BY JIM BUTCHER

The Dresden Files

Storm Front

Fool Moon

Grave Peril

Summer Knight

Death Masks

Blood Rites

Dead Beat

Proven Guilty

White Night

Small Favour

Turn Coat

Changes

Ghost Story

Cold Days

Skin Game

Side Jobs (anthology)

Brief Cases (anthology)

The Codex Alera

Furies of Calderon

Academ’s Fury

Cursor’s Fury

Captain’s Fury

Princep’s Fury

First Lord’s Fury

The Cinder Spires

The Aeronaut’s Windlass

Copyright

Published by Orbit

ISBN: 978-0-356-51167-2

All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Jim Butcher

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

“A Fistful of Warlocks” copyright © 2017 by Jim Butcher. First published in Straight Outta Tombstone, edited by David Boop (Baen Books). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“B is for Bigfoot” copyright © 2012 by Jim Butcher. First published in Under My Hat: Tales from the Cauldron, edited by Jonathan Strahan (Random House Books for Young Readers). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“AAAA Wizardry” copyright © 2010 by Jim Butcher. First published in The Dresden Files Roleplaying Game, Volume Two: Our World, edited by Amanda Valentine (Evil Hat Productions, LLC). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“I Was a Teenage Bigfoot” copyright © 2012 by Jim Butcher. First published in Blood Lite III: Aftertaste, edited by Kevin J. Anderson (Pocket Books / Simon and Schuster). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Curses” copyright © 2011 by Jim Butcher. First published in Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy, edited by Ellen Datlow (St. Martin’s Griffin). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Even Hand” copyright © 2010 by Jim Butcher. First published in Dark and Stormy Knights, edited by P. N. Elrod (St. Martin’s Griffin). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Bigfoot on Campus” copyright © 2012 by Jim Butcher. First published in Hex Appeal, edited by P. N. Elrod (St. Martin’s Griffin). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Bombshells” copyright © 2013 by Jim Butcher. First published in Dangerous Women, edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois (Tor Books). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Cold Case” copyright © 2016 by Jim Butcher. First published in Shadowed Souls, edited by Jim Butcher and Kerrie L. Hughes (Roc). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Jury Duty” copyright © 2015 by Jim Butcher. First published in Unbound, edited by Shawn Speakman (Grim Oak Press). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Day One” copyright © 2016 by Jim Butcher. First published in Unfettered II, edited by Shawn Speakman (Grim Oak Press). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Zoo Day” copyright © 2018 by Jim Butcher. Published here for the first time in any form by permission of the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Orbit

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www.hachette.co.uk

Some stories happen because a writer gets inspired by some wild idea that needs expression. Some stories are carefully put together as part of a greater whole.

And some stories you write because a professional friend asks you if you want to contribute to an anthology, and it sounds like a really fun idea. This is how the next tale was born—I needed a weird, weird West story so that I could contribute to Straight Outta Tombstone.

The upside of putting this project together is that the late-nineteenth century was largely a blank slate in the universe of the Dresden Files, so I was able to do whatever I wanted without being restricted by the 1.5 million words of story that had already been written. The downside was that the late-nineteenth century in the universe of the Dresden Files was largely a blank slate, so I had to start figuring out how to braid this story thread in particular into the greater story.

One of my go-to concepts when writing earlier eras of any story is to focus on characters who are the passionate young hotheads in any given setting—those are the people who generally provide me with the most interesting choices and stories. So, for this story, Anastasia Luccio fit the bill perfectly, and I’ve always loved the character and wished she could have more stage time. I worked out her early history as a young Warden and decided that she had been instrumental in the White Council’s decades-long war with, and victory over, the greatest necromancer of the previous millennium.

This is the start of what is now in my head a four-or five-book story all its own. I don’t know that I’ll ever get to write that tale of dark old Western supernatural horror, featuring Anastasia as the magical and gun-fighting protagonist, flanked by such figures as Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday of the Venatori Umbrorum, but it’s a hell of a good movie in my head.

So maybe imagine as you read this next piece that the movie begins here. …

The American West was not the most miserable land I had ever traveled, but it came quite near to it. It was the scenery, more than anything, that drove the spirit out of the body—endless empty plains that did not so much roll as slump with varying degrees of hopelessness, with barely a proper tree to be seen. The late-summer sun beat the ground into something like the bottom of an oven.

“I grow weary of Kansas,” said my not-horse. “The rivers here are scarcely enough to keep me alive.”

“Hush, Karl,” I said to the näcken. “We are near to town, and to the warlock. I would prefer if we did not announce our presence.”

The näcken sighed with a great, exaggerated motion that set the saddle to creaking, and stomped one hoof on the ground. With a pure white coat and standing at a lean and powerful seventeen hands, he made a magnificent mount—as fast as the swiftest mortal horse and far more tireless. “As you wish, Anastasia.”

“Warden Luccio,” I reprimanded him tartly. “And the sooner we catch this creature and his master, the sooner you will have served your probation, and the sooner you may return to your homeland.”

The näcken flattened his ears at this reminder of his servitude.

“Do not you become angry with me,” I told him. “You promised to serve as my loyal mount if I could ride you for the space of an hour without being thrown. It is hardly my fault if you assumed I could not survive such a ride under the surface of the water.”

“Hmph,” said the näcken, and he gave me an evil glare. “Wizards.” But he subsided. Murderous monsters, the näcken, but they were good to their word.

It was then that we crested what could only quite generously be called a rise, and I found myself staring down at a long, shallow valley that positively swarmed with life. Powdery dust covered the entire thing in a vast cloud, revealing a hive of tarred wooden buildings that looked as if they’d been slapped together over the course of an evening by drunken teamsters. Then there was a set of gleaming railroad tracks used so often that they shone even through the dust. On the northern side of the tracks stood a whitewashed mirror image of those buildings, neat streets and rows of solidly built homes and businesses. Corrals that could have girdled the feet of some mountains were filled with a small sea of cattle being herded and driven by men who could scarcely be distinguished from their horses beneath their mutual coating of dust. To one side of the town, a lonely little hill was crowned with a small collection of grave markers.

And the people. The sheer number of people bustling about this gathering of buildings in the middle of nothing was enough to boggle the mind. I sat for a moment, stunned at the energetic enormity of the place, which looked like the setting of some obscure passage from Dante, perhaps a circle of hell that had been edited from the original text.

The warlock I pursued could take full advantage of a crowd like that, making my job many times more difficult than it had been a moment before.

“So,” said the näcken sourly, “that is Dodge City.”

THE WARLOCK WOULD hide in the rough part of town—his kind could rarely find sanctuary among stolid, sober townsfolk. The unease warlocks created around them, combined with the frequent occurrence of the bizarre as a result of their talents, made them stand out like mounds of manure in a field of flowers. But the same talents that made them pariahs in normal mortal society benefited them in its shadows.

I rode for the south side of the tracks and stopped at the first sizable building.

“Do not allow yourself to be stolen,” I advised Karl as I dismounted.

The näcken flattened his ears and snorted.

I smiled at him, patted his neck, and tossed his reins over a post and beam set up for the purpose outside of the first building that looked likely to support human beings in better condition than vermin. I removed the light duster that had done the best it could to protect my dress from the elements, draped it neatly over the saddle, and belted on my sword and gun.

I went into the building, and found it to be a bathhouse and brothel. A few moments of conversation with the woman in charge of it resulted in a job offer, which I declined politely; a bath, which I could not enjoy nearly thoroughly enough to satisfy me; and directions to the seediest dens of ruffians in town.

The warlock wasn’t in the first location or the second, but by the time I reached the Long Branch Dance Hall and Saloon near sundown, I was fairly sure I’d found my man.

I entered the place to the sound of only moderately rhythmic stomping as a dozen women performed something like a dance together on a wooden stage, to the music of several nimble-fingered violinists playing in the style of folk music. The bar was already beginning to fill with a crowd of raucous men. Some of them were freshly bathed, but others were still wearing more dust than cloth, their purses heavy with new coin.

But, more important, the air of the place practically thrummed with tension. It was hardly noticeable at first glance—but eyes glanced toward the doors a little too quickly when I came in, and at least half of the men in the place were standing far too stiffly and warily to be drunkenly celebrating their payday and their lives.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” said a voice to my right as I came in.

I turned to find a very tall, lean fellow whose wrists stuck out from the bottom of his coat’s sleeves. He had a thick, drooping mustache, a flat-brimmed hat, and a deputy’s star pinned to his coat, and wore his gun as if it had been given to him upon the occasion of his birth.

His demeanor was calm, his voice polite and friendly—and he had the eyes of a raptor, sharp and clear and ready to deliver sudden violence at a moment’s notice.

“Yes?” I asked.

“City ordinance against carrying sidearms, ma’am,” he said. His voice was deep and musically resonant in his lean chest. I liked it immediately. “If you’re not a peace officer, you’ll need to turn in your gun for as long as you’re in town.”

“I find this ordinance irksome,” I said.

The corners of his eyes wrinkled and his cheeks tightened slightly. The mustache made it difficult to see his mouth. “If I was a woman as good-looking as you in a place like this, I’d find it powerful irksome, too,” he said, “but the law is the law.”

“And what does the ordinance say about swords?” I asked.

“Can’t recall that it says anything ’bout that,” the deputy said.

I unfastened my belt and slid the gun from it, still in its holster. I offered it to him. “I assume I can turn it over to you, Deputy?”

He touched the brim of his hat and took the gun. “Thank you, ma’am. Might I know your name so I can be sure your weapon gets safe back to you?”

I smiled at him. “Anastasia Luccio.”

“Charmed, Anastasia,” said the deputy. He squinted at my sidearm and said, “Webley. Lot of gun.”

He was not so very much taller than me. I arched an eyebrow at him and smiled. “I am a lot of woman. I assure you, Deputy, that I am more than capable of handling it.”

His eyes glinted, relaxed and amused. “Well. People say a lot of things, ma’am.”

“When my business here is done, perhaps we shall go outside the town limits and wager twenty dollars on which of us is the better marksman.”

He let his head fall back and barked out a quick laugh. “Ma’am, losing that bet would be a singular pleasure.”

I looked around the saloon again. “It seems that tensions are running high at the moment,” I said. “Might I ask why that is?”

The lawman pursed his lips thoughtfully and then said, “Well, there’s some fellas on one side of the tracks upset at some other fellas on the other, ma’am, is the short of it.” He smiled as he said it, as if enjoying some private jest. “Shouldn’t be of much concern to you, ma’am. This is a rough place, but we don’t much take kindly to a man who’d lift his hand to a woman.” A pair of cowboys entered the saloon, laughing loudly and clearly already drunk. His calm eyes tracked them. He slid my holstered gun around beneath his stool and touched his finger to the brim of his hat again. “You have a good time, now.”

“Thank you, Deputy,” I said. Then I walked to the exact center of the room.

As a Warden of the White Council of Wizardry, I traveled a great deal and dealt with dangerous men. I was comfortable in places like this one and worse, though I had noted that they rarely seemed to be comfortable with me. The only women in sight were those working behind the bar, in the kitchen, and on the stage, so I rather stuck out. There was little sense in attempting anything like subtlety, so I donned my bottle green spectacles, focused my supernatural senses, and began a slow survey of the entire place.

The energy known as magic exists on a broad spectrum, much like light. Just as light can be split into its colors by a sufficient prism, magical energy can be more clearly distinguished by using the proper tools. The spectacles gave me a chance to view the energy swirling around the crowded room. It was strongly influenced by the presence of human emotion, and various colors had gathered around individuals according to their current humor.

Angry red tension tinted many auras, while lighter shades of pink surrounded the more merrily inebriated. Workers, including the dancers and dealers at the tables, evinced the steady green of those focused on task, while the deputy and a shotgun-wielding man seated on a tall stool at the end of the bar pulsed with the protective azure of guardians.

The warlock sat in the little balcony overlooking the stage, at a table with three other men, playing cards. Through the spectacles, shadows had gathered so thickly over their game that it almost seemed they had doused their lanterns and were playing in the dark.

I drew a breath. One warlock was typically not a threat to a cautious, well-trained, and properly equipped Warden. Two could be a serious challenge. The current Captain of the Wardens, a man named McCoy, a man with a great deal more power and experience than me, had once brought down three.

But as I watched through the spectacles, I realized that the warlock hadn’t simply been running. He’d been running to more of his kind.

There were four of them.

I took off the spectacles and moved into an open space at the bar, where I would hopefully be overlooked for a few moments longer, and thought furiously.

My options had just become much more limited. In a direct confrontation with that many opponents, I would have little chance of victory. Which was not to say that I could not attack them. They were involved in their card game, and I had seen no evidence of magical defenses. An overwhelming strike might take them all at once.

Of course, fire magic was the only thing that would do for that kind of work—and it would leave the crowded building aflame. Tarred wood exposed to a blast of supernatural fire would become an inferno in seconds. Not only that, but such an action would violate one of the Council’s unspoken laws: Wizards were expected to minimize the use of their abilities in the presence of magic-ignorant mortals. It had not been so long since our kind had been burned at stakes by frightened mobs.

While I could not simply attack them, neither could I remain here, waiting. A warlock would have fewer compunctions about exposing his abilities in public. The wisest option would have been to report in to the captain, send for reinforcements, veil myself, and follow them.

I had never been a particularly cautious person. Even the extended life of a wizard was too brief a time, and the world full of too much pleasure and joy to waste that life by hiding safely away.

I was not, however, stupid.

I turned to begin walking decisively toward the door and practically slammed my nose into that of a handsome man in his mid-forties, beard neatly shaved, dressed in an impeccable suit. His eyes were green and hard, his teeth far too white for his age.

And he was pressing a tiny derringer pistol to my chest, just beneath my left breast.

“Timely,” he said to me in a fine German accent. “We knew a Warden would arrive, but we thought you would be another week at least.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Please,” he said, his eyes shading over with something ugly. “If you attempt to resist me, I will kill you here and now.” He moved smoothly, stepping beside me and tucking my left arm into the crook of his right, positioning the tiny gun in his left hand atop my arm, keeping it artfully concealed while trained steadily on my heart. He nodded once at the balcony, and the four men on it immediately put their cards down and descended, heading out the door without so much as glancing back.

“You’re making a mistake,” I said to him tightly. “To my knowledge, you and your companions are not wanted by the Council. I’m not here for you today. I’ve only come for Alexander Page.”

“Is that a fact?” he asked.

“He is a murderer. By sheltering him, you have become complicit in his crimes,” I said. “If you kill me, you will only draw down the full wrath of the Wardens. But if you let me go immediately and disassociate yourself from Page, I will not prosecute a warrant for your capture.”

“That is most generous, Warden,” said the German. “But I am afraid I have plans. You will accompany me quietly outside.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then I will be mildly disappointed, and you will be dead.”

“You’ll be more than disappointed when my death curse falls upon you,” I said.

“Should you live long enough to level it, perhaps,” he said. “But I am willing to take that risk.”

I flicked my eyes around the room, looking for options, but they seemed few. The fellow on the high stool had his eyes on a man dealing cards at a nearby table. The cowboys were far more interested in drinking and making merry than in what, to them, must have appeared to be a domestic squabble between a wife come to drag her husband from a den of iniquity. Even the deputy at the door was gone, his chair standing empty.

Ah.

I turned to the German and said, “Very well. Let us take this discussion elsewhere.”

“I do not think you realize your position, Warden,” the German said, as we began walking. “I am not asking for your consent. I am merely informing you of your options.”

I flinched slightly at the words and let the fear I was feeling show on my face. “What do you mean to do with me?” I asked.

“Nothing good,” he said, and his eyes glinted with something manic and hungry. Then he frowned, noticing that his last words had fallen into a silence absent of music or stomping feet.

Into that silence came what seemed like a singularly significant mechanical click.

“Mister,” the lanky deputy said. “You pass over that belly gun, or your next hat is going to be a couple of sizes smaller.”

The deputy had moved in silently behind him and now held his revolver less than a foot from the back of the German’s skull.

I let the fear drop off my face and smiled sweetly up at my captor.

The German froze, his eyes suddenly hot with rage as he realized that I had distracted him, just as his fellows had distracted me. The derringer pressed harder against my ribs as he turned his head slightly toward the deputy. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Mmmm,” the deputy said calmly. “You’re the fella who’s about to come quietly or have lead on his mind.”

The German narrowed his eyes and ground his teeth.

“He’s not asking for your consent,” I said. “He’s merely informing you of your options.”

The German spat an oath in his native tongue. Then he slipped the little pistol away from my side and slowly held it up.

The deputy took the weapon, his own gun steady.

“You will regret this action,” said the German. “Who do you think you are?”

“My name is Wyatt Earp,” said the deputy. “And I think I’m the law.”

EARP TOOK THE German to the town marshal’s office, which was on the southern side of the tracks and contained a pair of iron jail cells. I led Karl along, and the näcken was mercifully well behaved for once, playing the role of a horse to perfection when I tied him to the post outside the office.

“Deputy,” I said, as we entered the building. “I do not think you understand the threat.”

Earp passed me his lantern and nodded toward a hanging hook on the wall. I put it there, as he walked the German into the cell, gun steady on the man all the while. He made the man lean against a wall with both hands and patted him down for weaponry, removing a small knife—and calmly taking a charm hanging from a leather necklace around his neck.

“What?” he said evenly. “On account of he’s a sorcerer? Is that what you mean?”

I felt both of my eyebrows lift. Typically, and increasingly, authority figures had very little truck with the world of the supernatural.

“Yes,” I said. “That is precisely what I mean.”

Earp walked over to me and held out the necklace and its simple, round copper charm. A familiar symbol was carved onto its surface: a skull, twisted and horrifically stretched, marked on its forehead with a single slanted, asymmetric cross.

“Thule Society,” I murmured.

“Hngh,” he said, as if my recognition of the symbol confirmed his suspicions rather than surprising him. “Guess that makes you White Council.”

I tilted my head at him. “A Warden. Goodness, you are well-informed. I must ask, how do you know of the Council, sir?”

“Venator,” he said simply. “Lost my necklace in a card game. You can take it or leave it that I’m telling the truth.”

The Venatori Umbrorum were a secret society of their own, steeped in the occult, quietly working against supernatural forces that threatened humanity. They boasted a few modestly gifted practitioners, but had a great many members, which translated to a great many eyes and ears. The society was a longtime ally, more or less, of the White Council—just as the Thule Society was more or less a longtime foe, using their resources to attempt to employ supernatural powers for their own benefit.

I regarded Earp thoughtfully. It was, I supposed, possible that he could be in league with the German, playing some sort of deceitful game. But it seemed improbable. Had he and the German wanted me dead, Earp could simply have watched him walk me out without taking note of it.

“I believe you,” I told him simply.

“That cell’s warded,” Earp said. “From the inside, he’s not going to be doing much.” He glanced over at the German and gave him a cold smile. “Makes a lot of noise if you try, though. Figure I’ll shoot you five or six times before you get done whipping up enough magic to hurt anybody.”

The German stared at Earp through narrowed eyes and then abruptly smiled and appeared to relax. He unbuttoned his collar, removed his tie, and sat down on the cell’s lumpy bunk.

“Nnnngh,” Earp said, a look of mild disgust on his face. He squinted around the room at the building’s windows. Then he looked back at me and said, “Warden, huh? You’re a lawm—” He pursed his lips. “You carry a badge.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“What I mean to say is, you can fight,” Earp said.

“I can fight,” I said.

He leaned his lanky body back against the wall beside the desk and tilted his chin toward the German. “What do you think?”

“I think he has four friends,” I said. “All of them gifted. Do your windows have shutters?”

“Yep.”

“Then we should shutter them,” I said. “They will come for him.”

“Damn,” he drawled. “That’s what I think, too. Before dawn?”

The hours of darkness were the best time for amateurs to practice the dark arts, for both practical and purely psychological reasons. “Almost certainly.”

“What do you think about that?”

I narrowed my eyes and said, “I object.”

Earp nodded his head and said, “Only so much I can do about someone bringing spells at me. Can you fight that?”

“I can.”

Earp studied me for a moment, those dark eyes assessing. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “How about I’ll put up the shutters?” he said. “Unless you’d rather me make the coffee, which I don’t recommend.”

I shuddered at the American notion of coffee. “I’ll do that part,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “We got ourselves a plan.”

“WELL,” EARP SAID a few hours later. “I don’t much care for all the waiting. But this is some damned fine coffee, Miss Anastasia.”

I had, of course, used magic to help it. The beans had not been properly roasted, and the grinder they had been through had been considerably too coarse in its work. Some other Wardens thought my coffee-making spells to be a frivolous waste of time in the face of all the darkness in the world, but what good is magic if it cannot be used to make a delicious cup of a fine beverage?

“Just be glad you did not ask me to cook,” I said. “It is not one of my gifts.”

Earp huffed out a breath through his nose. “You ain’t got much femaleness to you, ma’am, if you pardon my saying so.”

I smiled at him sweetly. “I’m on the job at the moment.”

He grunted. “That Page fella you mentioned?”

I nodded.

“What’s he wanted for?”

“He murdered three people in Liverpool,” I said. “A girl he favored and her parents.”

“Guess she didn’t favor him back,” Earp said. “He shoot ’em?”

I shook my head and suppressed a shudder at the memory of the crime scene. “He ripped out their eyes and tongues,” I said. “While they lay blind and bleeding, he did other things.”

Earp’s eyes flickered. “I’ve seen the type before.” He glanced at the German.

The German sat in exactly the same place he’d settled hours before. The man had his eyes closed—but he smiled faintly, as if aware of Earp’s gaze on him.

Earp turned back to me. “What happens to Mr. Page when you catch him?”

“He will be fairly tried, and then, I expect, beheaded for his crimes.”

Earp examined the fingernails of his right hand. “A real fair trial?”

“The evidence against him is damning,” I said. “But fair enough.”

Earp lowered his hand again. It fell very naturally to the grip of his gun. “I’d never want me one of those, if I could avoid it,” he said.

I knew what he meant. There were times I didn’t care for the sorts of things it had been necessary to do to deal with various monsters, human or otherwise. I expect Earp had faced his own terrors, and the dirty labor required to remove them.

Such deeds left their weight behind.

“I wouldn’t care for one myself,” I said.

He nodded, and we both sipped coffee for a while. Then he said, “Once this is wrapped up, I think I’d like to buy you a nice dinner. When you aren’t on the job.”

I found myself smiling at that.

I was an attractive woman, which was simply a statement of truth and not one of ego. I dressed well, kept myself well, and frequently had the attention of men and women who wished to enjoy my company. That had been a source of great enjoyment and amusement when I was younger, though these days I had little patience for it.

But Earp was interesting, and there was a tremendous appeal in his lean, soft-spoken confidence.

“Perhaps,” I said. “If business allows for it.”

Earp seemed pleased and sipped his coffee.

THE TOWN HAD gone black and silent, even the saloons, as the night stretched to the quiet, cool hours of darkness and stillness that came before the first hint of dawn.

The witching hour.

We both heard the footsteps approaching the front door of the marshal’s office. Earp had belted on a second revolver, had a third within easy reach on the desk, and rose from his chair to take up a shotgun in his hands, its barrels cut down to less than a foot long.

My own weapons were just as ready, if less easily observable than Earp’s. I’d marked a quick circle in chalk on the floor, ready to be imbued with energy as a bulwark against hostile magic. The sword at my side was tingling with power I’d invested in it over the course of the evening, ready to slice apart the threads binding enemy spells together, and I held ready a shield in my mind to prevent attacks on my thoughts and emotions.

And, of course, I had a hand on my revolver. Magic is well and good, but bullets are often swifter.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. And then there was a polite knock.

Earp’s face twisted with distaste. He crossed to the door and opened a tiny speaking window in it, without actually showing himself to whoever was outside. In addition, he leveled the shotgun at the door, approximately at the midsection of whomever would be standing outside.

“Evening,” Earp said.

“Good evening,” said a man’s voice from outside. This accent was British, quite well-to-do, its tenor pleasant. “Might I speak with Mr. Wyatt Earp, please?”

“Speaking,” Earp drawled.

“Mr. Earp,” the Briton said, “I have come to make you a proposal that will avoid any unpleasantness in the immediate future. Are you willing to hear me out?”

Earp looked at me.

I shrugged. On the one hand, it was always worth exploring ways not to fight. On the other, I had no confidence that a member of the Thule Society would negotiate in good faith. In fact, I took a few steps back toward the rear of the building, so that I might hear something if this was some sort of attempt at a distraction.

Earp nodded his approval.

“Tell you what,” he said to the Briton. “I’m going to stand in here and count quietly to twenty before I start pulling triggers. You say something interesting before then, could be we can make medicine.”

There was a baffled second’s silence, and the Briton said, “How quickly are you counting?”

“I done started,” Earp said. “And you ain’t doing yourself any favors right now.”

The Briton hesitated an instant more before speaking in an even, if slightly rushed, tone. “With respect, this is not a fight you can win, Mr. Earp. If the Warden were not present, this conversation would not be happening. Her presence means we may have to contend with you to get what we want, rather than simply taking it—but it would surely garner a great deal of attention of the sort that her kind prefer to avoid, as well as placing countless innocents in danger.”

As the man spoke, Earp listened intently, adjusting the aim of his shotgun by a few precise degrees.

“To avoid this outcome, you will release our companion unharmed. We will depart Dodge City immediately. You and the Warden will remain within the marshal’s office until dawn. As an additional incentive, we will arrange for the new ordinances against your friend Mr. Short’s establishment to be struck from the city’s legal code.”

At that, Earp grunted.

I lifted an eyebrow at him. He held up a hand and gave his head a slight shake that asked me to wait until later.

“Well, Mr. Earp?” asked the Briton. “Can we, as you so pithily put it, make medicine?”

Something hard flickered in Earp’s eyes. He glanced at me.

I drew my revolver.

That action engendered a grin big enough to show some of his teeth, even through the mustache. He lifted his head and said, “Eighteen. Nineteen …”

The Briton spoke in a hard voice, meant to be menacing, though it was somewhat undermined by the way he hurried away from the door. “Decide in the next half an hour. You will have no second chance.”

I waited a moment before arching an eyebrow at Earp. “I take it these terms he offered were good ones?”

Earp lowered and uncocked the shotgun and squinted thoughtfully. “Well. Maybe and maybe not. But they sound pretty good, and I reckon that’s what he was trying for.”

“What was he offering, precisely?”

“Bill Short went and got himself into some trouble with the folks north of the tracks. They want to clean up Dodge City. Make it all respectable. Which, I figure, ain’t a bad thing all by itself. They got kids to think about. Well, Bill’s partner run for mayor and lost. Fella that won passed some laws against Bill’s place, arrested some of his girls—that kind of thing. Bill objected, and some shooting got done, but nobody died or anything. Then a mob rounded up Bill and some other folks the proper folk figured was rapscallions and ran them out of town.”

“I see,” I said. “How do you come into this?”

“Well, Bill got himself a train to Kansas City, and he rounded up some friends. Me, Bat, Doc, a few others.”

I glanced at the lean man and his casually worn guns. “Men like you?”

“Well,” Earp said, and a quiet smile flickered at the edges of his mustache. “I’d not care to cross them over a matter of nothing, if you take my meaning, Miss Anastasia.”

“I do.”

“So, we been coming into town to talk things over with this mayor without a mob deciding how things should go,” Earp continued. “Little at a time, so as not to make too much noise.” He opened the peephole in the office door and squinted out of it. “Got myself redeputized so I can go heeled. Been over at the Long Branch with Bat.”

“The saloon the mayor passed a law against?”

“Well, it ain’t like it’s a state law,” Earp said. “More of a misunderstandin’. See, as much as the good folks north of the tracks don’t want to admit it, cattle and these cowboys are what keeps this town alive. And those boys don’t want to come in at the end of a three-month trail ride and have a nice bath and a cup of tea. Kind of country they’re going through can be a little tough. So they drop their money here, blowing off steam.” He rubbed at his mustache. “Hell, sin is the currency around this place. Don’t take a genius to see that. Those good folk are going to righteous themselves right out of a home.” He sighed. “Dammit, Doc. Why ain’t you here yet?”

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

“Holliday,” Earp confirmed. “Good fella to have with you when it’s rough. Plus he’s got two of them Venator pendants around his neck. Took one from some fool in a faro game.”

“I need to know,” I said, “if you mean to take the Thule Society’s offer seriously.”

“Can’t do that, Miss Anastasia,” Earp said. “They’re only offering me something I can get for myself just as well.”

I found myself smiling at that. “You’re willing to challenge an entire town to a fight? For the sake of your friend’s saloon?”

“It ain’t the saloon, ma’am,” Earp drawled. “It’s the principle of the thing. Man can’t let himself get run out of town by a mob, or pretty soon everyone will be doing it.”

“If a mob is responsible,” I said, smiling, “is not something close to everyone already doing it?”

Earp’s eyes wrinkled at that, and he tapped the brim of his cap.

“Idiot,” said the German from the cell, contempt in his voice.

“Sometimes,” Earp allowed. He shut the peephole and said, “Those Thule bastards ain’t going to wait half an hour. Snakes like that will come early.”

“I agree,” I said. “But going out shooting seems an unlikely plan.”

“Can’t disagree,” Earp said. “Course, maybe it’s just a man’s pride talkin’, but it seems like it ain’t much of an idea for them to try to come in here, either.”

It was then that the drum began beating, a slow, steady cadence in the darkness.

I felt my breath catch.

The German smiled.

Earp looked at me sharply and asked, “What’s that mean?”

“Trouble,” I said. I shot a hard glance at the German. “We’ve made a mistake.”

The German’s smile widened. His eyes closed beatifically.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

He said nothing.

“What the hell is going on?” Earp said, not in an unpleasant tone.

“This man is no mere member of the Thule Society,” I said. I turned my attention toward the outside of the jailhouse, where I could already feel dark, cold, slithering energy beginning to gather. “We are dealing with necromancers. They’re calling out the dead. Is there a cemetery nearby?”

“Yep,” Earp said. “Boot Hill.”

“Deputy,” I said. “We need to plan.”

“SHOOT,” EARP SAID a quarter of an hour later, staring out the peephole. “I didn’t much like these fellas the first time I shot them.” He had added another revolver to his belt, and had traded in his shotgun for a repeating rifle. “And time ain’t been kind. I make it over thirty.”

I stepped up next to Earp and stood on my tiptoes to peer out the peephole. We had dimmed the lights to almost nothing, and there was just enough moon to let me see grim, silent figures limping and shambling down the street toward the jailhouse. They were corpses, mostly gone to bone and gruesome scraps of leathery skin with occasional patches of stringy, brittle hair.

“There’s some more, coming up on that side,” Earp said. “Forty. Maybe forty-five.”

“Properly used, a dozen would be enough to kill us both,” I said to him. I took a brief chance and opened my third eye, examining the flow of energies around the oncoming horrors. “We are fortunate. These are not fully realized undead. Whoever called them up is not yet an adept at doing so. These things are scarcely more than constructs—merely deadly and mostly invulnerable.”

He eyed me obliquely. “Miss Anastasia, that ain’t what a reasonable man would call comfortin’.”

I felt my lips compress into a smile. “After a certain point, the numbers hardly matter. The drum beats for their hearts—it both controls the constructs and animates them. Stop that and we stop them all, even if there were a thousand.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, aim for the head. That should disrupt the spell controlling them.”

Earp looked over his shoulder at the German. The man looked considerably less smug or comfortable than he had throughout the evening. At my direction, Earp had hog-tied him to one of the wooden pillars supporting the roof and gagged him thoroughly. I had chalked a circle of power around him and infused it with enough energy to prevent him from reaching outside of it for any magical power. They were crude precautions, but we could not afford to give the German an opportunity to strike at us while we were distracted. Such measures would hinder any particularly dangerous attack—and would not stop Earp’s bullet from finding the German’s skull, should he attempt anything that was not instantly lethal.

I stepped back from the window, closed my eyes, and invoked the communication spell I had established with the näcken.

Karl, I murmured with my thoughts, are you ready?

Obviously, the näcken replied.

Have you located the Thule Society?

There was an amused tint to the dark faerie’s reply. On the roof of a building three doors down and across the street. They seem to think that they have warded themselves from sight.

Excellent, I replied. Then we will begin shortly.

Four warlocks, Karl mused. You realize that your death releases me from our contract?

I ground my teeth without replying. Then I cocked my revolver, turned to Earp, and nodded.

“Seems like a bad hand, Miss Anastasia,” Earp said. “But let’s play it out.”

And with no more fanfare than that, Wyatt Earp calmly opened the door to the jailhouse, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and walked out shooting, and I went out behind him.

Earp was a professional. He did not shoot rapidly. He lined the rifle’s sights upon the nearest shambling figure and dropped a heavy round through its skull. Before the corpse’s knees began to buckle, he had ejected the shell and taken aim at the next nearest. That shot bellowed out, and as the sound of it faded, the crowd of corpses let out a terrifying wave of dry, dusty howls and began launching themselves forward in a frenzied lurch.

I raised my Webley, took aim, and dropped a corpse of my own—though in the time it took me to do it, Earp had felled three more without ever seeming to rush.

“Karl!” I screamed.

There was a thunder of hooves striking the earthen street and the enormous white horse appeared like a specter out of the night. The näcken simply ran down half a dozen corpses, shouldered two more out of the way, and kicked another in the chest with such force that it flew backward across the street and exploded into a cloud of spinning, shattered bone.

I swung up onto the näcken’s back, as summer lightning flickered and showed me the dead moving forward like an inevitable tide. Two more of the things reached for me, bony fingers clawing. I kicked one away and shot the other through the skull with the Webley, and then Karl surged forward.

I cast a glance back over one shoulder to see Earp grip the emptied rifle’s barrel and smash a corpse’s skull with the stock. That bought him enough time to back toward the jailhouse door, drawing a revolver into each hand. Shots began to ring out in steady, metronomic time.

“To the roof!” I snarled to the näcken.

And the dark fae let go of his disguise.

White horseflesh swelled and split as it darkened to a sickly, drowned blue-grey. A hideous stench filled the air, and the näcken’s body bloated to nearly impossible dimensions. The smell of fetid water and rotten meat rose from Karl’s body in a smothering miasma, and with a surge of power that threatened to throw me from his back entirely, despite the saddle, the näcken leapt from the street to the balcony of a nearby building, bounding to the lower roof of the building next to it, then reversed direction and flung itself onto the roof of the original.

The Thule Society awaited us.

The roof was a flat space and not overly large. Much of it had been filled with a painted pentacle, the points of its star lapping outside of the binding circle around it—a symbol of chaos and entropy, unbounded by the circle of will and restraint. That same cold and horrible energy I’d felt earlier shuddered thick in the air. Torches burned green at each point of the star—and at the center knelt my quarry, the warlock Alexander Page, a plump, lemon-faced young man, beating steady time on a drum that looked like something of Indian manufacture.

The Briton and the other two Thules stood in a protective triangle around Page, outside the circle. The Briton’s eyes widened as the savage näcken landed on the roof, shaking the boards beneath everyone’s feet with his weight and power.

“Kill the Warden!” the Briton shouted.

He flung out his hand, and a greenish flicker of lightning lashed across the space between us. I stood ready to parry the spell, but it was poorly aimed and flew well wide of me—though it struck Karl along his rear legs.

The näcken bucked in agony and screamed in rage. I flew clear, barely controlling my dismount enough to land on the building rather than being flung to the street below. I landed on my feet and rolled to one side, avoiding a cloud of evil-looking spiders marked with a red hourglass, which one of the other Thule sorcerers summoned and flung at me.

I regained my feet and shot twice at him with the Webley—but the first shot was hurried, and the second wavered off course as the third Thule sorcerer called something like a small violet comet out of nowhere and sent it screaming toward my head. I lifted my left hand in a defensive gesture, shouting the word of a warding spell, and the thing shattered against an invisible barrier a foot from my head, exploding into white-hot shards that went hissing in every direction.

Page took one of them in the arm and let out a small shriek of startled agony, dropping the drumstick he held in his hand.

“No!” shrieked the Briton. “The Master is all that matters! Keep the beat!”

Page, his face twisted in agony, reached for the drumstick and resumed the rhythm—just as the näcken thundered furiously toward Page.

The three on their feet rushed to interpose themselves—even as the näcken crashed into the mordant power of the evil circle they’d infused, as helpless to cross into it as any fae would be.

But in the time it took them to realize that, I had caught my breath and my balance, aimed the Webley, and sent several ounces of lead thundering through the chest and, a heartbeat later, through the skull of the second Thule sorcerer.

Page screamed in terror. The third Thule spun to me and sent multiple comets shrieking toward me, howling curses with each throw. I discarded the emptied revolver and drew my blade. The enchanted silversteel shone brightly even in the dimness of the night, and with several swift cuts I sliced through the energies holding the attack spells together, disrupting them and changing them from dangerous explosives into exploding, dissipating clouds of violet sparks of light.

The Briton, meanwhile, dove out of the circle, spoke a thundering word of power, and sent Karl flying back through the air like a kicked kitten. The näcken screamed furiously and vanished into the darkness.

I had no time. I surged forward, striking down one deadly comet after another, and with a long lunge, rammed my slender blade into the third Thule’s mouth.

The blade bit deep, back through the palate and into the skull, and I could suddenly feel the man writhing and spasming through my grip on the sword, a sensation oddly like that of a fish hooking itself to an angler’s line. I twisted the blade and ripped it back in a swirling S motion, and as it came free of the sorcerer’s mouth it was followed by a fountain of gore.

I whirled, raising a shield with my left hand, and barely intercepted another strike of sickly green lightning. It exploded into a glowing cobweb pattern just in front of my outstretched hand, little streaks leaping out to scorch and burn the roof, starting half a dozen tiny fires.

“Grevane!” screamed Page.

“Drum!” thundered the Briton, even as he raised his hands above his head, his face twisting into a rictus.

And as swiftly as that, I heard the dry, clicking, rasping sound of the dead beginning to scale the building toward us.

Terror filled me. My allies were gone, and I was outnumbered two to one, even before one counted the coming terrors. Further, I’d felt the power of Grevane the Briton’s strike firsthand—and the man was no half-trained warlock, or even a senior sorcerer of the Thule Society. Strength like his could only come from one place.

He was a Wizard of the White Council.

And then, swift on the heels of my fear came another emotion. Rage, pure and undiluted, rage that this man, this creature, would spurn his responsibility to humanity and distort the power that created the universe itself into something so obscene, so foul.

He was a warlock. A traitor.

I flicked my sword into my left hand, then hurled my right hand forward, and a bolt of searing fire no thicker than my pinky finger lashed out at him, blinding in the night. Grevane parried the blow on a shield of his own and countered with more lightning. I caught part of it on the sword, but what got through was enough to drive me down to one knee and send agony racing back and forth through my nerve endings.

Even as I fought through the pain, I saw movement in the corner of my eye: the dead, swarming up the building and beginning to haul themselves onto the roof. In seconds, they would tear me apart.

I gritted my teeth, staggered back to my feet, and rushed forward, sword leading the way.

Grevane gathered more power, but held his strike until the last second as I closed on him—and then he bellowed something and smashed down at the roof beneath us with pure kinetic energy, opening an enormous gap just in front of me.

I dove to one side, a bound as light and graceful as any I had ever made, rolled, and felt the horrible, tingling, invasive presence of necromantic energy course over me as I crossed into their summoning circle—and drove my blade straight out to one side and into the heart of Alexander Page.

The warlock let out a short, croaking gasp. The drumstick fell from his suddenly nerveless hands, and, seconds later, silence reigned, marred only by the dry clatter of bones falling two stories down to the streets of Dodge City.

I stared at Grevane, crouched, as Page quivered on my sword. My left hand was lifted, a shield of pale blue energy already glowing, ready for the necromancer’s next attack.

But instead, Grevane tilted his head to one side, his eyes distant. He smiled faintly. Then, without a further word, he simply stepped backward and fell over the edge of the building, dropping silently into the darkness below.

I ripped the sword free of Page and sprinted to follow him—but by the time I got to the edge and looked down, I saw nothing. Nothing at all but bones in an empty street.

I was so focused on Grevane that I didn’t sense the attack coming at my back until it was nearly too late to survive it.

Pain, simple pain, suddenly fell upon me as if my entire body had suddenly been thrust into a raging fire. I let out a strangled scream, my back arching, and fought to simply keep from plummeting from the roof myself.

“Bitch,” Page panted. He staggered across the roof, one hand desperately trying to stem a steady pulse of blood from what would be, in a few moments, a fatal wound. “Warden bitch. Dolor igni!”

Pain wiped everything else from my mind for the space of several seconds. By the time I could see again, I was sprawled back over the edge of the roof, about to fall, and a deathly pale Page stood over me, holding my own sword to my throat.

“You’ve killed me, bitch,” he gasped. “But I won’t go to hell alone.”

I tried to thrash aside, to push the blade, but my body simply did not respond to me. Pure, frenzied, helpless terror, the kind I had previously known only in terrible dreams of running through quicksand, surged through me.

Page let out a frenzied little giggle and leaned on the sword.

And with a crack of thunder, his head snapped back into a cloud of misty gore. My sword fell from his fingers, and his body dropped limply down onto his legs, collapsing into an awkward pile.

I turned my head slowly.

Wyatt Earp stood on the street below, a trail of nearly headless dis-animated corpses strewn behind him, along with all but the last of the revolvers he’d been carrying.

He lowered the gun, and touched a finger to the brim of his hat in solemn salute.

“YOU SURE YOU can’t stay, Miss Anastasia?” Earp asked.

I shook my head. Karl, now back in his disguise, stamped an angry hoof onto the dirt of Dodge City’s streets as I loaded his saddlebags with fresh supplies. “I’m afraid I can’t. Not with those two still out there.”

Earp grunted. “I never seen someone so determined to skin himself out of some ropes,” he said. “Who was that German?”

I felt my mouth twist with distaste, even as a sour taste of fear touched my tongue. “If our information at the White Council is accurate, his name is Kemmler,” I said. “That Briton was one of his apprentices, Grevane.”

“Bad men?”

“Some of the most dangerous alive,” I said. “I have to get onto their trail while I still can.”

He nodded. “I hear you. Shame about that dinner, though.”

I winked down at him and said, “Perhaps another time.”

He smiled and tipped his hat slightly. Then he offered me his hand.

I shook it.

“Ma’am,” he said. “Think maybe I’d have won that twenty dollars off you.”

Instead of answering him, I opened my purse, fished out a golden coin, and flicked it to him. He caught it, grinning openly. “Have a drink for me, Deputy.”

“Think maybe I’ll do that,” he said. “Good hunting.”

“Thank you,” I said.

KARL AND I headed out of town as the sun began to rise.

“I’m tired,” the näcken said.

“As am I, Karl,” I replied.

“Kemmler,” said the näcken contemptuously. “You only found him to spite me. To keep me in this horrible place.”

“Do not be tiresome,” I said with a sigh. I checked the little leather medicine bag dangling from a thong. Earp had been quite right about Kemmler’s skinning out of ropes with which he’d been bound. The man had left enough skin behind for me to lock onto him with a tracking spell. The bag swung back and forth gently in the direction in which the greatest necromancer in the history of man had gone. “We only do our duty.”

“Duty,” Karl said, disgusted. “I hate this land.”

“I am not overly fond of it myself,” I replied. “Come. Pick up the pace.”

Karl broke into a weary jog, and I settled my hat more firmly on my head. The sun began to rise behind us, golden and warm, as we traveled deeper into the West.