by J. P. Sloan
She continues, “In the last ten years we have lived together, do you really think he has been so utterly sheltered that he has not seen one of them? Or me? In my hunger state? You are a fool if you do.”
“So, what then? He just ignores it all?”
“Denton is a proud and logical man. Whatever fails his logic, his pride strangles to death. His mind is sharp, brilliant, beautiful. But easily broken.”
She runs a finger beneath her eye, and moves for the front door.
I stand. “You’re not even going to go talk to him, are you?”
She pauses at the door. “What would be the point?”
“I thought you loved him.”
She turns slow. That was pushing her a little too hard. I expect to see a demon face.
Instead, I find a face so heartbroken it nearly pulls the strength out of my legs.
“I do. More than I should.”
“Then go to him. If I have to, I’ll leave. Give you two some space. I can hole up in Holcomb’s old stand.”
She spins to the bedroom door, her cloak flying up in a circle before landing back along the curves of her hips. Her hand rests on the latch to Folger’s bedroom.
“If you need to destroy Denton so badly, then I will go to him. I will open this door, and you and I will go inside that room. And we will kill him doing it.” A sob rattles in her throat. “I am tired, Mister Odell. I am so tired. This fight is… bleeding me. When you came, I thought you were a threat to us. And then, because Denton begged me to let you stay, I held one gossamer thread of hope that you could save us.” Her fingers tighten on the latch, sending the iron clicking loud enough to hear inside the room. “But you simply refuse to listen to me. And I cannot fight you anymore. Denton thinks you are some kind of savior. That foolish, beautiful man trusts you so completely. So, go on. You tell me to open this door and confront my husband. I will. And the last good thing in our lives will die.”
I ball my fists.
I ease my weight back down onto the chair.
“He’s intercepted the newspapers.”
Katherina shakes her head. “Who?”
“Richterman. He’s collected Denton’s papers. All of them. Everywhere. There’s not a soul outside Gold Vein what’s read a word Denton’s pressed.”
Katherina holds for a moment, then withdraws her hand from the latch, which clicks into place again. “What does it mean?”
“It means I’m not sure I can keep my word to your husband. His way can’t work.”
“We are not married.”
I sniffle. “Quacks like a duck, ma’am.” With a sudden, unexpected chuckle, I add, “Richterman ain’t no orphan, though. That’s a fact. You say it takes months to nurse a newborn Strigoi into a sound mind? You must have been with Richterman a long time. His mind is a steel vise.”
She stares down at the floor.
“Except, I’ve been putting some thought into it. And I apologize for being a contrary little shit, but I do believe you’ve lied to me.”
“How so?”
I shift forward, kneading my fingers together. “The reason you can’t kill Richterman. It has nothing to do with you being his maker. You put that backward, didn’t you? A Master could always cull a child who was uncontrollable. But a child unable to cull a Master? Now, that’s got an air of believability to it.” I add as she remains motionless, “You didn’t make Richterman, Katherina. He made you.”
“You are closer to the truth.”
“Am I?”
“But not there yet.”
“You’re saying Richterman ain’t the one who turned you?”
She bows her head so slightly before answering, “Richterman is my sire.”
I give the table a quick tap with my fingertips. I’ve been doing this long enough; I got a couple instincts on the subject.
“This really will go better, ma’am, if you refrain from lying to me.”
She lifts her eyes, and I find razors inside them. “I have made mistakes, Mister Odell. It is not a lack of strength that keeps me from erasing my mistakes.”
“Then let me erase them for you.”
Her hand rises to her face, trembling. Her skin billows in and out of shades of flesh and gun steel. Her shoulders bob in heavy breaths. It’s too painful to watch.
I wave my hand. “I’ll deal with Denton in the morning. If he wants to talk to you, he’ll come to you.”
Tears cascade down her cheeks, and she nods once before pluming out into the darkness of night.
I’m breathing heavy. What’s wrong with me? There’s nothing to get lathered up over. These people are good people.
No. Folger is a good man. This woman…
Yes. This woman is good.
This Strigoi woman, so committed. So in love with her man.
The Hell is wrong with me? This is their drama. Not mine. Though, I’m not to blame, here. I was dragged here, quite without my consent, by that sumbitch sitting in his bedroom. Hell, he’s probably listening to this entire conversation.
I’ll bet he is. Just sitting there. Listening. Wondering why in God’s Blessed Fuck I’m sitting here twisting in my chair.
Promise or no… I’m pulled a little too tight into their business, and I don’t take the first comfort in it. Time I dealt with it.
As I doze off on the cot next to the stove, I give a good, long think on relocating to Holcomb’s. I’d be right in town, with a good place for Ripper to hole up during the day. I could keep a solid eye on Richterman, and vice versa. I could move in and out of my mission without Folger’s by or leave.
And I’d put distance between me and Katherina. That feels important to me, just this moment, lying alone in this house that had welcomed me. Some prick I am, returning hospitality with improper notions.
They’re just notions.
At this point, just notions.
My stomach gives a hungry complaint, but my body finally succumbs to slumber.
he next morning is pregnant with chilly air. A north wind’s blowing down into the valley. The shingles flutter as the frame of the house groans under the gusts. I pull up the scratchy wool blanket Folger’d leant me and huddle like a child for a while. Finally my dignity gets the better of me, and I haul my carcass upright and try to light the stove.
Over the creaking timber and hard wind, I hear a faint noise. It sends my war blood pounding.
I slide out the front door, wincing at the bracing cold, and cock an ear.
I hear it again.
A shout.
No, a scream.
I stumble out into the high grass just beyond Folger’s front step, bounding up the tiny ridge just behind the shelter. Ripper gives me a grunt, and I hold out a hand for silence.
Before long, I hear the screaming, in and out, carrying over the sound of hoofbeats. By the time I find a tall enough mound of ground to stand on, I spot three horses at a full gallop slanting along the northern ridge by the cannibal woods. Scarlow I recognize immediately. The others seem familiar, his thugs from the Sayles affair. Two of them have doubled up on one horse. The front rider looks to be covered in his own blood. Another cry of pain launches from the bloody man’s throat with a red mist that sprays his driver.
The four men on three horses haul ass back toward town, and I’m left standing in the breeze. Seems Scarlow got an itch for retribution and a gut full of confidence, and got one of his men injured for it. Either that, or Richterman figured one frontal assault deserved another, but that didn’t seem like Richterman’s style.
A queasy thought tugs at my stomach. The injured man weren’t dead. There was life in him, though by the blood covering his person, he’d probably gotten something important gnawed off within the last few hours. Which means he’d be turning into one of those monsters soon enough, and the Hunger would take him.
I hate to do it to Ripper, but I need to get back into town. Scarlow’s clever enough, but in the heat of the gore and the retreat of battle, he could easily lose sight of the pr
essing danger to Gold Vein in that man’s body. Someone has to put that man down, and soon.
I head back inside to find Folger crouched in front of the stove, firing some life into the damn thing. I don’t dare take too many steps forward, less I find myself stepping directly into shit.
Folger straightens up and turns to me with his usual sun-shined grin. “Morning, Lin.”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Looks like Kate found us some meat last night,” he said with a toss of his hand to the faun hanging in the corner.
“True enough.”
He nods thoughtfully and gives me a wag of a finger. “I know, I know. It’s my turn to cook up some breakfast.”
“Denton?”
He lifts a brow with a cheerful, “Hmm?”
“You feeling correct?”
“A… strange question, to be sure. But, yes. Indeed, I’m well. Yourself?”
“Confused.”
He snickers. “Well, you just need an egg or two inside you. I think we have some. Damn, if I can tell where she keeps the eggs.” He rummages around the jars and pots around the stove.
I ease up behind him and tip a burlap sack held by strings to a nail over the window.
“Ah,” he chirps, pulling out a handful of eggs.
“So, last night then?”
He cracks an egg evenly against a skillet, dropping it onto some melting pork fat. “I trust you weren’t injured?”
I run hands over my chest out of instinct, then shake my head. “I’m intact, well enough.”
“That’s very good to hear.”
“What do you remember?” I venture.
He turns with a crooked smile. “You are being absolutely mysterious this morning. Sure you didn’t hurt your head in that old church?”
“You saw me in the church?”
He nods. “Heard more than saw.”
“The Parson?”
His eyes narrow along with a thinner nod. “Tragic. Uriah was a good man. I wish you could have met him before.”
“That makes a pair of us, then. Did you see the Parson?”
“I saw a man crazed.”
I purse my lips.
Denton turns and attends to the eggs. “This is a brutal frontier. I fear the continual parade of death and short-dealing robbed Uriah of his faith. A true believer, without his faith, is a terrifying force indeed.”
“Then, you’re not raw with me for gunning him down?”
Folger shuffles the skillet and gives me a warm grin. “Lin, you eased the man’s suffering, and probably saved lives in the process. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a hero.”
Katherina was right. He does look at me like some kind of hell-bent Messiah. Nothing about that sits right in my gut.
I watch blandly as Folger massacres two eggs and slips them onto a plate. When he hands me the plate, I spot his hand shaking.
I take the plate and have a seat. I don’t want to push this. I could, easily, though I might not like the result.
“We have a problem,” I offer as I tuck into the eggs. “Gotta ride back into town.”
“That’s fine. I have something in the shop I wanted to show you, anyhow.” Folger finishes cooking his breakfast and sits across from me. Between bites, he continues, “What’s the nature of today’s problem?”
“Scarlow.”
“Figures.”
“He rode up into the hills last night.”
Folger winces. “He’s a fool to let Richterman lead him to his death like that.”
“I ain’t so sure this was Richterman’s call. I get the sense Scarlow got his asshole inflamed and rode up with his boys. I seen them hauling ass back for town. One of them was bleeding something fierce.”
“Magner?”
“What else?”
Folger leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. “He must be recruiting the Comanches from across the hills. Building some kind of army out of them.”
“For once, I agree.” I didn’t necessarily agree with how he was recruiting them, but still. It fit for the moment. “He’s got it in for Richterman. And with the way that man was bleeding…” I don’t finish the statement. There’s no decent way to communicate the threat to Gold Vein without having Folger brush me off as a lunatic.
“Well, we shall set to town as soon as I see Kate.”
I freeze. “You’re―you’re going downstairs?”
He nods. “I haven’t seen her for a week.”
“Sure she’ll be safe with you opening the cellar doors like that?”
He shrugs. “She hears me coming and covers up enough to keep her condition from afflicting her.”
I let that word hang in the air. Condition. Damn, he’s so close to embracing the truth.
“Denton, I’ve been putting thought into this.”
He stands quickly, gathering our plates. “Perhaps we can discuss it in the cart?”
I nod slowly. “I suppose.”
Folger steps out and around the house. I hear the cellar doors open and close. And then nothing. No shouting. No mumbled conversation. It’s eerie as Hell.
I grab my hat and step out into the wind, still chilled and blowing from the north. Ripper’s in no mood to cross country and lets me know with as much piss and vinegar as a horse can muster. And horses can muster a fair portion of both piss and vinegar. By the time I have the cart lashed to his cranky ass, I spot Folger approaching from the house.
I nod to the cellar. “How’d that go?”
He cocks a brow at me. “How do you mean?”
“I mean… how’s your wife fairing?”
“Just fine. Thank you for asking.”
He mounts the cart with stiff limbs and sits on the pine bench facing forward, his lips drawn tight.
Well, this trip will be a real treat.
Gold Vein is anything but quiet. The hustle of townsfolk around the charred church is unsettling. People I never knew existed have turned out to put together some of the mess the late Parson had wrought. I note a complete lack of Strigoi corpses. Someone must have policed the bodies, sparing the humans that particularly gruesome sight. That, or the sunlight rendered them into dust before anyone had to put in the effort. I thought on the Strigoi the Parson had impaled with an unholy wood. He might have survived that, but when the sun rose, his doom would’ve been made complete.
I shake my head. Surely, Richterman would have seen to Katherina’s Strigoi. He may be a tyrant, but he needs these “orphans” to do his bidding, especially now that Scarlow’s developed a sense of self-destruction.
Adding to the sounds of hoisting and grunting is the clap clap clap of a hammer. When we sidle up to Folger’s pressroom, I follow the noise up the lane. Tucked behind the last storefront on the end, not far from the church, I find Cheevey framing up some kind of structure around the old half-ruined jailhouse.
“Wait here,” I mumble as I step up the street.
“Where are you going?”
“Checking on Scarlow’s man.”
Folger takes a step behind me, then pauses. “Should I―”
“Best you wait here.”
I turn to find him wincing. His cheeks are flushed.
“You all right?” I venture.
“I should go with you. The people need me right now.”
I shrug. “Fine, then.” I take another step, but note Folger hasn’t. “Well?”
“I…”
“You coming or staying?”
Folger runs a hand behind his neck and sighs. “I just don’t want to be a bastard, is all.”
“So don’t.”
“I’m afraid if I go, I’ll say something. Do something. Or… don’t do something. He’s one of Richterman’s men. That makes it difficult for me to feel genuine.”
I chuckle. “You’re shit for putting on airs, I’ll give you that. Look, for what it’s worth, my take is the people ‘round this town would rather honesty than false compassion. You stay here. I’ll come back when I’m done and you can show
me what you want to show me.”
Folger exhales again and nods.
I leave him to his pressroom and hustle up the lane. I take the last turn and step close to a group of men huddled behind Cheevey.
“What’s the situation?” I announce as they unwind into a roughly straight line.
None of them offer any explanation.
Scarlow’s voice calls from the shadow inside the crumbled building. “Situation is shit, Odell.”
I give the men a tap of my hat and step inside. A row of iron bars splits the remains of the building along its short width. Behind those bars, a bloodied mess of a man lies moaning.
“You done this?” I press, pointing at the jagged slice of missing wall.
“Nope, that was Magner done that.”
“He tore the jailhouse in two?”
Scarlow grabs a rag from a nearby table and starts cleaning his hands. “That’s about the short of it. When he was first arrested, after the mine accident. Least that’s what I hear.”
I step toward the bars. The man looks pale as a cotton sheet.
“He got bit?”
“Yep. We were rushed by at least eight of those damned things.”
“Eight? Shee-it.”
“Their numbers are growin’,” Scarlow grumbles.
“That’s a fact.”
“Ramon here got the draw on one of them. Threw four slugs into one of those ghouls before it dragged him off his horse. The creature broke his horse’s neck, but left it alone. Guess they don’t cotton to animal flesh. Sumbitch got a good chunk of Ramon’s arm, though.” Scarlow points to a spot high up near his own armpit. “Lots of blood.”
“I assume you know what this means?”
Scarlow nods. “He’s goin’ the way of the rest of those ghouls. Were it up to me, I’d finish him myself. But I don’t see that as anything but a waste of a bullet.”
“You need silver.”
“We ain’t got no silver.”
I pull my weapon. “I do.”
Scarlow steps back, then holds out his hands. “Well, it ain’t up to either of us, Odell. It’s Richterman’s call. And he says keep him alive.”
I give Scarlow as twisted a brow as I can give him. “The Hell does Richterman want with a live ghoul?”
“Search me. He was pretty clear about it, though. Got Cheevey up early to get some framin’ back up. Strong as he can make it.”