The Gunslinger's Man Read Free Page A

cast his gaze over the beaten, bleeding faces around them. It was easier than glancing up to see Uncle Howard holding up the shop doorframe, pleading with one of Octavian’s brethren to understand that this was a mistake. Asher was blameless.
    Asher would never conspire against their rightful leader.
    In short order, the remaining six members of his group had been dragged out of their homes and thrown in with their fellow criminals. Asher caught Connie Pinkham when she tangled her feet in her nightshirt and came down hard into his lap.
    “They know,” she whispered fervently, her cheeks damp with tears. “Oh God, they know—”
    “Shh. It’ll be all right.” Asher wrapped his arms around her, heedless of the impropriety of holding a woman so close when she wasn’t even wearing a corset. He and Connie had grown up together, as close as siblings for the better part of their lives. Now was not the time to let decorum claim the upper hand on their friendship. “It’ll be all right.”
    “How?” Connie wheezed, her voice muffled by the crook of his neck.
    Asher cast about for an answer, but all he could see were blazing torches and vampires in their dozens circling them. They didn’t even need to hold back the weeping mothers and fathers looking on. Sargasso was all about knowing one’s place.
    Pounding horse hooves shook the ground. Asher was reminded of his dream as he turned, Connie tearing free of his embrace.
    “This all of them?” Ambrose Solomon’s mount was as black as his glare, but between the tip of his lit cigar and the torchlight, the silver in his hair and beard stood out.
    Asher had the stray, absurd notion that he could pick out every wrinkle on the mayor’s face from this angle. What he should’ve done for a good view of their tyrant was kneel a bit more often.
    “Seems like,” Octavian answered jauntily. “Caught their mastermind myself.”
    Whatever praise he’d been hoping for was denied. Ambrose puffed his cigar. “Sorry bunch.”
    “What do you want us to do with them, Father?”
    “No suggestions of your own, Little Brother?” Astride his own horse at Ambrose’s right, Malachi grinned down at his nest-mate. He was older than Octavian in vampire years but his junior in years lived as a human. He seemed about Asher’s age, maybe twenty-five at most, and his silky black hair almost suggested a family link with the mayor. Almond-shaped eyes dominated his features, constantly narrowed with delight.
    He was striking. Even dangling above the precipice of his own mortality, Asher could admit that. He supposed it was the reason why he didn’t notice the Red Horn Riders among Ambrose’s suite until their leader spoke up.
    “If it’s suggestions you want, I got one for you.”
    Asher’s blood turned to ice in his veins. The Riders were here, standing beside Ambrose as allies.
    Wesley had it all wrong. None of the men and women who’d believed in a future free of vampires had spilled their guts to the enemy.
    They’d trusted the wrong people.
    Asher had doomed them all.
    “I’m all ears,” Ambrose said around the end of his cigar.
    “I’ll take the boy off your hands. Make sure he don’t get no more bright ideas.”
    Ambrose frowned at the ringleader. “Which boy?”
    As if he’d been thrust back into his impossible dream, Asher watched the ringleader point a finger straight at him.
    “Isn’t he the one who paid your way?” Malachi asked sweetly.
    “He is.”
    Asher did his best not to flinch. He wouldn’t beg for mercy. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Let Sargasso know what he’d been willing to do for them. Let them watch him go to his death for a purpose.
    “Hmm. Interesting.” Malachi glanced back and forth between them, his feline smile growing wider.
    “Interesting? He’s a goddamn quisling!” Octavian contended, spittle flying from his mouth. “You gotta make an example of him, Father!”
    Ambrose’s gaze hardened, an almost imperceptible