Quinn

Four days after the attack, ten days on the trail…

---

The rain stopped. Not that Wyatt seemed inclined toward increasing their speed. Snow had begun falling in light, gentle flakes. The breeze barely stirred, and the silence eddied out around them, as though the world held its breath. Since the night the…whatever came after her, she’d felt no similar assaults. Instead of leaving at the first gray sign of dawn, Wyatt lingered in the cave at least two full hours past dawn, leaving only when the rain showed no signs of letting up.

A part of her half-expected an interrogation, but he’d resumed his icy remoteness. He wasn’t as emotionless as he pretended. They still had time before dark when they made camp the next night, using a cave for shelter and more heat to dry their gear and the blankets. Quinn was fairly certain she’d never sneak up on anyone again, her stench seemed to be somewhere between horse and dirt. The next two days after that repeated the same pattern—late starts, early settling.

This morning, impatient with their progress, she geared up and headed out—leaving Wyatt to follow her. Her skin itched, even more than her bruises ached. Admittedly, the slower pace and lengthier rests had helped her bruised ribs. Wyatt hunted every day and returned with something to make a meal with—for her. Never for himself.

By midday, four days after the attack, and tired of the snow and the discomfort of her stench, she said, “Wherever we make camp tonight, we need running water.”

Her words shattered the quiet around them. Giving the gelding a light tap, she caught up to Goliath where he led the way on the trail. Put her in a city, and she could navigate easily. The west hadn’t been so difficult, but she’d also relied on a map and trail markers.

Wherever Wyatt seemed intent on guiding them, he followed signs only he could see. It didn’t matter to her—whichever they found, a town or a clean river—she just needed enough water to wash and scrub her clothes.

“Why?” He cut a look at her as she came alongside.

“Because I need it.” No need to go into the intimate details. “Is there a reason you’ve objected to me transporting us ahead to where we need to be?” There were at least three large towns she could think of and one near the river. The largest port in the west, and it would bring them miles closer to their final destination by shaving days off their travels.

“Transporting all of us exhausts you.” The bland retort startled her.

“What?” Was that his reason for taking this long, agonizing ride?

“It exhausts you. You forget, I saw you after you transported the witches away.” Yes, he had. He’d also seen her after defeating the firestarter, followed by tracking the McKennas to Dorado, then dealing with the Kane boys, and having been struck in the head.

They’d already discussed this. She wasn’t going through it again. Impatiently, she reached over and gripped his arm. A sensation not unlike plunging into an icy lake skated over her. “Whoa.” The command had been directed at his horse, and to her surprise, the stallion listened.

“Don’t…”

She didn’t wait for Wyatt to finish his imperious thought. In her mind, she pictured the stone building near the old cemetery. It was outside of the town, nestled away, and reserved primarily for the indigent and the unclaimed. There weren’t even markers for the dead.

It also gave her a safe place to bring them through without worrying about spectators. She’d visited the town decades before, the farthest west she’d dared to travel, and only because she’d been tracking a particularly nasty Fevered who healed himself by murdering others.

The power within her unfurled, like a great sail on a ship. It swept around them, and the land changed as they abandoned the light snow flurries for distinctly frozen and far windier. Her gelding gave a bit of a start as she released Wyatt. Goliath tossed his head. The man, however, released a low, almost growling sound. Quinn didn’t care. The town of St Louis spread out before them on the banks of the Mississippi River.

There would be hotels. Rooms. Baths.

She didn’t even care what it cost her in coin, not when she had more than enough. “You can stay here and scowl, or you can follow. There’s a small inn on this side of town that also has hot baths, and I’m going to take one.” And perhaps buy fresh gear along the way. “There are stables for the horses, or you can let him go do whatever it is he wants.”

With that, she left them behind. The noise of the town washed out, a low rising roar including the bustling of horses, buggies, wagons, and on the river—ferries and other transport boats. Despite the snow and cold, the streets were full and smoke rose from many chimneys, creating a dark cloud.

The ominous warning aside, Quinn’s mood improved dramatically. It didn’t take Wyatt and his horse long to catch up to her. His presence loomed behind her, blotting at some of the joy she took at the promise of a bath. The inn was exactly as she remembered it, tidy and open. The keeper met them in the stable yard—another reason she preferred the small location to one of the more refined ones deeper in town. They had their own stable.

“Just for the afternoon,” she told the keeper as she handed him four coins, rather than risk pushing Wyatt further. She’d already gotten her way, so she could afford to be gracious. “I’ll also need a couple of rooms on the top floor, and a couple of baths brought up.”

“The night is fine,” Wyatt said, the clipped tone jerking the smile right off the innkeeper’s face. He added another set of coins. “No one else on the floor, or the one below it. And a full meal. I’ll tend to the horses myself.”

The man didn’t argue. Nor did Quinn. If it meant she got a full night in a real bed, she’d take it. The war was coming, and she had no problems with waging it. A regular night of sleep, and a clean body were definitely required. She needed to clean her guns, too.

Dismounting, she let Wyatt lead the horses away and turned to follow the innkeeper who all but fled inside.

“You go up,” he said, pressing a key into her hand. “The floor is empty, I will take care of second floor. Jonathon! Pull in the hot water! Margarid! Meals!” Then he was gone leaving her to take herself upstairs. No one was in the sitting room, and even the fire had been banked.

Odd considering the cold outside.

Stripping off her gloves, Quinn headed toward the stairs and then paused. Johan, the owner, was yelling for Jonathon again, sending him to purchase wood. Between her and Wyatt, they’d given him a fair amount of coin. Johan knew her. On her last pass through, she’d paid to have a floor to herself for two days and given him enough to rent it for a month.

On that visit, there had been some businessmen from back east, and at least two trappers sitting around the foyer and seating area. They hadn’t needed the fire then, but two of the men had been drinking. The innkeeper’s wife cooked, and they served breakfast and dinner—Quinn had taken her meals in her room rather than have to deal with strangers questioning her.

Yet, there didn’t sound like anyone was staying in the inn. Pausing on the first landing, she listened…the only voices came from downstairs. The doors were all closed, the innkeeper kept them locked so one required a key to get in.

Freeing her pistol, she put it in her left hand and kept the key in her right as she continued her ascent. No sense of Fevered reached her, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. St. Louis was a bustling town, with more than five thousand souls calling it home—and that didn’t take into account the travelers and wanderers who came through it.

On the second floor, the emptiness seemed to take on a life of its own. A choking sensation, as if the void could become some living, breathing entity. If it is…it’s holding its breath.

Still, she shifted her grip on the gun as she made her way along the landing. Johan said he had to empty the second floor. Yet he didn’t hurry up behind her, and she found no obvious evidence of people.

On the third floor, she studied the door her key opened. Each floor had four rooms, and he’d given her number three. It was on the lee side of the building, facing away from the stables and toward the town itself. She would have preferred the other side, but this wasn’t her argument at the moment.

Unlocking the door slowly, she braced against ambush. Inside was…no one. A comfortable bed took up the space near the window, while a metal tub sat in another corner awaiting water. A small iron stove sat in the other corner, the room was cold but the open door on the stove showed coal.

A heavy rug filled the open floor. A wardrobe stood open, empty and inviting. Next to it a table with an empty washbowl and a chamber pot beneath it.

Everything was as it should be.

Then why did she keep the gun at the ready? Pivoting in a slow circle, she returned to the open door and the hallway. There were three other rooms—Johan said this floor was empty, but he needed to empty the second.

Leaning on the doorframe, she waited. If he needed to get people off the floor, then he would have to ascend the steps, right?

There was nothing above the third floor—she’d checked on her last visit. So where was Johan? Jonathon would take longer, because he had to heat the water, then he’d haul it up the stairs, bucket after bucket. It wasn’t efficient, but it would be hot and she didn’t give a damn about the rest.

Ten minutes she waited, refusing to drop her guard. The sound of boots on the on the front porch, then the stairs alerted her to the new arrival. Still no sign of Johan or his family. The footsteps on the stairs continued their steady ascent.

Wyatt cocked a brow at her when he cleared the step to their floor. He had his hat in his hand and their saddlebags over his shoulders. “Problem?”

“Something’s wrong.” Though she couldn’t put her finger on it. Wyatt flicked a glance from her to the other closed doors. As one, their locks gave and the doors swung inward…to reveal empty rooms. “Good trick. Go downstairs and do that.”

She pushed away from her room and followed him. He didn’t slow or question the need. Arriving behind him, she studied the empty rooms. There wasn’t a sign of anyone having been in them. The beds were neatly made, the wardrobes open, and everything looked as it did in her room.

Wyatt studied her, not the rooms, then he motioned to the stairs. “Perhaps staying on the trail might have been a better idea.”

“Hush,” she commanded, then took the lead to descend to the main level. Not waiting for someone to come out to the desk, she strode through the swinging doors toward the living area for the keeper of the inn and the kitchens.

A pot simmered on the heated stove, dishes sat in soapy water, and the people were gone. Except a light cough pulled her around and a dark-skinned woman stood in the entryway to a large dry storage, a broom in her hands.

“They’re gone, missus,” she said, her tone so defeated it made Quinn’s heart hurt. “They won’t be doing business with devil. I’m slow,” she continued, limping forward. It dragged Quinn’s attention to the brace on her leg. “I can bring the water up with the pulley, and I’ll have stew ready soon.”

The devil?

When the woman’s gaze went from Quinn to Wyatt standing behind her, she had no doubt who the woman referred to.

MacPherson had been here at some point.

“I’ll get the water, ma’am.” Wyatt told her. “If they’re not coming back, you can sleep in one of the nicer beds tonight.”

Laughing, the woman shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t make deals with the devil, either. I can light the stove in your room though.”

“No,” Quinn said, holding up a hand. Slavery made her ill. Perhaps she could leave enough with the innkeeper, the woman could secure freedom papers. The courts here sometimes ruled in their favor.

Sometimes.

“I can light the stove. If you need anything, just give us a shout.” She ignored the woman’s faint smile and definitive skeptical look. “Thank you.” At the side-glance the woman gave her, Quinn tucked away her pistol.

“Will Goliath be all right outside?” She thought she knew the answer to the question, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“He’ll be fine.” Wyatt tossed her the saddlebags. “Go upstairs. I’ll get the water hauled.”

The cook all but shuffled back into the room with the dry goods as she kept an eye on Wyatt.

Sighing, Quinn turned away and paced through the empty front room. A part of her was damn tempted to go hunt Johan down. He might have answers to her questions, like when was MacPherson last here?

She pivoted and walked back into the kitchen. Neither Wyatt nor the woman had moved. Ignoring Wyatt, she looked to the cook and said, “Do you have a name?”

“Betsy, missus. Elizabeth really, but folks call me Betsy.”

“All right then, Betsy. I have a favor to ask, if the food will be all right untended for a while.”

Betsy wasn’t the only one giving her a suspicious look, but Quinn ignored Wyatt and did her best to relax her features. She was used to intimidating people, not comforting them. But she could be nice when she had to.

“It just has to simmer a while, missus.” With a steadying breath, she took a step out and wiped her hands on a thin towel. Maybe the broom had been for defense?

“Could you help me with my hair?”

A smile blossomed on Betsy’s face, whether because of the request or because it meant she could escape being in the same room with Wyatt, Quinn couldn’t say. She’d gamble it was the latter.

The woman followed her up the stairs eagerly enough, and even if it was a small thing, Quinn felt better about easing her fear. The bastard who owned the inn hadn’t given a damn about leaving her for the ‘devil’ and what did that say about them?

In the room, Betsy fluttered around as though she couldn’t stand to be idle. Quinn stripped out of her gear, but she stayed armed—at least until she was alone. For now, the first thing she wanted to do was get her hair clean. Wyatt delivered the first round of heated water, and though Quinn could do it herself, she was grateful for Betsy’s assistance.

“Can you tell me when the devil was last here?” At the question, Betsy froze a moment, then began to run a brush through her damp hair. The mass was long. She’d be better off cutting it, but it served a purpose for the moment.

“Last year, missus…” the woman answered slowly. “He scared everyone in the inn, that one.”

Letting her eyes fall half-closed, Quinn listened.

What had brought MacPherson this far west?

And why last year?

---

Wyatt

Nightfall

St. Louis

---

Wyatt perched on the edge of a chair, his back to the screen separating the tub from the rest of the room. After hauling the hot water and chasing off the cook, he’d settled in to play guard. She didn’t need him, and she didn’t want him there, but she also didn’t complain.

“Does that shield thing of yours prevent people from listening in?” The question floated atop the sound of water dripping—likely off an arm. The groan she’d released when she’d slid into the water had been very provocative.

And none of his damn business.

“Entirely possible.” Diverted, he twisted in the seat and reacquainted himself with the layout of the room. The space was simple, but the construction could be reinforced in places. Wyatt preferred nature over his head and, if not that, then at least something he’d built himself. It took only a portion of his attention to set the shields in place. Thickening them, he used the noise beyond—the gentle roar of so many voices and stinks in the city until he couldn’t smell or hear them.

The hot water, the smell of damp leather, and something lemon in the soap—not terrible scents, but there was something vaguely unpleasant, like a sour odor. He’d searched the room earlier, a circumspect search but still one.

“It’s done,” he told her, folding his arms as he resumed his position facing the door. Adam’s presence in recent memory troubled him. Wyatt hadn’t expected him to cross the Mississippi while Quanto lived. Not that the creature liked being in the west.

“Betsy said the shadow man—or devil, as she refers to him—came here last summer. While he was here, many people disappeared.” Irritation filtered through her voice.

Accepting the information for what it was, he turned his hat around in his hand. Betsy had also promised them a meal when Quinn finished her bath. “What else do you know about that time?”

“It was about two weeks after I was here the first time.” The husky quality of her voice dipped, taking on an almost disgruntled note.

“Do you believe he was following you? Or coincidence?” They did happen, even if he didn’t believe in them.

“I don’t believe in coincidences. In my experience, MacPherson maintains a very strict policy of not traveling to large cities or towns without a specific goal. He sends minions, acolytes who follow him.”

“Or prisoners bent to his will?” Delilah had called Adam Father for years, served at his whims, and done as she was asked without rebellion. He had a way of getting what he wanted out of people. Was that what he had planned for Ike and Rudy? His brothers were his responsibility and, though he hadn’t allowed himself to focus on it, he hadn’t forgotten their fate remained very much a mystery.

The water sloshed then lapped at the sides of the tub—and her body—before she answered. “I tried for five times, each time I was unable to achieve my goal. Twice, Fevered loyal to him intercepted me. I had to deal with them first, and then he was simply gone.”

Deal with them? Yes, she seemed highly capable of handling them. Picturing her in the tub did not help their conversation, so he reached for her rifle and began to check it for rust or other dirt. Cleaning it would give his hands something to do.

“The third proved to be a trap. He let me believe he would be somewhere and then had his people waiting for me.” People she obviously dealt with. “Those Fevered did not rejoin him. The fourth time, he used allies in the standing army.”

Sadly, anyone could be bought. Despite her presence assuring him she survived, his gut tightened. “Did you have to kill many of them?”

“No, I just transported away. No life other than my own was in danger.” Though her tone betrayed she didn’t believe that to be the case. “The last time, we came face to face for a split second. It aggravates me that, no matter how many of his acolytes I dispose of, he always has more.”

He could appreciate the frustration, having experienced it himself on many occasions. “They come to him, some compelled by whatever force it is he houses and others because he actively seeks their devotion. Not all who serve him do so willingly.”

“Maybe not at first, I grant you.”

“Sometimes it is because they don’t know better. You are aware of Delilah, yes?” Better to clarify, as the more he learned about Quinn, the more certain he was that she would rescue even the hapless who fell in with Adam before they were aware of his true nature or motives.

“The siren? Yes. She provided him with a rich environment of targets over the years. Those pop up revivals brought in everything from wealthy patrons to the poorest of the poor.” The water sloshed again, then she let out a grunt. “When the witches began dying, I had two choices. Keep hunting him and hoping I got to him before his murders finished or protect them.”

“You saved them.” Though uncertain of why he wanted to ease her conscience, he continued, “Life is always the better choice.”

“I find that odd, coming from you.” A question underlined the sentence.

“Did you know my siblings used to say that, if I left the Mountain, death rode?” They claimed it like a proverb.

“Are you trying to tell me they are wrong?” The retort pulled a smile from him.

“No, just making conversation. I left the Mountain more than they knew, but only to protect them or to keep danger from reaching Quanto.” Grief for his oldest friend settled over his heart.

“You had to choose between death and life, too. You chose to protect the shaman and to raise those Fevered yourself. You made the better choice.”

If only it were that simple for him. “I made the choice which needed to be made. Quanto found me after my last war with MacPherson.” The day remained another grim footnote in his history. “He refused to abandon me and dealt with those who came for me. If not for him…” Maybe peace would have found Wyatt, maybe not. He still existed, didn’t he?

“I am sorry for your loss.” Quiet sympathy, so unexpected from the woman who’d declared she would end him and MacPherson both, seemed unlikely, yet here she was. “I did not know the shaman, but based on the way your siblings are living, he must have been remarkable.”

“He was, but what do you mean about the way they are living?” It hadn’t been a criticism, yet he still wanted more information.

“They are a family, all of them, even the Kanes. They work together, they have found a way to exist even with tremendous power at their fingertips. They seek to help others, even when those others aren’t like them.” The water sloshed, and then dripped as though she’d stood. He could almost picture the droplets gliding over her flesh. “I’ve encountered a great many Fevered, and never have I seen them so united. Even the sycophants who follow MacPherson fight and jockey for favorite, they are not remotely loyal to each other.”

Interesting. “They were the first we raised together from childhood, but we trained others.” Why did he open that door? “Evelyn, Kid’s wife, her father trained with us when he was younger. He and several others were companions for a while. Most have since passed from this world.”

The screen moved, and he caught the motion of a bare arm from the corner of his eye. The black and blue discoloring, however, pulled him around. A sheet wrapped around her, but it left her back bare.

“What the hell happened to you?” Even as he asked, he knew. Their fight. Then, when he’d yanked her away from the weather Fevered. Rising abruptly, he crossed to the saddlebags. “I have liniment we can put on that, and a compound Quanto used to make. It will ease the pain.”

Pulling the containers out, he turned to find her staring at him. Without her gear, she suddenly looked entirely too female. The length of her dark hair had been pinned upward, but rebellious tendrils escaped. Muscled, scarred, and lean, she reminded him of a warrior goddess his mother used to tell him about—Ceridwen. Transformation, rebirth and inspiration were hers to command.

“I’ve had worse.” The comment didn’t allay his concern.

“Turn around.” Irritated that he hadn’t considered the possibility that she might not heal as swiftly as he did, he approached with the medicines. Eyebrows lifted, she swept a look over him, then turned to give him her back. Closer, he couldn’t mistake the livid marks for anything other than they were—wounds which could weaken and slow her down.

And he’d been pushing for days without respite, only slowing after her minor complaint.

“This isn’t necessary,” she told him, turning so she could regard him over her shoulder.

“It will feel warm when I first apply it, then it will be very cold. I will make sure the stove stays lit in here.” He’d heat some bricks to put in the bed as well. She wouldn’t be able to shake off the ice penetrating her skin.

Dipping his fingers into the ointment, he began at her left shoulder and rubbed it in. For it to be truly effective, it had to be massaged into the damaged flesh. Minding the force he used, he sought to get the ointment everywhere it would help. Up close, the damage was even more severe. There were scrapes hidden by the bruises, from the fence she went through.

Gliding his fingers along her neck, he paused at the lump. “You hit your head?”

“A few times recently.” The dry response sent a flush of shame through him. He’d also struck her in the head. Sam Kane had punched her in the side of the head. The weather Fevered had thrown her through a fence, and she had to have struck her head. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“You look fairly tough,” he said, conceding her point. “It does not make it right. Do you have any other injuries on your skull?” He should have had Noah look her over before they left.

“Probably, but the headaches haven’t bothered me in a few days.” Which translated as they had plagued her early in the ride.

“You should have said something.” Resuming his work on her back, he spread the ointment to her right shoulder, then down along her spine to the dip of her lower back.

“I didn’t need to say anything. I’ve taken care of myself for years. I didn’t hear you complaining about the blows you took.” Warning frosted each word.

“My injuries don’t affect me.” He turned her slightly, sliding his palm over her hip where the bruise vanished. If she was this damaged along her back, then they likely stretched around to her chest.

“Arrogance isn’t attractive.” A hint of dishonesty echoed within the sentiment. She stepped away from him and he passed over the ointment before she retreated behind the screen once more.

“Truth isn’t arrogance.” He wiped his hands together, then folded his arms before he followed her behind the screen to investigate the full extent of her injuries.

“Your injuries don’t affect you? How is that even possible?”

Perhaps it was time for more truth. He didn’t care for vulnerability, but she had allowed herself to be vulnerable in his presence. Acting accordingly might put them on equal footing. Did he want that parity?

“Because my body is not alive.”

Apparently so.