“Awe, what’s the matter, Sweet? Don’t feel like sharing?” the simpering voice asked.
I slowly released Lady Beaufoutonte’s wrist one finger at a time. She had reached for my snifter of bourbon seconds before I stopped her. If there’s one thing I hate, its someone thinking they have a right to my hard-earned booze.
The corner of my lips quirked upward as she rolled her wrist disdainfully. She checked her white glove for dirt from my stained fingers, saw it was clean, and chanced a glance around the tavern. I did my own assessment as well.
The Swooning Sparrow was busy for a Thursday afternoon, but I liked it better that way. People didn’t care about a lone sharpshooter, like me, minding her own business at the bar when the place was crowded. With my black hair tied loosely back, and tan duster coat over my shoulders, I blended in well. Nobody bothered me. That is, everyone was happy to ignore me except the woman standing to my left who was more satisfied to take my drink rather than wait for her own. I inhaled the scent of the bourbon, the earthy note of oak in the liquid, and sighed before looking back at her.
“Trust me Myra--”
“Lady Beaufoutonte is the name, sugar,” she interrupted, brushing a nonexistent hair out of her eyes. I tipped my chin down, looking at her through the tops of my violet eyes.
“I wasn’t aware that you got to use that title before your mother was six feet under,” I replied, pausing in thought as I tried to recall high-society rules, but how little I cared kept me from remembering them. Distracted, I saw Myra had attracted some attention from a large group of people. They looked at her with undue interest. I knew they looked familiar, which was bad news. I usually only recognized criminals.
“I’ve already told you, Mother went from ‘Lady’ to ‘Matron’ Beaufoutonte after I came out.”
I shook my head, trying to remember what we were talking about.
“Let me get this straight, after you were put on the marriage market, your mother has to go around with a title that does nothing but remind her of how old she is? Doesn’t seem fair to me.”
I raised a brow at her, brushing actual hair out of my eyes, and looked her up and down. Myra wore a butter-yellow gown with white-laced bows artfully drawn up to the side and a flawless high neckline. It seemed to highlight her crystal-blue eyes. Her auburn hair was curled and pinned atop her head apart from a few long and curled locks sweeping forward over her shoulder.
“Little Miss Myra, the Beaufoutonte heir. Fate help us all,” I uttered.
“I just told you, it’s Lady--”
“MyraBelle, we’ve known each other since we were children. A fancy title and grown-up girl body doesn’t change that,” I said calmly. Her lace-gloved fingers tightened on her parasol. I clenched my jaw as I saw a man in the large group elbow a woman with scars over her eyes, their gazes still on Myra. I knew I recognized that woman, but Myra kept talking. She still didn't notice the attention she was drawing.
“I see your drink hasn’t done anything to improve that attitude of yours,” Myra muttered stiffly, “After standing me up for your welcome luncheon, one would think you would be willing to share just a little sip.”
I peeled my eyes away from the woman with scars.
“Oh no! Was that today?” I asked with unconvincing distress. Myra gave me a look that would wilt most flowers.
“It was two hours ago,” she said, crossing her arms.
“Really? I thought it was three. My mistake,” I replied dryly, and a muscle feathered in her jaw. I couldn't help but smile, because I knew her thoughts were anything but that of a delicate society maiden. I took another pull on the snifter, this time emptying it.
I flagged Zachariah, the barkeep, down. He paused from polishing his glass and immediately prepared a refill for me. His sleeves were pushed up on his muscular arms. His shaggy red hair tied loosely at the back of his head. He had broken up more than a few fights in this establishment. His strong hands were sure as they handled the heavy bottle of bourbon. Myra eyed the amber liquid filling my glass, her eyes calculating. I placed a coin on the bar, which Zachariah swept up.
Myra’s hand started to lift toward me again.
“Touch my glass, and your daddy’s gonna have to buy you a new dress,” I said, adding a growl to my voice. Myra considered me, then redirected her hand to flag Zachariah.
“Oh and one for me too, good sir,” Myra said to Zachariah. He quirked a brow, smiled, and nodded. His green eyes seemed to laugh as he reached again for the bottle. I leaned back in the stool to stretch before settling my elbows forward on the bar. The liquor was doing its work, warming my bones. I tried looking for the woman with scars again, but the group must have moved away from the door.
It was a cold day in the Settled West, the name for the progressively growing territories the Elemancers had surrendered to humanity in the treaty. Winter came fast in this landscape and once it decided to come, it did so mercilessly. The door of the tavern did little to keep the chill away, which is why Zachariah spared no expense for firewood in the wide heart at the back of the main room.
I glanced back at Myra from under my hat.
“I thought you high-class ladies weren’t supposed to have strong liquor,” I said, swirling the glass again. Myra shrugged a lovely shoulder.
“Your word against mine,” she replied as Zachariah set her drink down in front of her. She pulled a coin from a hand purse and placed it on the bar.
“It won’t be when you’re stumbling drunk all over town.” I countered, and Myra lifted a hand to her lips in surprise.
“Now you listen here Miss Rowena. You should learn ladies are never drunk. Ladies become indisposed,” she corrected. I shook my head and adjusted my duster jacket.
“I hope to heaven I never condescend to care about what word I use for tap-hackled,” I said as I searched for a better topic of conversation.
“How go the preparations for the engagement party?” I asked. I knew as far as distraction tactics were, this was an effective one. Myra laughed lightly and sipped her bourbon.
“Better now. Especially since I finally found my maid of honor,” she replied with a sidelong look at me, “The Matron says we are to get fitted for our dresses tonight,” she explained.
I sighed, looking heavenward, and nodded. I didn’t dislike dresses, but the current fashion made my job so much harder, and I avoided it on principle. It was also the thought of talking to Myra’s mother that had me on edge. Just then, though, I saw a flash of blonde hair.
Sure enough, it was the woman with scars with her group again. She had pushed up her sleeves and I caught sight of a brand. I scowled as a chill went up my spine, because I recognized that brand she and all the others in her group wore. It was the figure of a mountain cat burned right into the skin.
Motherfucker. The Pumas.
Let me be clear. Zachariah ran a decent tavern, but it didn’t stop the scum of society from frequenting it. This was not a place where you wanted to catch attention. Unless you were an evening performer. You came, you bought your booze, and you left. End of story.
I caught their eyes and pulled my duster back to reveal one of my holstered pistols and settled my palm on the polished thunderwood handle. The blonde with scars on her face gave me a calculating look. She stretched muscular arms over her head and I saw other scars peppering her skin. None were more impressive, though, than those over her eyes. It looked like someone had once tried to cut her eyes out, two scars making an “x” across each one. However the cuts weren't deep enough, limited to her brow and cheek. After a long moment, she murmured something to the rest of the group, and they turned away.
Myra brushed dirt off her skirts.
“Honestly, you frequent such dirty taverns. Would it kill them to use a broom every season or so?” she asked. Zachariah looked up from polishing his glass again and peered at the dirty floor, his brow furrowed.
I made to reply but the room seemed to fade as my attention was drawn past Zachariah. Myra was talking again, but I didn’t hear her.
The Pumas were back. The blonde and the others had slowly meandered to a table by the hearth, and they were looking Myra’s way again. They were trying to be more subtle about it now, but I still saw them constantly gazing her way. Their expressions were like that of a rancher at a cattle auction.
I met the scarred woman’s eyes again, my gaze anything but friendly. Slowly, her lips pulled upward into a smirk. Something about her in particular seemed oddly…familiar. Dammit, I knew I had seen her before, but I couldn’t place it.
Chuckling, she whispered something to the Puma next to her and walked to the other end of the bar. My eyes tracked her the whole way before I glanced back at the table. All the other Pumas were staring straight at me.
Well shit.
I’m told female bridal parties in the Three Seas region were more accessories to adore the bride. They were there just to make her look better and serve her every whim. But that’s not what my job was. Not at all. This maid of honor was a bodyguard. I was a bounty hunter by trade and a damned good sharpshooter by reputation. Myra’s father knew I could shoot the wings off a fly and not kill it. He knew I specialized in the most heinous bounties. That was why he hired me. And right now, I was itching for a fight.
Deep inside my soul, a dark current purred with delight.
What are you waiting for then, Rowena? It will be so easy to paint the floor with their blood. Come on, its been such a long time. Feed it. Feed your power...
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
No. I'm in control. Fuck off, I growled inwardly at the thought, even as my hand itched for my pistols.
"Back in a minute,” I said as I rose from my seat at the bar. Myra spluttered, but I didn’t pay it any mind. I caught Zachariah’s eye again and flecked my eyes toward her. He nodded and stepped closer, still polishing a glass.
Remembering to buy Zachariah a drink later, I stared right at the group of Pumas. They met my glare with unapologetic stubbornness. I made my way toward them, adjusting my hat and running my finger along the rancher-style brim. I flecked my gaze at the bar, and swore colorfully as I saw the woman with scars was gone. Shifting my gaze back to the main group, I squared my shoulders.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I said conversationally as I approached. Now that I was closer, I took count of four men and three women. All looked road-worn and were armed to the teeth.
“What do you want?” one of them asked sharply, an unpleasant looking woman with mouse-brown hair and an unfortunate complexion.
“A question I was going to ask you,” I replied, “You seem to be interested in the young lady over there-” I paused, leaning a bit closer, “-and I don’t like it.”
I pushed my duster open again, settling my hands on my pistols. The woman slid her eyes to my pistols, then back to my face, unimpressed.
“Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it from where I’m standing,” she said, leaning back in her chair. I chuckled inclining my head.
“First of all, you’re sitting not standing,” I replied amiably as my fingers traced the triggers, “And secondly, you got a name there hun?”
“Abig--“
“Actually it’s okay. I remembered I don’t give a damn. Nevermind,” I interrupted. She flushed red and some of the men rose to their feet. I saw one’s hand drift toward his jacket.
With a flourish I drew my pistols, twirling them on my fingers before the handles landed solidly in my palms.
“Now, then,” I said calmly, “You’re fixin’ to let a nasty temper get you in a whole heap of trouble,” I glanced at one of the men at the back of the group. He wore a thick black beard and had a shining scar along his neck from ear to collar bone.
“You, sir, look familiar,” I said to him, and he flushed, his scar pulling tight along the muscles of his neck.
“Might be my mistake but you look pretty similar to a man on a poster I saw in Grimwater. Someone named Finn O’Shaw, wanted for human trafficking,” I continued as I leveled my pistols more fully on him, “Wanted dead or alive.”
Now they were all on their feet, all hands on their pistols. O’Shaw, to his credit, was the fastest to draw his weapons. One hand pulled out a single-action handgun while the other unsheathed a broadsword from behind his back. The firelight glinted off the blade as he held it in a defensive stance.
“I don’t know if you’re a mad bitch or a stupid bitch, but you picked the wrong fight,” he said, beard twitching upward.
“You gottah ask yourself one question there, sir,” I said, still calm, “How many bodies will hit the floor before even one of you gets off a shot?”
O’Shaw laughed out loud now.
“You only got two shots to put us all out, Bitch” he said, but I just shrugged and lifted my pistols a bit higher.
“Oh, these pistols are a bit of a step up,” I said, lacing my fingers through the triggers, “Do you want to be my first kill today?”
“It don’t matter,” said the mousy woman again. She flipped a dagger in her hand and used the blade to pick her teeth. “You should clear out and leave us to our business,” she flecked her eyes toward where Myra sat, “Before this gets bloody.”
“Again, something I was about to say to you,” I said, not altering my aim. O’Shaw narrowed his eyes.
“You really think you’re gonna beat all of us?”
“Heh,” I said, “I’m very sure. You’re out gunned.”
“You’re outnumbered-”
“I didn’t mean the pistols,” I corrected. He scoffed and spared a glance at his friends, who all looked amused.
“I don’t see nobody else standing with you, lass,” O’Shaw barked, and they all laughed at me. I joined them, throwing my head back as if he’d told a world-class joke.
“Do you see these?” I asked, and tilted my head to the left, exposing my neck from under my bandanna.
O’Shaw, the mousy woman, and the whole rest of them went pale. All their faces flashed in recognition.
“Shit,” O’Shaw muttered, and I stifled a laugh.
There, on the lower part of my neck, were my marks. They sat neatly in a couple rows of six right along my collar bone. I could feel them pulling against my rising pulse. Being the country’s best bounty hunter had its perks. Every criminal alive knew who I was by my marks.
Taking down the most infamous gang boss this side of the Kenshi Ethereal Forest will do that.
Many had come after me since then. The reasons varied from seeking revenge, being caught amidst their latest scheme, or just looking for prestige. They had come by the pair, the quad, or even the dozens to try to kill me. And I was still here.
“What’s the matter?” I asked facetiously, “Where’d all your bluster go?” I straightened my neck again and the marks became hidden under my bandanna.
The tavern had gone deathly quiet by now. Everyone’s attention was trained on us, but I kept still. O’Shaw glanced around the crowd, clearly weighing his options, and a large part of me wanted him to try it. He glanced at the door like cornered prey. Then his eyes went back to mine, and his finger went to cock back the trigger.
The tavern faded away.
Faster than a blink, I raced forward three steps, and kicked the underside of the table, catching many of the Pumas off guard. It went skyward, and I took satisfaction as it smacked into O-Shaw’s face, breaking his nose. The gun flew from his grip. I stepped into the mousy woman’s attempt to stab me and jumped, putting a boot into the center of her chest. My other boot hit a larger man in the soft spot below his ribs. They both went crashing to the floor as people ran from our position.
I vaguely registered people screaming as I landed nimbly. I looked up and saw one of the men hit by the table had recovered. I sprang forward and vaulted over the table toward him. He aimed at me, but I was moving too fast. I stepped into him and thrust an elbow under his chin, knocking him out cold. His body went limp and started to slump backwards into the flames of the hearth.
That's it! Let him burn! Send him to Death's far shore, screaming as his skin turns to charcoal! Remember what you are!
Flashes of blood, fire, and screams filled my head for a split second. My stomach turned cold.
A dark current within me stoked with every hit, every jab, wanting more. It wanted-
No, I thought, shoving the images away.
I growled and caught his shirt, tucking my body under his dead weight. Using all my strength, I flipped him over my shoulder back toward where the rest of the Pumas laid. The man's body collided with several of them, sending them back to the floor.
O’Shaw tried to stand but found himself staring down the barrel of one of my pistols. I trained the other on the rest of them.
All went silent.
For another moment I saw O’Shaw tighten his fist on his sword, and I suppressed a groan of frustration. I really didn’t want to fire my pistol in Zachariah’s tavern if I had to, knowing he would be annoyed. Even now I felt his eyes boring into me and I could practically hear him say Rowena I just patched up the floor, and That was a new table.
So, I changed my strategy.
I cocked the triggers back, the clicks sounding alarmingly loud in the silence. As I did so, I let my heart rate quicken, and felt a scorching heat pulse from my neck to my face. O’Shaw’s attention snapped to me again, and he let out a sharp gasp.
Radiant blue light trailed from the marks on my neck, along my veins, and to my eyes, lighting up the shadows on my face. My normal violet eyes became a scorching blue as the Marks began to burn. I felt them on my neck like someone was tracing a branding iron on my skin. I looked down at him, giving him the full benefit of my glare.
“Go on,” I said, “I’m more than happy to burn a mark today. I have plenty.”
For a moment, they just stared at me with the familiar mixture of fear and hatred. Several tense moments passed before O’Shaw and the rest of them raised their hands skyward.
“Glad we understand each other,” I said, motioning for them to stand.
“Just my luck to run into Rowena McAlister,” O’Shaw said as he spat blood on the floor, his voice blunted around his broken nose. I chuckled as the light drained into my marks again.
“Just your luck to piss off the wrong bounty hunter.”
I kept my pistols trained on the Pumas as Zachariah sent for Sherriff Stone. A few of the remaining patrons looked our way. Zachariah was on his feet again, and Myra’s head appeared from behind the bar, her dress and hair disheveled and covered in dirt. I guessed Zachariah had pulled her behind the bar when the fight started. Myra kept sending him sidelong glazes, clearly less than grateful for her rescue.
“Back to your drinking, everyone. Nothing to see here but dirt,” I said, looking meaningfully at the Pumas. The mousy woman from before stirred at the insult, but I narrowed my gaze at her, my eyes flashing again. She settled down almost immediately.
“Outside. All of you,” I barked. Hands still in the air, the Pumas rose to their feet.
*******
Sherriff Stone was waiting for us as we walked out of the Swooning Sparrow. He stood there with some town guards, his graying hair shining in the sunlight. His mustache blended into a freshly shaved face, and his dark eyes took everything in with sharp focus.
“Well, what do we have here?” he asked in his deep baritone, eyes darting toward me. I shrugged.
“Taking out some garbage from my friend’s tavern, sir. Can you dispose of them?” I replied and he nodded, a small smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“We don’t have a lot of room at the jailhouse, but we can make some,” he said. The guards, each clothed in polished leather armor branded with the sigil of a flame encased in ice, cuffed the Pumas in irons and worked loudly to load them into the jailhouse wagon.
“You know-” Stone said as he watched them, “-I was mostly expecting to pick up a pile of corpses. What’s the special occasion?”
My veins turned to ice as I shrugged.
“I wasn’t in the mood.”
“Three years almost to the day,” Stone said quietly, “You disappeared on me. You back now?”
“Yeah,” I said as I swallowed.
An awkward moment passed between us, but then Stone held his hand out to me, and we shook.
“How are you, Rowena?” he asked and I shrugged again.
“Still breathing Sherriff, still breathin’. How goes being a public servant?” I asked and he brushed a hand over his face.
“The work never ends but it is satisfying,” he sighed, sounding a bit tired. “I’ve been meaning to arrest them for a while now for the disappearances of all those children from the Grimwater orphanage. How did you find them?”
“More of a happy accident,” I replied, watching a guard roughly shove a Puma into the wagon. The Puma tried to run, but the guards were on him in an instant, tackling him into the mud.
“You know they’ve killed the past three bounty hunters with their numbers alone?” he asked as he locked the back of the wagon, the door shutting with a rusty clank. I let out a breath slowly.
“They gave me a bit of trouble, but in the end they decided to go without a shot being fired. The marks helped a bit,” I said turning back to Stone. He shook his head.
“A smart decision honestly. You and your like are terrifying,” he said somberly. I allowed myself one moment to clench my jaw. Stone looked at me and patted my shoulder.
“Still though, seven armed and dangerous bandits all give up without firing a single bullet? I’m proud of you for solving it like that, Rowena,” he said. I nodded, still tense.
“I’m going to have to replace the table I broke. It would have been easier to have just shot ‘em,” I said thoughtfully, laughing. Stone patted my shoulder again but didn’t laugh in return. Not so much as a chuckle. I looked up and saw he was avoiding my gaze.
So, you haven’t completely forgiven me then, I thought, Dammit. The silence stretched between us, and I felt the chill settling in through my duster despite the intense sunshine. I shivered and pulled my coat tighter around me.
“Listen Stone, are we--”
“How the hell did a tiny thing like you manage to intimidate that many thugs? Marks or no Marks,” he interrupted. I felt a prickle of irritation, though, I decided to answer him anyway. Stone had refused to talk to me about it since he released me from jailhouse custody. He kept not letting me apologize. It felt like a wedge between us.
“Cowards value their lives more than you think. When they think they’re going to die,” I said evenly, “They’re not so tough.” Stone nodded.
“It’s like my old saying-” he said but I cut in.
“The weakest animal cries the loudest…” I trailed off, looking at him. The shadow of a smile ghosted his face. He continued the well-worn phrase.
“But they are the first to run--”
“--Back to the pack,” we finished together.
“I remember everything, sir,” I said. Stone let out a chuckle and looked to the sky.
“Are you claiming the bounty on them then?” he asked abruptly.
“Well, you may be a public servant sir, but not me,” I said, smirking. He tipped his hat to me and waved for me to follow him.
“Well, you know the way. Come collect it.”
We walked around the back of the tavern where the sheriff’s horse, Buck, stood next to a dark painted thoroughbred. The two horses were drinking water from the trough, unperturbed by the action inside the building. As we approached, the thoroughbred raised his head and looked my way, nickering softly.
“Hey there, Dusk. Let’s get going, sir,” I said to him, brushing his nose. I swung up into my saddle and we were off.