention. Yet Jessie never had. He’d had the grace to stand aside and let Kaga have his prize.

  Or he’d simply been too proud to fight.

  Grace took hold of his limp forearm and squeezed. “I gotta believe it was love that made you ride away, Jessie. I gotta believe it weren’t misplaced pride. You’re a...were a good man, Jessie Beck. The best man. And I loved you.”

  Tears blinded her as she finished cleaning Jessie’s face.

  They laid him to rest a few hours later as the swollen moon reached its apex and shone over the graveyard.

  Grace stood stoic and silent beside Kaga, her arm awkwardly bound in a makeshift sling. She didn’t touch the native man, didn’t draw on him for strength as she would normally do.

  Kaga stared down at the young man lying in his earthen bed and pressed his thumb against the barely healed cut across his palm. “Brother,” he whispered.

  Aaron Boothe shivered beneath the chill that had sprung up and turned up the collar of his shirt. Ruby, standing beside him, wept unashamedly. Tokota’s bowed head revealed nothing of the warrior’s feelings, but earlier, when he finished digging the grave, his eyes had been red-rimmed.

  A plaintive nicker struck out from the horses tethered to the tree. Grace turned as Paul tossed his head and pawed at the ground. She turned back to the grave, her face stony. Down in his bed of earth, Jessie lay peaceful and serene. His hands were folded over his journal. He wore Boothe’s ill-fitting jacket and was wrapped in Ruby’s silks. A necklace of beads and feathers adorned his neck—a gift from Tokota. And from Grace, his lips wore her final kiss, gently planted and salted with tears of regret.

  There were no words for Jessie. He was the best of them...and now he was gone.

  Kaga and Tokota took up their shovels and laid earth upon their fallen friend.

  Grace turned her back and wandered to the wrought-iron fence. She wound her fingers around the fence and gripped it so tightly her skin turned white. The soft sounds of earth falling into the grave filled the peaceful night. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

  And out there, wandering the night, was the serpent and whatever he’d unleashed from the bowels of the Abyss. The Deadly Seven are freed, and it’d take someone with a much purer soul than yours to stop them.

  “I’m coming for you, you evil sonuvabitch. You and your Seven.” Grace’s whispered promise was the final epitaph for Jessie Beck.

  “Are you alright, cherie?” Ruby gently patted Grace’s shoulder.

  Grace tensed and slowly turned around.

  Ruby drew in a quick breath, mumbled quietly and backed away. Kaga gazed over at Grace, and what he saw in her face made him blanch and turn away. Grace knew what it was they saw on her face that had so horrified them. It wasn’t anger or hurt, or even the promise of righteous vengeance.

  They saw death.

  Acknowledgments

  I don’t like author acknowledgements. I’ve read the book, enjoyed it (hopefully), and am ready to put it down. The last thing I want to read is a whole lot of ramble by the author, telling me about her background, her love of reading, and that defining moment in her childhood that put her on the path of writing. I hate even more having to trawl through four paragraphs of names of people she’s got to thank for making her book happen.

  It’s just not interesting.

  However, here and now, on the other end of the book (that is, in the author’s seat), I see how and why author acknowledgements are absolutely necessary. So, read on, gentle reader, if you fancy a dry long-winded amble through the backstory of this humble author, and are interested in finding out who are the superstars who prodded me out of procrastination long enough to finish Guns of Perdition.

  First and foremost, my long-suffering, book-hating husband, Andrew. Thank you for supporting me and trying not to look too pained every time I moaned on about my Work In Progress. You feign interest better than anyone I know, and I love you for it.

  To Diana and Mike, thank you both for taking a peep at Guns of Perdition in its rawer format, and for the wealth of feedback you provided. Guns of Perdition wouldn’t be what it is today if not for you and your insightful comments. Thank you, Ms. Peach. Thank you, Mr. LeFevre.

  To the immensely talented Christie Stratos, who edited Guns of Perdition—THANK YOU; in capitals. How you wrangled in my insane comma usage is beyond me. You’re a treasure.

  To the equally talented Jennifer at Indie Designz, thank you so much for brining Grace alive in the stunning cover art you created for Guns of Perdition. I can’t wait to see the cover of Book II! Big thanks also for formatting this monstrosity for me!

  Finally, to my incredibly supportive writing community pals—you know who you are—thanks for the constant words of optimism and positivity throughout my three plus year journey of bringing Guns of Perdition to publication. Without you I would have quit years ago.

  And to finish this long-winded ramble, I promised you all some author information. So, for those who made it this far (go get yourself a wine, you earned it), here’s a little about me:

  While other kids my age grew up reading The Babysitters Club and Round The Twist, I ravaged my mum’s bookshelf for Stephen King, Sara Douglass, Juliet Marillier, and R.A. Salvatore. I was enthralled with all things fantasy, and especially loved it if my fantasy came with a generous dollop of dark horror on the side. Soon, I added to the bookshelf; Brent Weeks, Andrzej Sapkowski, Steven Brust. And then came the time when I knew I wanted Jessica Bakkers to sit among my dark fantasy book collection.

  So, following my heart (and most definitely not my head), I plunged in with both feet and The Armageddon Showdown was born. You have just finished Guns of Perdition, the first book in this trilogy, and one in a long line of dark fantasy from the mind of Jessica Bakkers.

  Please follow www.jessicabakkers.com for news and updates regarding the upcoming sequel, Sins of the Lamb, or follow me on twitter; @jessicabakkers

 

 

 
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