Redemption: Tales of the Avernine, #6

By M.S. Hund

Ezra is a broken man…

Deprived of his demon-spawn talents and cursed weapon, the former gunslinger has spent the last ten years hiding out, only coming in from the wild to drink and brawl. Now his past is about to catch up with him, bringing a surprise visitor who might have the potential to save him from himself. But other wheels are turning in the Avernine, some driven by an old enemy who wants Ezra's blood and the blood of those he loves. Can Ezra survive and find the solace that has eluded him for so long?

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Redemption is the sixth and final book in Tales of the Avernine, a dark fantasy western series featuring demons, witches, mutants, and possessed guns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jebesyl Press
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201998738

Book preview

1

The stone walls of the corridor gleamed wetly, reflecting the light of guttering torches. Three men strode through air thick with smoke, while a fourth man stumbled along in their wake, tripping over his gray robes.

The oracle will not speak. There is a proper time.

The three others ignored the gray-robed man’s thin, mewling voice. Torchlight picked the red from their leader’s bristly beard and winked off the polished wood of the Protector’s cross hanging at his breast. He reached up to remove his hat, tucked limp strands of hair behind his ears, and halted.

The two lean men shadowing him stepped smoothly to the side, but the gray-robed man crashed into the bearded man’s elbow, yelping and grabbing his nose.

The Goruga will see me, the bearded man said, his deep voice rolling with command.

Clutching his nose, the injured man caught himself nodding in agreement and grimaced. His eyes darted to the guns on the other men’s hips, grips gleaming with a tracery of silver in the faint light. He shook his head.

Not possible. She—

A velvet voice interrupted him. Will speak with Rome’s outcast.

The two gunmen spun around, weapons appearing in their hands as if conjured, peering into wet shadows with glittering eyes.

Put the guns away, the man in gray hissed, waving his hands at them. Blood dripped from his nose.

The bearded man nodded, and the guns vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. His eyes shifted to the bloodied man, who swallowed and nodded, unable to meet the bearded man’s gaze.

Follow me, the bloodied man muttered, and stepped into a shadow, no different from a dozen others in the gaps between torches.

He vanished, and one gunman made to follow, only for the bearded man to grab his arm. This is for me alone.

The gunman frowned and glanced at his partner. Our duty is to keep you safe, Father.

The bearded man’s lip twitched at the corner. They stripped me of that title, Sword of God. You do your order justice, but I must trust to our Protector now.

He touched his cross, and the gunman’s eyes flicked down, then back up.

The gunman nodded once, though he did not look convinced. His fingers twitched near the gun that rode at his hip. We will come at your call.

I hope that will not be necessary. But thank you.

The bearded man touched his cross again, took a deep breath, and stepped into the shadow. Darkness fell instantly, and he groped blindly in the inky void.

You bear an ill stench, whelp of Rome. And so little faith for a priest.

The church has disowned me, the priest called into the impenetrable darkness. He pushed one hand out before him as he shuffled forward, trying to fix where the velvet voice was coming from. Something large slithered nearby, and he paused, fingers tracing the sign of the Protector in the air before him. A chuckle floated from the darkness, and the gloom dissipated slightly, revealing the vague shape of columns ahead.

Drawing a shuddering breath, the priest kept walking. Once again, laughter crept through the gloom and wound itself around him. He blinked. Something was moving. Dozens of shapes shifting in concert.

Mirrors.

He breathed and tried to slow his heart. Half-glimpsed reflections showed a woman reclining on a stone throne. Which one was real? The woman was draped in rich fabrics, her legs veiled by shadows but somehow sinuous. He blinked again. The gloom had not brightened, yet he could see more clearly. His mouth opened, words rushing to his lips.

But the woman held up a warning finger. Only ask the important questions, Roman.

His words dried up and blew away like so much dust. He caught a brief flash of iridescent skin, somehow invoking scales.

I smell my son’s death on you.

The priest shook his head, trying not to stare but struggling to piece together dozens of images into one picture.

You deny it?

The priest licked his lips and touched the cross resting against his breast. I have been responsible for the deaths of many, Lady Goruga, but I think I would remember your son if he were anything like you.

I am no lady. Faint amusement tickled the priest’s neck. And he was a foolish boy to stand in the way of the whirlwind you birthed.

The priest’s bearded chin dipped. The revival.

"Your revival, creature of Rome. It smashed the little kingdom my son had built, smashed it and left bodies scattered in its wake."

I—

You did not come here to speak of the past, to relive the fate of Purgatory and my only son.

But—

You came to me for answers, Roman.

Something moved near the priest’s feet, and a soft susurration rose from the stone floor. The urge to run tugged at him, but he did not dare move his feet, did not like to think what he might step on, what abomination lurked in the shadows. Instead, he fixed his eyes on one mirror. The obscured reflection twisted and writhed, making his stomach churn. He thought he saw a black eye fix on him, but then it vanished.

Asssssk, the Goruga hissed.

I have been ministering to the fallen, the demon-spawn of this territory. They sense a threat.

That is not a question, Roman.

The priest lowered his head. Is the threat real?

Real and growing, yes. Beyond the weakening of the veil between worlds.

From the demon realm? Something will come through? A new threat?

Not new. And I see in your heart that you already know this. Why have you come to me?

The priest’s mouth gaped. His jaw worked, but no words came.

You carry a burden, Roman. A debt you must discharge, absolution you must seek. Ask what you came to ask.

Where is the demon-spawn called Ezra?

2

Ezra never saw the fist that hit him. A whiskey fog dulled his reflexes, and his eyes failed to track the movement. Pain exploded out from his cheek in a hot wave, dark red shot through with flashes of green.

Good.

He staggered back, aware of the noise of the saloon. It hadn’t changed when the fist hit him. Nothing to see here, folks, he thought. Just that old warhorse George stepping out from behind the bar to take out the trash.

Ezra missed his next step back, and the world slipped sideways, floorboards rushing up to slam against his tailbone, sending hot wires of pain up his spine and out along his legs.

Good.

George grabbed Ezra’s knotted mass of hair and dragged him across the floor. Ezra kicked feebly, trying to hook something, anything, with his boot. But George was inexorable, muttering something incomprehensible in his thick brogue. Not that he sounded angry. More annoyed than anything.

The fingers shifted their grip from Ezra’s hair to his collar. They hoisted him up, and George’s ruddy face swam into view, pale eyes narrow beneath heavy brows. You wanna get yerself killed, do it somewhere else. Got it?

Ezra tried to nod, but nothing worked. His lips parted, but words refused to come.

George grunted, took two quick steps, and launched Ezra from the porch of the saloon.

Time slowed, the bitter night air carving away some of the thick whiskey fog. Ezra had the awareness to feel his hand moving toward his belt, and he forced himself to crush that impulse.

He hit the ground. Something popped in his shoulder as grit shot up his nose. He rolled in a cloud of dust and came to rest on his back, staring up at the stars. Real stars, not the ones dancing behind his eyes. Pinpricks of white in the black.

No moon.

A night made for demons.

Ezra let out his breath in a hiss, tasting blood. Laughter and song wafted out from the saloon. Sounds of life, of the Avernine as he’d always known it. He’d saved this damned territory ten years ago, and this was his reward? A broken chuckle made his ribs ache.

Can the pity, you sorry sack.

He tried to move the arm he’d landed on, but it was numb.

Good. He deserved that.

Maneuvering the other arm beneath him, Ezra pushed himself up, gritting his teeth as bones ground against each other and tendons stretched. He stood, swaying, his working hand going to his chest where it groped for something that wasn’t there anymore, that hadn’t been there for a long time. How long would he continue to reach for Brother Lorenzo’s cross? Should he have taken it when Father Tommaso offered to return it?

A snort.

Blood trickled through his beard.

Why bother the Protector anyway? The Protector taught reconciliation and healing, and that wasn’t what Ezra needed or wanted. He wanted pain, wanted to be hit by some halfwit miner in the saloon.

Pain.

Ezra savored the ache in bone and muscle, the sharp pinprick from torn skin when he moved, the loose teeth wiggling in his gums. These were poor agonies compared to what he’d once carried within him—the stolen suffering, physical and emotional, of hundreds, maybe thousands. The memory of that suffering lingered, but it wasn’t the same, wasn’t immediate, like a scene glimpsed through warped, thick glass smudged with grease.

Not