“The moon’s dark tonight. No one will see him get lost in the hills, and the river’s close,” Decker murmured, watching Rotham take a gulp of the tainted whiskey.
Safine’s concoction worked slowly—they’d discovered the full symptoms after Cricket had snuck a drink from a cup a few months back. First exhaustion would overtake him, then dizziness and heat under his skin like the dead of summer. The stranger would have slept it off in a few days.
I’m sorry you won’t get that chance.
Decker’s thoughts slowed, lingering on the gnawing hunger in his stomach, slipping through the striped, barren hills to the west of Ender’s Ridge, down flash-flood gulches, following twisting paths where the stranger—
“Fangs, darlin’.”
Points prickled at his lip and Decker straightened, tongue smoothing over the snapped-off left canine until they slipped away. “I’ll send him on his way.”
Whiskey flowed and well-worn cards exchanged hands as the night rolled into the early hours of the morning. The hour hand of the clock ticked incessantly against the terribly bent minute hand. Chilled autumn wind swept through the doors and whisked in red oak leaves from across the river that crunched underfoot as the last patrons bid their goodnights.
Rotham slumped against the table, his bearded chin squashed against his thick hand. The vein in his neck thrummed and slowed.
Decker cleared his throat next to him. “Saloon’s closing, Mr. Rotham.”
He awoke with a grunt. Wobbling on his feet, he swayed towards the door, the swinging slats cracking behind him as he found his way to his horse.
“Follow the road past the old chapel, and then straight into the hills. That’ll get you to Amaretto,” Decker said as he leaned against the post of the veranda.
The sign above him spelled out theLoose Goose Saloonin poorly chiseled words; they were due for a fresh coat of lacquer before the bitter winter arrived. By the sound of the hinges in the breeze, they also needed oiling, but when business boomed, repairs got pushed aside.
Safine breezed through the door behind him as Rotham’s horse trotted down the dark street. “He won’t make it more than a mile before he tips off.”
“Lucky he’ll have us there to pick him up.” A grim smile tugged at Decker’s lips, and this time hedidn’t pull back his fangs.
Safine was wrong. Rotham made it a mile and a half.
His mare wandered through the maze of wasteland aimlessly, picking her way through crumbled rock and storm-cleared gullies. She faltered at the bottom of a valley, ears swiveling and pinning. Listening.
Decker eased into a crouch at the crest of the hill. He’d tracked them in a daze, the promise of a fresh feed luring him on, legs leaden and aching with hunger. His body demanded the nauseating satisfaction of a fresh kill, and the sensation burrowed into him until it was a worming crawl under his skin he couldn’t refuse.
Wind curled around him and the mare’s ears flattened as she danced in place, pawing sharply at the ground. Rotham lurched to the side and his spurszingedalong her flank. The mare squealed and skittered forward, clouds of steam flaring from her nostrils. Her rider hit the ground, boot still wedged in the stirrup.
Rotham swore.
Silt crumbled to powder under Decker’s footsteps which were too loud in his mind, too heavy. The world slowed, reddened around him, narrowing to the man bathed in sweat blindly wrenching at his caught leg.
The mare leapt into a gallop, dragging Rotham behind her.
Decker struck.
The mare’s haunches strained against the sudden weight of two bodies hanging off the left stirrup and she threw her bulk into a crazed escape, lunging, fighting, screaming.
Decker clawed at the ground, hooking them on a rock. A hoof sparked off stone next to his face and he snarled, curling around Rotham.
Saddle-leather flexed to a breaking point.
The stirrup snapped.
Rotham skidded to an abrupt halt, face-down, back gravel-shredded and bloody. His mare careened into the hills.
He never stood a chance.
Maybe Decker had been a gentle killer, once. His deeply ingrained need to survive now made him careless whenever he broke his self-imposed fast.
Made him vicious.
