Beta'd / made generally way, way better by Primrose. 'Cept I played after she gave it me back, so no promises!
Disclaimer. Owned wholly and completely by The Scrapyard.
A/N 1:This was one of the longest stories I've ever written – not in length, but in the time it took to complete. It was a weird, weird experience when I first posted it over on UnGen, and it's just as strange now, several months later. But it was really great fun to do something a little different, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I've found I still do! There's no Winchesters around, so if you're looking for Dean and Sam, sorry, you won't find them here! What you will find is the usual bucket of angst and a healthy dose of action and even a little mystery. (I hope...!)
As always – this story is complete, and will post weekly.
Another life has ended; another chapter done
Another man has gambled in the game that can't be won.
We all must face the Master, our final trial to stand,
It's there we'll learn the meaning of houses built on sand.
The Ballad of Charlie Birger – traditional ballad.
~~1835~~
Southern Wyoming,
November 22nd, 1835
He watched the firelight flicker over the blood on his hands, ground into the cracks in worn, dry skin, into the bruises on his knuckles. He was sitting so close to the flames that steam rose from his boots in thin twists of pale fog, but he still shivered as he curled his fingers into a fist; spread them again, over and over. He ducked his head, lifted his hands to lace them together across the back of his neck, pulling down as he pushed the top of his spine against his palms, stretching until vertebrae popped and crackled.
"Hellfire, kid."
He tried to hide the start, knew he didn't have a chance and rolled his head to glare at the taller man leaning on the door frame on the far side of the room. The fire light spilled over the broken, rotting floorboards, stopping at his feet so that he stood in shadow. His eyes glittered in the dark, the ring on his left hand flashing as he folded it across his chest. One hand dangled loosely at his side, fingers brushing the gun holstered at his right hip. He traced the doves carved on the butt idly, restlessly as he stared at the younger man drop his head again.
Both froze as something screamed outside.
"Is that…"
The leaning man cocked his head to one side, listening as the eerie, bloody sound ripped through the night again.
"Cougar."
The older man's fingers tightened around the smooth wood of the butt, skimming over the trigger as a second scream echoed the first, a third and a low growling seeming to shake the boards under their feet. He looked back at the young man squatting by the fire, staring at his hands again, flexing his fingers.
"Well, shit."
He shoved away from the splintered frame, brushing dust from his arm as he crossed the room in three long strides, stooping at the pile of split logs. Hefting a chunk of dry, seasoned wood he tossed it into the fire, scowling at the sparks that leapt up the chimney. The younger man yelped, flinching back and falling to the floor with a thud.
"Reade!"
"Pay attention, kid. You wanna get out of this; you gotta be ready when they come. Not starin' at your damn hands like a dyer's daughter."
Pale blue eyes skittered over his face, sought out his hands as he tucked his thumbs into the belt slung low over his hips and gritted his teeth. The kid looked scared, looked downright terrified but that wasn't what made the hunter huff out a breath and lean against the wall beside the fire, propping one elbow on the rough slab of wood that served as a mantle.
"Did what'cha had to, Sam. You know it."
He watched the young man nod slowly, reluctantly.
"You hadn'a done it, neither one've us'd be breathin' now. Them things don' stop, they jus' keep comin' 'til you put 'em down."
"It was… he…"
"They made their choice, kid. No-one forced 'em to follow that path."
Too-bright eyes met his, distant and regretful. Dazed.
"I killed him."
Reade hesitated, rocked back on his heels as he chewed at his lip.
"Yeah," he finally growled. "You killed him. Now you listen to me, kid. Three years, you've known what's really out there. They're comin' after us because we know. Somethin's takin' hunters out and it's usin' things like them out there to do it. So you killed somethin' that looked like a man? Time to grow up. It wasn't a man. Once, maybe. Now, it was jus' somethin' after your blood. Kill or be killed out here in the dark, Sam. Always has been, now more'n ever. They come for you, you kill 'em. They go for your family, you burn 'em out, leave 'em with nowhere to hide. That's the only way we're gonna win this war."
"I never wanted to know."
His lip curled and he shoved away from the fire, the flames too hot against his skin, searing him, scorching him. His boots thudded against the boards, wood groaning under the force of his stride. He stopped in the door, braced himself with one hand against the frame, still warm from his body heat minutes before. Twisting, the hunter looked at his fingers, ivory against the dark, sooty wood, felt the younger man's gaze on him.
"I know," he muttered. "An' I'm sorry for my part in it."
Colt's laugh, bitter and cut-throat sharp followed him into the dark. He swallowed hard, crossed the small space that had once been a bedroom, skirting the remains of rotted furniture easily. His shadow was twinned, one shifting and ruddy in the firelight, the other faint and silvered in the pale glow from the window. The hunter leaned against the rough wooden wall, tipped his head back to stare up at the vivid streak of light slicing the sky in two.
"No such thing as coincidence," he murmured, lifted a hand to the supple leather around his neck, pulling it out from under his shirt and running it through his fingers until he caught the ring threaded onto the tie. The matching ring on his finger caught against it, a soft chink against the quiet crackle of the fire.
They're not just chasing us.
He dropped his gaze to the woods that surrounded the cabin, the overgrown fields between the walls and the tree line thick with shadows that moved counter to the light clouds scudding across the sky. There were enough dark shapes slinking through the scrub to make the whole scene surreal, like a badly drawn zoetrope he'd seen once in the city, stuttering from real to strange faster than he could blink.
"What the hell for?"
His fist clenched around the ring as he muttered the same old question to himself, finding no more answer now than he had the countless times of asking over the last year. Dull edges bit into his palm as anticipation crawled under his skin. He found himself wishing the things out there would just attack.
"Reade?"
The hunter didn't turn as he answered.
"Yeah?"
"What's goin' on?"
"Wish I knew, kid."
"They… they're hunting us. Right?"
"Yeah. I think they are," he sighed, tipped his head sideways until it rested against the thick, rippled glass, fog reaching out from the contact.
"Why?"
Reade closed his eyes, just for a moment of quiet and solitude in the dark. He dropped his hand from the ring to the gun on his left hip, angled for a quick cross-draw. The rough edges of the unfinished carvings caught at his thumb as he traced them. He pursed his lips, decision made in that instant.
"Sam, you need to finish this thing."
Colt took a hesitant step forward but didn't lift his hand. Reade slid the gun free of the holster, the draw smooth and easy as he flipped the revolver, held it out butt-first towards the younger man.
"We're gonna be needin' it soon."
He waggled it a little, watched Colt reach for the gun, the blood ground into his skin with oil and powder. Hunter's hands, he echoed a years-old thought in his head. Damn kid's got hunter's hands.
The gunsmith hefted the revolver, eyed the pepperbox still holstered at the hunter's side.
"Is that enough to hold them off?"
Reade shrugged carelessly.
"It'll have to be. Whatever's drivin' 'em…" he trailed off, not sure how to articulate the formless tension coiling in his stomach. He knew, bone-deep knew with a certainty that shook him to the core, that whatever had driven them here was evil. As Colt turned, already muttering over the gun, he remembered listening to a preacher once, little more than a child himself.
'Evil walks among us and you shall know it when you find it.'
He knew it now.
"We have to stop it," he murmured to himself, leaning against the window again, watching the shadows gather and dance, out of time with the wind-driven clouds.
Wade, MA,
29th October, 1833
"DROP!"
He pulled the trigger as he roared the command, no more time to do anything other than hope that the kid heard him. The gun bucked in his hand, hard, pulling to the left and he knew before the smoke cleared that the shot was wild. Swearing, he dug in the pocket of his coat and ran forward, cold iron rough against raw fingers as he fumbled the shot into the barrels.
"Sam?"
Nothing answered his call and he slowed, peering through the mist, straining to hear through the blood pounding in his head.
"Samuel? You there boy?"
Something snarled in the white, a shadow there and gone again before he could aim and Reade curled his free hand into a fist, cursing himself, the kid, the sheriff who'd locked away the rest of his guns.
"Shoulda let this whole goddamned town get eaten," he growled, jogging on through the fog. He thought he'd reached the spot where the thing had cornered the kid but there was no sign of monster or Colt.
"Sam!" he hissed, felt the wind shift behind him and threw himself forward frantically, knowing all along he'd be too late. That thing was fast, eerily quick, almost as if it could be in two places at once. Fire striped across one shoulder and he gasped as he dove to the ground, instant heat trickling down his back. He rolled as soon as he hit the dust, biting back a cry as torn skin pressed into the dirt, the pepperbox warm in his hands as he fired the one shot he'd managed to load, point-blank into the thing's face. It screamed and twisted away, disappearing like the mist had eaten it and he let his head thump back against the ground, panting.
"Reade?"
The hunter grinned, rolled towards the whisper.
"Over here kid. Stay down and watch your back."
He narrowed his eyes at the shadow that approached through the fog, blinked hard as grey crept in around the edges of the world. The shade grew long arms and a wild mop of hair above wide eyes, scared but lit with a kind of wonder all the same. In the months that he'd known the younger man, he'd never seen that awe fade and although it sometimes made him feel old and tired, he still welcomed it. It made the long nights seem lighter, the load of guilt and cynicism he carried more bearable.
He smirked, waved his empty hand in a tired salute as Colt crawled to his side.
"Reade? Are you okay?"
"I'm just fine, kid. Help me up."
He held up a hand, let the younger man haul him from the ground and sucked in air as the slashes across his left shoulder pulled tight.
"Godammit," he growled, clenching his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack. He twisted aside, coughed harshly, bitter acid filling his mouth as his hands began to shake. He spat, rolled to his knees, right shoulder bumping against the kid knelt beside him. The contact was warm in the chill fog and he leaned into it a little, tried to catch his breath, letting his head drop. Beside him, Colt shivered, twitching as he tried to look everywhere at once.
"Slow it down, kid. You'll hear it comin' 'fore you see it."
The kid flinched, huddled closer and Reade cursed silently.
How in the hell did I end up with a greenback on a hunt like this one? Gonna get the both of us killed.
He sat back on his haunches, thumbed another round into the stubby cylinder of the pistol and whistled breathily through the gap in his front teeth. Colt stilled, listened, chuckled quietly and Reade smirked.
"What is it?"
Twisting to peer behind them, the hunter hesitated, shrugged slightly to himself and confessed.
"I have no idea."
The kid froze, shoulder rigid against his back, not even breathing. Reade counted his heartbeats, scratching at the exposed firing pins of the rounds with one nail, the tracery of the blessings painstakingly engraved on each one a faint reassurance against his skin.
"You have no idea?"
"None at all," he drawled, narrowing his eyes as the fog swirled. He drew his feet up under him, shifted to put his back to Colt's and lifted the pistol.
"Do you know how to kill it?"
The hunter shook his head slowly, squinting as he listened to the faint scuffling in the mist. He dropped his head, cocking it to the side, pulling in a slow, even breath. He tasted rank fur and carrion on the damp air and wrinkled his nose in disgust, his finger curled against the trigger.
When it came, it came from the side in a rush of claws and teeth and a howl that reverberated through his chest as it exploded out of the fog. He lunged back and sideways, throwing out an arm to send Colt flying away from its charge, ducking under the massive paw that swung for his head. He hit the ground, rolled once and shoved away again, straight towards the beast, barely hearing a faint cry behind him as he slammed into it, jammed the gun up under its jaw and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell, the spark of the first pin firing igniting the next, the chain-fire jolting the gun in his hand as all five rounds fired together. The pistol slipped from numb fingers, clattered smoking to the ground at his side as he scrambled back on all fours, wincing as the beast screamed. It seemed to shake the world, tearing the fog apart in tatters around it as the beast reared up, black blood spattering the dust.
Reade crouched, buried his head in his arms against the sound, feeling the vibration of his answering scream in his throat but unable to hear his own voice. He strained to see through the tears blurring his eyes, watched the beast stagger and fall, the gaping hole the shot tore in its throat wreathed with smoke as the consecrated iron scorched the unholy thing. He sucked in air, gagging on the taint of charred meat and twisted, searching for Colt, not sure if he should be relieved or worried when he saw the kid sprawled senseless on the ground a few feet away.
Slowly, the scream faded to a ringing in his ears, his skin tingling in the quiet. Unfolding himself, he crawled to his gun, still smoking, the barrel warped and buckled by the chain-fire. He shook out his hand, looked down at the fresh burns covering the side of his palm, thumb and trigger-finger with red, raw skin. Tightening it into a fist he grimaced, left his gun on the ground and shuffled to the carcass, burying his face in his elbow as the stench hit him. Forcing down bile, he held his breath, dropped one hand to the knife on his belt and poked the thing in what passed for a shoulder. His finger sank to the third knuckle, came out covered in gore and he retched, heaving into the dust until there was nothing left to come up.
Shaking, he rolled away from the mess, pushed wearily to his feet and stumbled to the figure still lying motionless in the empty yard. The hunter hummed softly, nudged at the younger man with one boot, the same quick, tuneless melody he'd whistled minutes before as he slouched and waited.
"You're humming 'The Unfortunate Rake'? Really?"
Snickering, Reade turned and walked to the fence ringing the yard, catching himself against the weathered palings as the foggy world tilted under him. He licked dry, cracked lips, gritted his teeth as someone came up behind him. Steady, sure hands gripped his biceps, pulled him away from the fence and led him, stumbling and half-blind to the stables. Colt eased him down to the pile of hay they'd taken turns to sleep on earlier and slipped the hunter's coat free, folding the shredded, bloody wool neatly. His breath caught as he saw the torn skin through the hunter's ruined shirt, three long, ragged stripes across the older man's shoulder.
The gunsmith pulled out his knife, slit the cotton away, feeling the other man shiver as the cold, damp air touched his skin. He reached out, snagged the tattered blanket they'd used during the long wait for the beast to appear and spread it over Reade's back, leaving his injured shoulder exposed. As the sun fell, the hunter had set out water and bandages, neither man speaking. Colt dragged them closer, rolled one length of linen into a pad and soaked it, laying one hand against the older man's arm.
"This might sting," he warned, bit his lip as the hunter buried his head in his other arm, tension rippling the skin under his hand as he wiped at the slashes. Reade shuddered, pink water running down his back as Colt worked, the silence only broken by their ragged breaths.
The mist thinned, the night breaking as the gunsmith wrapped the last length of bandage around the older man's chest. He sat back, looked on as the hunter rolled stiffly to his side with a whispered curse, sweat streaking his pale features.
"What killed it?"
The hunter frowned, blinked open one eye to fix him with a glassy, weary stare.
"I shot it. You were there," he rasped and Colt winced, shook his head.
"You shot it before and all that did was make it angry. Angrier, anyway."
"Oh."
Reade closed his eye again, shifted uncomfortably as he continued.
"Consecrated rounds."
The gunsmith waited until he couldn't hold the question any longer.
"Why didn't you just use them straight away?"
He watched a muscle jump in the hunter's jaw for a moment before Reade held out a hand, palm flat and open.
"Leather pouch in my coat. Mustang colours."
The younger man reached into the gory wool, dug around until he found the white-and-red bag, dropped it into the other man's waiting hand. Reade fumbled with the thong tying it closed, spilled a single round into Colt's fingers. The gunsmith looked at it, the iron smoothed and carved, tiny blessings and prayers and sigils circling the metal.
"That's the las' one I got. Take about a month to make. Each," Reade murmured. "I don' use 'em 'til nothin' else works."
Colt stared at the round sitting in the palm of his hand as the other man turned awkwardly, sinking down into the hay, face twisted away from the light with a weary sigh.
"What if it wasn't the rounds?"
"For Chrissakes, Sam –"
"Wait. What if it wasn't the rounds that were sanctified?"
"What?"
"What if it was the gun?"
The hunter's head snapped up, dark eyes wide as they met his and Colt felt a thin smile spread his lips at the stunned look on the other man's face.
"What if you had a gun that could kill anything?"
Southern Wyoming,
November 22nd, 1835
A low voice filled the quiet, whispering on the edge of hearing, skating over his skin like icy fingers, like a thousand white-hot needles. The hunter shivered, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as the chant rose, peaked to a rough cry and fell silent. He stared out of the window, the shadows finally still, their unwavering attention more unnerving than the inhuman motion of before. The thick, roughly squared logs seemed transparent under their gaze, two dozen pairs of red eyes watching him through the walls.
Reade growled under his breath, shoved irritably away from the window and moved to the empty doorway. He glared through the narrow grille set into the main door of the cabin, the glass that covered it nothing but dust on the floor. The shadows watched him through the slats. Slouching against the frame, he watched the figure silhouetted against the fire. Colt hunched forward, fingers quick and easy as he carved away wood, shavings tumbling to the floor at his feet. The gun in his hands gleamed dully in the light, highlights winking at him.
"I'm working as fast as I can."
The hunter blinked, the only sign of surprise at the weary complaint spoken to the fire.
"They ain't gonna hold off much longer."
"The silver will kill them, won't it?"
He laughed softly, wondered what happened to the scared boy who watched the things come to kill him with wonder in his eyes.
"Yeah. But it'll take a few shots each. And they won't give me that much time."
"I can do it fast or I can do it right."
The younger man looked up at him, blue eyes calm and solemn, hands still carving away at the pentagram taking shape on the butt of the revolver.
"I know," Reade sighed, stalked back to the window. For an hour he prowled from window to door and back again, one hand always resting against the dove-carved pistol on his hip. Slowly, as the younger man whispered incantations, power built on the air, turned it thick and ripe with a smell like rotting fruit. Static snapped between the hunter's fingers as he tucked his thumbs through his belt, glowering through the window. The figures outside moved again, slowly, gathering together and giving voice to their own quiet chant that rose and fell in the dark.
He heard the sadness in it, remembered the stories he'd heard about them, remembered the stories he'd told.
They were people until they took a bad path. Their tribes ran them off, disowned them for the things they did to gain their power and now they wander. They travel alone, hunting to survive, trying to find enough power to return to their home.
He watched the skinwalkers begin to dance, always in shade as if the thin moonlight wouldn't fall on them. Lifting one hand, he pressed it flat against the thick, rippled glass, leaning into it as the cool surface fogged around his skin.
"This isn't right," he whispered. "This whole damn mess is wrong."
It wasn't a new thought, but it still dried his throat, made his palms sweat as much as it did the first time he'd had it, over a year before. He curled his fingers in against the glass to make a fist, knuckles white as he ground them into the thick pane until it creaked softly. The same old guilt uncurled, it had taken him so long to see the pattern, cost so many lives before he realised what was happening and put word out.
Watch yourselves. Something's coming for us, for all of us.
The deaths had slowed but never stopped, creatures they thought they knew and understood suddenly strange and unpredictable. They were a loose knit community, living in the shadows, talking to each other through letters left with saloon owners and a few lawmen who knew what really lived out there. News travelled slowly but piece by piece he began to understand, began to map the deaths into a bloody spiral centred on a tiny, empty spot on the map. When he'd seen that, finally seen that there was a centre to all of it, he'd remembered the gunsmith's promise.
'You said you could make me a gun that'd kill anythin'. Well, now's the time for it.'
"I shoulda known. I shoulda figured it out," he muttered to the skinwalkers, watching the stamping, twisting movements. The hunter rolled his shoulders, felt the pull of old scars and his back bowed, weary beyond measure. He was tired, the last year spent running, fighting a losing battle, trying desperately to buy enough time for Colt to finish the piece. He wasn't sure anymore, if even ten years would be enough.
The dance slowed, changed as the men dropped to all fours, the skins on their backs rippling, spreading, growing to cover limbs that twisted out of shape. Reade backed away from the window, calling over his shoulder as he drew the pistol.
"Sam, they're comin'."
The steady scratch of the gunsmith's knife paused, came back faster and the hunter took another step back, put his shoulders to the worn doorframe, eyes flickering between the door and window. His heart thudded against his ribs, blood pounding in his ears as each breath rasped in his throat, shallow and quick.
It tasted rank, the air heavy with a smell he knew as well as his own. He snarled, thumbed back the hammer and lifted the gun in one hand, delving into the saddle-bag hanging from a crooked nail driven into the wall. The book was old, ancient leather scratched and scuffed and he felt out the strip of raw hide marking a page without taking his eyes from the window. The brimstone stench grew thicker, faint growls rising outside the cabin, rumbling through the thick walls as he dared let himself hope.
Maybe this time it's here and I can send the son-of-a-whore responsible for all of this back to Hell.
Before he even had time to finish the thought, the door shattered, shards of wood flying into the room. He ducked, heard glass exploding behind him, snapped off two shots at the mass of fur and eyes clawing their way through the ruined door and spun, saw the last splinters of crystal fall, half the wall torn away with them. Two animals slinked over the low, ragged remains of the wall, more shifting outside and Reade whispered a curse, stepped sideways and reached out. Grabbing a handful of wool, he jerked the younger man to his feet, dragged Colt with him as he backed to the far wall, through the door to the third, tiny room of the cabin. The cougars snarled at them, three more scrambling over the carcass jammed in the doorway, the pair in the other bedroom shaking glass from their pelts as they prowled through the doorway. They screamed, the sound shaking into him as he fell back, slamming the door between them, a confused glimpse of four cats leaping for him before the wood trembled with the impact. The fetish dangling from the frame rustled, a few fat sparks trailing crimson in the shadow; muffled, pained yelps making him grin where he sprawled on the floor.
Behind him, the gunsmith's knife began to scratch again.
Cutter Hill, NH
February 19th, 1832
As entrances went, it was one of his most dramatic. Staggering in from the storm, drenched in rain, leaving bloody footprints behind as he stumbled to the bar, backlit by lightning that silvered the deepest shadows in the dusty saloon. Catching himself against the counter, doing his best not to look as if it was the only thing holding him up, the hunter pointed at the bottles lining the mirrored wall, carefully avoiding his own reflection. He watched the barkeep snatch the whiskey from the shelf, splash three fingers into a grimy glass and thump it onto the table, backing away, bottle forgotten in his hand.
Joshua Reade downed the liquor, sighed as it burnt into his stomach, dropped the glass back to the counter and turned, leaning against the bar to stare out at the empty room. There weren't many folks interested in drinking in Cutter Hill these days. He laughed roughly; bit off a groan as the motion jarred aching ribs and sighed, dropping his head to prop his chin up on one hand, gazing wearily over the battered tables.
When the second glass of whiskey slid to his side, he slid his eyes up to the man clutching the whiskey bottle in trembling hands, quirked a brow in query and the barkeep twitched a nod at the corner of the room. Reade lifted the glass, drained it and spun it in his fingers, watching the lightning shatter against the facets. Rolling his neck until it cracked loudly, he glanced sideways, saw the young man sitting alone in the corner start and jerk his own stare down. Reade nodded slowly, shot the barkeep a glare.
"Keep 'em comin'," he rasped, pushed away from the bar and walked carefully to the table, standing hip-shot and arrogant a few feet away. If either of them noticed the hand he kept on the back of the nearest chair, neither mentioned it. The barkeep shrank back behind the counter, the seated figure turned another page in a thick, hide-bound notebook. Reade smirked humourlessly.
I can play that game well as anyone.
Yanking out the chair he was leaning on, he sank into it with a wince, drawing a soggy deck of cards from one pocket of his dripping coat. He shuffled them idly, eyes never leaving the other man's hands as he laid them out, a scruffy solitaire grid. The notes and marks he'd scrawled across the cards blurred as he leaned back in the chair.
He complete two rows while the kid watched from the corner of his eye, was halfway through the third before he heard the kid suck in a breath and he stopped, hand resting on the last card. His fingers tingled numbly, the chill that had settled into him slowly easing in the heat of the saloon. Idly, without looking at it, his thumb traced a sigil scrawled on the back of the card, the ink dragged into the thick card so deep he could feel it. He wondered why it was that card, that sigil out of the whole deck that had the kid almost falling out of his seat.
"What does that mean?"
The kid's mumble was hoarse and he shrugged carelessly, felt his stomach flip once as pain lashed through his side. He swallowed hard and when he answered it was with a croak.
"'T's a name."
"Turn it."
He blinked, glanced over at the kid, white faced, hands visibly shaking and then finally looked down at the card and blanched. Thin streaks of blood followed his thumb, sketched the twisting sigil in black.
Abbadon.
A shiver crawled down his spine at just the thought of the name, at the thought of what lay on the other side of the card. He pressed his hand flat against the back, wondered again why it was this card out of all of them.
Maybe it had to be her card. Fate, destiny, whatever. Maybe it just had to be, you ever think of that Reade?
"Turn the damn card."
The kid's voice trembled as much as his hands as he folded them in his lap. Reade sighed quietly, winced a little at another stab of pain that skated over his ribs and ignored the demand. He quirked one eyebrow at the kid, hissed as the gash across his forehead broke open and swiped irritably at the blood that trickled into his eye.
"Thanks for the drink," he muttered, slouching down in his seat. "Now you mind tellin' me who's fool enough to be out in this town tonight?"
"You killed it, didn't you?"
He frowned.
Kid sounds angry. Huh.
"Maybe I did."
The boy relaxed faintly, the hint of tension taut across his shoulders easing and Reade grinned nastily.
"Maybe somethin' like that can't be killed."
He fell silent, waiting, shifting his fingers over the back of the card, the pattern painted there rough against his skin.
"Is… I mean, it is… can it…"
The hunter rolled his eyes.
"It's gone. Thing ain't dead, I wasn't foolin' when I said somethin' like that can't be killed but it won't be back."
"What was it?"
He eyed the younger man, long enough for him to start squirming under Reade's cold stare, dropping his own gaze to the card, still facedown on the table.
"What does it matter to you?"
"It killed a friend of mine. A good friend."
"That right," he drawled. "What's your name, kid?"
"Samuel Colt. Sam."
The hunter's eyes sharpened in recognition.
"Any relation to Christopher Colt in Massachusettes?"
"He's my father."
"You finished that gun yet?"
He smiled as Colt blushed. It was a story he'd heard a dozen times, the kid who walked into a patent office and demanded the patent, promising a model as soon as he'd made it. It was hard to balance the cocky arrogance of that fable with the stammering young man before him.
"What are you doin' in Cutter Hill, Sam Colt from Massachusetts?"
"I was looking for that… that thing."
"You heard it was here?"
Colt shook his head.
"I followed it. From Boston."
The hunter sat back, laid his hand flat on the card, covering it as the younger man's eyes strayed to it again.
"From Boston? That's quite a trail to follow, kid."
Colt shrugged, gaze too bright, his voice husky and rough when he spoke again.
"I did."
Reade sat silently for a moment, watching him. When he spoke again, the hunter's answer was quiet, surly and his movements were cold and precise.
"Nice meetin' you, Sam Colt. Thanks for the drink."
He shrugged the collar of his coat up, felt tacky blood slide over his ribs and tapped the card one last time.
"Now go on home."
He flipped the card, didn't look back as he stalked back into the storm, leaving the young man staring at the smiling woman wreathed in diamonds and flowers, her eyes blackened with crimson ink, glaring up from the perfect face.
Southern Wyoming,
November 22nd, 1835
Dust made him sneeze, the powders burning his eyes, itching in the cuts on his fingers. He tied a feather to the fetish, pressed the heel of his hand into his eye until sparks behind the lid joined the crimson dripping from the fetish above the door. Burnt out husks of three more charms lay scattered on the threshold, the thread tying the bundles of sticks and feathers together scorched and brittle. The black powder across the doorway scattered as a rank growl blew underneath it, the line worn down little by little. Reade hefted the bag of goofer dust uncertainly, there was only enough left for three more lines at the most.
He cast a quick look at the younger man, hunched over a tiny candle in the far corner, knife in his hands flashing as he carved and carved. The hunter wondered how much gun there could be left, the pile of shavings around Colt's feet inches deep. The gunsmith's voice was whisper-hoarse, worn away by hours of chanting over the pistol, sanctifying it, weaving power into it.
Sam paused, shoulders drooping for a moment. He looked up at Reade and the hunter wanted to grimace at the sight of the younger man's pale, sweat streaked face and bloodshot eyes, sunk deep into bruised hollows. He kept his expression calm, as neutral as he could manage.
"How long, Sam?"
The kid licked cracked lips, glanced down at his hands and Reade saw them tremble.
"Hour or two. At least."
The hunter felt something clench inside him. He squeezed the bag of goofer dust again. Three lines would last half the time they needed.
"Best get to work, then," he murmured, watched Colt as the younger man turned back to his work. A tear sketched a silver trail in the candlelight, splashing onto the gun, leaving the wood dark for a long moment. Reade swallowed hard, pushed to his feet with a weary sigh and crossed to the door. Crouching, he laid a careful line, as thin as he dared, the black dust glittering for a moment before it settled. Tying the bag back onto his belt, the hunter shuffled 'round to put his back to the wall next to the door, feeling the floor vibrate under the weight of the beasts on the other side as they paced. He drew the old pepperbox from his belt, skimmed his finger over the carved butt, flicked the brighter metal of the hammer, newer than the rest of the gun.
"I never… I never killed anyone before, Joshua. Not a person."
The whisper was so faint, he barely heard it, watched as a second tear streaked through the shadows.
"I know," he answered just as quiet. He paused, cleared his throat and went on in a louder murmur. "You remember the night we met, Sam?"
The younger man nodded, didn't look up from his work.
"You saved my life that night."
"I shoulda… shoulda left you out in the street to bleed to death."
Colt shot him a look, the black humour sparking in his eyes for a moment and Reade smiled weakly.
"Maybe you should've at that. I ever tell you what that thing in Cutter Hill was?"
The younger man shook his head, eyes back on his hands.
"It was a devil. Like in the good book."
The hunter chewed his lip for a moment, not sure if telling the kid this would help him, or make it worse. Shrugging, feeling the pull of scars again, he went on.
"Devils, they can't have bodies in our world. Maybe it's different in Hell, I ain't never heard a preacher with much to say on the subject, 'cept to tell me I'm headin' straight there."
Colt chuckled and Reade grinned, the mirth fading instantly.
"So they take people. Possession, it's called. They force their way into a body and wear it, call it a 'meatsuit'. You can't kill 'em, can't even hurt 'em, really, but there's rituals that can force them out again, send them back to Hell."
"How did it slice you up the way it did?"
The hunter swallowed thickly, pressed one hand against his side, where thick scars wrapped around his ribs.
"They can… move things. Throw things, without touching them. It used a damn ploughshare."
The gunsmith winced.
"Last time I corner one in a barn," Reade muttered. "Once it was gone, what was left…" he trailed off, looked down at the gun in his hands, fingered the carvings again. feeling Colt's eyes on him, he forced himself to finish hoarsely. "She was jus' a girl. Ten, eleven maybe. There was nothin' left of her. That devil tore her up inside her head. She was already gone."
Finally, he looked up, met the younger man's shocked gaze.
"What you killed was no more human than the thing that did that to her. You understan' me? That's what knowin' all've this means, sometimes. You gotta do the stuff no-one in their right mind would ever do, 'cause only you can see what's really goin' on. He was comin' straight at you an' there wasn't anythin' else you coulda done."
Colt nodded jerkily, sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks.
"You ever wish you could go back? Just go home again?" he mumbled. Reade cocked his head to one side, reached for the ring around his neck.
"No," he growled. "Seein' them out there is all the reason I need to keep on."
The hunter jerked a head at the younger man's hands and the gunsmith sighed, bent his head to his work again.
"You wish you didn't know, Sam?"
The knife scratched in the silence for a while, shavings tumbling to the floor.
"Sometimes," Colt admitted. "I never asked for this. But now I know… I couldn't go back. This is…" he laughed quietly, resigned. "It's a chance to do something that's important. Even if no-one's ever really gonna know about it."
The lie hung between them in the spaces between the scratching of the knife and the soft thump of the beasts' paws on the other side of the door.
Reade watched him work, spinning the ring in his fingers. He nodded slowly, tipped his head back to rest against the wall, felt one of the cougar's inches away growl softly. A few more grains of dust blew away from the line and he reached over, scraped them back into place, looked up at the fetish as it spat another bloody spark.
You should've listened to me, Sam, when I told you to leave, he thought tiredly, wished he knew how to say it aloud. Then maybe you'd never've had to know any of this and you could stay alive and do somethin' important that everyone would know about.
You should've just listened.
A/N 2: I don't really write long authors notes until the end of a story, and since I've got quite a lot to say on this fic, I'll leave it for now. But I'll explain all those niggling little oddities at the end, and if you wanna know anything now, just buzz me! Or, you know, you could review... :D