Ash fluttered through the air of Lonely Hill, like someone left a candle burning and the cat knocked it over while they slept. But this wasn't a house fire. You'd see that plume of black for miles and miles.

This was different.

A fleck landed on my cheek before quickly melting. Not ash, but snow flurries.

A bit of good fortune for a place like Lonely Hill, I suppose, set smack dab in the middle of Satan's asshole. It was usually hot and dry in these parts. No real reason for man to be here at all, really.

Lonely Hill was just another blot on an old, weathered map. Nothing special in the natural sense of the word, but I don't get dispatched by the White Throne unless there's a 'super' before the 'natural.' And snow in the middle of summer when the air barely had a chill on it? Ain't nothing natural about that.

So as my tawny mare, Timperina, kicked up dried mud, my proverbial hackles were right there too, waiting, expecting at any moment for some ghoul or devil to come popping out from behind the apothecary or the butcher shop, trying to make a meal of me.

Prepared as I might've been, nothing of the sort looked like it was gonna happen. I did, however, get the typical stares from locals, poking their heads from their shutters and doors and their noses where they don't belong. No matter where I went, folks mistook my unique brand of authority for that of a federal marshal. I’m not, but some people—'specially kids, animals, and anyone ultra-sensitive to the spiritual realm—can sense that something ain't right about me.

Wasn't my appearance. That's pretty damn normal for a man out here. Bearded. Rugged. Too many scars to count on two hands. Nothing of my outward visage to tell the general public that I was, technically, dead. Or undead. I'm hazy on the exact details besides having been shot up, left for the worms, and brought back years later to find myself stuck on this side of eternity, serving the whims and fancies of angels.

I took a corner onto Lonely Hill's main avenue and saw a crowd gathered at the end of the road. More peculiar flurries swirled betwixt them on the breeze like fireflies. Judging by their faces, I knew I'd found it. Whatever it was.

I hitched Timp at the saloon a few doors down, choosing to take the remainder of the distance by foot. Better not to act like I was above anybody, yet. As I got closer, I realized I didn't need the expressions to tell me something disturbing had gone down.

"By all the saints and elders," I said under my breath. Had I still been alive, the smell alone would have probably knocked me on my ass. Death is a sickly sweat aroma. Even in its early stages, it's enough to overwhelm and stir up bile at the very least.

Parked along the street's edge, a few men were seated or lying down, being cared for while sucking down whiskey to drown out the pain of bullet wounds. Got a few more stares as I shoved through the rabble, hoping to get a clearer picture. To their credit, no one tried to stop me. If there was a lawman in town, he wasn't showing face yet, neither.

Parts of the west were being tamed these days, even had their hired band of Pinkertons—outlaw hunters, bounty hunters, and the like—but small towns like this would be the last to fall to complete law and order. Places like Lonely Hill relied upon small crews of barely-trained gunmen. How would I know? These were the exact types of places where the old me would've ridden through with his rowdy pals, put our boots up on a saloon table, and drank for free so long as we flashed our iron.

Yeah, I took what I wanted without asking in my day, but I’d never shot up a town like this.

The word massacre usually speaks of dozens or hundreds dead, but there wasn't a better word for the two corpses I spotted, bloodied and broken remains strewn across the red clay streets.

Beyond them, a two-story building stood caddy-corner to the others. The facade was painted a bright cherry red and in big, gold letters. Frost dappled the words and made them hard to read but I got it, eventually: dufaux bank and trust.

So, what was this, then? A robbery gone awry? That felt too normal for my particular talents. Angels care about many things, but the wealth of men ain't one of them.

I let my eyes wander a bit, but no one else was moving. Not an inch. Looked as if someone had snapped a photograph like them rich folk in the city are fond of, still as statues.

"Who's the stranger?" an older man finally croaked, talking about me but not to me.

"A marshal, clearly," his wife added, nudging him in the side.

"Oh, thank heavens," said another, a younger man with a clean face and a lazy eye. "Mr. Marshal, I ain't never seen anything like this."

I didn't respond—not even at the accusation of being called a fed. Just let my glare pass across them, instilling silence. I always found it better to examine a situation before hearing from those around it, either their opinions or the things they pretend to have seen. Everyone always wants to feel a part of having solved a mystery.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

With a sigh, I made my way to the first body. The poor bastard lay face down in a puddle of his own blood. His dark-colored vest was so soaked in, I couldn’t determine its original color. Black? Dark blue? Some kind of maroon even? But pinned to his left breast was a silver star.

It's unclear to me how the star became the universal symbol for authority. But when I was brought back to life, it included a branding of sorts on my bare chest. Often, I consider its five-points to be that of hand having had its part in my resuscitation. But I can’t deny, it looks like a black star or badge.

Amongst us Hands of God, we often call ourselves just that—the Black Badges. Sounds Earthlier that way. Makes it a bit easier to forget that we ain't normal.

And here it was again, a star to signify this man's position as Lonely Hill's protector. The sheriff. Dead as a doornail.

Didn't do a very good job at it, protecting. Or, I suppose, he did a fine one by some estimations. One of his deputies was the other corpse, lying across the square in a similar outfit, body bent backward over a bale of hay so I couldn't see his head. If he still had one.

"So, what is it? You some kind of marshal?" a voice asked from behind me.

Still, I didn't look or answer. Just kept my eyes trained upon the former sheriff. He was young. Younger than I'd been when I bit the dust, at least. Had a beard, but barely.

"What the hell happened here, Sheriff?" I whispered before getting to work.

As one could expect, upon my resurrection I was imbued with otherworldly abilities of my own—powers, some would say, and they wouldn't be wrong. Among those is the ability to see the final moments of a person's life, assuming they're fresh enough.

It's not as glamorous as it sounds. Some things I've seen simply can't be unseen, no matter how much I wish it so. I've watched as husbands strangled their wives to death through the very eyes of the woman in question. Felt his hands around my throat. Choked as those final gasps for life left my lungs.

Myself? I was shot and killed by a fellow named Ace Ryker, a man I called friend.

Each time I Divine someone whose life ended violently, I not only experience their pain but mine all over again.

That's why I wasn't so eager to do what I knew needed doing.

But hell, nothing's ever easy for a Black Badge.

I dipped my finger into some of the blood, drew a wet line across my forehead, and spoke a few words in Latin. It wasn't necessary to the process, but I'd gotten used to doing it. Somehow made me feel closer to the deceased before violating the sanctity of their minds.

"A tenebris ad lucem.” From darkness to light, or close enough for a rough translation. Far as I knew, no one was grading me on my language skills.

I've encountered other Black Badges who do no ritual of the sort, but Divining is a deeply personal thing to each of us. To intrude on last moments? It ain't for the faint of heart.

I took a steadying breath, then reached out and placed my hand against the sheriff's sallow flesh.

A jolt of power coursed through me. My head snapped back, and my eyes shone with what I could only assume to be the light of Heaven's gate.

Everything around me faded—the street, the buildings, all of Lonely Hill vanished into searing bright white and my vision settled into the mind of the deceased…

* * *

My ears registered the tumult of gunfire. Screams. Terror. A bullet whizzed past my head, and I cried out in a deep voice. Though it wasn't me speaking.

"Watch your fire, Deputy!" I—and, by that, I mean my sheriff host—glanced back at a terrified, scrawny Deputy shooting blindly from behind a barrel.

Then I looked around the town square, frantic. I knew by some insight or intuition that my host was searching for cover while more and more bullets thudded the ground around me. My hand trembled, barely able to keep my six-shooter level.

No matter how brave, burly, or manly one might be, nothing tests your mettle like a gunfight.

"Best st-st-stand down, outlaws!" my host shouted, wielding absolutely none of the bravado he hoped to convey.

Dirt sprayed up. A bird screeched—funny little detail to note in the midst of this chaos. Splinters spit outward from buildings, hitching posts, barrels, and everything else.

However, so far, I had seen no sign of said outlaws, just the twig-thick deputy, twenty paces behind me, shooting wild at something leaping and diving near the bank.

That's when I realized that that something was, in fact, someone.

She—for I believe it to have been a woman—moved like nothing I've ever seen. The only feet I'd seen that carried such catlike grace belonged to vampires, and the sun was far too high for this to be any such creature.

Rounds fired in her direction, every single one missing by what might as well've been miles. I couldn't tell if everyone in this town with a gun was a shit shot or she was just that good. Then, I watched as what appeared to be a small ax flew end over end a distance of at least thirty feet before slamming home in the center of one deputy's forehead. He dropped back and into a bale of hay.

Several folks screamed, including me. "Theo!"

Before anyone could get to Theo—and truth was, it wouldn't have done a damn bit of good—the doors of the bank burst open from the inside. A gust of freezing air and flecks of ice whipped out, stinging my host's cheeks like tiny knives.

From that hellish shroud emerged a towering man. He was wearing the skin of a polar bear or some white wolf over his shoulders and chest and most of his face was covered by a mask, leaving just tanned skin and dark eyes to be seen. Shards of ice swirled around his arms.

That was all I had the chance to see, before blistering, white-hot pain reverberated through me, starting in my back and spreading outward. I'd felt this pain before.

A bullet straight through my heart. Only, this time, it entered from the back…

* * *

My eyes shot open—or perhaps they'd never been closed at all. Divining a death that frenzied took a lot out of me. Often it left me on my knees, panting, making sense of it all as a flood of feeling and emotion came and went in a flash.

I blinked to settle my vision.

Standing before me was the scrawny deputy who'd survived the battle by hiding and shooting blindly. He had the same revolver pointed directly at my skull.