The Gunslinger's Man Read online

  “And you’re too easy.”

  Halloran swung his gaze to meet Asher’s—quick for a human, too slow for a vampire. The shiv Halloran had been working so hard to polish fit perfectly into Asher’s hand.

  “Love ’em and kill ’em, huh?” Halloran drawled, tucking one leg under him and rising into a half crouch. “Didn’t think that was your way.”

  “It’s not.” Which was why Asher flipped the knife around and held it out to Halloran, hilt first. “We should head back.”

  His erection had subsided enough that he could face the long walk to Willowbranch unimpeded. He didn’t relish the thought of rejoining the Riders, but the longer he let Halloran indulge him, the harder it would be to return to the strictures of Sargasso.

  Free rein only meant more rope to hang himself with.

  They trudged back in silence, side by side like allies, like friends, both of them knowing they weren’t. Both unable or unwilling to put a name to what it was that bound them.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Doc was so hasty in locking the door behind him that he didn’t seem to notice Asher until they stood face-to-face. “Oh my goodness!” One hand clamped to his rib cage, he reached the other up to stop his spectacles from sliding down his nose.

  “Sorry,” said Asher insincerely. “Didn’t see you there.”

  The stairwell was a wide, swooping spiral connecting all three stories of Ambrose’s home. From the landing, the view down the eastern corridor was unimpeded. Asher couldn’t have missed the doctor’s furtive exit if he’d tried.

  “It’s quite—I was just, ah…” Flustered, Doc glanced over his shoulder at the closed wooden door, as if to remind himself which room he’d stepped out of.

  “How is Miss Angelita?”

  Since dinner had been such a success the last time, Asher’s name must have been scratched off the guest list. He hadn’t seen Ambrose or Ambrose’s plaything in a handful of days. Admittedly, he hadn’t had much time to deplore the snubbing since Willowbranch. The handling of the cattle still called for more men than Sargasso had to offer.

  “Better,” Doc replied, with a smile that didn’t reach the deep-set eyes behind his thin spectacles. “The fresh sea air would help speed along the recovery, but I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He cleared his throat. “I was actually on my way to, um…”

  Arms folded across his chest, Asher planted himself in the way. “Ambrose won’t allow her the treatment she needs?”

  “Indeed.”

  It wasn’t an answer. “Shame. She seems nice.” She probably was, the same way ornamental flowers were nice until they wilted in the vase. “Well, if there’s anything I can do…” Asher gestured his willingness to help. He lacked any sort of medical competence and Dr. Matheson didn’t seem like the type to welcome a second opinion if he was.

  “Thank you. I’m sure we can manage, but thank you.” Doc shammed a cough. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Oh, of course.” Asher turned to let him pass.

  Like the rest of Ambrose’s manor, the corridor was large enough for two men to walk abreast without rubbing shoulders. If Asher’s elbow happened to brush the doctor’s flank, it was no accident. They traded apologies for it, but Doc seemed to be in too much of a hurry to give the hindrance any thought.

  His tread faded hastily down the stairs and out the front door. Presumably he was bound for the general store to retrieve his orders of expensive medication, not easily procured so deep in the valley. Asher had seen him slithering about town on such errands before. He’d wondered what they might be about, but asking the doctor was out of the question. Halloran had plainly said he didn’t know.

  The house was quiet around Asher. Ambrose had left early to see the ruin of New Morning Farm for himself. Malachi was off doing whatever it was Malachi did with his time—spinning webs for the rest of them, most probably.

  There was no obstacle between Asher and the bedroom door. He slid Dr. Matheson’s key from the palm of his hand and into the lock, mindful of making too much noise. If it should come out that he was trespassing, he could always claim Doc had neglected to close the door behind him. For whatever reason, Ambrose had spared Asher thus far. He wouldn’t break with tradition now.

  Sure about that? crowed a voice at the back of his mind.

  Asher smothered it. Ambrose wouldn’t dare.

  He might, Asher decided once his eyes fell on a very nude, very much not ailing Angelita on the other side of that locked door.

  “Did you forget something, Doc?” She swiveled her gaze around just as Asher made to avert his.

  Bewilderment made him slow. An unnatural force seizing his mind did the rest.

  “You!” Angelita took a step back. “What are you doing in here? Who let you…?” Her gaze trailed down the frozen tendons in his arm to the key.

  “I thought…” Asher started, but the pressure in his skull snagged him by the throat, arresting his breath.

  He had felt that snare close around him once before. He had seen it in action, wielded against Malachi at Ambrose’s table.

  But Ambrose wasn’t here.

  Angelita yanked her peignoir off the bed and hastily threw it on. The silk shimmered as it caught the light streaming through the window. So did the vials arrayed on the dresser, too crimson to contain anything as harmless as perfume.

  “You’re not supposed to be here. No one is supposed to be here!” Angelita’s voice shook as she pulled the sides of the peignoir tighter together. The invisible hand squeezing Asher’s throat clenched just as solidly.

  He scrambled for purchase, yet his fingers encountered nothing but air. He dug his nails in only to feel his own skin give way to the useless scratching. His racing pulse no longer marked the passage of time. With every throbbing beat, Asher lost a little more strength, a little more of his grip on reality.

  Angelita became a foggy mirage. Blood rushed against Asher’s eardrums. Blood filled his throat.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the ghostly claw released him.

  Gravity tugged him down in a useless heap. He slammed his palms against the floor, barely succeeding in keeping his head from striking the wooden boards.

  Angelita’s room echoed with his wet, pitiful coughing. It was only right, given that its owner was responsible.

  “How…how did you…” Asher’s vocal cords would not cooperate. His throat smarted, bruised from the inside.

  And yet Angelita was watching him with wide doe eyes, visibly anxious. She shrunk back toward the corner between the bed and the window when he pushed himself to his knees. She seemed confused as to who was the real predator here.

  “How about,” Asher wheezed, “some water?” His voice was husky with effort.

  Angelita didn’t move.

  “Water, please.” Asher jerked his head toward the pitcher on the dresser for good measure. He could probably get to it himself once he managed to stand up. That was going to take a while.

  To his great chagrin, Angelita seemed willing to wait him out. If she’d been a cat, she would have arched her back and hissed at him by now—a lesser threat than the one she presented standing there petrified.

  Asher settled his back against the bed. At this rate, he was going to have to crawl out and try to get as far from Sargasso as he could before Ambrose or his progenies found out what he’d done. Looking in on the mayor’s pet with less-than-honorable intentions was one thing. Scaring her, quite another.

  And there was still the small matter of the red-black vials laid out on the dresser.

  “That’s…that’s some trick,” he breathed, wrestling with another bout of coughing. “Halloran thinks you’re all human, you know that? Reckon he ain’t the only one.”

  All those painted guests at Ambrose’s shindig had viewed him with such admiration. Angelita, they had ignored or complimented as they might do a handsome piece of furniture.

  Her silence seemed as solid as stone.

  “You’ve got everyone foole
d, huh? Ambrose too?” Asher thumped his head against the footboard. With his eyes shut, he could concentrate on sucking air into his starved lungs and letting it out again with slow, deep puffs. His heart should stop pounding at his ribs soon. “No, I bet—I bet he knows… He got you the help you need so he can go on…using and abusing that talent you got for pain. Sure was nice of him.”

  “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.”