Excerpt

Not fifty feet up the crowded road from the caves' entrance, in the basement of the enormous split-log whorehouse known as the Wet Whistle, a building strategically positioned to be the first thing miners saw when they emerged back into daylight with crystal burning a hole in their horny pockets, a gunhand called Tyrel Reiner sat on a three-legged stool, contemplating a corpse.

It was a fresh one. Nobody Rel knew personally, which was a relief. Not that knowing the poor bastard would've changed anything. The job was what it was, but Rel always found the work went easier when the bloodless face didn't come with a name already attached.

Eager to get this over with, Rel pushed off the stool and tromped across the board floor to the old pickle barrel currently serving as their liquor case. Inside were a dozen pristine bottles of rotgut packed in straw. The whiskey came from a farmer in Colorado who didn't paste labels or ask questions. The booze gleamed like honey in the orange light of the kerosene lantern hanging off the floorboards of the bar above, but the taste was closer to turpentine. Good thing, then, that taste wasn't the point. Neither was the buzz this morning. The only reason Rel needed the whiskey was because strong spirits were the only thing potent enough to make what came next possible.

Shaking like an old ether addict, Rel stepped over the corpse to unlock the iron railway safe bricked into the basement cell's stone wall. Inside were the usuals: gold, guns, a two-gallon jug of laudanum shipped up from El Paso at great expense. But these were merely distractions from the real treasure in the back: a glass-stoppered apothecary jar filled with carefully folded paper sachets.

Stomach clenching in anticipation, Rel grabbed the bottle, shook one out, and placed the folded paper on the stool next to the whiskey bottle. Next came the tin cup, which was hung on a hook by the safe for just such occasions. Working carefully so as not to spill a drop, Rel poured the whiskey. When the cup was as full as it could go without spilling, Rel unfolded the paper sachet and tipped the contents in, trying not to look as the shimmering powder hit the booze and sank straight to the bottom like the rock it was.

You shouldn't do this, warned the crystal-embellished pistol strapped to Rel's hip. You just took one yesterday.

"Shut your trap, old man," Rel grumbled, picking up the tin cup. "No one asked your opinion."

Facts are not opinions, the gun replied pertly. Even crushed to powder, crystal is crystal. What you're drinking is basically pulverized glass suspended in a solution of grain alcohol. I shouldn't have to explain why that's a bad idea, especially when the last dose you drank is still working a bloody path through your intestines.

Hard to argue with that, since it did indeed feel like a thousand tiny knives were going to work on Rel's insides. Normally there'd be a day at least between doses, but this trick only worked when the body was fresh, and the bastard on the floor hadn't been polite enough to wait.

Suit yourself, the gun grumbled as Rel lifted the cup. Just remember: neither of us will get what we want if you die from internal bleeding in a brothel basement.

Rel replied with a rude gesture and tipped the tin cup back hard, draining the contents in one gulp.

As always, the whiskey hit first, burning its way down like sour cinders. This was a good distraction from the crystal, which hurt a lot more. Even with the alcohol to wash it through, every pulverized grain felt like swallowing a broken bottle. The pain of its passing brought tears to Rel's eyes, but that was just a preamble to the real sucker punch of shooting crystal: the sound.

It went off like a cannon, blasting the breath straight out of Rel's chest. It wasn't a real noise—at least, not one that a person who wasn't flying on crystal could hear—but it boxed Rel's ears all the same, making them bleed rivulets as the gunhand dropped to the bloodstained floor.

I told you this was a bad idea.

"Shut. Up." Rel panted, heaving for breath as the violent eruption of noise shook through every inch of flesh. Like always, it felt like it would never end. Like always, though, it did, leaving Rel soundless and shaking, staring at the dead man, who no longer looked so dead.

Nothing on the surface had changed. The corpse was still a corpse without breath or pulse or twitch of life. But deep within the waxy flesh, something was quickening. It shimmered in the body like a heat mirage, rising in pulses that kept time with the waves of nausea pulsing through Rel's abused guts. Finally, after what had to be fifty cycles of this bullshit, the shimmering condensed into the see-through image of a man. A very confused man who immediately started to panic.

"Where am I?" he demanded, looking around the prisonlike basement cell with wild, glowing eyes. "What happened?"

"You died," Rel informed him, removing the bottle of whiskey to plop back down on the stool.

"I did not!" the ghost cried, indignant. "I think I'd know if I was dead. I'm just drunk is all."

"You were drunk," Rel corrected. "Drunk enough to try forcing yourself onto a lady you didn't pay for, which is how you earned that badge on your chest."

The ghost looked down at the red-black stain coating his shirtfront, and his already bloodless face went paler. "Merciful heavens."

"I don't think that's where you're going," Rel said. "Gentlemen like you typically travel the other direction. But you had the poor judgment to die in the Wet Whistle Saloon, which means you ain't going nowhere until you pay your bill."

"Are you shittin' me?" the ghost demanded, fear changing to fury. "I'm goddamn dead, and you want me to pay my bar tab?"

"You'll be paying a lot more than that," Rel promised. "Miss Shandy, the lady you paid the ultimate price for trying to force your attentions on last night, is one of our top-shelf items. The only reason she deigned to look at your ugly face is because you were flashing crystal like lightning. Since you're a miner, we assumed that means you struck a good claim. A claim you won't be needing any longer."

"Like hell I won't!" the ghost snarled, flashing his teeth, which were already sharpening with the malice of the dead. "I don't care how demised I am. I ain't giving up my crystal to no one! 'Specially not to some humphouse gunhand for a whore I didn't even get!"

"That ain't no way to talk," Rel tsked, pulling the crystal gun from its holster. "But it's never too late to learn manners. Is it, Daddy?"

The gun heaved a disgusted sigh but obeyed, rising from Rel's fingers as if lifted by an unseen hand until its bone-inlaid barrel was pointed straight at the ghost's face.

The dead man jumped away. "What in tarnation is that?"

"A gun," Rel said, unnecessarily. "But as I'm sure you've noticed, this ain't no ordinary firearm. This gun can shoot anything, even you. You think you're safe because you're already going to hell? Hell ain't shit compared to what I'll do if you don't spit out the precise location of where you got that crystal."

"Y-You can't do that!" the ghost cried with a furious sputter. "This is robbery!"

"It's a choice," Rel corrected, staring the ghost in the eyes as the pistol hovered closer to the dead man's face. "Way I see it, you can take your chances with St. Peter, or you can take 'em with me. Peter's a saint, so he might still show mercy. I, on the other hand, will absolutely shoot your soul to confetti and let your broken pieces drift across these Great Plains for all eternity, so I suggest you start talking."

"All right, all right," the ghost said, putting up his see-through hands. "I'll tell you, Christ. Just make that devil gun put itself down!"

Rel flicked a finger, and the pistol returned itself to its holster, grumbling all the while. Nothing loud enough for the ghost to hear, though, so Rel was free to pretend it wasn't happening.

"Tell me where you found the crystal."

The ghost was already opening his mouth to point out how impossible that was when Rel walked back over to the safe to pull out a carefully folded map. Not one of the normal useless paper maps that went out of date five minutes after they were drawn since the caves changed themselves like showgirls whenever no one was looking. This was a square of fine leather embroidered with shimmering crystal thread. Each stitch was no bigger than a pinhead, but they twitched in the leather like hairs in living skin, creating a map that breathed and shifted as easily as the caves themselves. It bled, too, if you pricked it. A fact Rel sincerely wished to unlearn.

"What the hell is that?" the ghost demanded, horrified.

"Something bigger than you," Rel replied, touching the map as little as possible as it unfurled. "Now show me where the crystal is."

The ghost did as he was bid. It took him several minutes to figure out how the moving embroidery lined up with the dark paths underground, but eventually, his glowing finger pointed at a fork near the map's end. Not the end of the caves. Those went on forever for all anyone knew, but this map only showed the currently explored territory. How it knew all the tunnels and kept up with their turnings, Rel had no idea, but it was a lucky break the dead bastard's claim was inside its reach. If they'd had to go off the map, things would have been a lot more work.

"I can't believe that thing is real," the ghost grumbled. "What's a treasure like that doing in a cheap whorehouse?"

"We ain't cheap, and that ain't your concern," Rel said, making a mark at the indicated spot with a bit of charcoal before folding the twitching leather up again. Damn creepy thing growled like a bear at being put away again, so Rel shoved it into the safe as quick as quick could, slamming the door on it before it decided to do worse.

"There," Rel huffed, turning back to the dead man now that they both weren't in danger of becoming ghosts. "You gotta claim deed for that strike?"

"Nah," the ghost said. "I jumped it. Original owner's down a hole somewhere in the Dark. Didn't think to get the deed off him before I kicked him in. Bad planning in hindsight, but the tax table's easy to con if you hide your crap good enough. I also thought I'd only be doing a few weeks 'fore I got rich enough to ditch this shit pit. Just my luck I'd get shot."

Luck had nothing to do with him being a sack of stupid, but Rel saw nothing more to be gained from kicking a man who was about to be six feet down.

"That'll do, then."

The ghost's face lit up. "You're letting me go?"

More like Rel lacked the stomach to keep him. The effects of the crystal shot were already fading, leaving only nausea in their wake. No need for the ghost to know that, though.

"Ain't got no right to hold you now that your debt's been settled," Rel said instead. "Move along to wherever you're going, and if you get another chance at life, try to do better next time."

That's rich coming from you, the pistol said, but the ghost seemed comforted. He was already closing his eyes, his transparent face glowing with the reflection of whatever it was the dead saw once Rel released them. Heaven's light or Perdition's flames, there was no telling. Rel was just glad it was over, rising from the stool with an exhausted sigh as the ghost faded from this world.

His bloody corpse was still on the floor, but that was someone else's problem. All Rel had left to do was hand the marked map over and fall into bed, preferably until the next sunrise. Alas, no such luck, because when Rel turned to unlock the heavy door that kept the drunks and other undesirables out of the Wet Whistle's real business, a great tall beanpole of a man was already leaning against it.

"Christ!" Rel shouted, jumping back a good two feet. The man chuckled at the sight, which only made Rel madder. "What the hell's wrong with you? You know I'm to be left alone when I'm working!"

"Tyrel, Tyrel," the other man tsked, pushing up his hat to reveal the charming smile Rel had never been stupid enough to trust. "Is that any way to talk to your superior?"

He said that like it was a joke, but there was never anything funny when Apache Jake was around.

That weren't his real name, of course. No one in this mad murder-parlor of a flesh house went by their Christian names, Rel included. But Apache's nom du crime was especially ridiculous, 'cause he weren't Apache at all. He was Black. Not even one of those Cherokee half-breeds but a perfectly normal Negro, which was why he'd named himself thus. According to Jake, no one was afraid of a runaway slave, but he'd yet to meet the man—Black, white, or Indian—who wasn't scared shitless of the Apache.

That weren't just posturing either. Even when it happened in broad daylight, no one ever heard or saw Apache shoot. The men he faced just sprouted bullet holes and leaked out while he kept smiling and smiling. He was like the map locked in the safe: another of the Wet Whistle's terrifying oddities. Most folks likely counted Rel among that group as well, though, so what was there to say?

Plenty.

"I meant no offense, sir," Rel said, talking over the pistol so it wouldn't get any ideas. "Though I'd appreciate if you didn't scare the life out of me. We got enough bodies buried out back as it is."

"Always room for one more," Apache said, peering over Rel's shoulder at the dead miner on the floor. "And speaking of, did you get that lump of meat to talk?"