In defiance of my own advice, we would save Jeremiah because it felt like the right thing to do. It definitely wasn’t the smart plan, but there was still something to gain. On top of that, I’d be able to look myself in the mirror knowing I did the right thing.

  “Very well,” Dr. Foss said, her voice all business. “Bring him to the hunting cabin.” She unrolled a map of the region and pointed to a spot, her finger steady on the unmarked location. It was unmarked, likely a precaution against the map being found.

  “This place is a sanctuary... a reinforced sanctuary, but certainly not a prison. We can’t keep an unknown factor here. A single slip-up could bring everything crashing down.” Her tone told me it wasn’t up for debate.

  “I agree. This is not the place. A secluded hunting cabin is perfect. We can sober him up and get as much intelligence out of him as possible, then send him far away. I have some old family friends back east that would put him up,” I said. My old hometown felt so far away and so long ago, a dream half-remembered. I hoped I still had family friends to call on.

  “Excellent idea. He may have actionable information if we can get him to share it.” Her appraisal of the plan’s upside shifted. “The cabin has dry goods, and there’s a spring in the valley for water. I chose it for its remote location and the ability to stay there for a long time. I also left an excellent hunting rifle there, in case of emergency.”

  “Once he’s off the grid, we can plan our next move from there,” I said. The plan was coming together, pieces clicking into place. “We can move tomorrow, well before the deadline.”

  The bell on the clinic door jangled violently, a frantic, chiming sound that cut through the quiet.

  Dr. Foss froze, and I drew my Colt while moving to the base of the stairs. I reached out with my senses. The smell of pine and panicked sweat flooded me, along with something medicinal: camphor and dried herbs. I also smelled a dizzying array of strange chemicals and herbs. It had to be Lin Mei, the apothecary.

  “Doctor!” she called, her voice strained. Dr. Foss ran up the stairs and unlocked the back door to let Mei in. I followed closely and holstered my revolver.

  Foss ushered her into the clinic’s main procedure room. Mei appeared more disheveled than I’d ever seen her, although I’d only seen her in passing until that point. She was out of breath and red in the face, chest heaving.

  “They came, and they took him,” Mei said haltingly. “Vane’s men. They took the sheriff’s son.”

  My blood ran cold. The instinct snarled. Theft. An Insult. Take it back in blood.

  She continued, catching her breath. “They showed up with a group of armed men and grabbed him. They threw him in a heavy transport wagon and started driving east.”

  Dr. Foss and I exchanged glances. “A transport? A prisoner wagon? They didn’t just take him to the Lily or the Mill?” she asked.

  “No, they kicked him and beat him. They said they were sending him far away, ‘so his daddy couldn’t help him.’” Mei said. “They left town on the eastern road. Probably to the logging camps.”

  I listened, processing everything she said. My plan for a silent, surgical extraction had just evaporated. Vane wasn’t patient and didn’t keep his word. I should never have relied on the word of the Thrall guarding the door.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said to Mei. “We appreciate you coming so quickly. I’m Silas Hatcher. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She stared at me, recognition dawning on her face. She looked at Dr. Foss, who nodded knowingly to her.

  “Hello, Captain. I am Lin Mei. I have heard... only good things,” Mei said, nodding respectfully.

  “Well... yes. Thank you, Miss Mei. You’ve helped us greatly. I think it might be best for you not to be seen here tonight,” Foss said, going to the door.

  “Yes. You’re welcome,” she said, before leaving the clinic.

  The idea of a stealth mission went out the window. We would have to go with the tried-and-true smash-and-grab method.

  “This will be messy, Doc.” I sounded calmer than I had any right to be. Anger burned in my throat, but the clock was ticking; I couldn’t afford to lose my head. I needed to be focused and brutally violent. The old discipline turned that anger into a spear of black ice.

  I strapped on my saber and hefted the shotgun, checking the chambers by habit. It was loaded with silver buckshot, and I had more in my duster pocket. “I’ll meet you at the cabin. Be ready for casualties.”

  Dr. Foss nodded in acknowledgment and began gathering things for her journey.

  Flint knew I was coming and stood ready, already saddled. The Blood Bond thrummed between us, taut as a bowstring. He felt my cold, focused rage and knew what I had in mind.

  We bolted out of town at a gallop. No consideration was given to stealth, only raw speed. I pushed Flint hard, and he welcomed it; ears flat, his stride eating ground like he was born for this moment. His Nightmare-enhanced power seemed limitless, each stride eating ground. He kicked up sparks from his hooves striking rocks.

  I let Flint control our path up the east road. I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses, letting them expand outward. Out, past the pine and rich earth, hung the scent of heavy wagon wheels, steel wet from fording a creek. Beneath it lay the coppery reek of Thralls sweating out their alchemical drug, and the withered death of Wights. We would soon be close.

  In twenty minutes, we covered more distance than a wagon could cover in several hours. If I had run a mortal horse at this pace, they wouldn’t have survived the trip. Flint reveled in it.

  The wheels struck rocks in the distance and slowed. We would attack from the shadows. When it came into view, I evaluated the battlefield: eight riders around two wagons, defensible but scattered. On top of the lead wagon, two Wights crouched gargoyle-like, waiting to pounce.

  I had attacked rebel logistics caravans before, and the battle plan was simple: divide their assets so they can’t mount a unified resistance, disrupt their order of battle, and destroy the targeted assets. Divide, Disrupt, Destroy.

  Flint and I glided through the shadows, silent as a midnight breeze. We stopped in the shadow of a redwood a hundred yards ahead of the lead rider. I readied the pistol-gripped shotgun, silver buckshot rounds loaded in both barrels.

  First, I would divide the outriders from the wagons. I spurred Flint, and we flew toward them. I dug deep, summoning my own anger, and called on Flint to join me. His raw power flared, dark and cold. Knowing exactly what I wanted him to do, he took the summoned energy from us both and hurled it at the riders.

  The Dread Gaze was a silent terror that rippled through their ranks. A wave of unadulterated, supernatural panic rolled through the riders. Their horses screamed an unholy shriek, high and piercing. The riders, gripped with fear, each reacted differently. Several froze and tumbled off their mounts when they bolted in random directions. Others gripped tightly and needlessly spurred their beasts away from the source of their dread. None, save the two riding rearguard, were spared the terror.

  Riders neutralized, I focused on disrupting the lead wagon. The two Wights perched on top, poised to leap, seeing Flint and me as their prey, waiting for us to emerge from the wood line.

  Charging forward, I lifted the shotgun and aimed at center mass. Boom! Adjust, aim. Boom! Both Wights flew from the top of the coach, their chests burned ruins from the onslaught of silver. They lay on the road twitching, but I barely noticed.

  “Now, Flint,” I whispered. I channeled my Surge through him, and we ripped forward in a Cavalry Charge.

  We shot from the trees. I leaned low, bracing for impact. The world felt like it compressed for a fraction of a second, then we exploded into the lead wagon at full speed.

  The collision sent fragments of wood, the driver’s limp body, and the wagon’s front axle flying. The wagon itself lurched and turned onto its side, skidding to a stop in a ruin.

  Division sown, disruption secure, it was time to destroy the remains and get Jeremiah.

  I vaulted from Flint’s back and moved toward the rear wagon. I sent the command to Flint to take care of any recovering outriders. The sound of heavy hooves behind me told me he was up to the task.

  A thump, then a soft metallic jingling sound came from the back of the coach. Boots with ornate spurs, I quickly identified.

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  “That was one hell of a trick.” A dapper-dressed man stepped out from behind the prisoner wagon, brushing dust from his sleeve. The man’s air of authority told me he was in charge of the convoy. He had the stink of Red-Eye on him, and a familiar smell: powder and gun oil. They must’ve hired some talent recently.

  The right side of his frock coat was pulled back, revealing a custom nickel-plated Schofield revolver in a finely tooled gunbelt. His hand was poised, and his stance perfect.

  “Vane’s paying a bonus for the ‘vigilante’ who’s been such a hassle,” the gunslinger said, his voice dead calm. “I suppose that’d be you.”

  His eyes were hyper-focused, ready to act. His arrogant pride as a duelist prevented him from simply drawing down on me. He wanted to beat me, to prove his superiority.

  Thirty yards separated us. The moans of crushed and trampled Thralls were the only sound. I dropped my shotgun to the dirt, knowing the two shells in it were spent and I’d never have time to reload. I’d have to rely on my Colt.

  I knew in my gut the gunslinger was faster. I was never a pistol duelist, but I was a soldier. I wouldn’t miss, so he’d better pray he didn’t. The Cold Iron honed my nerves into crystal clarity.

  We both moved.

  Crack! Crack! Two shots before I cleared leather. My own shot came a beat later.

  The duelist’s head snapped back, a single hole above his right eye. He dropped, limp.

  I stood there fuming. I was in pain, but I was furious that I’d been lured into a gunfight against a specialist, knowing I couldn’t compete. Now, I was the overconfident one.

  The two dark holes in my chest and back bloomed with pain, fire spreading through dead tissue. But his bullets were lead. The last time I’d fed was the hot blood from the Madam, and it was still working. The wounds were twisted knives, but they’d already started to seal. The Thirst flared, demanding more fuel to heal and to satisfy its eternal greed. I pushed it down. I was still mission capable.

  I stepped forward and looked at the man. His face was a look of shocked disbelief: he’d won, so why was he dead? I looked him over and took his revolver and gunbelt. It was one of the new cartridge models, much easier to reload than my Colt, but the pistol gave no indication why he’d been so much faster.

  He was the better man tonight. He’d hit me twice before I cleared my holster. If he’d been using silver ammo, I’d be lying in the dirt instead. I needed to practice and adjust my setup for quicker access. Some things needed to change, but there would be time for that later.

  I slipped the shiny nickel gun and rolled-up belt into my inner pockets and picked up my shotgun. I reloaded it, not wanting to be caught empty again, then rounded the prisoner wagon.

  The heavy padlock would have been easy to pick, but subtlety had already been abandoned. I grabbed it with my left hand and readied the shotgun in my right. I wanted to be prepared if any defenders were positioned inside.

  I jerked the lock. A plinking sound rang out. The loop popped, breaking open. I dropped the useless lock and opened the door. Only the bound and gagged kid greeted me inside.

  “Jeremiah,” I said, removing his gag. “I’m going to get you out of here.” I pulled the switchblade from my boot. Click-snap. I began cutting the ropes on his feet.

  His eyes were wide, and he looked like the ordeal had sobered him up. He was no longer the sobbing wreck I’d watched earlier. He was mad as hell and confused about what was happening. Like all jailbroken prisoners, he wasn’t going to argue with his savior, but he clearly had no idea what was going on.

  I reached up and stepped into the wagon to free his bound hands. The flicker of a shadow moved behind me.

  “Watch out!” Jeremiah yelled.

  I whirled. One of the Thralls thrown from the lead wagon in the collision had regained his wits. He limped forward on a shattered leg, bone visible through torn trousers, and raised a rifle. He leveled it in my direction, hate in his eyes.

  The warning gave me the tiny moment I needed. I dove into the wagon and slammed both of us to the front, hoping its thick cladding would stop the round.

  The rifle boomed, but there was no splintering wood or clang of steel. He missed?

  A high-pitched scream of pain and fury tore through the night and my soul. It was Flint.

  The Thrall’s panicked shot had flown wild and struck Flint, who’d been moving from the shadows to defend me.

  I launched myself from the back of the wagon. The Instinct and Cold Iron were in perfect accord. Ice-cold murderous intent poured from me. Destroy. This will not stand.

  I already had the shotgun in my hand. I raised it and gave him both barrels. B-Boom! He sprayed back in chunks.

  I ran to Flint. He had a dark, steaming hole in his right shoulder, blood pumping with each heartbeat. Thick blood oozed from it.

  Flint snorted and stamped. His anger and pain thrummed through the bond, raw and unfiltered; the same ragged edge he’d endured when those two bullets tore into me. I pressed my hand against the wound. Heat radiated from his living flesh. “We’ll get you to the Doc.”

  We had to get out of there. Outriders could be back any moment.

  “Jeremiah,” I called. “Let’s go. Vane’s men aren’t all dead.”

  The young man stepped out of the prison wagon, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had bitten deep. “Fine,” he said, then bent down and picked up the dead man’s rifle. “Let’s git.”

  We disappeared into the trees, Flint limping, me walking close by his side, and Jeremiah nearby with his rifle ready.

  Over an hour later, we arrived at the cabin. It was a small, dusty place, built into an overhang in the rocks of a pine-filled ravine. A single lantern glowed inside, warm against the darkness, and one of Foss’s horses was hitched outside.

  “My God, you’re covered in blood,” she said, seeing me enter. Her medical kit was already open and ready on the table, and the bed had a waxed canvas tarp over it. She was ready.

  “It’s not mine,” I said, my voice choked. “It’s his.” I motioned outside.

  Foss glanced at Jeremiah, assessed him for wounds with practiced efficiency, then her eyes landed on Flint. “We’ll need to lay him down. Tend to that while I gather my kit to bring outside,” she said, already moving. “Mr. Brody, put that rifle down and start the fire in the woodstove. Get the kettle boiling.”

  The next hour was a new hell. Flint had been wounded before, but he was different now. The pain stoked a rage inside him, and I had to soothe him constantly through the bond.

  I sat cross-legged with Flint’s head in my lap. I held it there and ran my fingers through his mane, speaking softly. He knew we were trying to help him, but at his core, he was still a horse.

  “Jeremiah, hold the lantern. I’ve found the bullet,” Foss ordered. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her face was a mask of intense focus. “Closer. I need to see it.”

  I held Flint and stayed calm for him. I channeled the Cold Iron into him through the bond. “Calm now. She’s almost done, but it’s gonna hurt.”

  The Doctor’s hands were covered in nearly black blood, thick and viscous. She worked her probe. Then metal clicked on metal.

  “This is remarkable,” she said. “Captain, his blood... is cold, like yours, yet his heart still beats. It’s clotting like tar around the projectile.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked shakily.

  “He’s healing,” she said, voice filled with awe. “The tissue is knitting around my probe. His regeneration is slower than yours by a notable degree, but his body may have eventually ejected this.” She pulled the slug free and set it in a small dish with a wet clink.

  “The bond has fundamentally changed his physiology,” she said, cleaning the wound with alcohol that burned my nose in the enclosed space.

  Jeremiah didn’t turn away. He held the lantern, only shaking once the bullet was free.

  “You done good, kid,” I said. He looked away, unused to kind words.

  “Thank you. Now, will you tell me what’s going on?” Jeremiah asked.

  Flint fully bandaged, the Doctor turned to Jeremiah. She tsked and fussed over his mundane cuts and scrapes, cleaning them with antiseptic.

  His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He knew it was true.

  “Your father,” I answered him. “Vane is using him, and they were about to do to you what they did to my brother. I couldn’t abide.”

  The young man seemed to crumble. He sat down on the doorstep, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. It was an old scab, freshly picked, new blood welling up.

  “Dammit... They did the same to her... My fiancée, Delilah,” he stammered, on the verge of tears.

  His whole story spilled out, words tumbling over each other. “I was trying to buy her freedom by hunting bounties for them. She owed them, and they made her work at the Lily. But Julien... the one with the fancy clothes... he toyed with people. He made a game of her suffering. He drove her to drink herself nearly to death on Red-Eye. Then they took her away forever.”

  “Everything’s gone to hell, but I’m not gonna let them win. They got me hooked too, but I broke free. They’ve had it out for me since that day.” His eyes hardened, and his voice turned to black venom.

  “I went after him once,” he confessed. “I was so stupid. I was drunk and full of piss and vinegar... Julien had his men beat me down, and they threatened to kill my Pa if I didn’t get in line.”

  I listened, and so did Foss. I nodded, encouraging him to continue. He already knew I was something different. We needed to make this worth something.

  Recounting his story had hardened him. I knew that look. Revenge.

  “You killed the Madam, and you killed all them bastards on the road,” he said, waving his arm to the west. “You’re fighting them. Let me help. I need to get them back... for Delilah.”

  His loss struck me, the same hollow weight as the night I lost Micah. His raw, unfiltered emotion echoed in my own chest, a reminder that wouldn’t let go.

  He mistook my stillness for hesitance. “I know their routes. I know every one of their names. I could tell you their favorite drink and the name of their horse. I’ve been at that saloon for months. They spoke openly in front of me, because I was just a nobody to them.” He paused, hoping for a reaction, then continued. “I know about the tunnels under the mill. I know about the Red-Eye shipments.”

  I looked over to Foss and gave her a questioning look. She nodded her assent and continued sanitizing her equipment.

  “You’re in, kid,” I said. “You’re one of us now.”

  I stood, leaving Flint to rest. His pain was receding, but the guilt of responsibility nagged at me. I should have handled the situation better.

  “I need to hunt,” I said, telling Foss where I was going. “Then I need to learn to draw...”