Blood Ballad: Charmslinger, #3

By Liza Street

Bounty hunter Gracie Boswell knows three things: the vampires want your blood, the fae want your flesh…and worst of all, the demons want your soul.

Traveling through the outlaw-infested west is never an easy prospect, and it's even harder when Gracie realizes she might be half in love with one of the men in her posse. It's harder still when a demon starts slaughtering entire towns, and nobody else has the guts—or the lack of self-preservation—necessary to go after the demon behind the violence.

As Gracie, Boone, and Carson scour the territory for the soulless menace, the local folk show them only distrust and prejudice. Turns out in this region, anyone who wields magic is suspect, and Gracie's posse has to be just as careful of the demon as they do of the intolerant locals.

Because who's going to save those ungrateful cowherds if Gracie's dangling from the end of a hangman's noose?

 

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liza Street
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393229759

Book preview

1

Death is in the air. The stench of it has a way of overcoming all other senses, like a brothel full of conflicting perfumes. It brings to mind every death I know—deaths I’ve caused, and deaths I’ve witnessed. It fills my lungs and reminds me I ain’t immortal.

It reminds me it’s coming for me. Maybe not today, but it could be. Or death could bide its sweet time, snatch me away when I’m least expectin’ it, like a water fae grabbin’ me from behind.

Last time we were in Salvation, it was night and we were rushing away so’s not to be hanged. We were trying to escape death.

Death came to Salvation this week anyway, only it didn’t find us. Just every other body in town. We sit on our horses in the center of the street, surveying the carnage before us. The bodies are all lyin’ out in the dirt or on the covered walkways, coated in blood and gore. Much of the dusty street is black with blood. Flies and wasps are thick, buzzing, filling my ears and drowning out the sounds of my own life, my heart pounding, my blood pumping.

I wish we’d never come back to Salvation. The whole reason we’re here at all is for the bounty we’re owed after killing a vampire deader’n dead a week ago. Given the sheriff’s hatred of charmslingers and the way I’d punched his son, I hadn’t been sure he would approve the disbursement of our funds.

Ain’t nobody left to disburse anything.

Boone gives a sorrowful look to one of the corpses, his dark eyebrows jagged beneath his broad-brimmed hat. His caramel eyes express a deep empathy that troubles me, like he can see how the last moments went for these people, and his vampiric heart is bleedin’ for ’em. At the same time, his square jaw is set. There’s no danger of him bein’ overwhelmed by feelings; he’s in control.

I wish I had his control, but I don’t. I can’t make myself look at any of the bloated faces or torn flesh. The hum of insects fills the air, overpowering the sound of my too-loud heartbeats.

Carson dismounts from his stallion, Domino. His handsome face—blue eyes, straight nose, and a mouth that’s usually eager to smile—is taut while he concentrates on the ruined folks. He squats down next to one of the bodies, holding his arm over his nose and mouth. As a shapeshifter, his sense of smell is stronger’n mine, and this is one time I definitely do not envy him that advantage.

Boone and I clamber from our horses, too, to get a closer look that none of us wants to take. I step gingerly between the fallen, batting impatiently at the wasps that circle the destruction. I focus on the insects, not the folks who died.

Both of the men ain’t avoiding the corpses like I am, and I’m self-conscious of a sudden, like I should be able to detach my feelings from my eyes and take in the scene objectively. But when I risk a glance at a dark-haired woman whose face is coated in dust-caked blood, black with age, my knees buckle and I fall to the dirt. She don’t look any older than me, like I could be her, or she could be me. Our positions could easily be reversed.

Gracie? Carson says, rushing over.

I flounder for an excuse to be on the ground. Lookin’ for tracks, I say as I focus on the dirt around the woman’s odd-bent legs. A clump of blood-soaked earth reveals a boot print which looks too big to match with the woman’s heels. I point at it, relieved to have something other than death to focus on and puzzle over. See there?

Good thinking, Carson says, although I suspect he sees through my ruse. I’ll examine the areas around the other bodies and see if there are similar prints. Might give us an idea of the demon’s shoe size…and who knows, mayhap it’ll help somewhat.

Can’t be a demon, I say, but that judgment is more about what I want to be true than what actually is.

Feral shifters would’ve torn up the bodies more, Carson says. There’d be chunks missing.

Fae, then, I say. But fae eat their victims and they ain’t wasteful. There’s a veritable cornucopia of human flesh here. If the fae couldn’t consume it all at once, they’d take prisoners for later, and revel in the prisoners’ misery instead.

Sounds horrid, but I’d prefer fae to demons.

Vultures circle above. I’m surprised we didn’t notice them on our way here to Salvation, but we were distracted, worried about our reception. One of the vultures wheels down from the sky, tempted by the scent of death and emboldened by our stillness. I follow its path past the covered walkway in front of Rarity’s boarding house to where it perches on fresh-cut wood.

Gallows.

I glare at the construction, which looks bright and splintery in the midday sun. That’s the whole reason we left this town so fast. Sheriff Phillips would’ve been happy to string up a charmslinger like myself—a human who practices magic. Apparently the likes of me ain’t too welcome around these parts. Salvation’s at the neck of an area in the Rift Territory most call the Fiddle, a high plateau with a sprinkling of tiny towns. The Fiddle’s roughly shaped like its name, with the neck pointing northeast and the curved body pointing southwest. The curves are formed by Beast River on one side and a mountain range on the other. I’ve seen it on a map, and the look is completed by two long, skinny lakes at the sides, like the holes in the sides of a fiddle.

Folks in the Fiddle, it seems, don’t care much at all for magic. Not even when it can make their lives easier. Not even when it can save their lives. I think they’re a bunch of damned fools.

And a week ago, I could’ve been hanged by these damned fools. Carson and Boone, too, if they were found to be holding charms.

Some of the Fiddlers ain’t any smarter’n one of the wasps circling the bodies here, and they’re just as mean.

The vulture ruffles its coal-black feathers and I clamber to my feet.

If this is a demon, I begin.

It is, Boone says. You know it is. This wasn’t shifters, fae, or vampires. That leaves demons.

If it is, I say, because I ain’t quite ready to admit it, although I know he’s right, then we’re outnumbered. You probably have some noble argument as to why we ought to stick our necks out for the law-abiding folks of the Fiddle, but—

No, Boone says. We should go north, get out of here.

I stare at him and have to close my mouth a sudden before a fly zooms in. You’re sayin’ we should leave? I ask.

That’s exactly what I’m sayin’, Boone says.

Folding my arms across my chest, I say, You’re not even arguin’ that we ought to bury these poor souls.

There has to be more than sixty of ’em, he says. Better to burn them or let nature take its course.

Carson’s looking from me to Boone and back again, his handsome face regretful. When I formed this posse, I thought he was too pretty to join it. But over the past few months, he’s shown himself to be a capable ally and a good friend.

Just yesterday, the alpha of the Heaven’s Gate shapeshifter pack was telling me I was the leader of this little group. I’ve my doubts about that, but I certainly ain’t complaining if these two want to follow my lead and hightail it out of Salvation to safer regions.

Great, I say, moving toward my buckskin mare, Kitty. Let’s go.

Carson takes a few steps to follow me before stopping in his tracks. Wait a minute.

I knew our retreat was too good to be true. What?

You don’t hear that? Carson says.

Obviously I don’t, so I put my hands on my hips and wait for him to explain. Boone cocks his head to the side a little, listening as well. I hear nothing but the buzzing of insects and the thrum of my impatience coursing through my limbs.

It’s a song, Boone says finally. A blood ballad.

The two men move at the same time toward Rarity’s boarding house. With a sigh, I follow after them. As we get closer to the door, which rests ajar a few inches, I hear the ballad, too. My pa used to sing this one, about the cowherds who were the first to witness the opening of the Rift. I’ve always liked the refrain. Despite its gruesome lyrics, it has a right cheerful melody.

Dust, dust, on the knees of their trousers

Tears, tears, on the cheeks of their faces

Wind, wind, past the sides of their wide-brims

Blood, blood, flows in front of their eyes.

That melody’s been twisted somehow, changed into a minor key that lifts the little hairs on the back of my neck.

Boone steps up to the doorway of Rarity’s boarding house, and the ballad stops.

Hello? he calls.

Last week when we were here, the boarding house looked crooked, like a strong wind was the last nudge needed for it to escape the trappings of its structure. Now there’s that, and the bodies before it, and with its gaping doorway it looks like something I’d find in an old penny dreadful.

Hello? Boone says again.

A shot rings out. Boone ducks, vampire-quick, as a bullet splinters the edge of the door where his head was less than a second ago.

Well, that ain’t friendly, I say, as Boone, Carson, and I all draw our guns.

We’re not here to hurt you, Boone says, scooting around the door. He’s hoping to get a view through one of the windows. Better him testing his luck than me, I suppose, as chances are he’ll heal from a shot to the brain pan. Me, not so much. I don’t even think the expensive healing charms I lost in Heaven’s Gate would heal me from a bullet to the head.

The song begins again, in a rich, feminine voice.

They brought all their cattle

Past the river’s a’winding

Up through the hills

To the pastures of green

When up from the ground

There came a terrible finding

The monsters of nightmares

Make grown cowherds scream.

Miss? I call. Ma’am? We’re just wondering what happened here in the town. Do you need help, healing of any kind?

Laughter echoes from the darkness of the boarding house. It stops just as abruptly and I hear the shuffling of footsteps. I point my revolver at the ground, hoping it ain’t a mistake to let down my guard.

First I notice the woman’s bare, white feet, poking out just beneath the dirt-encrusted hem of her pale green dress. They’re streaked with dried blood and dust, and her toenails are jagged. My gaze travels up over her dress, which is torn and stained by what could be blood or food, I ain’t certain, nor do I want to examine it closer. She reeks of sweat and fear. Her hair’s a light brown and loose about her shoulders, but lanky with oil and grime.

She holds a rifle like it’s the one prize in the world what can give her security. I don’t blame her. If I’d been through whatever happened here, I’d take my revolver down to the courthouse and marry it.

You ain’t here to hurt me, she says, peering into my face.

No. Uncomfortable with her deep brown gaze, I turn to survey the street behind us. Who did this?

You’ll have to face me when you speak, she says. I don’t hear so good.

I turn around again so’s she can read my lips. Can you tell us what happened?

She sets down her rifle. There was a funeral for wicked old Janey James. Everyone was happy she was gone. Then everyone went mad. Murderous. I was standing next to Mr. Rarity and Miss March, and Miss March turned to Mr. Rarity and stabbed him in the neck with her knitting needles. From there, everyone else was attacking each other. I ran, hid under the counter yonder. She points behind her at Rarity’s bar. Shot anyone who came close. Been hiding ever since.

Why’d you shoot at Boone? I ask, pointing to him so she knows who I mean.

He came up here alone. None of the folks worked together at the funeral. When I saw you and that other fella with him, and he wasn’t attacking either of you, I knew it was safe.

All right. I rub my hand over my face, trying to dispel the scent of death, to no avail. We’re getting out of here. You want we should drop you somewhere?

She shrugs. I don’t have anywhere to go.

You’ll run out of food eventually, Carson says. I don’t see any animals around.

They killed all the livestock, the woman says, closing her eyes.

I can’t imagine what she’s seein’ in her mind each time she closes her eyes, and I don’t want to try.

Where’s the closest town? I ask.

Spirit’s Breath is closest, she says, but it takes longer to get there because it’s in the mountains. Divinity is the shortest trip, just a few hours’ ride south.

South. Blast it. When I had it in my head to get out of Salvation, I hadn’t thought to go farther into the Fiddle.

It’s good, Boone says, coming to stand next to me. I inhale deeply, pulling in his coffee and almond scent, as he adds, We’ll sound the alarm about the demon attack here.

And then skedaddle back out of the Fiddle? I ask, hating how unsure I sound.

And then skedaddle, he agrees, and Carson nods.

All right, then. I motion for the woman to come with us. I’m Gracie Boswell, I say. You can call me Gracie. This here’s Levi Boone, and Sam Carson.

Anna Honeychurch, she says. Call me Anna.

We step off the covered walkway. Anna blinks in the sunlight. I wonder if she’s stepped far from Rarity’s once since the violence, or if she’s huddled for days under that bar.

I choose my path carefully, avoiding the spilled blood and the thickest swarms of flies and wasps buzzing around the corpses. Anna stops next to the woman where I’d fallen moments before.

Oh, Miss March, she says on a sob.

Carson takes her elbow, gently leading her along.

Are you all right, Boswell? Boone asks me.

I glance up at his caramel eyes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be all right? I ask, gesturing to the street littered with bodies.

He shakes his head. We reach the horses, who are already skittish from the scent of blood and the eerie silence. I smooth my hand over Kitty’s neck, reassuring her and taking comfort at the same time. Folks talk about being stewards to the animals, but I’ve found some animals care for us just as much, if not more.

Anna rides with Carson, sitting behind him on the saddle while balancing her rifle over her shoulder. She looks to the south, then taps Carson’s shoulder.

I don’t want to go to Divinity, she says. I don’t want to be around others.

Surely you don’t want to stay in Salvation? Boone asks.

No. She shakes her head. Miss March lived close, but not in town. You probably passed her homestead; she’s got a farm and an old cow. If the cow’s still alive, she’d want someone to take care of that beast.

The cow’s alive—we passed the homestead on our way in. We’ll take you there instead of Divinity, then, I say, and the men nod.

It isn’t until we’re a full mile from Salvation that I feel my shoulders loosening back down.

Anna hums the blood ballad, still in that eerie tune. I want to ask her to stop it, but I get the feeling she don’t know she’s doing it.

The house sits lonely in the middle of the plains, its only company the small barn just behind it. Everything is as we left it—door open, a rancid cooking pot stinking up the environs, the surviving livestock milling about in front of the barn.

A few hours pass while we get her set up at the homestead, cleaning out the late Miss March’s house and linens. I help Anna haul the cooking pot from the hearth to a spot some distance from the house. We upend the rotting contents, struggling not to gag. Anna hums as we bring the pot back to the house. I wonder how she’ll possibly live a normal, happy life after the violence she just witnessed.

But that’s how it goes out here in the Rift Territory.

A couple of the hens are too far dead to be of any use for food, and Carson carries them out a ways. Anna walks with him. Despite her unkempt appearance, the two look nice together, like a law-abiding homesteader couple, performing daily chores as the sun sinks toward the horizon.

A whiff of almonds reaches my nose and I see Boone at my side. It’s spooky how much faster and stealthier he gets as night approaches.

You think we’ll ever have something like that? I ask, gesturing toward Carson and Anna with my chin. My faces flushes with heat when I realize how the words can be interpreted, and I look down at the scuffed toes of my boots. I mean, not like that, and not us, not you and me or anything. I ain’t talkin’ about…I’m just wonderin’ about having a little place to live someday.

Boone’s quiet and I sneak a glance at him. My ire rises when I see he’s smirking.

What? I ask, my tone defensive.

You’re funny when you’re flustered, Boswell, that’s all. And yeah, someday you’ll have the home you want. He takes a step forward and calls to Carson, who’s walking back toward us with Anna at his side. We should get moving if we want to make it to Divinity before midnight.

Anna and Carson stop walking, and I see Carson gesture as he tells her what Boone said.

You can stay with me, Anna says. You don’t want to be traveling around the Fiddle at night. Lots of outlaws around here.

Boone and Carson and I engage in a three-way, silent conversation which culminates in me tipping my hat at Anna. Thank you, I say. We’d appreciate it.

She gives me a grim smile. As afraid as I am of crowds and people at the moment, I can’t deny I’ll appreciate the company.

We set our bedrolls out on the cabin floor, and I think about what will happen to Anna long, long after we’re gone from this place.

What nightmares the poor woman will have.

2

The farther south we go into the Fiddle region, the prettier it gets. Prairie grasses are a soft green and they ripple cheerfully even under the