toward him, he cried out trying to crawl away on his hands and knees. For a moment she thought of letting him go. But he would have raped and killed her or watched while one of his companions had. Besides, she couldn’t let anyone know she was here. If he lived and talked, word would spread. She was close. He was close. She knew it. Malachi would reveal himself soon. She could not allow anything to interfere with her hunt.
As he desperately scrambled away, she walked up behind him. With a powerful twist she snapped his neck and he died instantly. And for a moment she felt rage, knowing his death had been too merciful.
She looked around. All three men lay dead in the street. It had only taken a matter of seconds. She walked to the second dead man and removed the dagger from his chest. As she did, she smelled the blood and her heart momentarily raced. She brought the dagger close to her face and inhaled the coppery scent. Archaic law forbade drinking the blood of dead humans as well, but she found it an interesting test of her willpower.
After a moment she cleaned the dagger on the shirt of the dead man and restored it to her boot. She carried the bodies to a nearby shed and placed them inside. She caught Demeter’s reins, mounted, and rode out of the camp, leaving the bodies behind.
And for a brief instant, the scent of the blood still caressing her memory, she had a better understanding of Malachi and the depth of his desires.
Chapter Seven
J onas Hollister sat in the main dining room of the Paradise Hotel. He couldn’t stop staring at the table linen and thought for a moment it might be the brightest white cloth he’d ever seen. After four years of nothing but the drab gray and dank darkness of Leavenworth, it almost hurt his eyes. But the mug of cold beer sitting before him was another object of rapt attention.
Hollister had never been much of a drinker. He had shared brandy with General Sheridan during the war or when he called his officers together for staff meetings. And he occasionally had imbibed with his commanding officers at various posts on the frontier, so when it came to liquor he could take it or leave it. But the first sip of beer in more than four years felt like someone had tipped back his head and poured liquid ambrosia down his throat.
Hollister fingered the pips on his collar, feeling the major’s leaves there, and looked down at the dark blue sleeves of his blouse, something he thought he’d never wear again. He touched his belt and the leather cover of the holster holding the Navy Colt he’d been issued by the prison quartermaster. There was almost too much to take in. He felt slightly disconnected, like he was walking through a parallel world.
The Paradise was the fanciest hotel in Leavenworth. Pinkerton had given Hollister his first month’s salary in advance and told him and Sergeant Chee to have dinner, then meet at the railway station, where their train car was being readied.
Hollister sensed motion beside him, looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat, for the newly promoted Sergeant Major Chee was standing next to the table at attention.
“Holy shit, Sergeant! How did you do that?”
“Sir?” Chee asked.
“You snuck up on me,” Hollister said.
“No, sir. I’m reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”
Hollister studied the man before him. Not quite six feet tall, thin and rangy, his skin was coffee colored, his hair dark and curly. He had gray eyes, a shade Hollister had never seen before, but surmised they were eyes that never missed much.
“At ease, Sergeant, have a seat.”
Chee sat in the chair to Hollister’s right and Jonas could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Something wrong, Sergeant Chee?” Hollister asked.
“Sir? Uh . . . no, sir,” Chee said, shifting in his seat.
Hollister raised his hand and gestured to the waiter, who stood behind the bar across the room, in conversation with the bartender. Hollister watched until the waiter looked at him again.
As he desperately scrambled away, she walked up behind him. With a powerful twist she snapped his neck and he died instantly. And for a moment she felt rage, knowing his death had been too merciful.
She looked around. All three men lay dead in the street. It had only taken a matter of seconds. She walked to the second dead man and removed the dagger from his chest. As she did, she smelled the blood and her heart momentarily raced. She brought the dagger close to her face and inhaled the coppery scent. Archaic law forbade drinking the blood of dead humans as well, but she found it an interesting test of her willpower.
After a moment she cleaned the dagger on the shirt of the dead man and restored it to her boot. She carried the bodies to a nearby shed and placed them inside. She caught Demeter’s reins, mounted, and rode out of the camp, leaving the bodies behind.
And for a brief instant, the scent of the blood still caressing her memory, she had a better understanding of Malachi and the depth of his desires.
Chapter Seven
J onas Hollister sat in the main dining room of the Paradise Hotel. He couldn’t stop staring at the table linen and thought for a moment it might be the brightest white cloth he’d ever seen. After four years of nothing but the drab gray and dank darkness of Leavenworth, it almost hurt his eyes. But the mug of cold beer sitting before him was another object of rapt attention.
Hollister had never been much of a drinker. He had shared brandy with General Sheridan during the war or when he called his officers together for staff meetings. And he occasionally had imbibed with his commanding officers at various posts on the frontier, so when it came to liquor he could take it or leave it. But the first sip of beer in more than four years felt like someone had tipped back his head and poured liquid ambrosia down his throat.
Hollister fingered the pips on his collar, feeling the major’s leaves there, and looked down at the dark blue sleeves of his blouse, something he thought he’d never wear again. He touched his belt and the leather cover of the holster holding the Navy Colt he’d been issued by the prison quartermaster. There was almost too much to take in. He felt slightly disconnected, like he was walking through a parallel world.
The Paradise was the fanciest hotel in Leavenworth. Pinkerton had given Hollister his first month’s salary in advance and told him and Sergeant Chee to have dinner, then meet at the railway station, where their train car was being readied.
Hollister sensed motion beside him, looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat, for the newly promoted Sergeant Major Chee was standing next to the table at attention.
“Holy shit, Sergeant! How did you do that?”
“Sir?” Chee asked.
“You snuck up on me,” Hollister said.
“No, sir. I’m reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”
Hollister studied the man before him. Not quite six feet tall, thin and rangy, his skin was coffee colored, his hair dark and curly. He had gray eyes, a shade Hollister had never seen before, but surmised they were eyes that never missed much.
“At ease, Sergeant, have a seat.”
Chee sat in the chair to Hollister’s right and Jonas could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Something wrong, Sergeant Chee?” Hollister asked.
“Sir? Uh . . . no, sir,” Chee said, shifting in his seat.
Hollister raised his hand and gestured to the waiter, who stood behind the bar across the room, in conversation with the bartender. Hollister watched until the waiter looked at him again.
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