by Logan Jacobs
Chapter One
I was aimlessly strolling through the streets of some dusty godforsaken outpost of a town called Mudville, or Brownbanks, or something like that, and Theo was trudging along behind me with his reins in my hand when I first laid eyes on her.
A waifish blonde, in an emerald green dress of an iridescent silk that reminded me of a dragonfly, and a cap to match pinned atop her curls. The dress was trimmed in black lace. It nipped in at a waist so narrow that I thought I could probably enclose it in my hands, and a pillowy bosom threatened to spill over the top of the bodice.
Without even making a conscious decision, I found my feet turning in the blonde vision’s direction.
My giant black horse Theo snorted loudly to express his contempt at my predictable reaction.
“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” I warned him.
“Last time you got it in your head to hump a mare we almost both got killed,” Theo reminded me, with complete disregard for my admonishment.
“That’s only because the ‘mare’ in question was Miss Vera Carlisle,” I retorted. “As a general rule, my humping habits do not occasion any unfortunate consequences.”
“How do you know?” Theo asked. “We rarely return to the same town twice. For all you know, you’ve fathered a hundred bastards, and every last one of them is a drooling idiot or a homicidal maniac.”
“Seeing as I am neither, I’ll take my odds on that one,” I muttered. Thankfully, Theo fell silent then, as we came into hearing range of the blonde angel. She was turned away from us as she intently studied a poster tacked to the wall of a storefront.
Her hair wasn’t of the pale yellow variety that often came from a bottle of dye, it was a sort of dark ashen blonde that had an almost silvery hue. And her skin wasn’t as powder white as that of most girls from wealthy families who could afford dresses like the one she was wearing, it had a sort of sunkissed caramel hue that gave her a healthy glow, although her skin was still much lighter than Vera’s half-Savajun golden brown.
Then, maybe she heard Theo’s heavy hooves thumping against the ground, because she turned to glance over her shoulder at us, and I was finally able to see her face. I’ll admit I held my breath for a moment.
She was angelically beautiful. She had long-lashed, jewel-toned eyes, either blue or green, I couldn’t quite tell from the way the sunlight was hitting her. Her face was oval with a pointed little chin. Her nose was pert, and her mouth was shaped like a bow, with the upper lip arched high enough to make her teeth peek out a bit in a way that was quite endearing. Overall her face had an appealingly lush, girlish quality to it, quite a contrast to Vera’s dark, sultry, angular beauty, and if there was a God, then he knew very well I needed a cure to Vera right then.
I lifted the vial of potencium that I was carrying in my hand and drained the liquid just as I reached the girl and stopped a few feet away from her.
“Magic user?” she inquired with a glance at the vial. I guess she’d spied the purple hue before I emptied it. I also guessed that maybe she was a magic user herself, because we tended to be more sensitive to the signs of other users than non-users did.
“That’s right, Miss,” I tipped my hat to her.
She smiled prettily, then glanced down. Her eyes paused on the sword that hung from my belt.
“That’s quite a long sword you have there, Mister,” she remarked.
“Er,” I coughed. Her tone was innocent enough that I didn’t know whether she had any idea how the remark came across. “Long enough to get the job done, I suppose.”
“And what is your profession, exactly?” she inquired.
I didn’t want to alarm this delicate flower of a woman by informing her that, in fact, I killed people for money. All kinds of people, young and old, vile and innocent, as long as the price was right. Well, I didn’t kill exclusively. I lent my sword to any profitable cause. So if you wanted me to lop off a rival shopkeeper’s ear, or a cheating husband’s cock, I’d gladly do that too. But in most cases, people didn’t consider it worth the cost of my premium services for any matter short of life and death. “Well, Miss, I-- ” I began.
“Never you mind,” she interrupted, perhaps because she sensed my hesitation. “It’s none of my business anyhow. All I really meant to ask you is, what brings you here?”
“To town?” I asked. Unfortunately, that was going to bring us right back around to the subject of my profession. “Well, a business matter-- ”
“No,” she interrupted again, a coquettish smile curving the corners of her lips. She pointed with a black silk-gloved finger. “From that side of the street to this side. Unless I’m mistaken, this wasn’t the way you and your horse were headed a minute ago.”
Theo snorted again. Even when he didn’t take the trouble of using human words, the timing of his horsey sounds was such that it just about betrayed his human level of understanding anyway.
Asshole.
“Oh, that,” I said. This was the kind of woman who probably got approached by a dozen fellows a day, so she was entirely aware of the reason for my detour and feeling pretty smug about it. “Well, I sincerely hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Miss, but… ”
“Yes?” she purred.
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping aside a bit, I’m afraid you’re blocking my view of that there poster,” I concluded apologetically. “Now, of course, I don’t at all mean to imply… it’s just your bustle is so voluminous that I can’t see a darned thing past it, not your-- er-- ahem. Begging your pardon, Miss.”
Her bright eyes narrowed. She raised her chin haughtily and stepped aside without another word.
I tore my eyes away from her in order to peruse the poster that she had been studying so intently before my approach.
It was a Wanted Dead or Alive poster.
The man featured on it had clearly had his nose broken once or twice if not thrice. And his brow was furrowed deeply in a permanent scowl. If not for those, his two most distinctive facial traits, the fellow wouldn’t have been half bad looking. He had a lean tawny face, was clean-shaven, and his dark hair cropped to his shoulders.
“Ermenildo Zabala” read the name beneath the sketch. In progressively smaller and smaller print, the poster explained that he was wanted for “Murder, horse theft, robbery, fraud, drunkenness, etc.” But I didn’t particularly care about what that “etc.” might entail. The only text on that poster that I really cared about was written in bold letters at the top: “Reward: 100 gold pieces, to be collected from Mr. Frederick Walters at the Emerson Brothers Bank.” A hundred gold pieces. For common murderers who didn’t come with any complicating factors like being magic users or wealthy, well-guarded politicians or renowned swordsmen or so on and so forth, I typically only charged thirty a head.
“He looks dreadfully frightening, doesn’t he?” the blonde asked from beside me with a tone of distinct relish. Her voice reminded me of her presence, which I had momentarily forgotten since I tended to love gold a bit more than beautiful women.
“I suppose.”
“He really is the picture of evil incarnate,” she continued.
“Looks like he got his face busted up a time or two,” I replied dryly, but all that meant to me was that he was probably unskilled in brawling and picking those with which to brawl with.
“I surely hope I don’t run into him,” the beauty in the green dress exclaimed.
“I surely hope I do,” I muttered.
“Is that what your sword is for?” she asked curiously.
“The latest item on a long list,” I said grimly.
“My, you are a peculiar one,” she said. “Not much for talking, are you?”
“Not much for talking with most fo
lks, no,” I agreed. “But I reckon I’d be willing to make an exception for you, Miss.”
“Well, then,” she said with a wide, girlish smile. “Perhaps you’d like to meet me at the saloon in half an hour?”
“Which saloon?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s only the one in town,” she laughed.
“I’ll walk you there now,” I suggested.
“Patience is a virtue, Mister,” she said as she wagged her finger at me. “A girl’s gotta freshen up first. The inn isn’t far. Surely you wouldn’t mind waiting half an hour for me?”
“I’d wait a hell of a lot longer than that,” I lied.
She smiled wide at my reply. I hadn’t thought that her face could possibly be any more winsome than it already was, but I realized that she had dimples. Well. For a face like that, maybe I really would wait a bit longer than half an hour. Just a bit.
After the blonde angel in green had sashayed off and turned a corner to pass out of sight, I reached out and tore the poster off the wall. Then I folded it up and stuck it in my pocket.
“Not a bad-looking lass,” Theo remarked. “But unless I miss my guess, it’s the fellow who really whet your appetite.”
“You don’t miss your guess,” I snickered.
“Then, are we really going to the saloon?” Theo inquired.
“Why the hell not,” I said. “We can ask around there. See if we can pick up any gossip that might pertain to Mr. Zabala and his current whereabouts.”
“Alright,” Theo gave a long-suffering sigh. Horses weren’t allowed in saloons, so he was never particularly enthused by my habit of frequenting them. “But you’d better not tie me up outside.”
“When I don’t use the post, people are more apt to think you’ve run off from somewhere and try to steal you for themselves,” I pointed out.
“It won’t go well for anyone who tries it,” Theo growled. Theo was a more aggressive talker than he was a fighter, generally speaking. Not that he couldn’t kick a fellow straight into next Sunday if he had a mind to, with those great big hooves of his. I’d seen him do it too, when we were really in trouble. But he wasn’t really inclined to violence, not overfond of dealing it out, and downright averse to suffering it. So I knew that whatever threats he might utter, what he’d really probably do if someone tried to steal him was holler insults at them at the top of his lungs while galloping out of reach.
“Sure then, just don’t roam too far,” I said.
“Just don’t let that blonde turn your head,” Theo retorted.
“When have I ever?” I scoffed.
“I can think of at least twent—” Theo began.
“Look, I think that building must be the saloon.” I pointed.
“What makes you think that?” Theo asked. “Is it the big painted letters up top that spell out, ‘Saloon’?”
“Nope,” I said. “It’s the smell of whiskey and sin emanating from the doors.”
“Pretty sure you’re just smelling yourself,” Theo said snidely.
I chuckled as I swung off his back. I gave him a few hard pats to the shoulder, and then I adjusted my sword belt and strode through the swinging doors into the dimly lit saloon. It was a fairly large one, considering the size of the town. Half a dozen tables. Shadowy corners. An upstairs level, which probably meant women for purchase, although none were on display at present, apart from a few female patrons, who of course were of a different category.
There were a few card games in progress, but usually newcomers trying to elbow in on those were looked on with suspicion if not outright hostility, and there was a decent smattering of solitary men who’d washed up at the bar, so I decided my best chances of striking up a profitable conversation probably lay there. I claimed an empty stool and slid the saloon owner coin for a whiskey.
Then I pulled out the Wanted poster and held it up for the other men at the bar to see. They glanced at me, mostly uninterestedly, but a couple of guys at the far end were craning their heads with apparent curiosity, so I used my unique magical ability to enlarge the poster to twice its size and make it clearly visible to them.
“Natural magic user, right?” the grizzled old cowboy to my right asked warily. “Not one of em sorcerers?”
“Natural,” I assured him, which was true. Natural magic users only had one ability each, although our abilities varied from person to person. Sorcerers were… something else altogether. I guessed the cowboy probably wanted to know which I was in order to gauge how much of a threat I was, and I guessed he concluded that my particular ability didn’t seem that threatening, because he went right back to morosely sipping at his drink while he stared hard at nothing.
Some of the guys studying the poster of Ermenildo Zabala were still squinting somewhat, so I enlarged it even further.
A somewhat younger patron who clearly hadn’t been listening to my conversation with the aged cowboy wailed, “Fuck me with a pitchfork, I must be a damned sight drunker than I thought. That poster-- Billy-- didja see… ”
“See what?” his friend Billy asked innocently. He was evidently a good deal soberer than the other fellow.
“The poster!” the drunkard pointed. “It… it… ” He waved his hands frantically to mime the action of growing and shrinking.
“Aw, don’t be scared of ol’ Ermie, it’s just a drawing now, ain’t it?” Billy said soothingly. He winked at me.
“Ermie?” I asked as I shrank the poster down and stuffed it back in my pocket. “You on a pet name basis with the fellow then?”
“Hell nah,” he guffawed. “But everybody here knows all the notorious robbers in these parts.
“So he’s a robber by trade?” I asked. “That poster listed quite a number of… hobbies.”
“Robber for the most part, I’d say, sure,” Billy agreed. “But he don’t think nothin’ of killing for fun, either. He’s a bit like a pussy cat that goes chasing after mice, how he is about that.”
“He local to these parts?” I asked.
“Ah, he circles around here and a couple other towns,” Billy answered. “There’s always incidents, every few months. Some say he’s got the sheriff scared stiff. Others, that he stuffs the sheriff’s pockets. Either way, Zabala’s never spent a day in the town jail, never seen the inside of a noose like he ought to have done twenty years ago.”
“Then it wasn’t the local authorities who set this reward and had these posters drawn up?” I asked.
“I reckon not,” Billy shrugged.
“Who then?” I asked.
“Hell, it could’ve been anyone,” the white-haired cowboy next to me piped up with a snort of amusement. “Don’t think there’s a person in this town who wouldn’t be happy to hear Zabala ended up six feet under. Besides maybe the sheriff, it seems, like Bill was saying.”
“Couldn’t be anyone,” his cowboy companion objected. “Isn’t just anyone that has got a hundred gold pieces to hand over just to have a whim like that fulfilled.”
“Well, then, how many folks are there in town wealthy enough to do that?” I asked.
“Not many, I suppose,” my white-bearded neighbor said. “There’s that Mr. Elliott comes by sometimes… a big time industrialist, I hear. But he doesn’t live here mostly, though he’s got a house here.”
“His nieces do, though,” Billy said.
His drunk friend whistled into his glass.
“Not the kind of girls that a sensible guardian would leave unattended so often, it’s true,” the aged cowboy chuckled. “But I don’t think Mr. Elliott thinks much of things like that. He thinks of railroads. Oil drilling. Dreams of clockwork contraptions that run on steam. Anything that might part a fool investor from his cash.”
“But does he think of Ermenildo Zabala?” I asked. “That’s what I want to know.”
“I doubt it,” Billy answered. “He’s never been in town during any of the incidents. I don’t know that he’d ever even have heard tell of the bastard, unless his nieces were frightened enough to say so
mething about it. Well, Mr. Elliott’s very much a law and order type, I guess, so maybe he’d want an animal like that put down… but on the other hand, he’s notoriously tight-fisted, so I don’t know that he’d pay himself to have the deed done.”
“Then who else?” I asked.
“Mayor Jennings?” suggested Billy’s drunk friend as he stuck his tongue into his glass and started lapping the liquor.
“Mayor Jennings wouldn’t take a thing like that upon himself,” Billy said. “He’d call a council to discuss it. Negotiate the reward and take it out of the town treasury.”
“Unless his wife got sick and tired of Zabala’s antics, and elbowed him into it,” one of the cowboys suggested. “She’s got sharp elbows, Mrs. Jennings does.”
“Can’t imagine bedding her, it’d be like sticking your prick in a bundle of kindling,” the other cowboy remarked.
“But one of Elliott’s nieces?” the drunkard said dreamily. “That’d be like-- ”
The rest of us at the bar never got to hear exactly what bedding one of Mr. Elliott’s nieces would be like, because just then there was a deafening thud behind us, and we all whirled around to see that one of the card tables had been violently upended, and the five or six players were furiously shouting at each other as various weapons were drawn in swift succession.
“Hey!” the saloon owner hollered as he grabbed a bow and nocked it.
That was, unfortunately, the poor man’s last act on this earth. An axe came whirling toward us. I leaned out of the way. The grizzled cowboy next to me leaned out of the way in the opposite direction. The axe spun between us, and the square blade implanted itself in the saloon owner’s forehead, which split his face practically in half. His body thumped to the floor.
I vaulted over the bar and joined the fresh corpse in taking cover behind it while I spectated the proceedings, which so far, didn’t seem to be any of my business. I wasn’t a compulsively violent man. I’d rarely so much as hurt a flea, without having been granted due compensation for it.
After all, a man should be paid for his work.
Other patrons, male and female alike, shrieked and ran for cover or simply ducked under their tables. Although their terror seemed mostly unnecessary, since the cardplayers hadn’t commenced a massacre of everyone in the saloon, they simply appeared to have had a quarrel with each other, probably over an accusation of cheating, and it had turned bloody. The only reason one of them seemed to have targeted the saloon keeper was the fact that he had threatened them with a weapon in his attempt to maintain the peace.