John's first target and the Ace of Spades, Eddie Boggart is a miserable prick and the one who put a bullet through John's chest and sent him drifting into the afterlife. It speaks to his abilities that, despite his size, he's still as dangerous as they come, even if he wins fights and duels by drawing and shooting first; by lying and cheating; by stabbing in the back; or by sacrificing others to save his own skin, he is as dangerous as they come. But skill at fighting doesn't equate to skill in keeping a life rolling and in the snowdrifts and darkness of the Rocky Mountains, Eddie will find his own personal revenant knocking at his door, revenge borne on hot brass and cold blood.

Done by the wonderful  Exleston with whom I've done work in the past. I'm working with him to get references for all of my characters, as well as hopefully working on a graphic novel/comic adaptation of the novel, too. For now, though, I'd like to introduce the character as well as give a free preview of the novel itself. Once published by Thurston Howl, it is now (hopefully) migrating to Fenris to be republished, so if you're interested in getting a copy, you can find it here: https://fenrispublishing.com/product.php?id=1167

- Prologue -
Winter, 1898

I feel as if I’m flying, soaring, falling. Wind rushes past my ears as I plummet through the inky blackness, my arms and legs ignoring my commands to reach out to grab something – anything – to arrest this freefall. The way that wind roars past, like a locomotive chugging and spitting, thundering along ancient tracks. And just when I see a pinhole of pure white light that pierces through the emptiness, I hear that engine roar. The light closes in on me, swiftly growing from a pinhole to a keyhole, a keyhole to a lantern, and a lantern to—

Eeeeeeee!

The steam whistle blares like a shrieking banshee, drowning out the buffeting wind and thrusting a cold, hard blade through my throbbing skull. Then, with a thud, everything vanishes as I cascade through a crevice out of that terrible void. The snowy ground rushes up to greet me as my stomach climbs into my jaw before finally settling into my gut with a nauseating thud.

My eyelids part and I find myself staring up at a simple, wooden roof.

Everything is quiet, peaceful. The crackle of an open fire betrays what may lie just out of sight. I’m so weak that my arms refuse to obey me. So, I part my lips, which are so dry and numb that it feels like I’m prying open a spring trap. Then, I lift my cold, heavy head.

I scan this room, simple, cramped, and unadorned, finding only scant furniture and no decorations. In all, there is just a table, a chair, a small shelf of books, and a bed. A bed I lie in. A bed soaked with already coagulating blood.

As my gaze settles down across my own chest, I realize, it’s my blood. Blood bubbling from a wound just under my heart. Filled with new terror, I try to lift my arm to tear off the blanket which covers me – ruined now beyond repair – but my fingers barely budge. My right hand hangs limp and uselessly over the side. Nothing works, and I feel so, so cold. Tears of confusion and fear rush to my eyes, yet they never fall.

A loud creak attracts my attention and I peer expectantly at the door directly opposite the foot of the bed.

From within a shadow cast by the doorframe, a figure emerges: a wolf. Tall and thin, his fur is mostly a mottled black-and-gray pattern splotched with white under his chin. Over his wide shoulders, knotted over his right shoulder and hanging over his left, is a woven brown poncho, stitched chaotically with symbols and stars, reminiscent of Plains Tribes. Yet denim trousers and a simple collared shirt covered with vest and jacket comprise the rest of his outfit, like a settler. What speaks loudest, however, are what are slung lazily around his hips, crossing low under a golden belt buckle. Two milled leather gun belts the color of fresh coal and in their holsters, a set of matching blued Colt Single Actions, their handles carved from dark cherry wood.

I glance up at his face, but find it concealed behind a black, wide-brimmed cattle hat. The crown is lined with stitched wool pictographs of Mayan origin. Yet his belt buckle appears to feature a ram blowing a horn in a style evocative of scenes from a cathedral’s stained-glass window. Smoke twists up from a crooked dogend clamped in his long muzzle, one dotted with a black nose. Even with his face obscured, I know he grins, wide and toothy.

This distresses me most of all and I can’t help myself but demand, “Wh-who are you?”

The wolf’s chin perks slightly, enough that I can see the pendant which swings from his neck – a short-handled, double-sided war hammer wrought of iron, its pommel attached to a silver chain. Now I see it, that grin in his obscured face. It is thin, mocking, sadistic. Yet his stance is open, his hands perched on his belt, his tail still. Something blue and warm surrounds him, a warmth I can sense. Who is he?

“What… what happened?” I try again, barely above a whisper.

The wolf lifts his hand and gestures – palm open and down – at my chest. He holds it there until I look, until I see – see that my chest doesn’t rise and fall. I take no breath yet feel no need. Something falls into place and a deep melancholy washes over me, yet tears again refuse to obey my call. I clench my jaw and swallow the lump in my throat.

Eyes open, I meekly ask, “Please, I ask again: who are you?” When the wolf’s arm settles at his side and his smile broadens to show every tooth in his mouth, that smoldering dogend pinched between them, I know no answers shall be forthcoming. He needn’t answer, though, because I know. The unthinkable has happened. I don’t recall how, but it has. The sorrow fades and what supplants it is silent, dark acceptance.

“Are,” I query while looking to my Chiron, “Are you here to—to…take me onwards?”

The grin fades slightly. “No,” he finally barks, his voice like a handful of gravel, “I’m here to give you back.” His hand snatches up the blanket and he tears it from the bed, sending it scattering onto the floor and revealing the gaping, welling puncture wound. I find looking painful yet cannot tear my eyes away. The wound isn’t festering. It’s too cold for that. “Look at me—look at me.”

My gaze snaps up in innate obedience to the wolf, his voice – even when not raised – is a shout.

“When the roses blossom,” he declares, “you shall find life anew. Until then, you must tend to their branches as you refused to do the garden that was your life. Only when your scales balance will you find your way home. But, don’t tarry, and don’t stray from your path. I’ll be watching.”

The wolf wrenches his right hand upwards and twists it into a fist.

Air thuds against my ears and my body lifts up from this soiled mattress, bellybutton first. A horrid, retching, searing pain pervades my dimming soul and I rack back my head and let out a howl loud enough to curdle blood, yowling and hissing and begging for mercy. Yet something grasps me, compels me to look, to watch.

Metal splinters draw from within the cavernous wound, piece-by-piece, shard-by-shard. Scream pocked only by brief moments of respite, I only stop when a gleaming, deformed slug slides from within. The wound inexplicably stitches over, white fur growing where once was naught but viscera. When it sutures closed, feeling – warm, blessed sensation – washes over my extremities. Claws flex from my fingertips, my paws grasp and open, my tail curls.

Delicately, I float back to the bed. And just as my head touches pillow, a new sensation begins: a burning, razor sharp, cutting ache. It emanates from where that bullet separated me from life and I watch as black ink soaks my skin and fur. It doesn’t appear from anywhere; it just is where it once wasn’t. Then it spreads, slowly, deliberately, away from its source. Like railways drawn on a map, it stretches from the wound just below my heart across my chest, torso, shoulders, arms, waist, and eventually legs.

Then, from these twisting, wicked brambles soon spring spikes of obsidian ink – thorns. It only stops when the thorns wrap around each branch, finishing with the one that envelops my neck and throat. But this act isn’t complete. In four different places, four brands appear. Below my liver, a black spade; above my right pectoral, a red diamond; nearer my left arm beside my navel, a set of black clubs; and above my heart, a red, gleaming heart. Finally, the pain abates.

I peer at the wolf, his fingers spread but hand still flexed. The bullet and fragments float beside the bed at chest-height, held aloft by nothing but prayer. Gasping – gasping! – for air, I study him with two parts terror, one-part intrigue, and one-part confusion. A loud bump comes from behind and the wolf grins, anticipating that I ask, “Who are you?”

Silence. At least from the wolf. The door behind him thrusts open and a ram rushes in. Dressed all in black with a white, bib-like collar about his throat, he desperately searches the room, but there’s nothing to be found. The Wolf with No Name is as gone as the wind. A clatter fills the room as the bullet fragments suddenly litter the floor, shocking the ram and his plain-clothed wife standing just over his shoulder.

Finally, confused, fright-filled eyes meet mine. “You?” he demands, equally upset as relieved. “You died, last night, a ball of fur and tears! I-I gave you sacrament and comfort and-and was preparing to have you… How are you—we heard voices! Who were you talking to!?”

Judging by his clothes, the ram is not some sharecropper or settler. He’s a beast of the cloth, but not Catholic. Catholic priests can’t marry. No, he’s a Methodist. I want badly to relay what I’ve just experienced, but who would believe that? Not a beast of his God. I touch the brand-new tattoos and fur coloring and find they feel as if they were always there, dry and old. My mind chugs like a steam engine and finally, out of breath, I cross my arms as if providing self-comfort.

“Gabriel,” I breathlessly claim. “The Archangel Gabriel, in all His glory...”

Disbelief fills the ram’s eyes, but then he is overcome by faith, for a ‘miracle’ has occurred. He drops to his knees in feverish supplication, his wife joining him moments later. I peer fitfully out the narrow window beside me and think, ponder. I was dead. As in ‘as a doornail.’ And now I’m not. Not anymore. I touch the ink. ‘I must tend to the garden of my life,’ he said. The symbols, too. No, this is commandment enough. I’m not sure why I was brought back, but I know for what purpose.

“And I know who to start with,” I think as I touch the black spade. “Eddie Boggart, I’m coming for you first…”