The Gunslinger's Man Read Free

impact, but the pain that shot up his arm soon had to contend with a more overwhelming sensation.
    Five men converged on him. The room was not meant to hold so many souls, the space around the bed too narrow to avoid stepping on each other. But that was what they’d come for.
    They laid into him with fists and steel-toed boots, trampling him like a rat.
    Between blows, Asher recognized Octavian among his attackers, but none of the others. He couldn’t risk more than a glance before someone aimed another kick at his face. He tried to duck, to bring his arms up to his head. Doing so only exposed the soft flesh of his stomach, his bare thighs where his sleep shirt had ridden up.
    Pain exploded in his skull. He should have told Octavian what he wanted to hear. He should have said Angel Eyes had run off to Florida. Anything to spare himself this agony.
    No matter how much it hurt, a small part of Asher’s mind was aware that they were still holding back.
    They’re not allowed to kill me. They’re not allowed to do permanent damage.
    Although how Octavian could be expected to estimate that, Asher wasn’t sure.
    One particularly strong kick to his stomach made his vision white out. The air in his lungs evaporated.
    Someone was shouting his name. It could only be Uncle Howard.
    “Get him up,” Octavian commanded. His fangs had dropped, flashing in the moonlight like a pair of knives.
    Asher made a valiant attempt to lock his knees, but his muscles wouldn’t obey and he slumped in the grip of two particularly unfriendly-looking vampires, their features unfamiliar. Their hold tightened around his arms when he made to recoil.
    “Ambrose wants you alive,” Octavian growled, up close and snarling like a dog. “For now.”
    “A-Ambrose?” In agony, Asher scrambled to understand. What did Ambrose have to do with Angel? Had Octavian somehow convinced the mayor that Asher was involved in her disappearance?
    Octavian chuckled mirthlessly. “Did you think he wouldn’t find out? He’s going to make an example out of you.” The prospect seemed to broaden his grin. “You miserable waste of space. You’re gonna regret bein’ born.”
    With a jerk of the head, he sent Asher’s captors in motion—down the stairs, past Uncle Howard with no explanation given. The gas light hurt Asher’s eyes, but no more so than the stricken expression his uncle directed his way. Incomprehension filled his expression. A bruise had already begun swelling on his cheek, and his glasses were askew.
    Chaos in the shop was usually comforting, but tonight it bore the evidence of a brawl. That couldn’t be. Uncle Howard always kept his head down. He was among Ambrose’s protégés.
    It wasn’t until Asher was dragged, stumbling, into the lane that he saw the rest. Doors gaped open in every house up and down Main Street. Worried faces filled the windows. Some townspeople were crying, others had taken to pleading for mercy from the bands of vampires holding them back. Torchlight ringed a makeshift pen in the center of the road, where the dried-up fountain still stood.
    Asher’s stomach sank into his knees as he was tossed in with the other prisoners. He knew them all. Wesley Foley was a cowherd up at the New Morning Farm. Brent Turner had moved to Sargasso with his forty-niner father after the Rush. Austin worked on the railroad. The reverend was there, too, bleeding from a vicious bite that had taken off most of his right ear.
    “What…” Asher started, but couldn’t find it in him to see the question to the end.
    “One of you bastards talked,” Wesley growled, his gaze mutinous.
    A few protesting murmurs attempted to shoot down the suggestion. It was unconscionable. Trust had been their only commandment. With that gone, they were as good as dead.
    “Look around you,” said Wesley, which was how Asher realized he’d spoken at least a portion of his thoughts aloud. “Whoever ain’t here, that’s who killed us.”
    Despite himself, Asher