Sorcery. Betrayal. Redemption. And a whole lot of lead.
Steampunk fantasy western from award winning author Spencer Sekulin
The doors burst open with a racket of footfalls, rattling steel, and whispering sand. Lugh twisted around and nearly fell from his seat. Thirty men and women stormed in and spread out in a semicircle. They wore dusters and riding boots, had the scarred, weathered faces of seasoned bounty hunters, and held a whole lot of rifles, revolvers, and machetes. Lugh noted the faces. Not Eirlys’s men. Locals? The lead man, a spindly, weasel-faced graybeard, whistled and aimed two pistols with a dual click.
“You. At the bar. You Ku’Adsila?”
Just my rutting luck. Lugh hunched over the bar and stole a glance at the girl next to him. She had put a handful of .45 caliber bullets on the countertop, along with a black double-action revolver sporting a rosewood grip. She pricked her finger on a splintered section of the bar and began lazily smearing blood around the neck of each bullet. Yeah, lots of loose screws.
"Well?" the bounty hunter growled. "You deaf or stupid or am I right?"
“So what if I am?” the Uluru girl asked.
The metallic song of cocking weapons filled the air.
I’m sensing a theme here. Lugh drummed his fingertips on the bar. “Well, this was fun, but the toilet’s calling my name.” He went to stand, but Ku’Adsila grabbed his wrist, her strength like prison manacles.
“Stay put, liar,” she hissed. “I’m not done with you.”
“I think your hands are full enough already.”
“You’re right.” Ku’Adsila let go, then rammed a wicked knife through his tweed jacket’s sleeve, pinning him to the bar.
“That’s my favorite jacket!”
“Probably your only jacket, knobhead. Try pulling free and the next one’s between your legs.”
Lugh grimaced. Yeah, definitely a theme. The barkeep vanished. Even the marigolds seemed to shrink back. Wind rattled the shutters, and a horse nickered outside. Ku’Adsila finished her bloody artwork and plopped two bullets into her six-shooter.
“Oi!” the bounty hunter yelled. “Twenty seconds. Hands up, witch.”
Lugh coughed. “Hello? What about me? Does anyone see the poor bystander in harm’s way?”
“Looks to me like you were conspiring,” the bounty hunter said.
“Hey, see the knife in my sleeve? I’m innocent!”
“Exactly what a criminal would say.”
“Oh come on!”
“Yap all you want. I have it on good authority.” The bounty hunter smirked. “The good citizen at the station said there’s a new conman afoot, dresses like a city twat.”
Lugh flushed. “It’s called tweed.”
“Exactly.” The bounty hunter eyed Ku’Adsila, who still hadn’t bothered to turn around. “Ten seconds. Surrender and we’ll bring you in alive.”
“For what?” Ku’Adsila flipped her gun shut and spun the cylinder. “A cozy noose?”
“Dunderheaded sand witch. You’re—!”
Ku’Adsila aimed blindly over her shoulder and pulled the trigger, the muzzle flare erupting a foot from Lugh’s nose. He ripped his jacket free and dove to the floor, ears ringing. He covered his head, waiting for a bullet’s sting, only to hear a muffled clatter of falling bodies instead. An odd smell wriggled up his nose: coppery, like blood, but with a citric tang. Sorcery? So this was the outlaw. He cracked his eyes open, praying he hadn’t pissed himself.
Thirty corpses littered the saloon. Thirty headshots.
With one bullet?!
