When shadows talk, men with bad intentions and cruel methods are within spitting distance. Whatever grace or good feeling had swelled inside me popped like a carnival balloon. Now, all I felt was the dread of dealing with men who made a living off dealing.

  Pressing myself against the cavern wall, snug as could be, I dipped into my spirit well—not a drop this time, but a gulp that surged through me.

  I eased my breath and imagined myself as a gecko, vanishing into the rock. I wasn’t keen enough to melt into the dark like those men, but I could damn sure fade into the backdrop better than most.

  Let’s hope that’s enough.

  My brown plaid shirt took on the reddish hue of the canyon walls, my worn denim faded into the mud, and my fox-leather boots mirrored the tangled undergrowth clinging to the rock face. Now came the hardest part—slowing my breath, quieting my hammering heart, and keeping my spirit steady. If I wavered, the illusion would shatter, leaving me stuck there like a fool against the wall, begging to be shot or, worse, run clean through.

  Satisfied with my state, I pushed further. The remnants of power left unused—like the last drops at the bottom of a jug—I funneled into my ears, tracing the path of the hound. Slowly, at first, then all at once, voices filled my head. They sounded no more than a few feet away, though I knew they had to be many yards off.

  “Oweee, I can’t wait to get my hands on one of those broads. Did you see that fine one? The kind where age don’t rot, just refines?”

  “Enough, Petro. We take out the watchers first. When the main force hits the front, then we have our fun.”

  Their voices played like a banjo and an accordion in a cantina—one rough and true, the other calm but no less rugged. The third man said nothing, but I could hear his ragged breaths. That’d be the shadeskin, the one struggling like an ox to hold their cover. He’d be the first to die.

  I readied my hand on the deerskin holster, fingers itching. I couldn’t help but shake at the coming storm.

  This wasn’t my first rodeo—hell, I’d been in near a hundred skirmishes out in the wilds—but men who could channel, and do so at this level? I could count those fights on one hand.

  They climbed fast, a damn near impossible feat, but with the shadeskin leading, they slithered up the cliff like a dark snake. From the way they spoke, it was clear this wasn’t some slapdash raid. No, Oil Beard would’ve sent a sharp squad for a job this delicate.

  From what I gathered, their plan was simple—take out the sentries (just unlucky old me), light a signal flare, then let the main force rush in. Finally, they’d work their way into the caravan and take the whole damn thing hostage.

  On paper? Shit sounded solid.

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  In practice? Still sounded solid.

  Which meant I needed to throw a wrench in the works. Problem was, I wasn’t sure I had a wrench to throw.

  I kept my spirit steady, but my thoughts churned—past missions, old wounds, my Pa’s voice rattling in my head. The moment—that’s what fucking defines us.

  At least, that’s what Pa would say, right before he wrestled a rattlesnake just for the right to sit on a log that wouldn’t poke his ass.

  Their voices stopped. The three of them crested the cliff’s edge. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t see them. If you didn’t know what to look for, you’d mistake them for shadows stretching in the moonlight. Then, as if stepping from the darkness itself, they took form.

  First came the lanky one, all restless energy, his eyes dancing like fire. The kind of man who’d pepper you with jabs in the ring, never standing still. The one who was already thinking about rewards before the job was done.

  Next was his opposite—short, built like a bull, with eyes black as night and a dangerous calm.

  Finally, the shadeskin—meek, tired, his beard more forest than home. The kind of man who didn’t drink in saloons, who sat in dark corners talking to things that couldn’t be seen.

  Right through the damn skull. That’s where my bullet needed to go.

  The moment was pulling up to the station, and I was either getting on or getting run over.

  Then the lanky bastard took an eager step forward—right onto the remnants of my campfire.

  The crunch of kindling and ash shattered the night like a war horn.

  Shit.

  Their moods flipped like a card game gone south. I knew what I would’ve done—straight to the spirit well, searching for the threat. I had seconds to act before I became the one acted upon.

  Best to lead the dance.

  Letting go of the gecko’s spirit, I funneled it into my revolver. A faint aura formed around the barrel, trapping the escaping gas. The spirit in my ears funneled into my pupils as I took aim.

  I fired twice.

  The shadeskin crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, his body folding in on itself. The sound of him hitting the dirt was louder than the shots that sent him there.

  The other two scrambled for cover, but the lanky one wasn’t fast enough. Three more shots—one went wide, but the other two hit him square in the gut.

  I exhaled.

  Two down.

  I swapped to my left-hand pistol just as a whizz and spark burst from behind the last man’s cover. The shot went wild but came close enough to make me curse. I dove behind my own rock.

  Shit, can’t stay here.

  Reaching into my pouch, I pulled a delayed fuse rod. Peeking out, I fired a couple of wild shots to keep him pinned, then lobbed the fuse over his rock.

  It hit the top, then slid down.

  Gotcha, fucker.

  Then it hit me.

  Like a baseball bat to the back of the head, I was sent sprawling. My body skidded across the dirt, yards away from my cover.

  Out in the open, I reached for my revolver, vision swimming.

  Through the haze, I saw him—grinning fierce, teeth clenched in blood.

  The last man standing.

  Don’t know why you’re smiling, buddy. You ain’t knocked me out. This squabble ends here.

  I raised my pistol, aimed straight at his skull, and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  What in the hell?

  I pulled again.

  The hammer rose. Came down.

  Nothing.

  No spark. No pop. No bullet.

  The bastard grinned wider. “Ain’t gonna work, little boy. Ain’t no more shootin’ shit, not around me at least.”

  Tuning my spirit to my eyes once more, I saw the pentagram red as blood floating directly over the man's head.

  Fuck me. The one son of a bitch I didn’t take out’s got himself a devil deal? What are the goddamn odds?

  I wiped the blood from my mouth.

  Well, I guess I’m the house, boy. Time to collect.