Chapter 11
Despite the late-afternoon sun, the scorching heat of the Arizona desert was brutal, and the journey to Perdition Ridge was pure hell. Wilder hoped the town wasn’t aptly named.
“When we arrive, I will procure new clothes for you,” Stands-in-Shadow said after they paused to rest his horse, and likely because he realized Castor was quite literally running on empty.
It was rare to see a warlock red-faced from exertion since they usually handled most tasks with their abilities. But healing, teleporting—hell, even stopping time—was now outside their range.
The Guide’s instincts were good. Their clothes were too modern for anyone not to notice.
“Should we be proficient in gunfighting?” Wilder asked. He’d hate to delay, but if it was a matter of survival and getting Abbie out of a bad situation, he’d do whatever he had to.
Although he frowned, Castor didn’t weigh in and instead looked to their new friend for answers.
“It would be helpful, yes. Perdition is a town of outlaws, of every nation. They test their skills on newcomers.”
“Fucking fantastic.” Wilder sipped his water, hoping to preserve as much as he could for the two doing the actual exercise.
One canteen and a single bladder for three men and a horse would’ve been dire if they had left earlier in the day like he’d wanted to.
Thank the Goddess for levelheaded strangers.
“I know how to shoot, but I can’t claim to be skilled. ”
“It’s about appearances,” Castor replied, ripping off a piece of buffalo jerky from Stands-in-Shadow and passing the rest on to him. “You only need appear ruthless, and most of those cowards will leave you be. Very few want to tangle with a killer.”
“And the few who do?”
Castor’s grin flashed. “Well, they’re liable to shoot you down in the streets.”
“How does my cousin tolerate you?”
His laughter rang out, tugging a reluctant grin from Wilder.
Even without his abilities, Alexander Castor possessed a magic all his own.
It lived in his charm and easygoing facade.
Underneath, the deadly opponent existed for anyone who cared to challenge him.
But if one was smart enough not to rattle his cage, the likelihood existed that he’d live and let live.
The actual problem was Castor’s smartass tendencies.
He rattled others’ cages for the hell of it.
Although his arrogance was well-earned, it stemmed from his descent from a god, with the looks and skill to back it up.
Wilder had a touch of it himself. It came with the name Thorne.
Those in his family had been taught from a young age what they were, the power they held, and the empathy and kindness they should offer. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t used to having it all and living comfortably in his skin because of it.
Only when he lost Abbie did he understand. Life had a way of making the haughty humble. The day on the mountain, when he was left vulnerable, thereby leaving her unprotected, he’d learned a valuable lesson.
“You see much,” Stands-in-Shadow said quietly.
Wilder glanced up and met the wisdom in his dark-eyed gaze. “Not as much as you.”
“What will you do if Mary doesn’t remember you?”
“Abbie. Or at least I hope it’s her.” He swallowed another sip of water and passed the canteen. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll play it by ear.”
The very real worry existed that she might not know him, and if she didn’t, she’d fear him. Making her whole again could be a problem without someone of their magical caliber.
“Earlier, you mentioned a Guardian and a Thorne. Why were they unable to heal her mind?” Wilder asked Stands-in-Shadow. “Does that level of magic not exist here? Is there some sort of interference?”
“They cannot get close. She allows few to touch her.”
“Why?” Castor asked, leaning in and accepting the canteen.
“Her mind is broken, Traveler.”
“Is she lucid?”
“This word is new to me,” Stands-in-Shadow said.
“Awake and able to speak. Can she hold a conversation despite the claims she’s crazy?” Wilder clarified.
“Ah. Yes, if she chooses. But Mary lives in her head and draws pictures in the dirt of faraway places.”
Wilder looked at Castor. “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Those far-off places could be future events?”
“Maybe she’s trying to reconnect in some small way.” Yes, he was grasping at any bit of hope available, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her mind being destroyed from either her trip through the portal or the following injuries.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Thorne. We need to find her first. After, we can assess the damage and make a game plan.”
“What is game… plan?” Stands-in-Shadow asked curiously.
“It is a strategy worked out by sports teams, politicians, and business people,” Castor supplied helpfully.
When the Guide remained curious, he elaborated.
“In the future, teams of men or women, sometimes both, are built to display athleticism or skills. They compete against each other for money, awards, and such.”
“This is an interesting concept. The Diné also display skills in these sports teams, but not for money.”
“Many people play for fun, like I imagine the Diné do,” Wilder said. “But I’m sure teammates come up with a plan to beat the other players, right?” He waited for the guy’s nod before adding, “Hence, game plan.”
“I like this game plan.”
“It’s always wise to have one,” Castor agreed.
“We will make one for you.”
They shared a grin.
Night had fallen by the time they arrived in Perdition Ridge.
Lights poured from windows above closed shops, illuminating the way to The Broken Halo Saloon.
On the far side of the bar sat The Velvet Ember, with two men lounging against the wall outside, shotgun barrels resting over their shoulders and holsters with very real revolvers on their hips.
The scene was from every Western movie or show Wilder had watched. The small boy inside him was thrilled, but the adult, who understood the lethal consequences related to this century, wasn’t so happy. In fact, he was downright uneasy.
“This way,” Shadow, as he suggested they call him, gestured to an alley behind the mercantile. “Bartholomew Mercer lives above the store. Most call him Bart. He will be sitting for his meal.”
So saying, he pulled a cord, then stood back to wait.
“What is that?” Wilder asked.
“Bell pull. The rope runs to a bell inside an upstairs apartment,” Castor said as if he’d witnessed it a thousand times.
At the top of the stairs, a door opened, backlighting a heavyset man. “If it ain’t about trade, it’ll wait ’til daylight. It’s suppertime, and a man should be allowed to eat in peace.”
“We’re sorry to disturb, but my friend and I are looking to be outfitted with clothing, horses, and pistols. It can’t wait until morning, Mr. Mercer,” Castor replied.
“I ain’t a horse trader. You’ll go to the stables for livestock,” Bart barked. He softened to add, “But I’ve got tack if ya need it.”
He shifted, displaying the girth of a man who ate well off his steady profits rather than manual labor. Though not necessarily built for fighting, his barrel chest and thick arms indicated he’d lifted a heavy crate or two in his day.
“Understood. Are you willing to open your store tonight, friend, or should I offer my gold to one of the drifters loitering about the saloon? They might look more favorably upon selling goods after hours.”
Bart sighed, knowing when he was beaten.
Wilder was awed by Castor’s ability to blend seamlessly into the current timeline. Perhaps his confidence came with his Traveler abilities, but his boldness could only benefit them in a town like this.
“I’ll be down as soon as I get my keys. Best have that gold ready. I ain’t in the mood for games.”
“It’s a straightforward transaction, nothing more.”
“All right, then.”
Wilder wasn’t surprised by the offer of gold. They’d both conjured the mineral and stored it on various parts of their bodies to account for payment should they need it. What he didn’t know was the going rate in this century. He just hoped to hell they weren’t about to get swindled.
As if reading his mind, Castor turned to Stands-in-Shadow. “Are you able to tell me if he’s fair in his dealings? I wouldn’t care to be taken advantage of. And should you require it, there’s payment for your services.”
He nodded. “Bart’s fair, or he would not last here among these people. But be wary, and don’t show more than you must. A few ounces at most, or it will bring the wolves to your door.”
“Thank you.”
Castor slid him two of the smaller pieces as a gesture of thanks.
“I do not need your gold,” Stands-in-Shadow protested.
Wilder folded the fingers of the man’s outstretched hand. “He can afford it, and you’ve given us a lot already, Shadow. We’d be grateful if you would take it for times you may need to board your ?íí? or pay for his feed.”
Bart returned, slamming and locking his door with a grumble. They chose to ignore his surliness.
The Guide slipped the gold into a pouch hanging from his waistband.
The sleight of hand was performed in Wilder’s peripheral vision, but was definitely magician-worthy.
At some point in life, Stands-in-Shadow had learned to be cautious of strangers and merchants.
Wilder hoped it wasn’t from being screwed over in the past, but feared it was.
“From the looks and sound of ya, yer not from these parts. Back East?” Bart asked after unlocking the shop and striking a match to light a lantern.
“I am,” Wilder said. “My father-in-law is from Europe, though he lives in New York now.”
Though Castor shot him an amused look, he didn’t deny the claim.
“What brings you fellas to The Devil’s Backbone?”
“I thought this place was called Perdition Ridge,” Castor said sharply.
“It is, but only those owin’ their souls to Old Scratch reside in these parts,” Bart said, eyeing them from head to toe. “Yer needin’ it all, I’m guessin’.”
“Yes,” Wilder said.
“Them’s mighty fine duds. Ya rich, then?” Greed gleamed in the merchant’s eyes, urging caution.
“No. We’re here on business.”
“Business? What business?” Bart asked suspiciously.
Behind his back, Castor flared his eyes in warning.
“Actually, Mr. Mercer, we’re looking for a woman. Perhaps you know her? She would’ve shown up about two years ago,” Wilder said.
In a calculated move, Bart scratched the expanse of his belly and narrowed his eyes, as if in deep thought. “Well, let’s see here…”
“It’s understandable if you don’t have recall, a man of your years,” Castor said with an airy wave. “Don’t bother yourself about it, my good man. Let’s resume our shopping expedition, shall we?”
“I didn’t rightly say I didn’t know of her.
” When he got a stone-eyed stare for his comment, Bart tried another tactic.
“It might be Crazy Mary you’re referrin’ to.
But if it is, good luck to ya, friend. Me and some of them others made fair offers.
But Masters thinks he’s high and mighty, protectin’ her like she’s somethin’ sacred. ”
“Masters? Where might I find this, Masters?” Wilder asked, using every ounce of his willpower not to beat the information out of the sleazeball. As beautiful as Abbie was, there was little doubt what his “fair offer” was for.
“This time of night? The Broken Halo or the whorehouse if he’s not stickin’ it to Crazy Mary.”
Wilder saw red, and only a cautionary hand from Stands-in-Shadow curbed his impulse to pulverize the store owner.
“Are ya tradin’?” Bart asked, ignorant of his impending demise.
“No,” Castor said succinctly. “Though dusty, our clothes are in good condition—for church—and we’re willing to pay a fair price for your wares and add a small fee for your time.”
Wilder choked.
The idea of two warlocks in church was one ridiculous claim too much.
“Ya said clothes, guns, and tack.” Bart stacked two pistols and bullets on the bar before tallying the clothes and the handful of things Stands-in-Shadow brought to him, including a bowler hat and a floppy-brimmed cowboy hat.
“That’ll cost ya two hundred and twenty-six dollars for what your injun is pilin’ up. ”
A glancing look at Stands-in-Shadow had Castor raising his brows in the face of Bart’s claim.
“I said fair, Mercer,” Castor returned coldly. The chill in his voice made them all stand straighter. “I already know what those things should cost, and I won’t be fleeced.”
“Ya wake me—”
“You claimed you were sitting down to dinner. In addition to the profit on your goods, I’ve added an extra fifteen dollars to compensate you for your time. Don’t mistake us for fools. It will be the last thing you do.”
Castor’s challenge was awfully bold for a man without a weapon, but his confident superiority subdued the merchant. Men, no matter their level of importance, recognized an alpha and bowed in defeat.
“You plannin’ to try these on?” Bart shoved denim pants and cotton shirts at Wilder.
“No need, but tell us where we can get a room and a bath.”