Blood Brothel: Charmslinger, #4

By Liza Street

Caught by the curse of a faithless fae, Gracie's posse can't say no to a mysterious bounty that takes them deep into the territory of their nightmares.

 

Everyone's heard of Saintsville because of Stolen Roses, the brothel that caters to every desire. But it turns out Saintsville isn't just the town that hosts Stolen Roses—it hosts all manner of nightmares, plaguing the dreams of locals and visitors alike. And somehow, Gracie Boswell and her posse have to wrangle the truth from those nightmares in order to find a missing outlaw and untwist Gracie's curse.

 

Between navigating a new relationship with one of her posse, sending messages back to her fickle fae client, and trying to sleep when every dream is filled with terrors, Gracie will need to keep her grip tight on not only her heart, but her six-shooter.

 

USA Today best-selling author Liza Street adds a thrilling new installment to her western gothic series. Pick up your copy of Blood Brothel and join the posse for another wild ride through the dark and dangerous west!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liza Street
• Release date: Sep 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201306182

Book preview

1

Despite the fact it’s midafternoon, the world around me is darkening with every step of my horse’s hooves. Soon it’ll be dark as the inside of a grave. A perpetual night is what I have to look forward to if I don’t find the duplicitous fae to whom I owe a favor.

I’m so mad I could spit.

Easy, Gracie, one of my posse, Sam Carson, says to me. You’re scarin’ the horses.

I ain’t scaring the horses, but I ease up on my grip on Kitty’s reins just the same. As we ride across the prairie, the usual golds and blues I would enjoy have been muted to grays and blacks. Heat presses against my back, telling me the sun’s shining brightly even if I can’t see its light. The harsh calls of some damned blackbird, which have grated on my nerves up to this point, are faint.

I look over the men in my posse. Even though I can’t see the details of their features, I remember them well enough. Carson’s a shapeshifter. He’s probably the handsomest of the three, with his sandy blond curls and bright blue eyes. I thought he was far too pretty for bounty hunting when I first met him, but he’s turned out to be a natural—despite how squeamish he gets around blood.

Boone, a vampire, has eyes the color of caramel, although I can’t see them right now. He’s been quiet since the kiss I shared with Layne not too long ago. Used to be it was Boone stealin’ kisses, but we haven’t done any of that in weeks. Not since he very clearly told me my blood wasn’t good enough for him. I’d offered, and he said he didn’t want it. Not enough to take it from you, Boswell. Those words have echoed in my mind, not unlike the obnoxious call of that fool blackbird.

Layne brings his bay mare, Deuce, up next to my buckskin, Kitty, and reaches over to take my hand. I give a start at the contact at first, then try to relax, even though it’s awkward as all hell to hold hands while riding a horse. But maybe this is what people do when they’re courting—it’s not like I would know one way or another.

When I first met Layne in the tiny town of Paradise, I thought he looked like a king, with his dark brown, curly hair and his goatee giving his chin an even more angular look. He’d kissed me with conviction.

Unlike Boone, Layne actually wants me. I try to meet his gaze and smile, but I can’t discern whether he’s even looking my direction, or scanning the landscape behind me.

Carson and Boone pull ahead of us. I don’t yet know what they think of Layne and me courting. Neither of them has said much, but Boone ain’t exactly loquacious, anyhow. I suspect Carson’s just waiting for the right moment to make a joke.

This is a fool curse, I say to Carson and Layne. And Boone—if he’s even listening. How am I supposed to shoot outlaws if I can’t see?

I suspect the fae is tryin’ to get your attention, Boone says.

I guess Boone is listening, after all.

I’ll shoot ’em for you. Layne’s voice is low, maybe meant only for my ears, but with Boone and Carson being supernatural, I doubt anything Layne or I say would go beneath their hearing.

Maybe I want to do my own shooting, I say to Layne.

Then you will. Just try not to shoot us, while you’re at it. When I don’t laugh, he adds, Don’t worry, we’ll get this figured out.

But I am worried.

The town of Prayer slowly takes shape before my eyes as we grow closer. First it’s a large, dark blot against the desert plains. Then it becomes a collection of rectangular buildings. Wynne, the fae who cursed me, is there, and I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of his high-handed tricks, his curses, his manipulative machinations—

You’re squeezing my hand pretty hard, there, Layne says, tugging himself out of my grasp.

Sorry about that. I send an apologetic look in his direction, hoping he sees it more as a smile and less of the grimace I’m feeling.

As we get into Prayer and its buildings surround us on either side of the road, I try to use my ears more’n my eyes. Hoofbeats mix with foot traffic. There’s the creaking of a stagecoach, and a wagon farther up the main stretch has a squeaking wheel reminiscent of that blackbird out in the prairie grass. Sharp clanging comes from a blacksmith’s shop, and lazy chatter fills the spaces between everything else.

This is a town of humans, all of ’em blissfully ignorant of the trouble that’s walking somewhere among them, of the dangerous creature in their midst who poses as human.

Where do you think that fae is? I ask.

He’s right up here, Boone says.

I can discern the outline of Boone’s arm as he gestures ahead and to the right. There, a slight man stands straight and still on the covered walkway that goes along the dirt street. He wears the wide-brimmed hat of a cowherd.

Clambering down from Kitty, I march toward him. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hex you where you stand, you ungovernable, inconsiderate, treacherous coward.

It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Miss Boswell, comes Wynne’s smooth voice. Why don’t you and your fellows join me in this dining establishment?

Where’s the dining establishment? I ask. I can’t see a rifting thing.

I’m aware of the men behind me, looping their horses’ reins over the hitching post. I’m loathe to take what little sight I have off of the fae in front of me to do the same for my mare, so I say, Carson, would you mind setting up Kitty?

I already took care of her, Layne says.

Wynne holds out his arm, as if he expects me to take his elbow. I snort and fold my arms across my chest. No way. I ain’t takin’ his help. He’s responsible for my current darkness, the ever-present night that’s plagued my vision for going on a week now.

Suit yourself, Miss Boswell, Wynne says, but have a care with your steps as the boards are uneven.

My stumble is perhaps inevitable, but Layne catches my shoulder before I can fall. I look over to give him a grateful smile, then nearly fall again when I realize it’s Boone’s hand on my shoulder, and not Layne’s. Rift take me, I can’t wait until I can see again.

"Would you please lift this curse offa me before I fall straight onto my face?" I say to Wynne.

Certainly.

I don’t see what motion he makes, and I don’t hear a word. But suddenly, the world’s so bright I have to cover my eyes. The brightness is just as bad as the dark, because the effect’s the same and I still can’t see squat.

Be careful what you wish for, Boone says quietly next to me. Then, without asking, he takes my elbow and leads me into a building.

My gut gives a little leap at the renewed contact with him, and I mentally kick the feeling away.

The scents of cooking meat and beans hit my nose and my stomach rumbles. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal. Come to think of it, I don’t think Boone has had any blood in some time, either.

"When’s the last time you ate? I ask Boone in a soft voice. And properly, I mean. For your…special diet."

It’s been a little while, he says, not looking at me. I’ll take care of it today.

The interior of the building is darker than the world outside, and I’m slowly able to open my eyes and follow Wynne to a table. Boone lets me go, which I think is how it ought to be. If anyone’s coddling me, it should be Layne, I suspect.

I wish I knew the first thing about courting. At least Layne has stated his intentions, which is a lot more than Boone ever did.

Wynne stands next to a chair and waits for me to sit down before taking his seat, like I’m some kind of fine lady. I suspect he does it because he knows it’ll bother me. What a gentleman.

Layne sits next to me, with Carson on the other side. Boone sits across from us, next to Wynne. That’s good—he can hold the fae down while I find an iron bullet to shove into my revolver.

Now that my sight is back to its fullest, all I want to do is look at things. From Boone’s handsome, darkly-scruffed jaw and caramel eyes, to Carson’s too-pretty-to-be-a-cowherd face with blue eyes and topped by a crown of sandy-golden hair, to Layne’s regal features and dark brown eyes with that hint of green around the pupils that I like so well.

And then there’s Wynne. He’s a water fae and wears a glamour what makes him look like a cowherd in a checked shirt, brown trousers, with short black hair and bright green eyes. His boots have scuffs on ’em now, and I ain’t sure whether those scuffs are natural or if he’s glamoured them there so as he can blend in with humans better. He’s also lost the monocle he once carried with him.

His glamour hides the red staining the palms of his hands, as well. But I know it’s there.

The restaurant itself has maybe a dozen people in it, all of ’em seated and munching away at their meals and conversing with each other. The tables don’t have cloths and the surfaces are pitted and scarred, but a ceramic vase of wildflowers sits in the center of each one. This might be the fanciest place I’ve visited since Alma Ainsley’s manor in Heaven’s Gate.

Wynne speaks in a posh, melodious tone. I realize my methods have not ingratiated you to me.

"Your methods nearly got us all killed," Boone says, his deep voice filled with censure.

Truly? Wynne says.

We were trying to kill a demon, I say, loudly enough that the handful of folks at the table nearest us go quiet all of a sudden.

We’re not serious, Carson says, giving them a wave. Just tellin’ a tall tale.

The small party gives him a suspicious look, but they return to their meal. Speaking of meals, my stomach feels like it’s twisting around on itself like a nest of snakes. It makes a low growl of hunger.

Layne stands up and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. I ain’t used to all this physical contact and I can’t help myself from shrugging away.

He gives me a little half-smile. I’m going to order some food. Anyone else hungry?

Boone and Wynne say they ain’t hungry, but Carson and I ask for big plates of whatever’s hot and filling, and Layne walks over to the bar, where a woman smiles widely at him in greeting. She even bats her eyelashes. I ain’t surprised at the attention she shows him—he’s right handsome, with his dark hair curling about his ears and his easy smile.

Boswell, Boone says sharply, and Carson nudges my arm with his.

Yes?

Wynne’s smirking at me. I asked where you collected your new admirer.

I’d argue that Layne ain’t an admirer, but seems no point in obfuscating the truth, so I give him a one-shouldered shrug and say, He joined us in the Fiddle, when we were hunting the demon.

I whisper the last bit so as not to offend any sensibilities of folks dining nearby. I’d thought getting out of the Fiddle region would mean we no longer had to hide that we’re charmslingers, but seems as if we ain’t quite far enough away yet. Once we find out whatever Wynne wants, and do that, I aim to ride up north where charmslinging ain’t so badly looked down upon. Granted, no population will entirely approve of it, but I like the regions up north where folks at least practice charmslingin’ in secret. I prefer that kind of hypocrisy to the hangin’ kind.

Wynne’s staring so hard at Layne’s back, I wonder that Layne’s shirt don’t start smoking.

Everything all right? I ask Wynne.

Certainly. I must say it surprises me that someone from the Fiddle would take up with your posse.

The Fiddlers ain’t known for their acceptance of magic, but Layne has come around, so I simply stare back at Wynne.

Layne returns from the counter with a pitcher of ale and five glasses. After sitting down, he pours a cup for everyone and knocks his glass into mine. I’m unaccustomed to his attentions, now that he’s made his intention known, and I wonder if Boone would’ve been so overt if we’d carried on together.

Pushing aside that thought, I take a sip of my ale before returning my gaze to Wynne. You went to a lot of effort to track me down. How’s about you explain why we’re here?

We’re here for my brother, Wynne says, with such animosity in his tone, I immediately fear for this brother’s chances of remaining amongst the living.

I pretend for a minute that this is the only information I need. Everyone’s quiet, and the sounds of other patrons eating and talking fill my ears.

Leaning back in my uneven chair, I say, He’s the person you want me to find, then? Or someone else? We agreed there’d be no killing, so if you want this brother of yours dead, you’ll have to do that yourself.

Yes, Wynne said, I want you to find him. You won’t have to kill him.

"Are you going to kill him?" I ask.

It’s possible, Wynne says without emotion.

This conversation could easily go in circles all damned day. Boone seems to sense the same, because he says, Maybe you can tell us a little more about this job we have to do for you.

As a reminder, Wynne says, the job is for Miss Boswell, because of the favor she owes me.

Fae-vor. I ain’t never going to forget this, the way Wynne had me trapped, as it were, twixt the devil and the deep blue sea. I’d have burned alive if I hadn’t agreed to his favor—and this was after I’d saved him and his kin.

Regardless, Boone says smoothly, we’ll all be assisting Boswell with this favor.

Very well. Wynne takes a sip of his ale, wrinkles his nose, and sets the cup back down on the scarred tabletop. My brother, Noel Rivers, was sent on a mission to Saintsville. His job there was simple: find the fae who was culling the herd too quickly, and bring them in.

There are some ranches around Saintsville, but a niggling worm in my gut is telling me Wynne ain’t talking about cattle. Still, I have to ask. Herd?

His lips twist in a false smile. Humans, Miss Boswell.

Layne nearly drops his glass and he scoots out of his chair faster’n I can say boo. His hand is on the butt of his revolver.

Layne, I say, you might want to let go of your gun.

Layne don’t move at first, but at least he ain’t drawing his weapon. He looks sideways at me, his brown eyes narrowed, before he takes in the room around us, the folks who’re no longer looking at each other or at their plates, but at us. A blond-haired child who don’t look more’n ten years old lifts his hand to wave at us.

His palm’s bright red.

That ain’t no kid—that’s a water fae under a glamour.

This entire dining room is filled with fae.

2

Wynne’s here in Prayer, and he filled this restaurant with his kin.

I’d be terrified, except I’m wondering if he’s really so scared of us, that he felt he needed this kind of back-up.

The blond-haired woman from the counter sashays over with our plates—two stacked along one hand and wrist, the third held in her other hand. Layne and Carson each reach for theirs, but I knock their arms down.

Layne, did you pay for this meal yet? I ask.

No, she said it was taken care of—

We ain’t eating it until we know who paid for it and why. Or rather, here. I dig a few pieces of gold from my shirt pocket and slap them down on the table. Now we’ve paid for our own meal. No favors owed to anyone for it.

Sure, the woman says, flicking her gold braid over her shoulder. She sets down our plates and pockets the coins. Anything else for you five?

Layne gives her a grin. No, thank—

We appreciate it, I say, cutting him off.

With a confused look at me, Layne points to his plate of pork and beans. Can I eat it yet?

It’s fine now, I reckon, I say.

Wynne nods. As the serving woman walks off, he says, So as you know, the lass isn’t fae. It’s safe to thank her.

Not trusting Wynne any farther’n I can throw Kitty, I give him a sour look. We’ll be careful just the same. To Layne, I say, Thank no one. I’ll explain later.

Layne’s no idiot, so he simply nods.

Thanking fae is how a person gets stuck in my position—owing favors or debts. Of course, my debt is through no fault of my own and I never thanked Wynne, but the fae don’t care about that. Once they hook you, they’re almost as difficult to shake as a demon.

I dig into my food, letting the heat and faint spices tingle through my mouth before washing them down with the last of my ale. Depending on what happens in Saintsville, I might not get a good meal for some time. It’s a six-day ride and a river crossing just to reach that city.

Boone ain’t touched his ale—he’s probably thirsty for somethin’ a little redder, somethin’ from a vein. I point to his cup and he holds his hands out in a help-yourself gesture.

After following another bite of food with Boone’s ale, I say to Wynne, So Noel’s job was simple, you said.

Yes, Wynne agrees. He was tasked with finding the fae abusing the herd, and then putting a stop to that.

The herd. An internal shiver freezes my heart.

Putting a stop to that, Carson says. As in, kill him. Or her.

That’s right, Wynne says, with no hint of remorse.

I take another bite of beans, chew, and swallow. But your brother’s missing. And I take it the humans are still disappearing?

Seems so.

You mentioned maybe you’d want to kill your brother, I say.

Wynne nods. That isn’t part of your arrangement, though, as you were so quick to establish.

I’m mighty curious nonetheless, I say. What could your brother do that you’d want to kill him for?

He’s a romantic, Wynne says simply. He tends to fall in love with the wrong sort, and his romantic nature may have put him under the spell of a human woman. Our kind have laws about that.

As I chew on another bite, I can see this is starting to make sense. You think Noel abandoned his task and took off on a whirlwind romance.

Carson laughs, and I purse my lips to keep from joining him. Wynne’s face remains impassive.

A lovestruck, foolish fae on the run from his own kin. I might’ve taken on this bounty just for pure entertainment. Course, I don’t much love the idea of dragging the lovestruck fool in to be executed by said kin.

Do I need to threaten you with the night curse, Miss Boswell, or will you be taking on this job?

Oh, I’m doing it, I say. Do I need to worry you’re going to curse me if it don’t get done fast enough?

You might need to worry about that, he says.

You might need to worry that your long-distance cursing can spell my death, I say. We did fight a demon, and I had to do that with reduced visibility, and—

And everything worked out just fine, Wynne says. However, I’ll take your concerns into consideration.

"Why don’t you