Hexes and Dust: Seven Territories, #5

By Andi Winter

WANTED: Revenge for a stolen life

 

Sutter's Gulch. A crossroads in the Seven Territories where criminals, misfits, and refugees from the War Between the States band together against the vampire and Menace threat.

 

And at times, against each other.

 

Union Army veteran Branson Tang returns to hellhole Sutter's Gulch for one reason: to stop the bastard who destroyed his life from auctioning outlawed and dangerous magic Dust to the highest bidder in the town saloon.

 

The saloon run by the woman Branson loves from afar.

 

Can Branson reap revenge on the man who stole his life? Or will he once again lose all he holds dear to a criminal mastermind bent on taking everything from him?

 

An historical fantasy set in an alternative Wild West, where magic, zombies, and Chinese mythology thrive. Welcome to The Seven Territories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andi Winter
• Release date: Sep 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393807759

Book preview

Hexes and Dust

Hexes and Dust

A Seven Territories Story

Andi Winter

Rainy Mountain Publishing

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Read on for a preview of

Memories of a Future Past

Other Titles by Andi Winter

About the Author

Hexes and Dust

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Copyright © 2020 by Andi Winter

All rights reserved.

Cover art copyright © Pixabay

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are either products of the imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or incidents is coincidental. This book, or parts, thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Chapter One

I was sitting at my usual table at Lil’s, watching the blazing summer sun slowly rise over the dusty main street. You know Lil? She’s the hot little redhead who runs the saloon, and the town for that matter.

Nothing happens in Sutter’s Gulch without her knowing about it, or being somehow behind it. She’ll deny it, of course, but there is always that twinkle in her eye that lets you know that maybe there is more to it than she lets on.

Anyway, so it’s about eight a.m. and I’m sitting at my usual table in a place like this—the one in the back corner with a good view of the floor, the bar, the piano, and the front door by the steady row of windows along the street side of the building. It also put me near the back entrance. In my time, I’ve learned that having a solid wall behind you, a view to look out upon, and ready access to an escape route were all Fine Things.

Now, I’ll admit I was nursing my whiskey longer than was necessary, as evidenced by its color having lost its amber hue, turning instead to the lightest shade of yellow. There was only so long a hexed ice cube would last. But I had a good reason for letting time take its slow way.

James Reinhart.

The bastard had stolen my family’s farm, and then proceeded to turn it into a strip mine, although what he thought he could mine from that land, I’ll never know. It wasn’t the greatest farm land, granted—not much was in this Shoshone territory—but it was still a shame, and it pained my heart to see my ancestral land razed and turned to mounds of dust.

That wasn’t what pissed me off, however. The bastard stole my family’s land, and then I was shanghaied into the Union army, taken from my home and family when they needed me most. Taken from all that I loved.

Fate is a cruel bitch. But I was not going to give her the upper hand.

Which was why I had been sitting at my table for the past two hours, watching and waiting as my whiskey slowly turned clear.

My throat tickled and I coughed.

James Reinhart was coming.

There was word going around that an auction was to be held that night, a very rare and special auction. The kind of auction spoken of in hushed tones, with an ear on the lookout for eavesdroppers.

Rare and special. Those were the exact words. They could only refer to one of two things:

1. Vampire-repellant cattle

or

2. Angel Dust.

Now, you’re probably thinking I’m yanking your tail, but I wished that I was. I wished that the auction was for hay or chopsticks or even tomatoes, because I would kill for a ripe proper tomato—natural grown and all. Not that mystic stuff they grow in hawk houses.

But no, the auction had to be for Dust, unless the rumor mill was dead wrong and I knew it couldn’t