The Gunslinger's Man Read Free Page B

tightening around the eyes that instantly deepened the wrinkles he worked so hard to hide. “When you run this town, boy, then you can tell me what to do . We clear?”
    Silence fell over the street.
    Under Ambrose’s heavy stare, Asher fought to corral a bone-deep shudder.
    Don’t look away. Don’t cower.
    “Have him if you want, Halloran.” Another indifferent puff on the cigar. “But don’t come cryin’ to me when he tries to stake you in your sleep.”
    A smattering of laughter rolled over the gathering of vampires without quite settling into full-blown glee. They would be short for their dinner.
    “No,” Asher bit out, when Octavian gripped his arm. “No, let me go!” It hurt to breathe, to speak, but all his aches were inconsequential if they meant he had to watch his friends die. “He-he’s right! I’m the one who orchestrated all of this—I’m the one you should—”
    “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ambrose spat. “Shut him up already!”
    A broad fist cuffed him over the ear once, twice. The world swayed madly in Asher’s blurring vision. Pale and drawn in the torchlight, Connie and Wesley’s faces materialized briefly from the fog. Asher caught sight of his uncle slumping heavily in the doorway of the shop.
    Octavian’s raised fist was the last thing he saw before oblivion encroached and everything went blissfully dark.
     

Chapter Three
     
     
     
    Asher blinked in and out of consciousness. The first time, he found himself upside down, brown fur against his cheek and the smell of hay and manure in his nostrils. The second, he saw a poorly papered wall and the trim of brass filigree twinkling in the sunlight. He woke up once just to lean over and be sick all over a frayed rug.
    Someone swore when he did that, but it didn’t seem to matter.
    A day or a week later, he became aware of his mouth being forced open and something slick and coppery being poured down his throat. He gagged, though less for the taste than the realization that Halloran had his wrist jammed right against his teeth. Between panic and revulsion, Asher’s lungs ceased working. He choked on the blood in his mouth, Halloran’s face floating above him. Curses echoed in his ears.
    It didn’t feel much better with Halloran pinching his nose shut, but at least the blood went down. He was allowed to cough. His air-starved lungs filled with air.
    Halloran grasped his chin in a meaty hand.
    Not again. Asher braced to fight him off, foolish idea that it was, only to discover his hands bound behind him. The best he managed was an awkward wriggle, a pitiful moan.
    “Stop that, you little bastard.”
    Romero?
    The sound of her voice distracted Asher long enough for Halloran to squeeze another trickle of blood down his throat. The flavor triggered another convulsion.
    “It’s an acquired taste,” someone snorted in the background.
    Asher had already stopped listening. His every muscle was on fire. His ribs seemed to be snapping apart in his chest. Asher cried out in agony, his vision whiting out.
    This was why Halloran had claimed him. The son of a bitch wanted to finish what Octavian had started.
     
    * * * *
     
    Darkness receded slowly. Asher blinked in the faint spill of moonlight through the windows, his vision gradually adjusting to the low, white gleam. He didn’t recognize the room around him, but he could tell the metal bedframe had seen better days. The scored wooden floorboards had weathered many footsteps. Ornate fabrics upholstered a trio of armchairs arranged near the window, all unoccupied. The way to the door was similarly open.
    Asher pushed himself upright, surprised when his arms could hold his weight. His hands were free, no rope burn around his wrists. He was certain he’d been in fetters before, but just how far back was before ?
    The ornate oval mirror opposite the bed revealed his drawn features and sunken eyes. His blond hair seemed gray in this light. Good . It was bad enough that he was still alive. He