Hell's Marshal Read Free

drive the spirit from its living host,” all three said at once. “You can do this through use of certain religious practices, but it is not easy and requires a holy man. Since you’re a denizen of Hell, no priest will help you.”
    “All right, so exorcism is out. How else?”
    “You must kill the body, then use talismans we give you to send the spirit to the underworld. If you fail to send it across, it will simply possess another body.”
    Bill Hickok spoke alone. “He may use people from the world of the living to do his dirty work. They’ll be his puppets as long as he needs them. Harm as few as possible to keep things quiet.”
    Frank stood, fists at his sides, taking slow, deep breaths. He hated being backed into a corner, but they’d done it nonetheless. He locked eyes with Webber.
    “Why me? Out of all the souls you got down here, why pick me?”
    Webber never looked away, the corners of his mouth turning up and his eyes smoldering.
    “We have a history, you and me.”
    So, it was personal. Frank could understand that, at least.
    “One condition. If I do this, you increase my time in the pit so it’s what I deserve.”
    The judges conferred, hissing.
    “Agreed,” they said as one.
    Frank nodded. “If I’m gonna be Hell’s Marshal, shouldn’t I get a badge?”
    Webber grinned and a bolt of lightning shot down from the ceiling, crashing into Frank’s chest. His body went rigid, and a searing agony blazed on his chest. Fire arced through his body, making his muscles contract until he felt his bones straining not to snap. He tried to scream, but couldn’t open his mouth even an inch.
    The acrid stink of burning flesh filled his nostrils as the skin on his chest sizzled and cooked like bacon over a fire.
    An instant later, the lightning disappeared and Frank collapsed to the floor. When he finally mustered the strength to lift his head, a marshal’s badge had been burned in swollen, pink flesh where the lightning had touched him. In the center of the six-pointed star, a skull stared out, flames dancing in the hollows of its eyes. The words “Hell’s Marshal” circled it all. The judges faded from sight, snickering as they disappeared.
    “Send Jesse James back to us, Marshal Butcher,” echoed their voices. “Dead or dead.”
     

CHAPTER THREE
    Frank looked around the tiny chamber where Damon and Hul had left him. Nothing. Just four gray walls, a gray floor, and the swirling pinks, purples, and grays of the underworld sky, starless and bleak. He stretched out his arms and touched his fingertips to the walls on either side of him, both too tall and smooth to climb out. Not that he wanted to run around the desert of his personal underworld. He’d seen it once and didn’t want to ever again.
    No, he’d be better off in the tiny room until someone came along.
    As if reading his thoughts, the wall in front of him dissolved from sight and Frank stood in a long, narrow chamber with closed cabinets lining either wall. At the far end, a man in a white coat leaned over a tall table, his back to Frank and his head bowed so Frank could only see the halo of white hair around a shiny bald spot the size of an apple. The man waved Frank forward with an age-spotted hand, not even looking up from his work.
    “Come here, Mr. Butcher.” His voice buzzed like lightning trapped in a bottle. “I need to issue your gear to you before you head on out. And give you your team, too.”
    Frank walked forward, placing himself just off center from the old man, hoping to get a look at his face. But all he saw was a scruffy black stubble on his jawline.
    “I work alone,” he told the man.
    The old man chuckled but didn’t look up from his work.
    Frank took one step closer and stood looking down at his own body, spread out in death’s repose. His eyes stared at the sky, cold and blue like ice, and the thin, pink line of a scar ran down his cheek. A forest of stubble stood on the harsh angle of his jaw, while blood and