stopped before they reached the buildings and dumped her on the ground. Holding out her arms to break her fall, she scraped one of her palms bloody. She picked herself up and turned to face him, cradling her injured hand. His blue eyes simmered with an inflamed hunger.
"You ain't making this easy, darlin," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked, drawing away from him.
He just shook his head. "There's others. Don't get it in your head that I ain't fixing for you, though. That squaw ain't the boss of me, and I reckon I'll have my way with you soon enough. Maybe I'll even make you my wife. How'd you like that?"
Victoria's back stiffened. Another betrothal she wanted no part of. "Thank you for bringing me back," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I could do with a good sleep."
"One more thing." He leaned in close, his breath brushing her cheek. "Tell that Oglesby bitch that I'm gunning for her."
The reply left her mouth before she could think twice. "What shall I say? 'Oh, Madam Oglesby, a gentleman said he wants you dead'? Hardly a credible threat."
His eyes flashed. "I ain't got to take your lip, missie."
"It isn't cheek, my good man," Victoria said. "I'm just not certain Cora will take an anonymous threat seriously. She's not exactly a timid woman."
"Oh, she'll listen to me," he said. A smirk came to his lips then. "Tell her that Fodor Glava is aiming to finish what he started."
FIVE
Victoria chose a more demure dress to call on Cora Oglesby the next day: cream-colored with brown trim about the neck and cuffs. She woke just before noon and took her time preparing herself, rehearsing what she might say to the old hunter to change her mind. Nothing sounded right. It didn't help that she had used her strongest pleas the day before, and Cora probably wouldn't be swayed by tales of desert-dwelling demons. Whatever else the old woman was, she wasn't tractable.
Her anxiety mounted as she stepped out of the hotel's front door and began walking toward the saloon. If she couldn't convince Cora to come with her, what would the red-eyed woman do in retaliation? Her control over the other man, while not absolute, was certainly frightening. If he had other enslaved creatures like the bearded nightmare, he should be easily able to overwhelm the Indian woman, yet he bowed to her will. If she could command him, a man she openly acknowledged as a demon, what could she do to a mere human? Victoria tried not to think about it, but the thought nagged at her as she walked through the dusty street.
All too quickly, she found herself standing in front of Ben's Print Shop once more. Around her, the unwashed denizens of Albuquerque went about their daily business. Horses pounded up clouds of dust beneath their hooves as they plodded along, heads bowed beneath the sun's glare. She squinted up at it from beneath her parasol. The woman had spoken of the man-demon needing to avoid sunlight. Hot as it was, at least she should be safe during the day. Feeling a bit better at the thought, Victoria returned her gaze to the saloon's batwing doors. Her fist clenched in determination, and she marched onto the wooden sidewalk and into the Print Shop.
The same sickly smells waited for her inside, along with the same haze of smoke. Cora had fewer patrons at this hour, it seemed. Only two of the tables were occupied, and both groups were far less energetic about their games than they had been the day before. Cora herself stood behind the bar, caught up in an argument with one of her patrons. Victoria stepped up to the bar a short distance from them and waited.
"Ain't possible," Cora said.
"I'm telling you, it's true," the man replied. He was somewhat better dressed than the other patrons, and his squawking accent - similar to the ones she'd heard in New York City - set him apart from the drawling locals. "Some fellow in Germany has done it, or so I hear."
"What's it look like?"
"It has three wheels, and a bench on top for two people. The
"You ain't making this easy, darlin," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked, drawing away from him.
He just shook his head. "There's others. Don't get it in your head that I ain't fixing for you, though. That squaw ain't the boss of me, and I reckon I'll have my way with you soon enough. Maybe I'll even make you my wife. How'd you like that?"
Victoria's back stiffened. Another betrothal she wanted no part of. "Thank you for bringing me back," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I could do with a good sleep."
"One more thing." He leaned in close, his breath brushing her cheek. "Tell that Oglesby bitch that I'm gunning for her."
The reply left her mouth before she could think twice. "What shall I say? 'Oh, Madam Oglesby, a gentleman said he wants you dead'? Hardly a credible threat."
His eyes flashed. "I ain't got to take your lip, missie."
"It isn't cheek, my good man," Victoria said. "I'm just not certain Cora will take an anonymous threat seriously. She's not exactly a timid woman."
"Oh, she'll listen to me," he said. A smirk came to his lips then. "Tell her that Fodor Glava is aiming to finish what he started."
FIVE
Victoria chose a more demure dress to call on Cora Oglesby the next day: cream-colored with brown trim about the neck and cuffs. She woke just before noon and took her time preparing herself, rehearsing what she might say to the old hunter to change her mind. Nothing sounded right. It didn't help that she had used her strongest pleas the day before, and Cora probably wouldn't be swayed by tales of desert-dwelling demons. Whatever else the old woman was, she wasn't tractable.
Her anxiety mounted as she stepped out of the hotel's front door and began walking toward the saloon. If she couldn't convince Cora to come with her, what would the red-eyed woman do in retaliation? Her control over the other man, while not absolute, was certainly frightening. If he had other enslaved creatures like the bearded nightmare, he should be easily able to overwhelm the Indian woman, yet he bowed to her will. If she could command him, a man she openly acknowledged as a demon, what could she do to a mere human? Victoria tried not to think about it, but the thought nagged at her as she walked through the dusty street.
All too quickly, she found herself standing in front of Ben's Print Shop once more. Around her, the unwashed denizens of Albuquerque went about their daily business. Horses pounded up clouds of dust beneath their hooves as they plodded along, heads bowed beneath the sun's glare. She squinted up at it from beneath her parasol. The woman had spoken of the man-demon needing to avoid sunlight. Hot as it was, at least she should be safe during the day. Feeling a bit better at the thought, Victoria returned her gaze to the saloon's batwing doors. Her fist clenched in determination, and she marched onto the wooden sidewalk and into the Print Shop.
The same sickly smells waited for her inside, along with the same haze of smoke. Cora had fewer patrons at this hour, it seemed. Only two of the tables were occupied, and both groups were far less energetic about their games than they had been the day before. Cora herself stood behind the bar, caught up in an argument with one of her patrons. Victoria stepped up to the bar a short distance from them and waited.
"Ain't possible," Cora said.
"I'm telling you, it's true," the man replied. He was somewhat better dressed than the other patrons, and his squawking accent - similar to the ones she'd heard in New York City - set him apart from the drawling locals. "Some fellow in Germany has done it, or so I hear."
"What's it look like?"
"It has three wheels, and a bench on top for two people. The
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