Chapter 3
Three
Bex
We step onto the wooden platform and follow Garrett toward the front double doors of the inn.
There’s a welcoming glow of candlelight in each of the front windows, though we’ll see if Maureen’s welcome is any better than the one we received outside.
He opens the door and stands halfway inside, leaving us to wait.
I look to the windows, but the glass panes are fogged with grime in the corners and along the length of the wood muntins, making it hard to see inside.
A faint piano tune drifts out, a solemn melody I recognize but can’t quite place.
The moment Garrett steps aside and lets us enter, the music stops.
The pianist’s attention shifts from his keys to the strangers entering the parlor.
Positioned against the right wall that runs alongside the staircase, the piano is perfectly situated between a set of sconces.
Looking around, I note several more sconces circling the room, each with a candle encased inside a milky hurricane holder.
Together, they provide ample light. Four round tables near the front, a full bar in the back.
I’m impressed with how clean and polished everything looks.
The outside appearance of the faded siding and the weathered porch boards doesn’t accurately reflect what’s within, and I’m unsure whether this is intentional or if there’s another underlying cause.
Jugs, jars, and bottles line the bar shelves, but I can’t be sure what kind of liquor or ale is in them.
In addition, a feature I have never encountered in any establishment is a tall cabinet set inside the wall between the bar shelves, which is secured by a sizable padlock.
I wonder what they’ve got locked away in such an enormous cabinet.
The front door slams shut with a jarring bang. I turn to ask Garrett why he’s slamming doors, but he’s gone. I don’t miss the iron slide-bolts along the top, center, and bottom of the double doors. They’re all unlocked.
“Sheamus.” A woman stands up from behind the bar counter, calling out to the pianist. “Play song number six.”
The pianist nods in acknowledgment and then resumes playing, choosing a faster, lighter tune this time. It takes me a second, but I soon recognize it as one of my late husband’s favorites: Buffalo Stampede.
The woman lifts a hinged section of the bar top and steps through, leaving the counter raised. Her hair, dark brown with streaks of gray, sits loose, the ends almost reaching her waistline.
“What brings you all the way out to the middle of nowhere?” she asks, her voice holding a wise, mature tone.
She leans against the bar, her hands tucked behind her back.
Unlike most women, she’s donned a pair of men’s pants.
Her blouse is also altered, not having the typical high-collar style women wear.
The loose fit feels more like something a working man on a farm or herding sheep would wear.
The top two buttons are undone, revealing her collarbones.
Scandalous. There’s also a firearm hanging from her belt at her waist, which doesn’t surprise me as much as the pants and altered top.
“You two aren’t from these parts, are you?” she asks, probably picking up on our nervous tension.
I open my mouth to answer, but the piano tune cuts off mid-note, and silence spills through the parlor.
The pianist stands so quickly his bench scrapes across the floor and almost tips over.
Without a word, he rushes into the dark hallway at the rear of the room.
Then, two men at a table to our left abruptly stand and follow.
Their matching hair color and sharp noses make them look like father and son.
They hurry after the pianist without looking at anyone except the woman still leaning against the bar counter.
This town is definitely not like other towns.
“What’s happening?” Nina whispers.
“You were saying,” the woman remarks as if the room didn’t just clear out. She stares at us while stretching one arm out along the bar. Her fingers tap a steady rhythm against the polished wood. Her other hand remains hidden out of sight. “We aren’t fond of uninvited visitors.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “We need a place to rest for the night. This is an inn, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” She studies our faces, then our clothes. “Maybe we should take this outside so we don’t break any furniture.”
Nina loops her arm through mine and nervously squeezes my forearm. I pray she doesn’t awaken the strange sand afflicting my skin. Lifting my chin, I address the woman threatening us. “Ma’am, we’re not here to cause trouble. There’s no reason to take anything outside.”
A howl interrupts our conversation. And even though it’s coming from outside, the sound stirs the sand along my arms to life.
I brush away Nina’s grip, not wanting her to feel the sensation of the sand that is my skin moving beneath my sleeve.
Seconds later, a terrifying growl, sounding much closer than outside, sends my nerves jolting throughout my body.
“That doesn’t sound like the scruffy mutt under the oak tree,” Nina whispers, eyeing the room and searching for the source.
The sand beneath my skin swirls around my forearms, faster and faster. I clamp a hand over one arm, willing it to settle. Please, please, please don’t start.
“The sun’s almost set,” the woman says. “If you’re here to bring trouble, well, I reckon you’re gonna be in the fight of your life.
” She nods at the front window, and I glance back.
Through the grime of the glass pane, off in the distance, the sun sinks below the horizon directly over the road that cuts straight through town. “Now tell me why you are here.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my skirt. “Are you Maureen O’Callaghan?”
“Aye. I am. Are you here to kill me?”
Nina opens her mouth to protest, but I squeeze her arm, silently asking her to hold back. To Maureen, I say, “A woman showed up on our farm, bleeding out, and before she died, she asked me to bring you a message.”
“Is that so? A dying woman came to your farm out in…” She leaves the sentence open.
“Billingsworth County. The west side. Our farm is a two-day ride to the Graveyard Territory borders.”
Maureen laughs. “You two aren’t joking about not being from around these parts.”
“No. We aren’t,” Nina says, her voice rising with frustration. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”
The beast growls louder—closer—and I glance at the window. The sun dips below the horizon, leaving a red-orange glow in its wake.
“Your time’s running out, ladies,” Maureen says. “I’d hate for you to meet Hunter if you’re actually telling the truth.”
A pair of glowing yellow eyes appears in the doorway to the hall where the pianist and those two men disappeared.
It’s completely dark, and the animal’s predatory gaze sit at a height that makes my stomach dip.
If that’s a wolf, it’s sure as hell the biggest one I’ve ever seen. And we’ve seen our share on the farm.
“We’re telling you the truth!” Nina protests with urgency. A low growl rolls out of the shadows in response. She turns to me, her voice sharp with fear. “Tell her the message, Bex.”
“All right, all right.” Heat blooms under my arms as my heart hammers at the threat in the doorway. “I don’t know the woman’s name, but she told me to tell you this: ‘Persephone is dead. Tell her it was Malik Graves.’”
Maureen’s eyes widen. She pushes off the bar, revealing a dagger clutched in her hand that had been hiding behind her back.
Inhaling a deep breath, she shakes her head, causing her long brown hair streaked with gray to fall off her shoulders.
“That cannot be. She was just here two weeks ago. And she would’ve told me if she’d planned to go off and face that miserable piece of shit.
” Her gaze dips to the floorboards, and she mutters a string of half-formed questions.
The only one I can understand is something about “why would she go at it alone?” None of it makes sense to me.
The terror in her eyes speaks volumes, revealing the news to be more devastating than I can comprehend.
Something in my chest tightens, and I shuffle closer, hating to see anyone in pain, and offer more of an explanation.
“That’s what she said. I don’t know these names or what any of it means.
But we traveled all this way to relay her message. ”
Nina comes up next to me, and Maureen eventually lifts her gaze from the floor to us. “Please, ma’am,” Nina says, “we delivered the message. Now if you’d kindly let us rest the night, we’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”
The growl from the shadows deepens. Nina huddles closer and hooks her arm through mine. Her grip tightens over the fabric of my sleeve. Underneath both sleeves, the sand coils in tight, spiraling bands around my wrists and forearms, pulling inward as if preparing for something.
“There is something else,” I shout over the growling.
Maureen does not speak. She waits.
“The woman, before she died…she…she did something to me.” After freeing my arm from Nina’s grip, I unbutton a cuff, roll the sleeve up to my elbow, and hold my arm out.
My skin has loosened into grains of pale sand that drift in slow, deliberate patterns over my wrist and forearm.
The sand isn’t loose, but holds the shape of my arm.
“Please help me understand what this is about?” I ask.
At the same time, something new sparks to life.
Dust streams from the center of my palm and twists into a thin, gritty, rope-like strand, one end rooted in my hand while the rest lifts into the air.
I flex my hand. The strand, made of the same sand my skin has changed to, shifts with me.
It doesn’t reach far, but something in my gut tells me I can extend it out… If I push it to.
Maureen steps closer, tucking her dagger into her waistband, and grabs hold of my elbow. Her fingers clasping tightly over the fabric of my sleeve. She lifts my arm to better see the phenomenon, and as she does the strange rope coming from my palm suddenly bursts into a dust cloud.
“Whoa,” I say under my breath. Looking to Maureen, I ask, “What was that? What’s happening to me?”
She lets go of my arm and mutters, “Well, I’ll be damned. Either you’re lyin’ to me about what happened or we’ve got ourselves a new dustslinger.”
“A what?”
Turning away from me, Maureen whistles and shouts, “Cage him up, boys.”
The glowing eyes from the back hall retreat into the darkness.
I wait for Maureen to return her attention to me, hoping for answers, but instead she moves past us and proceeds to bolt the front doors shut. When she finishes, she gestures toward the stairs. “Come along. I’ll show you two to your room.”
I hurry after her, weaving between tables. “Aren’t you going to tell me what’s happening to me? What that woman infected me with?”
Her smile is unexpectedly warm. “It’s not an illness, darling.
It’s a gift. A rare one. And with it comes a responsibility to fight for and protect the innocent souls of this territory.
Now, before we get into the specifics”—she points to my arm—“how about we get you both settled into a nice private room. We can talk more at supper, which’ll be in an hour.
I’ll have Garrett bring up your bags after he settles your horses in their own stalls in our barn.
Don’t worry, there’s plenty of space and fresh hay.
Now, come along. You’ll want to rest a bit, maybe even take a bath, do whatever you need, and we’ll speak more on the matter later.
” Without another word, she heads upstairs.
Did she say take a bath? Oh, my prayers have been answered if there’s a tub up there!
Nina follows behind our host but stops on the first step and leans over the railing and points a finger at me. “You and I,” she says with a severity I knew was coming, “need to have an honest conversation about all of this in private.”
I swallow the guilt rising in my throat. I shouldn’t have lied, and she has every right to be angry. But deep down inside, I knew I couldn’t do this without her. And I was hoping I could find a remedy for this sand-skin illness without having to tell her.
Maureen saying it’s a gift raises my concerns about there being a cure or a way to get rid of this supernatural phenomenon. If that’s the case, what does it mean for me? Because I’m no protector. I hate firearms and wouldn’t even know how to save myself, moreover an entire town of people.
I have to hope something good will come out of this trip besides delivering that woman’s message to Maureen.
Following our host and my sister up the stairs, I push aside concerning thoughts about being their new dustslinger and instead cling to the promises of what’s waiting for me upstairs. A relaxing, hot bath where I can momentarily escape the problems of my life.
As I reach the top step to the second floor, boots pound across the parlor floor below.
Peering from behind a post, I track his movements as he makes his way to the front window.
He lingers for a moment, staring outside.
When he turns, his gaze meets mine. Like a fool, I don’t blink or look away.
Slowly, a smile spreads across his face and he tips his sunrider hat.
A lively pulse thrums low inside my core, and my lips part as though I’ve just broken the surface of a lake, gasping for air.
I warn myself that nothing good will come of befriending that man, especially when we plan to return home in the morning. Nothing good at all.