The sky was reddening, one of those moments where both sun and moon were equally visible, dancing a brilliant duet amongst the clouds. Rosa strode down the main avenue as if she hadn't just sprung me from jail, and I followed, leading Timp by the reins.

Couldn't just keep her tied up at Picklefinger's all night, could I?

"Good to see you again too, girl," Rosa said as Timperina nuzzled against her neck. Even she seemed to like Rosa. A rare feat, indeed.

Though, this clearly wasn't the same Rosa I'd seen months ago back in Dead Acre. At least I didn't think so. She displayed no fear of anyone punishing her for this wrongdoing. Then again, maybe having just lost her husband the way she had unlocked something in her. Or perhaps without a home life to care about, it revealed the woman's true colors.

I didn't know much about her, after all. Not really. Between saving her and her mom when she was a girl and seeing her again, many years had passed. Her mom had died of sickness, and Rosa was forced into adulthood far too early. Who knows what she was before she'd met her late husband, Willy Massey, and tried to settle down in Dead Acre. There might've been bounties posted for her all over south of the border for all I knew.

Could be that she had some evocative nickname like the outlaws I was after. Lady Serpent or Medusa or something meant to keep children up at night.

My thoughts had me so enraptured that I'd barely realized how far we'd walked. Night fell in full. A small campfire blazed a short distance outside Revelation—nestled between two rocky hillocks west of town past the fairgrounds. It was a pinprick of light, growing evermore as we silently walked.

I tried not to think too much deeper about Rosa and what'd led her to carry iron like she was.

"We should be safe here," she said when we were close.

I snapped out of it and glanced up.

It was quiet, but in the wild, you can't mistake silence for safety. Still, so near to town and all the folk finishing setting up the festival, I had to guess this place was as safe as any other.

A stagecoach sat on one side, white tarp reflecting moonlight in an ethereal blur. It was in good shape, likely new or a rental from one of the bigger cities—the kind rich folks chartered when they wanted to make sure everyone knew how rich they were. However, even at such a distance, I could tell no one currently rooted by the flames appeared overly wealthy.

"Me and the others decided we'd rather stay outside of town," Rosa said. "When I spotted you, I was heading in to get a drink since my company abhors fun, and… Well, you know the rest."

I sniffed. "Smart. Smells less like shit out here—pardon my language, Mrs. Massey."

"I can handle it."

"Doesn't mean you should."

"Well, if nothing else, just call me Rosa. There is no Mrs. Massey anymore."

I frowned. "I know it hurts, but the bond of marriage lasts for life."

She stopped and glared at me, cross. "Have you ever been married, James?”

"No, ma'am. I can't say I have."

"Right. Then you can't know such things."

She wasn't wrong. I'd courted a lady or two back in the day, sure, but never anything serious. I was always too on the move. The nature of an outlaw's life. Though, as we neared the fire and that itchy sensation on my chest struck up, I couldn't help but feel that I sort of understood married life. Old Shar and I had the bickering part down at least, and it wasn't like she'd be any help milking the cows.

I took Rosa's arm, then let go almost as quickly. "I'm sorry, Rosa. I meant no offense."

"I know you didn't." She affected her best smile, circumstances notwithstanding. "Now, come. I'm sure you can stay in our camp unless you'd rather be any elsewhere."

Nowhere else in the world I'd rather be, was what I wanted to say. Instead, I remained quiet, bobbed my head all timid-like, and followed her into the campsite.

At once, three things happened that changed the whole mood.

Our feet snapped over dried-out twigs and leaves.

Timperina whinnied.

A gun cocked behind us. I didn’t dare turn.

"It's me," Rosa warned.

"Not alone, it's not. Who's your friend?" questioned a man with messy hair the color of dirt. I couldn't quite place his accent, but it sounded like he was used to sipping tea and eating biscuits. He sat alone, sketching something in a journal with charcoal. A tobacco pipe hung from his lips, barely smoldering like he'd forgotten to keep it lit.

"James Crowley," I said and stuck out my hand. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Harker," the man answered. No first name. No smile. He didn't even stop drawing, his utensil quickly slashing a few harsh lines.

"He couldn't find anywhere to stay in town,” Rosa said. “Do you mind if he stays here with us?"

"Long as he stays quiet," Harker said with all the charm of a bleeding blister. "He's working." The man gestured over his shoulder with the stub of his charcoal. Within the stagecoach, behind a pale pink curtain—or at least that’s what it looked like in the moonlight—shadows cast by a lantern danced. Whoever was inside, his voice carried on the air, muttering under his breath, sounding frustrated.

"Of course," Rosa said. "I'm your guest."

"They're okay, Irish," Harker said calmly.

A woman appeared from the darkness only a few feet away from me.

Didn’t even hear her move. Her short hair, red as the burning fire itself, trickled down from beneath a black derby hat. She wore a long denim jacket down to her thighs that, in silhouette, might've been mistaken for a dress. Iron-buckled straps on the outside held a series of knives, varying in length from bottom to top. And as she holstered her pistol, I saw more knives strung to her coveralls.

"Christ's coming!” I blurted. “You move like a church mouse wearing slippers.”

"What's the craic? Know how feck near I was to t'rowin knives? Who's the culchie?" she rambled.

I stared at her, dumbfounded by her accent, as she strolled past us and grabbed a chunk of bread from a satchel I hadn't previously noticed.

"Irish, this is Mr. James Crowley," Rosa said.

"Crowley's fine," I said.

Irish took a big bite and spun a spit over the fire where a chicken roasted. "Welcome ta stay. Just don't act the feckin maggot, right?"

"Sure..." I nodded. Then I whispered, "Interesting friends," to Rosa.

"I wouldn't call us that just yet, would you, Harker?" Rosa asked.

The man grunted. Not really an answer one way or another, but whatever he was drawing seemed to be sucking all his attention. Rosa took a seat across the fire, as far from Harker as she could get, and patted the spot on the log beside her. I hitched up Timp with the other horses first.

Shar's tingle for my attention grew as I moved to join Rosa, but I didn't let it bother me. It made no sense. This wasn't like Agatha, drawing me off course. Not at all. From up where we were, I had clear sight of Revelation, bank and everything. I could even see the lanterns outside, illuminating it as brightly as the church steeple.

The grounds were all set for the Founders' Day Fair. Seeing it all empty, knowing there'd be hundreds milling around there tomorrow in search of escape from everyday life… That was something.

"What in the world are you doing here, Rosa?" I asked.

She shrugged. "It beats cramming in with everyone in overstuffed hotels."

"Not here, here. I mean Revelation."

"Same as everyone else. Heard about the festival. Needed a distraction."

I knew it was a fib because it was the same one I'd used on Cecil. Which begged the question, why lie to me?

"The way people talk about this little fiesta, it better be the greatest event ever held," I said.

"I doubt it,” she replied. “I'm sure it’ll be just like any other."

Harker groaned loud enough to make sure we heard it. Then he slapped his journal shut, picked up his chair, and carried it. Rosa held her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. He went as far as he could before losing sight of us, up the crest of one of the low hills where he could draw privately in the light of the nearly full moon.

"He gets pretty serious with his art," Rosa said.

"Yeah? What's he working on?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Pretty private about them too."

Irish watched us from the fire like she was attending a play. She tore a chunk of flesh from the chicken, licked her fingers, then got to work on it, all without taking her eyes off us.

"So, are you planning to tell me why you’re really here, Rosa?" I asked after a short silence.

"Why are you?" she retorted.

"I asked first."

She nudged me with her shoulder. "And a gentleman should answer first."

"You're trouble, you know that?" I chuckled. She didn't argue. "All right. Fine. I'm after a bounty. Some outlaws hitting up banks in the region.”

"Well, if you’re after them they won’t last much longer.”

"I hope that’s true." I didn't add that if I didn't stop them, all of Revelation Springs might wind up frozen in an ice cube. Pesky details.

"Your turn. Why are you really here?" I asked.

Rosa lifted her chin. "Because I can be."

Most men might've thought she was withholding, but not me. I caught her meaning right away. That there was a harsh truth. No husband anymore, no expectations, she could go wherever she pleased. Do whatever she desired. Wherever the wind took her… so they say.

"What about the Massey ranch?" I asked.

"Not my ranch," she said. "Willy's father didn't need my help. Even if he never said so."

"I'm sure that ain't true. It's hard work, losing a son."

Rosa exhaled slowly as she nodded in agreement.

She may've looked beautiful here under the moonlight, but it's often the scars you can't see that hurt the most.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Moments passed. Irish still stared.

"Strange company you're keeping, though," I said again, getting the hint that a change in subject was necessary. "Where does a girl living in Dead Acre meet a crew from across the Atlantic."

"They found me, actually." She poked the fire with a stick, sending cinders dancing. Irish didn't even flinch, just kept eating and watching.

"Oh?"

"Their leader." She pointed to the wagon. "He claims he studies supernatural happenings. Said he was in Crescent City when he heard about the strange things that occurred in Dead Acre. He had questions."

My body tensed.

"Life would be unbearably dull if we had all the answers to all our questions," I said. "What'd you tell him?"

I didn't want her to know how concerned I was. I knew what happened when people who saw the kinds of things I dealt with started raving about it. They were thrown in padded cells. Ostracized from society as lunatics or even witches.

Others became like this companion of Rosa’s: obsessed with proving what they'd seen was real—making it their life goal to reveal the supernatural for the whole world to see. As if that would help? Sometimes, it's better not to prod the hornets’ nest lest you chase them all outside.

"What I understood," Rosa said.

Irish took another noisy bite.

"This entertaining you?" I snapped at the woman.

"Oi! Ain't gotta eat me head off."

"Just wouldn't mind a minute or two privacy.”

"Well, just feckin say so en." Irish tossed a chicken bone aside and grabbed another portion without a care in the world that she'd just knocked half the remaining carcass into the flames. Then, she made a rude gesture toward us and went and sat beside the horses. Timp nipped at her until she fed her a bite. Irish let her chew right off the bone before eating more herself.

"Just be careful,” I told Rosa. “Like you said, there’s a lot nobody will ever understand about what happened that night."

"I always am," Rosa said. "Mi mama raised me that way."

"So that's it, huh? You really are just here for a bit of fun?"

"They were heading this way after Dead Acre, and they still had more questions. So I hopped along. Seemed like the right time to see the world—or at least more of it. I missed out on so much with Willy… not that I'd trade our time for anything," she quickly added.

"Don't worry, I understand."

I did. Didn't take me long in Dead Acre to realize that she and her late husband truly were close. Rosa had her own issues, no doubt caused by what happened with Ace as a child and then years on the run with just her mother until she passed.

Rosa drank. A lot. Desperate to drown out her many inner demons from what I could gather.

Of course, the man who'd killed her husband didn't think that. A necromancer, able to raise the dead to serve his will. He'd been hiding out as her bartender, and I guess after years of chatting, thought Rosa drank because she hated her husband and that she fancied him. So he took it upon himself to remove the obstacle keeping them apart. In this case, that obstacle was Mr. Willy Massey.

I did my part, stabbed him in the heart with a silver-dusted knife and banished the necromancer's soul to Hell for what he did. But that wouldn't strip her of the memory of those ugly skeletons literally rising from graves or of losing the man who'd tied her down, metaphorically speaking.

"The last time Willy and I were together—" she started before getting choked up. Tears welling in her eyes caught a shimmer of moonlight.

"You don't have to say," I said.

"No, I do.” She took a few rapid breaths. "The last time we were together, we were fighting over him spending so much time at work. Don't mistake, I appreciated what Willy did, trying to make a better home for us, but we had a fine home already. All we needed and more. I just wish I'd had the chance to say goodbye, you know?"

"Better than most. But I'm sure that wherever he is, he's looking over you, Rosa. He'd be stupid to ever stop looking. And if he got you to marry him, I'm sure he ain't that stupid."

She smirked through the sheen of her tears. "He wasn't."

A few crickets serenaded us as another bout of silence passed. I didn't think it'd be this awkward, but I rarely spent time with people—especially not those I'd saved. It was better that way. They couldn't ask questions I couldn’t answer, and I couldn't get attached. Still, fate kept throwing this woman at me, and goddamn it, I couldn't help but play catch.

"So, you carry a six-shooter now?" I asked, again desperate for a lighter note since our conversation somehow kept finding its way back to sorrows.

"Five-shooter," she corrected, drawing her Colt Paterson pistol from her holster.

I whistled, and the crickets stopped momentarily. Timp looked up, but I clicked my tongue, and she went back to begging for scraps.

"And a knife." She went to reach for her boot, but I grabbed her hand and shook my head.

"Never show anyone where you keep it," I said.

"Even you?"

"Even me."

I found myself staring directly into her eyes, transfixed. I knew I shouldn't, but she held my gaze there, and I could recognize the look on her face. Like she was small again. Like I was her hero.

"It's strange seeing you again without needing your help," she said.

"I prefer this way,” I replied. “You seem to attract rotten men."

On cue, a man cried out, "Rosa, dear!"

Not saying whoever it was happened to be rotten, but the timing was almost comical. We both turned and saw her other companion—their leader as she'd called him—leaning out of the carriage. He didn't get out, just knocked on the wood.

"Rosa! I have a few more inquiries for you." He had an Irish brogue as well, though far more refined than his loony bodyguard, if that’s what she was.

Rosa placed a hand on my knee, using the leverage to help her rise. "I'll be back."

I moved to follow her.

"Relax," she told me as she sauntered off toward the stagecoach. "He's harmless."

"Just a reflex.”

Even in the face of a necromancer's black magic, Rosa had handled herself well. I just hoped she'd spare some details with whoever this stranger was. Not that it affected me. She hadn't seen what I could do. Not really. As far as Rosa knew, I was a man like any other. I merely happened to age gracefully.

She disappeared into the stagecoach, leaving me alone by the fire.

With time to myself, I set down my belongings. It seemed everybody had already eaten their fill of the chicken, and if they hadn't, Irish made sure they wouldn't have much of a chance. So, I moved the spit with my gloved hands. I snatched up one of their empty iron skillets and shoved it over the flame.

Pulling out the decorative silver dish I'd stolen from Dufaux's villa, I placed it inside the skillet. It would take a while and wasn't a perfect fit, but it would melt from the inside and fold itself into place.

Of course, I knew that until it was moldable and ready to be cast into bullets, that shiny, reflective surface would expose me to the wife I'd never chosen. I braced myself, knowing what was coming.

"What are you doing, Crowley?" Shar said, as expected. She appeared like an aura, swirling inside the silver.

"Oh, would you relax, Shar?" I said, quiet. "I know what I'm doing."

"Past experience proves otherwise.”

She evinced within me a fury like no one else was capable of. I bet I did the same to her.

"I needed fire and a place to wait. So, what does it matter if it happens to belong to an old friend?"

"Friend?" Shar's cackle was like a knife against pewter. "Friend, you say? Rosa Massey is a lost soul, a Child clinging to the familiar in hopes to revisit the past. She's not your friend, Crowley, any more than I am."

"Ouch."

"She's merely an adoring fan."

I harrumphed. "Can't I have one? The Almighty gets millions."

The fire went dark, and embers floated up in a puff of air.

"How dare you." It roared back to life with Shar’s words.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Don't get your feathers in a bunch. You do have those, right? On your big old white wings?"

"You would blanch at the sight of me."

The fire crackled as a foot sprayed dirt over some of it. I glanced up, startled to find Irish had returned. She squinted, staring down at the silver, tilting her head from side to side.

"The feck's that?" she asked.

"Silver," I said.

"You hearin’ that, though, oi?"

When I looked back, Shar's presence was gone. The silver was starting to bubble.

"All I hear is crickets and you,” I said. “If you'll excuse me, I've got bullets to make."

Irish shook her head, cleaned out her ear by sticking a finger in and walked away muttering unpleasantries. Pretty sure I saw her suck on that very same finger, too.

Weird lass.

I got to work setting up my mold. All Black Badges should have them, as well as a supply of gunpowder. It's a skill any gunman worth his salt has, making bullets.

A three-pound platter like this, melted down, could make enough bullets for me to turn that Yeti into a hunk of Swiss cheese. And Shar was right about one thing. Taking down the possessed beast had to be priority numero uno. I had to be ready.

I'd only spent a few minutes working before I heard footsteps coming from the stagecoach.

"Excuse me," the leader of Rosa's entourage said.

I nearly dropped my tongs.

He stepped down from the coach and crossed the camp toward me. I was disappointed it wasn't Rosa.

The man wasn't much older than I'd been when I died, but little bits of gray peppered hair the color of wet hay. He was well-dressed, too, like he came from money or made a lot of it. Or Hell, maybe he'd just saved up his whole life savings for a nice suit and that stagecoach.

"Was I too loud?" I asked.

"Not at all. Not at all," he said. "The lady just needed a few moments to herself."

"What'd you say to her?" My tone was more defensive than intended.

"Relax, friend. I only listened. But the truth can be… exhausting, can it not?"

"I find some truth can be relieving."

"I suppose that's a way to see it,” he said. “Depends on the truths."

I leveled a glare his way. "She's fragile still. I know she may not look it, but what happened to her shouldn't happen to anybody."

His eyes glinted with wonder. He wasn't intimidated by me in the slightest. Nodding, he said, "And what did happen, exactly?"

"Now, now. I ain't your subject."

"Very well." He strode closer, examining my work, inquisitive gaze flitting this way and that. "Though, now that I'm out here, curiosity demands I inquire what it is you're doing."

"Just casting bullets."

The man's scratched his chin. "Normally done out of lead, no? And that's, what, silver?"

"Keen eye you've got, Mr… What do I call you?"

"Oh, my humblest apologies. Abraham Stoker, but most just call me Bram." He stuck out his hand, and I removed my glove to give it a shake.

"James," I said. "But most call me Crowley."

"Not related to the Crowleys of Warwickshire, are you?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Peculiar folks, them."

"I wouldn't know."

He joined me, cross-legged on the dirt. Sitting so close, the smoke from the fire gushed into his face. He didn't seem to care.

"So," he said, scooting closer, "why silver?"

Looking him dead in the eye, I cocked an eyebrow and whispered, "Kills monsters better."

I was just trying to have a bit of fun. His vacuous expression was unreadable, but something happened in me that I was very unused to… I grew uncomfortable.

Made me laugh nervously. "Just a bit of humor."

"Are you certain?" Bram asked, his own eyebrows knitting.

"Of?"

He held up a finger, then reached into his coat. When his hand returned, he held a small pocket-sized notebook. He turned away from the fire to look through his monocle and flipped through some pages.

"Can you read?" he asked.

I wasn't sure if I should be offended by the question, so I just nodded.

"Read this, then.”

He handed me the journal, marking a specific page with his thumb until he was certain I had it.

These creatures, Vampir, despise sunlight—no, they detest it to the point of death. Additionally, I have come to discover their vulnerability, a sort of allergic reaction to garlic and, most odd—silver.

There was a lot more, but I'd read enough.

"Fine story you're working on," I said, slipping my glove back on. "Never met a novelist before."

Bram’s eyes squinted, serious as death. If he had to smile to put out a fire, the whole of Revelation would burn to the ground.

"That's just it, Mr. Crowley. I'm not writing fiction. I've traveled a long way, having spent many years researching and studying all across Europe. Now, the New World has been calling my name in the darkest hours of night."

"That so?" I asked.

"I've seen things… things most wouldn't believe. But I bet you would, wouldn't you? Just like our mutual acquaintance, Rosa."

"I suppose that depends on what kinds of things you're talking about." I plunked a fresh bullet into a water-filled container. As it sizzled, I leaned back a bit to ensure no silver bits steamed up into my face.

Bram prodded at the paper three times with a stubby finger.

"You're a hunter, aren't you?" he asked.

"Aren't we all when we're on the range and need to eat?" I replied.

"You know that's not what I mean." He plucked the bullet from the water. I knew it was still hot, but he handled it anyway and spun it around. "Silver isn't as effective against men or animals as iron. I'm not a fool, Mr. Crowley."

"Fine." I snatched the bullet back and leaned in close to him. "You want the truth?"

He nodded eagerly.

"It ain't that exciting," I said.

"Come on, then. Let's hear it."

"I'm with the festival."

Bram rolled his eyes, but I continued.

"I've heard the rumors, too. Same as you. Figured I could spin a tale about blood-sucking monsters down south, charge some rubes a pretty penny for some silver bullets, and be on my way a few bucks richer."

Bram rose without a word. He brushed off his pants and took one step toward the stagecoach. Then, he turned and looked back at me. "I don't know what you are, James Crowley, except one thing."

He paused, waiting for my response. I threw him a bone.

"And what's that?"

"A liar."

He was trying to be clever, but I could tell by his expression that it was feckless braggadocio. The man was disappointed. Probably spent every waking hour hunting for clues about the supernatural only to be shut down when he was sitting right beside the God's-honest real thing. I may not've been a vampire, but I'd taken on a brood of the vein-drainers before. More than once. I could fill a dozen of his little journals with tales.

"It's not only effective against vampires," I said to him.

What can I say? Rosa had me feeling generous.

He turned only his head. "Excuse me."

"Silver. It's good against all sorts of wicked things."

Now his body turned too. "And practitioners of necromancy?"

"Don't get greedy."

Bram smirked. “You're the…" He opened his journal and flipped a few pages. After a moment, he said, "…'black rider' who came to Rosa's aid, aren't you?" He then started writing as he spoke. "The one who faced down the devil incarnate himself?"

"She didn't give you a name?" I asked.

I don't know why I was surprised. Rosa told me her mama raised her to be careful. I'd made the right move all those years ago choosing them over Ace. I was more sure of it now than ever.

"Never." He punctuated writing another sentence. "If you're ever willing, I'd be thrilled to discuss the experience with you. And any others. I can pay—"

I wagged a finger. "I said don't get greedy."

He chuckled softly before turning about.

"Goodnight, Mr. Stoker," I said.

"Bram. And goodnight to you." Walking back to the coach, he called out to the hills. "Harker! Come down here. I have something I need you to sketch for me!"

When I looked down from Harker's perch, there was Rosa, emerging from the stagecoach. Her eyes looked puffy, but she tightened her jaw and tried to look strong. I waved her over.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Just tired," she lied, taking a seat. "Can we talk?"

"About?"

"Anything but dying husbands." She blotted her eyes with her sleeves. "Anything at all."

I finished another bullet then pushed myself back onto the log beside her. I looked around, making sure Bram, Harker, and most of all, Irish weren't eavesdropping.

"You ever heard stories about Nephilim?" I asked, knowing, of course, she hadn't.

Then, I told her the tale of the goat beast and the two lovers. The true one, with all the gore and horrors. Though, the way I told it, she probably thought it was just a scary yarns men spin by campfires, but I guess I wanted her to know without saying that her husband's death could've been worse. Or, maybe, it was just nice to talk to someone about what I'd been up to since coming back to life without being constantly scolded like with Shar.

Rosa had already seen plenty and I feared she was about to see even more.