Throughout my life, the sound of gunfire has always been an omen of bad, bad things. Whether

I’m at the wrong end of it or the right, someone’s blood is wetting the earth. Someone’s heart’s

gonna stop. A paltry sacrifice to the God of Death, if there is such a thing.

Hell, it’s the last thing I heard in my natural life. That final blast from Ace Ryker’s Le Mat

sending me hurtling into this unlife, where I have the unspeakable honor of serving as a Hand of

God. A Black Badge. Beholden to the whims and caprices of angels in perpetuity, all to

circumvent eternity in the icy torments of Hell.

Gunshots. As common in the West as the caw of a hungry crow. As common as dying of

thirst and hunger. As common as impropriety amongst men of ill repute.

Bang!

The revolver next to me went off, lead grazing rock down a ways. A handful of stones were

lined up on a cracked and dried-out tree stump. The remaining portion of the spindly trunk had

long fallen over into the marshlands.

“Woo-wee. Almost got it,” I said.

The widow, Rosa, glanced at me sidelong, those green eyes glistening like a field of fresh

grass amid the arid desert sands. However, a threat was there, dancing behind them—a

viridescent sky before a tornado. Then, too, there was weariness. Neither of us had found much

sleep, though for different reasons. Hers, likely nightmares about the wicked man—a

Necromancer who took the life of her dear husband—with powers she couldn’t understand and I

couldn’t divulge the truth behind.

Or maybe it was the more recent memory of Ace Ryker in Revelation Springs—another evil

son of a bitch responsible for such heinous acts of horror, they were better off buried Hell-deep.

Luck didn’t seem to follow her, unless you counted me.

For my part, the lack of sleep derived from a sort of emptiness, a great chasm of nothing that

existed behind my undead eyelids. My body couldn’t feel, so sleep was a remedy for nothing but

a spent mind aching for a moment’s respite. Never true restfulness. Not anymore.

And, so, with Rosa waking with a startle and me already having been up, staring out at the

fog of the southern wetlands, here we found ourselves playing target practice, not wanting to

discuss the things eating us up inside.

“Mierda! I was close,” Rosa said.

Her voice was like velvet soaked in honey. Hardly an accent at all, though she wasn’t from

the States. She’d worked hard for that, to fit into a place where fitting in kept you alive and free.

Her raven-black hair was sleek and straight, shining like bubbling oil. Olive skin appeared

smooth from afar, but up close, lines formed at the corners of her eyes, her forehead and cheeks.

Just a bit of roughness.

Not in a bad way, mind you. Rosa was stunningly beautiful. The girl could twist a man a

hundred ways with nothing but a glance—the kind of lady who bewitched the senses. And trust

me, as a hunter of demons and all things otherworldly, I know a thing or two about being

bewitched.

She’d taken to wearing all black these days, and I like to think I had some responsibility in

that decision. Her sleeves bunched up at the elbows. Gold bracelets jangled on her wrists as she

checked the chamber of her Colt five-shooter, twisting her forearm to reveal a tattoo of a serpent slithering around a dagger. I’d known her back when she used to wear dresses like a proper lady,

that ink always covered up as best she could. I think these travelers’ clothes suited her better.

My horse, Timperina, snorted. The old girl stood next to us, unwilling to lie in the wet dirt.

She could be quite the baby. Skittish too, but never when the shooting comes from me. No, sir.

Me, she trusts, and the feeling is mutual. I used to call her my only true friend, until recent days.

“That’s sure right, Timp,” I said. “Close only counts in horseshoes, don’t it?”

Rosa scoffed. “If you’re so good, you try.”

I smirked. For a moment, I got lost staring at her. Sure, that was wrong, I know. She was

more than a bit younger than me, considering she was only a girl when I’d saved her and her

mama’s lives so many years back. Plus, unlike me, she was alive and breathing. The heart in her

chest still beat, sending blood coursing through her veins, whereas mine was still as footprints in

the snow.

Snapping out of it, I drew one of my peacemakers in a smooth motion, my eye never leaving

her as I cross-fired and sent the rock she’d been aiming for spinning off into the mud.

“Did I hit it?” I asked, knowing full well it was a perfect shot. Always is.

Rosa rolled her eyes. “He always like this, Timp?”

My horse whinnied.

“Love you too, girl.” I scratched her behind the ears where she likes it.

Rosa dug into her pocket and slapped down a wrinkled greenback. “One dollar says I get the

next one.”

I blinked. “You ain’t serious.”

“Are you in, or are you scared, James?”

James. God, it was so strange hearing that name from her lips. Most folk I met or had the

displeasure of knowing simply called me Crowley. Rolls off the tongue and ain’t so common.

There must’ve been a thousand Jameses in the West alone, and yet coming from her, it sounded

special.

I put down a bill of my own. “Like stealing alms from a blind man.”

“Ha-ha.” She snapped her revolver’s cylinder into place and sighted her target. “Got any tips,

cowboy?”

“Don’t miss.”

I evaluated her stance, muscles relaxed, weight on her front foot, shoulders square. Most

women of the times ain’t never shot a gun, let alone looked so natural doing so. She breathed out

slowly.

“You watching, James?”

“Always.” Damn if it didn’t come out a whisper.

Jesus, Crowley, get ahold of yourself with the sweet-talking-a-floozy-at-the-saloon business.

Rosa wasn’t that kind of girl. But I barely got the word out anyway before she squeezed the

trigger and sent a bullet corkscrewing into one of the rocks. It cracked open like a walnut—dead

center.

I began to whoop in support of her—too soon, ’cause she wasn’t done. Not yet. Her aim

slowly shifted right. She pulled back the hammer, let it drop, again and again, until the cylinder

spun empty, each round hitting one of the stones we’d set up as targets—and believe me when I

say they weren’t big. Never even heard the gun click dry, neither. She counted five and stopped.

Now, it wasn’t a quick draw or anything. Wouldn’t win a medal for fast-shooting. She took

her time lining up those shots. And in a real gunfight, it rarely matters who’s fastest but whose

aim is truest. A half-second of planning could mean all the difference.

Her face pursed with the gravity of every round expended, and I knew, in that moment, it

wasn’t a game for her. She’d been fantasizing about the heart of every man who’d ever hurt her

or her mama. And considering the gap in her history I was not abreast of, I’d reckon that was a

long-ass list.

Had those men been standing there today, I held little doubt she’d have fired just as

confidently. Back in Revelation Springs, only a few short weeks ago, she’d been ready to send

Ace Ryker to meet God until I stepped in, using the supernatural power of a harmonica I’d

earned by putting down a foul Nephilim. Looked normal enough, besides being made from bone

of some kind. But when that instrument was played, even with as meager a skill as I possessed, it

emanated awful power—enough to ensnare the thoughts of anyone listening and bend their will

to that of the player.

Wasn’t something I was proud of, but it kept her hands clean and her heart pure. For that, I

was willing to do just about anything.

Only when she was done did she exhale and grin.

“I can’t tell, ‘did I hit it?’” she asked, mocking me.

“You slippery eel,” I replied. “Who knew you were a hustler? Worked me good, you did.”

She grasped both our dollars. “When will you learn to stop doubting me?”

I looked at her, incredulous. There was doubting someone’s ability; then there was

witnessing the extraordinary. Even I would struggle to land five perfect bullseyes from this distance, and I was a better shot than most. Learned across two lifetimes of having to be, lest I

wind up as worm food.

“Maybe when you put up more than a buck,” I said. “You had me in your greasy palm and let

me off that easy?”

“What can I say? I have a soft spot for old men.” She chuckled.

I joined her, though mine was forced. If only she knew the deeper meaning behind that quip.

If only I could tell her. Thing is, the White Throne and I’ve been on better terms lately, and

considering that relationship was forever, I figured I’d be a good boy… at least for a little while.

I plopped down on a fallen log I wagered would support my weight.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” I asked.

Rosa sat beside me. Her features grew dark. Stern. “Mi madre. After you saved us from

Ryker and his boys, she figured it was time. I’ve been shooting ever since that day. Ever since

there was something to shoot at.”

“Smart mama you had. Sad thing about it is, I reckon there’ll always be something to shoot

at. But someone who can handle themselves like that’ll be better off.”

She nodded and smiled with soberly appropriate diffidence. Then, her gaze wandered off into

a thousand-mile stare. “Didn’t help Willy.”

Her husband. The man she’d lost back in Dead Acre. The man I didn’t save and never had

the chance to try.

“No. Can’t say it did. But that don’t mean your mama was wrong.”

“It’s just weird. I always felt like she and I were running from something. Even after you

saved us. We never stayed anywhere long. Like she saw a ghost in every corner, a devil behind every bush, as it were. And then she died, and eventually, I found a man. Settling down seemed

like a new adventure. No more needing to shoot.”

“Life’s full of them,” I offered. “You think I thought I’d be here playing babysitter all these

years later?”

Rosa laid her hand upon my shoulder. Oh, how I longed to feel the warmth of her skin.

Instead, I got nothing. Could only see that it was there.

“Ya no soy una bebe.”

I didn’t speak much español, but I got the gist. “She ain’t a kid.” Right. I harrumphed and

stood out of reflex. Now she was just being cruel.

“How times change,” I remarked, trudging across the swamp, caking my boots with mud. I

reached the end of our makeshift range and spotted one of our targets poking up through the

grass.

“Now, let’s see if that was just beginner’s luck!” I kneeled and dug my bare hands under the

stone.

My head snapped back. A disorienting rush flowed through me, and before I knew it, my

world shifted…

* * *

Creak. Creak. Creak.

That was all I heard, like rope on a docked boat being stretched too far. Then came panic.

Didn’t belong to me, though. I saw through the eyes of another man, his throat being constricted.

His hands—my hands—pawed at what was, indeed, a three-fold strand tightening around my

neck, desperate to inch my fingers beneath the hemp for just a hint of air.

My gaze darted around, down, so I could see the sheriff’s badge on my chest, then up at the

bough of a tree. That very same fallen tree we’d used for target practice, though younger and

still upright. Strong and proud enough to hold the weight of a grown man.

“All right, Ace, he’s had enough.”

A familiar voice spoke, and my gaze wandered down, centering on a group of roughly-

dressed men standing in the marshlands. Men I knew. In the center was Ace Ryker, the man

who’d ended my mortal life and boss of the Scuttlers, the crew I used to run with. Beside him, the

one who spoke, was a man as known to me as any… me.

“Enough?” Ace laughed. “You hear that, boys? Crowley thinks this traitor should be let off

the hook. Or noose, so to speak.”

The others laughed too. Even my oldest friend, Big Davey. Dead nowadays, like every one of

them, even Ace.

Ace stepped forward. “What’d they pay you to try and sell us out?”

The man I inhabited tried to speak through his choking. “It… wasn’t… me…”

“You really gonna lie now, right before heaven takes you?” Ace cleared his throat and

placed a solemn hand against his chest. “‘All liars shall have their part in the lake which

burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’”

To hear scripture spoken from such a serpentine tongue made me sick, even then.

“What if it’s the truth, Ace?” younger me said, voice a hell of a lot less gravelly. Beard thin

and all brown. Actually, being honest, of all the men there, I recognized myself least of

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

all. “Vern’s been good to us.”

“They always are ’til they ain’t.” Ace clicked his tongue. “Loyalty is more common in dogs

than men. But, hey, what do ya say we leave it to providence?” He looked up to the sky and

raised his hands. “Oh, almighty God, if this man is innocent, let him free of his bonds! Send your

leagues of angels. Strike me down!”

Ace closed his eyes. Everyone went silent but for the chattering frogs and my host

asphyxiating. Blackness closed around my vision. The panic and the pain gave way to serene

calm. Not acceptance, no, but exhaustion. I could sense the poor man’s thoughts and tried to

determine if he was guilty or not, but his mind was consumed only by the idea of breathing the

air he couldn’t get.

“Let that be a lesson to you all,” Ace said. “Thirty pieces of silver ain’t worth it. Never

was.”

And the last thing I witnessed before the blackness took hold was Ace’s shit-eating grin and

young Crowley standing right behind him, Stetson pressed against his chest…

* * *

I snapped out of my trance, falling on my ass into the mud. Gasping for air, even though in my

current state, I didn’t need it.

I gaped down. In one hand, I clutched a rock Rosa had shot, along with a rope colored black

by the mud. A skull clung to the loop, so old even the maggots had given up, but some remnants

of that man must’ve remained for me to have Divined.

That’s one of my gifts as a Black Badge—seeing the final moments of a dead being,

assuming there’s enough flesh or blood or something left of them to touch—shows me things I’d never want to see. Sacrifices so beautiful even angels would weep. Or mortal terrors that would

make ol’ Lucifer himself shudder in his hooves. Or a myriad in between.

Thing is, though, no matter what I see, those moments are mine. Forever. They stick with me.

Time won’t take them away. Time won’t even lessen their intensity.

The biggest problem is I experience it all through the victim’s eyes and mind. That means I

don’t always get the full truth, subject to my own subconscious interpretation.

Fortunately for me, if I could consider it fortune, I’d been there for this one.

I stared at the fallen hanging tree. Something must’ve knocked it over in the twenty or thirty-

some-odd years since Ace, myself, and the Scuttlers killed that man for something. I couldn’t

remember what. Didn’t even remember that moment until I saw it.

Just one sin in a long line of them I’d spend eternity atoning for—or until the White Throne

grew sick of me.

“Nice moves, James. How’s your backside?” Rosa’s voice sprang me from staring into the

dark, empty sockets of the skull. I let it fall from my hand and glanced back. She was laughing.

Must’ve thought I’d slipped instead of seen ghosts.

“Need a hand?”

“I ain’t that old,” I grumbled. Pushing into the mud with balled fists, it took some deal of

effort to raise myself from the soupy earth. The rope came with me, in remarkably good shape

for having been there so long, maybe preserved by the mud—a perfectly usable lasso.

And that was when I heard her. Her ghostly voice hanging in the humid air, speaking my

name in that singsongy way. If Rosa was honey, she was acid.

Though I couldn’t feel much of anything physically, her presence brought a deep itch to my

scarred chest, like it was lodged in my very soul.

“Crowleyyyy.”

Shargrafein. Shar. My angelic handler spoke to me from the little shaving mirror sitting open

in the mud. Must’ve slipped from my pocket, or maybe she willed it there. I don’t know. She just

appeared in the reflection like burning incense—a wispy, undefined shape.

“To replace the one you so carelessly destroyed,” she said, speaking of my old lasso that had

snapped back in the town of Revelation when I’d employed its use against a Yeti—a man

possessed by the demon Chekoketh. “Or have you forgotten about your greater purpose? To

bring judgment to true evil, not the miscreants of your past life.”

“So, Vern was guilty?” I asked softly.

“Does that forgive murder?”

“James!” Rosa called, looking all concerned. For me? Who’d have thunk it?

“I’m coming!” I hollered over to her across the way, then returned my attention to the mirror.

“Crescent City nears, and it is time you regained focus,” Shar said.

“I’m always focused.” Even as I said it, I knew Shar had caught me in a lie.

Rosa and I both had business in Crescent City. She and her traveling companions were kind

enough to afford me the time to give the late Deputy Dale—who’d died facing that same Yeti—a

proper burial before we departed to the swamplands. Even Shar couldn’t stop me from escorting

a widow and her soft, posh friends across dangerous roads sure to eat them up. Wouldn’t be very

Heavenly.

“Does this companionship remind you of those good old days?” Shar asked.

She might not have been wrong. It’s incredible what the years can do to the mind. Though I

barely look like I’d aged a year, I hardly remember my Scuttler days, apart from the bitter end. If you’d have asked me whether I was here, in this very spot, hanging a man for treachery, I’d

likely have thought about it long and hard before saying “no.”

“Does it?” Shar asked again.

“Is it so bad to remember simpler things?” I asked.

“To harp on the impossible will only drive you mad. You don’t get a family, Crowley. The

closest you’ll ever have are those same sinners who killed you.”

“What kind of angel are you to say such hurtful things?”

“The truth will set you free, Crowley. I am merely a bearer of that particular gospel.”

“Better than a ma who drinks, I reckon. Can I call you ‘Ma’? ’Cause the way I figure it,

family’s those who are there for you even when you don’t want them to be. And, yeah, here you

always are.”

“I allowed you this dalliance because you did well in Revelation. But do not push your luck.

Rosa is not your friend.”

I watched out of the corner of my eye as Rosa started to approach me like temptation itself.

Hell, she even had that serpent tattoo. Temptation in a romantic sense, sure, being that I’m a man

and she’d become a beautiful woman. But it was so much more. Temptation for a normal life…

Eggs and sausages for breakfast before milking cows, unwinding at the local, throwing back a

few beers with the boys after a hard day. Shit, I’d even consider waking up early to go to church

on Sundays at this point. But, alas, those are the whims of the living.

“You’ve seen what effect time has on mortals.” Shar’s mist exited the mirror and swirled

about the skull, half sunken already. Didn’t even know she could do that. “Her, the rest, they’ll

all pass. And here you shall remain, the servant of a higher power.”

“More like slave,” I said, soft.

If Shar heard—which I’m sure she did—she ignored me.

“This is their world you protect, but you are not of this world.”

One thing about Shar and me is that we can’t stand each other. If angels are capable of

hatred, she’d be the one to find out. I’m not sure that makes for a good team, but Heaven doesn’t

seem to care to reassign me a new handler. Maybe it isn’t a bad thing since we’re so damn blunt

with each other. I’ve never been one for chariness.

And there is nothing I loathe more than when she’s right.

“You okay, James?” Rosa asked, her serious voice now coming from directly above me. I

caught a glimpse of her eyes and, this time, dared not stare.

“Fine. Just found this is all.” I shifted to push the skull down into the sludge to spare her

seeing it, then yanked the lasso up. Mud and crust fell off, probably some ancient skin matter

too. You know what they say, the object of one man’s demise is another man’s treasure.

Wasn’t sure how, but I could sense the rope had been enchanted like my last one, with the

ability to compel Hellish beings to feel the White Throne’s wrath should I tangle them with it.

“It’s in great shape,” I said. “Kismet, I guess. Fate. Needed a new one.”

Rosa looked disgusted, her nose wrinkling in that very particular way—stop it, Crowley.

“I thought you didn’t believe in such things?” she asked.

“Well, a man can change, can’t he?”

She nodded, but her smile vanished when she peered down at it once more.

“It’s falling apart, James. Why not just buy a new one?”

“For starters, you just gouged me of my last dollar. Besides, I like ’em broken in.”

I rose, shoving the mirror—and Shar along with it—down into my pocket so I wouldn’t be

further subjugated by her castigations. Then I secured my new lasso through a loop at my side and dusted off my pants. Rosa tried to take my arm, but I shook her away. Judging by how her

expression darkened, she got the message. I didn’t need help.

“C’mon, I think it’s time we wake the others and get moving,” I said, trudging toward the

carriage where our travel companions—Bram, Harker, and Irish—slept. “We should hit Crescent

City before another nightfall.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Rosa said, unable to mask her disappointment. She’d get over it. “I’m

sick of the bugs.” She slapped her arm, crushing a mosquito into a tiny splotch of red.

“Being in the city won’t change that much,” I told her.

“What are you after in Crescent City again?”

“A little of this and a little of that,” I replied. Truth is, I wasn’t exactly sure yet. That was the

way it usually worked. Shar got an inkling of Hellish doings, rumors and whispers, and I was

dispatched to play inspector. When I was living, I figured the Almighty had his fingers in every

pot, always knowing what his great adversary was cooking. Turns out, it ain’t that simple. When

God made man, the devil was at his side.

That’s where me and the others like me come in: His Hands where—apparently—He can’t,

or won’t, reach.

Something sinister was afoul in Crescent City, and I’d been set to smoke it out.

“All right, play coy,” Rosa said. “I won’t pry.”

“I don’t aim to be,” I said.

“No, really, it’s fine. It’s none of my business. I’m not your wife.”

That was for damn certain.

“I’ve just… heard things about the place, is all,” she went on. “Do you really think someone

there will be able to help me?”

Can’t say.” I sighed. Just couldn’t lie to her.

In a place like Crescent City, you either lose yourself or find yourself. The devil and wicked

things have a hold on the place, unlike most regions. Guess it’s just easier there, with all the

vices.

“If there’s anywhere in the world where someone can help you truly reach the other side, it’s

Crescent,” I admitted. “Though I still don’t think it’s wise.”

Rosa caught my gaze. Her eyes grew wide, almost begging me for more.

“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s unnatural. Mumbo jumbo.” I went to keep walking, but she pulled me back.

“You know more about this stuff than you let on, James. I know it. Back in Dead Acre when

that thing came after me—when he made the dead… not dead—you alone didn’t seem shocked.”

I blew a raspberry. “Parlor tricks and men in costumes.”

“James,” she said sternly.

Again, I sighed. Why couldn’t I just walk away from her? “I know very little except to shoot

at things hurting good folks like you.”

“Liar.”

“Never.” Taking her by the shoulders, I gave in and stared straight into her eyes, sparkling

like hidden emeralds behind a veil of sadness. “It’s dangerous stuff, what you’re after. This

world is full of cheats and charlatans preying on grief—”

This time, it was her turn to shake me off. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A grieving widow

refusing to let go. Pathetic.”

“No, I—”

“I know what I saw that day, James,” she snapped. “The devil’s work. El diablo. And I know

Willy’s gone. I know that. But I need to know he’s at peace. That that monster didn’t curse him

forever.”

“I get it. I really do. All I’m asking is for you to be careful.”

I could practically hear the wheels of her brain revolving as she tried to conjure up a

response. In the end, one side of her mouth pinched into the slightest smirk. “That’s why you’re

around. To shoot anyone who hurts good folks like me.”

At that, she resumed toward the carriage and left me somewhat speechless. It was true; I had

a knack for stumbling upon her in jeopardy and shooting whoever was putting her there. And I’d

just told her as much, but was that the only way she saw me?

Like a grim reaper—the angel of death?

As she tramped away, a mosquito landed on my arm. I didn’t swat it. I just watched as it bit

tried to drink blood that wasn’t there. And instead of engorging itself, it choked on whatever was

inside of me and tumbled off my arm into the mud.

Dead.

Cursed forever, indeed.