I performed the calming ritual of cleaning my weapons, maintaining my gear, and oiling my boots, the leather still supple after years of hard use. It was a routine every soldier knew, muscle memory written into the body. A week ago, I’d been just another veteran passing through. Now I was something else entirely, yet here I was, still performing the same rituals. Part practicality, part routine, part nostalgia. Every veteran I knew also yearned for their time in the service but was paradoxically glad to get out, as if those years were both the best and worst of their lives.

  Those thoughts circled my head while I tried to ignore the town, palpably buzzing with activity because of my botched escape from the Gilded Lily. My mood was sour, and the air in the cellar was rank with sulfur and ash. Whatever Doctor Foss had brewed up was not sitting well with me, leaving a metallic taste at the back of my throat.

  “Are you sulking, Captain?” Foss asked, barely looking up from her workbench. She was meticulously cleaning the Anima Spectacles, each lens catching the lamplight like captured starlight. I almost detected a wry note in her voice, but I wasn’t sure. In the army, it was standard operating procedure for men in the same unit to jibe and tease each other as a sign of camaraderie. Foss was verging dangerously close to a familiar tone.

  “No, not truly. I’m a bit perturbed about the backlash,” I said. “I was just thinking about things, trying to piece together some ideas, but I’m not there yet. I’m trying to figure out how to turn a tactical victory into something more, despite the strategic disaster.”

  “Well, I’d reframe the situation in your mind,” she said, replacing the lenses in their small box, then turning to me. “We have what we need to move forward with a plan. Our grand strategy can be devised now that we have a map of the web. The banker, the mayor, and Sheriff Brody are all corrupted and stained. They may even be Thralls. We now have actionable intelligence. Ignorance was the greater danger.”

  “That ‘actionable intelligence’ won’t stop Deputy Clay from putting a round into my heart if she has a chance,” I retorted. Her steadiness was a fresh memory. “She’s quick, Doc. The worst part is her tracking skills. I can’t operate freely with her on my tail. I changed to the spare boots from my kit, but she’ll figure it out eventually, based on size and gait.”

  The Instinct whispered a darker solution. Hunt the hunter. She is unworthy to stalk us. Take her blood.

  “No,” I said aloud, banishing the thought. The Cold Iron slammed down, walling off the predatory urges with the force of a portcullis dropping. The Doctor looked at me quizzically. “Nothing. The whispers in the back of my head are predictable. There’s a time and place for savagery, but this isn’t it. She’s the only clean law in town, and I’m not a butcher.”

  “Of course, Captain. I agree with your assessment. Violence should be a last resort, in which case it would be self-defense,” she said coolly. “It would seem this problem must be solved before it gets out of control. You have a new objective.”

  “That being?” I asked.

  “Vane being beyond our reach, and frankly, our capabilities at this time, Deputy Clay must be the objective. We agree that subtlety is preferred, so you must neutralize her investigation.”

  “To do that,” I said, the logic clicking into place like a well-oiled mechanism, “I have to remove the reason for the investigation.” I stood and belted on my Colt, the familiar weight settling against my hip. “The sheriff needs to be... handled. I need to solve the chained dog problem.”

  “The son,” Foss added.

  “I need to see this situation myself,” I said. “I need to confirm your intelligence and anything else I can suss out.”

  “He’s easy to find. He’s at the Gilded Lily every night, according to Mei,” she said, handing me a small pouch of coins that clinked softly in my palm. “You’ll need a reason to be out and about, rather than simply lurking. Go to the mercantile and pick up a few things. Here’s a list.”

  I looked at the list and considered going out in plain sight. I hadn’t been seen in town since the fire, but there was no reason I couldn’t be. I’d need to be incognito, or at least not wearing the same clothes from the saloon raid.

  “I’d better leave this,” I said, laying my saber on the cot, the blade catching the lamplight. I hung up my duster on a hook, checked my boot for the silver switchblade. Still there. Reassured, I headed out.

  The spring day had been warm enough that going out in the evening without a coat was reasonable, the temperature holding even as dusk approached. I knew it wasn’t much of a disguise, but at least my silhouette and shadow would be a different shape.

  I saddled up Flint and set out. He was a conspicuous horse, being a little taller than sixteen hands. He was a Morgan-Friesian cross, or so the rancher said when I bought him as a yearling. He just kept getting bigger, and his gray coat darkened over time to a more Friesian black, but it kept some of the lighter dappling. The Nightmare transformation had given him an even stronger aura of confidence and power, something that radiated from him like heat from a forge. Anyone would notice him on the road.

  I rode into town but left Flint and my shotgun stationed nearby. His irritation rippled through the bond. He wanted to go on the mission. I assured him this was just a store run with some spying, and he seemed mollified. I made a mental note to pick up some sugar cubes to reward his patience. Despite my lack of need for food, Flint was still alive, and his appetite had never been small.

  I left Flint, the bond providing a warm, steady presence that lifted my mood like a hand on my shoulder. I pulled the brim of my hat lower, in the vain hope I’d go unnoticed. The Gilded Lily was down the lane but I headed toward the store first.

  I kept to the boardwalks and scanned the area, letting the enhanced senses flow naturally rather than fighting them. The chaotic flood of information had become manageable with practice. I was learning to build dams, filtering information as I needed it. The earthy smell of horse manure mingled with the mineral scent of the creek running through town, cold water over smooth stones. The saloon was always a storm of sensory input, but I set that aside for later. At the end of the road, the mill sent the smell of fresh lumber into the air, permeating everything with the scent of cut pine.

  The mercantile was mostly empty, but not entirely. A couple of loggers haggled with the shopkeeper over the price of rope and nails, who spared me a nod. I nodded in return and moved through the aisles. I was just a face in the crowd, a ghost.

  The door clicked, and the hinge squeaked, a high, rusty protest. I didn’t turn to look. Normal people didn’t care when others came and went. The Instinct snarled, rebuffing my efforts to ignore it. Someone living had entered. A heartbeat, steady and strong. The stew they'd eaten for dinner, beef and onions, still pungent.

  “Just a box of .44 rimfire cartridges for the Henry. And a pack of licorice,” the voice said behind me, clear and professional. My hand paused over the soap Foss needed. A Henry repeater was a distinctive weapon. Too expensive for ranch hands, not right for hunting. A soldier’s weapon, and I recognized that voice, remembered it from the night of broken glass and gunfire.

  I waited a few moments, finished my shopping, and went to the counter. Near the door, Deputy Clay was looking at the bulletin board, where townies had posted notes about everything from a litter of kittens to a miner hiring some hands. She idly munched on a long black piece of licorice, the distinct scent of anise in the air.

  Her eyes flicked my way when I set my items down to pay. I settled up with the clerk and walked toward the door. She was tall and lean, the build of someone who'd spent years in the saddle. Sun-weathered face, auburn hair pulled back tight, out of the way. She looked out of place here, in men's trousers, a duster, and a pheasant feather in her hat, practical gear that spoke of long days on the trail.

  She must have felt my eyes upon her. She turned and looked me in the eyes. Hers were green and sharp, alert as a hawk's. She assessed me, as I did the same for her.

  I’d seen that look a thousand times. It was the look one hard case gives another, sizing them up for a fight. She took my measure, gaze flickering from the scar on my cheek to my Colt, my well-maintained army issue boots, and back to my eyes.

  She stood with relaxed poise, ready to move in any direction. The Henry rifle was slung on her shoulder, muzzle down because the clouds threatened rain. The Bowie knife hanging from her belt was at the perfect position on her thigh for quick retrieval. It wasn’t decoration; the classic coffin-shaped handle was worn smooth from use, the leather grip darkened by sweat and oil.

  The only thing that marked her as an officer of the law, and not a scout for the army, was the tin star on her buckskin vest.

  She broke the silence with a curt, professional nod. “Evenin’.”

  I nodded in return. “Ma’am,” I said, not slowing, looking to the door.

  She shifted slightly, not interposing herself but signaling she’d like to continue the exchange. If I brushed by her, it would be more notable than anything I might say.

  “It’s a long ride from the battlefield, Captain.”

  “It is,” I said, stopping and looking at her directly. She was telling me she knew exactly who and what I was. It was a bold move, but that seemed to be her way. “You could say I bring the battlefield with me everywhere I go.”

  She nodded solemnly, agreeing. I could tell she carried ghosts of her own, shadows behind those green eyes that matched mine. "Truer words..." she trailed off, looking down momentarily. "Jo Clay, nice to meet you."

  “Silas Hatcher. Micah’s brother.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Her eyes softened, her keen analysis replaced by something rarer than gold: empathy. “Sorry for your loss... and the homestead too. Fire is a terrible thing.”

  “It is.”

  “You served?” she asked, nodding at the boots, then glancing at the Colt and the scar on my cheek.

  “First West Virginia Cavalry regiment,” I said. “Then Army of the Tennessee.”

  She nodded, an ember of respect kindling, a grim understanding forming between us. “Second Colorado Cav. I was a scout up in the territories.”

  A beat of silence. Soldiers recognizing soldiers.

  “The law out here,” she said, the words coming slow, “it’s not what I signed up for.” Her eyes flicked toward the sheriff’s office across the street, then back to me. “Sheriff Brody’s a good man at heart, but he’s...” She paused, searching for the right word. “Compromised. Scared, more like.”

  I waited, sensing she had more to say.

  “This town is sick, Captain.” Her voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it, hard as tempered iron. “Something’s rotting it from the inside. I’ve been trying to build a case, document it proper, but...” She shook her head slightly. “Every lead goes cold. Every witness clams up. It’s like trying to fight smoke.”

  There was conviction in her voice, the kind I’d heard in men who’d stay on the line even when the position was lost. Whatever corruption had taken root in Cinder Creek, Jo Clay was hunting it alone.

  “Law only works when folks believe in it,” I said.

  “Exactly.” She met my eyes again. “I joined the Army to defend people who couldn’t defend themselves. Wore the badge for the same reason. When the system fails...” She let the thought hang between us. “Well. Good men don’t walk away. They find another way to do what’s right.”

  I recognized that conviction. I’d carried it myself, once. Maybe still did, in my own way.

  We’d exchanged credentials, as surely as two businessmen swapping cards. We spoke the same language. It was the first time I’d spoken to anyone in Cinder Creek who understood. The first person who wasn’t a victim, heretic, or monster. It felt strange but somehow welcome.

  “Well, Captain Hatcher,” she said, her voice calm and friendly on the surface but hard just beneath, like ice over running water. “Stay out of trouble. This town’s got more than its fair share.”

  It was a warning. I couldn’t tell whether she was giving a fellow veteran some advice or telling me specifically that she was watching.

  “You too, deputy.” I tipped my hat and walked out into the crisp air. Tension released that I hadn’t realized was building, my shoulders dropping an inch.

  The Instinct was calm. She wasn’t a monster. We can kill her at our leisure, but my mind was racing to figure out how to avoid doing so.

  I walked up the boardwalk, reflecting on the interaction. She was intelligent, competent, and likable. She reminded me of some of the men I’d served with, the ones who survived because they thought before they shot. It was a shame she was the one who saw me crash through that window. She was one of the most dangerous people around and one I didn’t want to hurt.

  I needed to know more. I slipped into an alleyway and waited for her to leave the store. She exited shortly after and scanned the road, taking in everything with practiced efficiency. She leisurely walked through town, making sure to be seen.

  Then she reprised her role from when we first met and slipped into the shadows. I followed her into a dark alley, where she waited behind cover, quickly shrugging off her buckskin jacket to reveal a dark colored tunic. She watched a warehouse for ten minutes, patient as stone, then a roughneck Thrall exited with a bulging saddlebag over his shoulder. He quickly walked toward the timber mill, avoiding the main streets.

  Clay followed him and slipped into the mill complex with familiarity. Her movements from shadow to shadow displayed skill at stalking but also an intricate knowledge of the place. I concluded she was watching it as closely as she’d watched the Gilded Lily, where she caught me.

  Confident she wasn’t hunting me, I returned to the mission at hand: finding the kid.

  I walked past the Gilded Lily, carrying my grocery bag like any other person running evening errands. I scanned the place, noting several hired guns through the windows. They were positioned in strategic locations inside the building: corners, stairs, and doors. Only the doormen were outside, likely an abundance of caution against stealthy attacks. The doormen had the telltale reek of Vane on them, pungent and acrid. Thralls.

  When I got a few blocks away, I turned down a side street and called for Flint through the bond. He responded immediately and met me behind the nearby distillery, his hoofbeats soft on the packed earth. I put the merchandise from the mercantile in the saddlebags and mounted up.

  Taking unlit back streets, I rode behind a building adjacent to the Gilded Lily. We stepped into the shadows and faded away. I crept to the corner, crouching and watching.

  I watched for over an hour. Jeremiah Brody, the son, half-stumbled, half-fell out of the saloon. He scrambled to his feet, fell, and finally managed to haul himself up on the hitching rail, knuckles white on the weathered wood. The young man tried to salvage some dignity by picking up his hat and dusting himself off.

  He tried to go back into the saloon, but one of the Thralls stepped in the way. Harsh words were exchanged. He was cut off, and the implication of a beating was clearly conveyed.

  Jeremiah slumped against the wall, somewhere between indignant and despondent. It sounded like he was crying, but the din of the evening crowd made it hard to tell.

  Weak prey. Take him. The Instinct purred, rising unbidden.

  “No,” I muttered, pushing the impulse aside. The kid was the point of the mission, not a victim.

  Eventually, he stumbled away and rounded the corner. He was walking toward the back of the saloon, the far side of my position. I lost sight of him.

  I mounted up and trotted around back in his general direction. We came upon the alleyway behind the saloon, and I didn’t see Jeremiah. He could still be on the other side, so I urged Flint forward. The fresh lumber nailed over the destroyed window above caught my attention, rough pine boards still bleeding sap.

  That distraction is why I didn’t notice the drunkard stumble out the back door of the saloon into our path. He almost ran right into us.

  “What the hell...?” he looked up, bloodshot eyes trying to focus on the looming darkness in front of him. The smell of booze and piss permeated his clothing, skin, even hair. He was revolting to behold.

  Flint snorted, his head high, repulsed by the man.

  The Instinct snapped. Leave no witnesses. Kill him now. My mind reeled, partially agreeing but not wanting to leave a body in the alley either. The man’s only crime was being an addict. That and bad timing.

  Caught in an internal war of impulses, I didn’t move; I projected. I pushed the roar through the Blood Bond, let it flow like dark current through deep water. I pushed my instinctual fury and my revulsion at the man through to Flint, where it joined with his anger, disgust, and desire to dominate lesser beings.

  Flint’s eyes shone a baleful crimson in the moonlight. Unnatural darkness clung to him as he unleashed our combined Anima as a psychic wave, directed right at the hapless drunk.

  The man froze. His jaw dropped open, and his drooping, drunken eyes went wide, filled with inexplicable, primal terror.

  Flint glared, the man held paralyzed in his gaze. Then he fled into the darkness, whimpering unintelligibly.

  I sat in the saddle, my unbeating heart throbbing like a phantom limb. Power coursed through me. Flint’s cold domination, drawing on my power, adding to his own. He’d used the Dread Gaze. His passive aura of power and intensity had become a weapon.

  My urge to drive the man away had been part of the impetus, but the gaze had definitively come from Flint. I wondered if he could do it again, and his surging confidence assured me he could, transmitted through the bond like a silent boast. Flint’s Nightmare powers had evolved and risen to new heights. Foss would want to document this, no doubt.

  I knew I would have more thoughts on this development later, but I needed to follow Jeremiah first. I nudged Flint forward mentally. He stepped into the deepest shadows, next to the building, and I dismounted. Talking around the corner cut the silence, voices harsh in the quiet night.

  I peered around the corner, and he was there, trying to enter a side door I hadn’t noticed. One of Vane’s gunmen barred his path. Jeremiah looked dejected, like only a drunk man denied another drink can.

  “The Madam’s gone, kid,” the Thrall said callously. “She was too indulgent with you. Vane doesn’t give a damn about you now that you’re off the payroll. As long as your old man stays in line, you can live, you’re done at the Lily.”

  “Wha—” Jeremiah was cut short as the Thrall punched him hard in the gut. The young man doubled over and cried out in pain.

  “Your marker’s called in. You’ve got ‘til Friday to pay up, or Vane’s going to collect... personally.”

  “I can’t!” Jeremiah choked out, voice raw. “I don’t have it, and neither does my old man.”

  “That’s because you’re a no-account dog, and if you darken this doorway again without paying, it’ll go rough on you... real rough.”

  Jeremiah stumbled back, sobbing and sputtering. “There... there’s gotta be a way...”

  “Well... might be you could work it off, if you want back in. There’s an opening, since ol’ Micah Hatcher got himself dead,” the Thrall said.

  Jeremiah stumbled away, sucking air, trying to compose himself. I was of half a mind to just snatch him up right then and there, but I had nowhere to bring him and no backup plan. I resolved to stick to the plan. Gather intelligence, report back, and plan the next step.

  I knew, for sure, if they put Jeremiah to work and addicted him to Red-Eye, it would destroy the sheriff. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let them do what they did to Micah.

  Flint stepped forward, anticipating my desire to leave. We slipped away in the shadows, avoiding unwanted stares. When we got back to the paddock, I brushed Flint and patted him on the neck, feeling the warmth of his living body. He understood. It was somewhere between impressed and proud. I was glad to have his steady support.

  I cautiously entered the clinic’s back door and went down the stairs. The cellar was warm, and Foss was working on more alchemical concoctions, glass beakers bubbling over blue flames. She looked over her shoulder and nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Confirmed,” I said. “The son is the lever, and it’s about to get dark for that boy. They gave him until the end of the week, or they’re making him their new whipping boy to pay off his debt.” I paced back and forth, mirroring Foss’s nervous gesture.

  “Captain,” she said. Her tone was the one she used when analyzing information, logical and precise. I turned to regard her. “This isn’t your war, or your mission. The risk of rescuing him is high, but the reward is low. If the sheriff is suddenly free from leverage, he isn’t going to call off Clay. The gain is theoretical. The risk is practical.”

  “I can’t let them do what they did to Micah...” I trailed off. I knew I was deciding with my emotions. I’d always told my men to plan with their minds and fight with their hearts. I wasn’t following my own rules, but couldn’t let this go.

  Her demeanor softened at the mention of my brother. She studied me for a long moment, then exhaled. “You’re going regardless of what I say.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “I have a safehouse,” she continued. “A fallback location, in case this place is discovered. If you insist on doing this, at least have an extraction point.”

  I couldn't save my brother, but I could save Jeremiah. "Thank you."