Blood Bandit: Charmslinger, #5

By Liza Street

In a land filled with supernatural outlaws, sometimes it feels like the only thing Gracie can trust is her charmed six-shooter.

 

The Graywolf Bandits have long terrorized the law-abiding folk along the Loveless River, robbing stagecoaches and solitary travelers alike. The bounty for bringing in the outlaws is high…but so is the danger.

 

Enter Gracie Boswell—a charm-slinging bounty hunter with a posse of individuals who possess a unique set of skills and temperaments. If Gracie and her gang can't put a stop to the bandits, no one can, and it'll spell a slow winter death for the innocents who live along the river.

 

Blood Bandit is the fifth thrilling installment in USA Today bestselling author Liza Street's western gothic series. Pick up your copy of Blood Bandit for a wild ride through the dark and dangerous west!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liza Street
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201721282

Book preview

1

The prairie stretches out in front of us like a moth-eaten blanket of gold. Small spots of brown break up the landscape, boulders punched up from the earth from when the Rift opened, is my wager.

My forearms ache from leaning against this boulder for most of the day. Hours now, we’ve been scanning the prairie with a spyglass and hoping for some sign of the Graywolf Bandits.

Do you smell any of the Graywolves, Carson? Layne asks, nudging the man next to him. Layne’s goatee has grown out into a full beard, making him look even more kingly than he did when I first met him.

All I can smell is this foul stuff we’re wearing, Carson says, frowning. Like Layne and me, Carson’s clothes, his face, and the rest of his body are streaked with scum we found in a pond tucked into the foothills behind us. It was Carson’s idea to coat ourselves in it, saying the Graywolf Bandits would be less likely to smell us.

What Carson neglected to mention was it might protect us from the Graywolves but it don’t do a damned thing for our own noses.

And whose fault is it, then? I ask him, unable to refrain from pestering him.

Even our horses are keepin’ their distance. They refuse to drink from that pond. My mood is just as sour and ugly as the way we smell.

Layne reaches for my hand, but I pretend not to see. I quickly turn to put extra space between us. He lets his hand fall to the rockface.

It ain’t his fault I’m in a sour mood, but I ain’t feeling particularly fair or charitable in this moment. We’ve spent more’n two weeks staking out the Graywolves because we know they wait here for coaches and other unlucky travelers, hopin’ to relieve those folks of their gold and valuables. We know it, because this is where we first encountered them on our way to the Loveless River. If I’d known then about the bounty on ’em, I’d have thought twice about simply tying them up.

Now, though, fate…or maybe a fae named Wynne, has decided, and we’re back. This time we’ll take them in for a trial if possible, dead if not, and the folks in the Loveless region will be able to go about their business without constantly looking over their shoulders for this werewolf pack wielding guns and knives.

This bounty was supposed to be easy, but after two weeks of wondering how the bandits continue to evade us—while still holding up the occasional stagecoach, always quite a distance away from where we’re watching—I’m realizing nothin’ in this world is easy.

Two weeks of pointless stakeouts, and Carson comes up with the brilliant plan to coat ourselves in pond scum that smells so foul, my own horse won’t come near me. We’re going to be walking back to Last Supper. I wonder if our boarding house proprietor will allow us entry. Probably not.

I won’t blame her, although I ain’t keen on bathing in the Loveless. There’s a reason folks sing blood ballads about its perils.

Is that someone moving, out yonder? Carson asks.

You’ll have to be more specific, pup, Layne says through gritted teeth.

I flinch. He found out that Boone used to call Carson ‘pup’ and the nickname has been revived. Carson hates the nickname, and I hate the reminder of Boone.

"I swear by my teeth, if you call me pup one more time," Carson begins.

Close your mouths, both of you, I say. There is somethin’ moving out there.

The three of us hold our breaths—no hardship as this pond scum makes breathin’ downright intolerable—and we watch.

The movement is next to one of the boulders. Can a Graywolf have been hiding out there this whole time, for hours? Just like we’ve been doing? Entirely possible. They’re patient if nothin’ else, and skilled in camouflage.

Formidable opponents, sure. But nobody’s this good. The Graywolves sure ain’t supposed to be this good. Boone even said he was taking a break because he felt we could handle this bounty without his help.

I rub at a near-constant ache in my chest. It’s been my companion during Boone’s absence and seems to increase in intensity whenever my thoughts wander to the vampire.

The movement by the boulder stops, then begins again. A flicker, then another. It’s the distinctive flapping of a bird’s wings.

That rifting blackbird, I say. The feathered nuisance has plagued me with his strident call since we arrived here. I’ve never thought much about shooting beasts if it ain’t for food or protection, but I find my morals being tested with every passing day in this blackbird’s presence.

If Boone were here, he’d laugh at my irritation and maybe pass me his flask. He’d probably say somethin’ about the animals having just as much right to be here as us, and maybe we should all be friends or some ridiculous notion.

I press the palm of my hand to my chest, hoping for some relief.

You all right, Gracie? Layne asks.

I force a smile. I’m fine. Just disappointed, is all.

It ain’t the entire truth, but my confused feelings are a hornet’s nest and I have no interest in kicking it. We remain in place for some hours, peerin’ over the top of our boulder at the prairie beyond, hoping for some sign of the Graywolves and in the end, we only find more disappointment.

D’you think they know we’re here? Layne asks, his brow wrinkled.

By now, I’m certain of it, I say. No doubt we’ll return to Last Supper and find out they hit a stagecoach several miles down the river.

I’m about ready to purchase or rent a stagecoach. The thought’s been ticklin’ the back of my brain for a few days now and the only thing holding me back is the expense. Might be worth it if it means I ain’t smellin’ like a saloon’s privy.

We should disguise ourselves, I say as we trudge back toward the pond where our horses wait.

You mean in somethin’ other than sludge? Layne says.

I nod. We travel along as a group of traders. They won’t be able to resist.

Does this mean we can get you to wear a dress again? Carson asks, nudging me with his elbow.

I nudge him back, hard. Maybe you two should wear dresses instead. You’d look right pretty, Carson, with your bright blue eyes and blond hair. Layne’s beard might give folks pause, but he can ride inside the coach.

Kitty shies away from me as we approach. A gorgeous buckskin, she’s got more personality than many humans I’ve come across.

Come on, silly, I won’t get too close, I say, pulling her reins from where I’d looped them on a sapling.

She don’t look reassured in the slightest.

The walk to Last Supper would go much faster if we were in our saddles, but the horses ain’t going to let us do it. I don’t blame ’em.

When we reach Last Supper, we stick to the alleys as much as possible. Our luck ain’t completely sour, as we don’t encounter too many folks. Darkness has fallen and for the most part, Last Supper residents tend to do what’s smartest, and they stay indoors. The problem ain’t with vampires here so much as it is with fae, bein’ so close to the Loveless River and all.

Not to mention, those pesky Graywolves.

The town itself is different from most Rift Territory towns in that it’s right up against the river. There are more trees for lumber, so the buildings are bigger. The roads are muddy instead of dusty. While I used to think I hated the dust gettin’ all in my hair and clothes, I vastly prefer it to the mud what cakes itself onto my boots. I’m going to have to go to Angelwing and get a new pair once we collect our bounty.

If we ever collect this rifting bounty.

Last Supper boasts two churches instead of one, and two feuding preachers, if the gossip we’ve come across in the saloon downstairs from our rented rooms is anything to go by. Layne, Carson, and I had several boarding houses to choose from, because most are operating at very low capacity. Ain’t no surprise, with the Graywolves terrorizing the area and robbing every stagecoach they can find.

We lead our horses to the stable at the rear of our boarding house, and the two men who tend the horses quickly back away from us.

Just, ah, wrap the reins here, one says, pointing to a hitching post. We’ll get them settled for you.

Mighty kind of you, Carson says. Is there a trough we can wash off in?

What are you covered in? the second man asks. Demon dung?

You’re going to have to wash off in the river, the first man says. I don’t want you touching the troughs.

Layne looks like he wants to argue; Carson, too. I shake my head, warning them to keep their mouths shut for now. This argument ain’t worth it.

I collect the single saddlebag I rode out with. Kitty gives me a look of pure disgust. Stop bein’ so prissy, I mutter. You don’t belong to a queen.

She huffs a breath loud through her nostrils. Probably tryin’ to clear them of my stench.

Saddlebag in hand, I make my way east through town toward the Loveless, Layne and Carson trailing after me. The river is separated from the prairie by a mile or so of woods, in which Last Supper is located. Here, next to the town, two main docks jut into the river. Ain’t neither one of them particularly large, but they’re each big enough to hide me bathing on one side and Layne and Carson on the other.

Then I realize—my trousers, shirt, and duster are just as filthy as the rest of me. I’m going to have to get in fully clothed.

Well, nothing else for it, I say when we reach one of the docks. Time to get wet.

Bathing together ain’t entirely appropriate, Layne begins.

I don’t plan on removing a stitch of clothing. Here. I pass a large piece of hardtack to each man and keep one for myself.

Layne shrugs and tosses his meager offering into the river. Carson and I do the same. I stare at the water, which is black as the sky above us. I ain’t much of a swimmer, and I certainly don’t love the idea of what might be lurking beneath the surface.

It’s fine, Carson says, likely sensing my unease. It’s completely safe.

Is it? I ask.

Yep. He steps right up to the edge of the dock.

I can’t resist.

Oops, I say, bumping him hard.

His arms pinwheel around but he can’t keep his balance and down he goes with a loud splash.

Layne slaps his thigh and laughs, and I do too.

Then I shove Layne into the water, just like I did to Carson.

Both men come up, sputtering, and I’m already jumping in after them.

The cold water is a shock to my person. For a brief, blessed moment, I ain’t thinking about anything at all except how frigid the water is. There’s no ache in my chest, no concerned looks from Carson or Layne, no unspoken tension to dance around. The current ain’t too fast here, thanks in part to a man-made barrier formed of boulders upriver. My feet don’t touch the bottom, so I grab onto the dock. I dunk my head in the water over and over again, hoping to wash all the pond scum from my hair, face, and neck.

If only I could as easily wash away all my concerns.

Something grabs my ankle. Slimy, strong.

Rift take me, this is just as I feared. I scream and kick, choking on water in my attempts to escape the icy grasp on my ankle.

Stop panicking, Gracie. Deep breaths. The fae toy with their prey before they eat it. They like the taste of fear. If I’m smart, mayhap I can get away from this one’s grasp.

What is it? Layne asks, swimming over.

Stay back, I cough. Just bring me my saddlebag.

The hand on my ankle travels up my leg. It takes me a moment to realize it ain’t a vine-like, tentacled grasp. It feels distinctly human.

Sam Carson! I shout, and yank my leg away.

His head pops up next to me. He’s wearing a mischievous grin.

That ain’t funny, I say.

It was, he argues.

I try to push his head under the water, but he’s faster and stronger than me, and he gets away. Sighing, I pull myself onto the dock. I’m more’n glad to be out of the river. Layne climbs out after me and reaches out a hand to help me stand up.

I don’t need the assistance, and the ornery side of me wants to smack his hand away. But that ain’t a nice thing to do to my beau, so I accept his help.

Something shimmers against the riverbank. It ain’t lights. More like the absence of moonlight reflecting off the river’s surface, like something’s blocking it. A demon’s hollow, here? Right on the river? Could be.

I ain’t concerned, because like as not, the place is empty. Demons tend to build several hollows for themselves, hiding each one with glamours and magics. And not all demons are like the one we had to kill in the Fiddle.

Shuddering at the recollection of Naivuk Kolu, I decide to say nothing of the potential hollow as Carson joins Layne and me on the dock. No need to alarm my posse.

Untucking and wringing out the bottom of my shirt, I ask Carson, Do we still stink?

He shakes his head, spattering water across my face. Naw. I mean, Layne don’t smell any worse than usual, at least.

Thanks, pup, Layne says.

Carson shoves him back into the river.

2

Back at the boarding house, we three make quite an entrance. My boots squish