“Turquoise and silver—I ain’t no chef, in case you couldn’t tell.”
“Fair enough.” Rather than empty his money bag on the counter, Sterling cautiously placed pieces of turquoise and silver one by one until the bartender nodded, letting him know that that was enough. He sent the leather satchel back to his inventory list and took a quick glance around, making sure no one was looking like they were going to rob him. The beer came first, followed by the shot of tequila, the bartender pouring a shot for himself as well.
“Salud,” Sterling said as he lifted his shot glass.
“You want some salt?”
“Sure.”
The bartender procured a salt shaker from the front of his apron. He licked the swath of skin between his thumb and his pointer finger and sprinkled some salt on it, Sterling doing the same. Both of them took the shot and licked the salt, Sterling wincing at the tequila’s strong bite.
“Whew,” he said, his throat on fire.
“Good shit though, right?”
“Hell yeah, it’s good.”
“Best in Las Cruces.”
“You ain’t lying.” Sterling took a swig from his warm beer and the bartender left to deal with the two other customers. The green chili stew came, as did the chips and salsa and piping hot tortillas in a pink plastic tortillero. Sterling feasted, and he was just finishing up his stew when the bartender came around again.
“I’m looking for somebody,” Sterling told him as he mopped up some of the salsa with his last tortilla.
“Oh, yeah? Who are you looking for?”
“Anyone named Juan. You know someone named Juan?”
“What kind of Juan?”
“Any Juan,” Sterling said, both of them laughing at the way it sounded.
The bartender poured up another shot. “So, let me get this straight, you want anyone named Juan, eh?”
“Yep, any Juan will do.”
Once they were salted up, the two men toasted their shot glasses together. “Salud,” the bartender said this time. “I’ve got to say, I admire your style, stranger. Come in here, pay well, cause no trouble, drink without making an ass of yourself. If you want a Juan, then… he’s a Juan.” The bartender tilted his shot glass toward a drunken man seated by himself in the corner, the big fellow half-asleep, drool dripping from his bottom lip onto a table full of empty beer bottles and shot glasses. Sterling didn’t remember seeing him show up, and he wondered if he had been there the entire time, the man remaining so still that he hadn’t noticed him.
“Anyone named Juan, yes?” the bartender asked.
“Any Juan will do, yup.”
The two were just about to share another round of tequila shots when the sound of ATV engines reached their ears.
“Killbillies?” Sterling asked, but by this point the bartender was already starting to back away.
“Are… Are they with you?”
“Hell no, they ain’t. Do I look like I’m wearing a yellow bandanna and a pair of wraparound sunglasses and waltzing around here like I own the place just to make up for the fact that I got a tiny pecker?”
The bartender snorted.
“Hell no, them idiotas ain’t with me. But if you want me to clear them out of here for good, I’d be glad to,” Sterling offered. “You just keep an eye on my Juan, and stay clear of any doors or windows. Can you do that?”
The bartender gulped. “Juan ain’t going nowhere.”
Sterling stood. After a short breath out, he tipped his hat toward the bartender. He turned to the door, and straightened his hands over his black duster. “Save a shot for me,” he told the man as he stepped out of the tavern. “I’ve got to get me a level up.”
Once he was outside, Sterling turned to the group of Killbillies, who were all huddled around their ATVs talking loudly about something devious they’d gotten into earlier.
Rather than announce himself, Sterling simply stepped up to the group and grabbed the first man he could get his hands on. He slammed his head down onto the hood of his vehicle and tossed the man aside. Sterling went for his revolver. Bam! He shot another Killbilly right between the eyes, the man falling, the others all startled by the gunslinger dressed in all black that had simply walked over to them and started fighting.
Sterling fired two more shots into the man whom he had slammed against the ATV. He holstered his revolver and went for his sickle-sword. He could sense the alcohol in his system, and it was making him feel barbaric, the heat of the day and his full belly reminding him to get this over with. One of the men swung an iron pipe at Sterling, his strike catching him in the arm. Sterling cursed under his breath as he used his other arm to swipe his blade forward. The Killbilly stepped back, but Sterling still managed to draw a little blood as the bandit tried to block another strike.
It was only when a gust of wind hit Sterling from behind and lifted him into the air that he knew that he might have bitten off more than he could chew. One of them was Adapted, an aeromancer, specifically, which was a class of mancer he was intimately familiar with considering his former teammate, Zephyr.
The twister sent him spiraling up into the air, Sterling’s fear of heights immediately coming to him. He didn’t have much time to experience his only phobia as he was slammed repeatedly onto the ground, to the point where he almost lost his half-moon blade. Looking for something to hold on to, Sterling launched himself forward and grabbed hold of the wheels of one of the ATVs, dirt and sharp rocks whipping all around him. The cowboy necromancer hugged the wheel, hoping that the aeromancer hadn’t leveled her skill enough to lift the vehicle as well. He was sadly mistaken as he took to the air alongside the vehicle, yet another tornado of energy bringing him up and down, Sterling letting go of the ATV.
“Dammit…” he mumbled as he lost his sickle-sword. He unholstered his revolver and started firing shots toward what was left of the Killbillies, only for one to tackle him midair. Sterling immediately tried to beat the female bandit down as she drove him toward the outer wall of the outpost, the aeromancer somewhere behind her. The two went straight through the adobe wall, colliding with a display case full of charms. Shattered glass all around him, a few pieces sticking out of his neck, Sterling fired several shots into the female bandit’s stomach, then used the butt of his revolver to beat her away.
Another gust of wind came tearing into the outpost, the people inside scattering, the owner yelling for them to stop ripping up his place of business. His whole body aching, Sterling made his way toward the exit, where he crouched with his back to it for a moment, waiting for someone to come running through the hole that he’d made alongside the female bandit. When no one came for him, he stepped out with his revolver at the ready and started firing toward the ATVs, charging forward with his firearm before him.
The aeromancer hovered in the air, her yellow bandanna fluttering around her as two cones of wind formed in her hands. The wind that struck Sterling next was akin to a harpoon, sharp enough to press through the space just above his hip bone and tear out his back. Once the wind finally let up, Sterling placed a hand on his hip, pain searing across his waistline as he was lifted again and flung back into the building.
“Goddammit…” he mumbled, his fingers now covered in crimson. Sterling’s vision started to blur. He’d lost his revolver in the process of being tossed back into the building, but he still had a backup in his inventory list. Sterling accessed the silver-gripped handgun he had stolen from Commodore Bones as the dust settled. He kept the weapon hidden as the final two Killbillies approached, one the aeromancer, the other a short man built like a backyard wrestler.
“They said to be on the lookout for a man in all black,” the aeromancer said, Sterling noticing a cone of wind spiraling around her fist.
“This has got to be him,” said his counterpart. The muscled Killbilly stepped forward like he was about to kick Sterling, only to be stopped by the aeromancer.
“Just hold on a second, Kev, I’m pissed about what he did too, but let’s—”
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Sterling emptied the magazine of Commodore Bones’ handgun, and was able to drop the two like a pair of filthy flies. His burst of gunfire killed the aeromancer, but the short Killbilly was still breathing, trying to understand what just happened.
Sterling sent the weapon back to his inventory list. His hands covered in blood, a gaping wound on his hip, he dragged himself toward the man with murderous intent. He got close to him, the bearded Killbilly’s eyes going wide as he grabbed him by the neck and strangled him to death, the two scooting further into the sun in the process.
“Shee-it,” Sterling said as he slowly rolled onto his back and clenched his eyes shut, his sickle-sword somewhere over near the ATVs, his revolver not far from him, hat near his feet. He wished he had the abdominal strength to retrieve his hat, so he could at least cover his face, but it was going to be a minute before he healed from the wound the aeromancer had given him. Blinded by the sun every time he opened his eyes, Sterling simply lay there, using the Killbilly’s body as a headrest for all of fifteen minutes.
No one came to him, no one checked on him. By the time Sterling was able to sit up, it looked like anyone that had been in the trading post had cleared out, and he assumed the same for the restaurant and the tavern. He only hoped that the bartender had kept his word and held on to the man named Juan.
Sterling went for his cowboy hat. He limped over to his revolver, cringing as he bent forward to retrieve it. He stuck it in its holster, the front of his shirt and the tops of his jeans still wet with blood. Sterling slowly lifted his shirt to examine the wound, and saw that it had almost healed up, the flesh beneath pink and new, the wound still covered in viscera, which he tried to wipe off as best he could.
“Goddammit.”
He glanced ahead toward the grouping of ATVs and saw his sickle-sword, turquoise energy radiating off its tip. He wasn’t quite in a walking mood, but he didn’t like his powerful weapon just lying out in the open, so he went ahead and made his way over to his custom blade. He placed one hand on the hood of an ATV and stood there for a moment, gathering his wits as he checked out his stats.
You have received 2,440 XP!
Name: Sterling Monedero
Race: Human
Mancer Class: Necromancer
Class Ranking: Blood Mage
Level: 59
Fortitude: 117
Strength: 35
Resolve: 152
Mana: 124/152
Current Armor Rating: 28
XP: 301,424
XP to Next Level:692
Stat Points Available: 0
Technique Points Available: 0
“Close, but no cigar,” Sterling said once he noticed he was less than seven hundred XP away from his next level. It would come soon, hopefully tomorrow, once he rode out of Las Cruces. There would always be something for him to pick off along the way, be it a militiaman or Killbilly, maybe even an amalgamation.
Sterling mumbled a series of bilingual curse words to himself as he looked to the door of the tavern. He suddenly felt the urge to vomit, and assumed it likely had to do with fighting with a full belly. It took him a couple of dry heaves before he caught himself, Sterling able to keep it down. With a shaky hand, he rolled up a cigarette and lit it, his lungs filling with smoke.
The cigarette helped suppress the urge to vomit, Sterling feeling more and more like himself as time passed. He placed his hand just beneath his bulletproof vest, where the aeromancer’s spear of wind had torn through the side of his body. The proximity of the attack to his groin made him cringe. About three more inches down and it would have been quite the recovery…
Damn mancer, he thought. Sterling had never had to regrow that part of his body before, and didn’t want to start today, not on the outskirts of Las Cruces in the middle of a turf war, not after he brazenly decided to challenge a group of Killbillies out in the open.
“You dumbass,” Sterling said as he puffed on his cigarette. It was the alcohol that had emboldened him earlier. He didn’t feel drunk, but he’d had a beer and several shots of tequila, which only made him bleed more. Had he been sober, he likely would have gone about things a little differently, found himself a dead body somewhere to utilize, either for shock or to aid him. Maybe he would have used a little finesse, or relied on the Stealth techniques he had recently enhanced. There were plenty of places where he could have hunkered down and just went with his gun, close enough that he would be within firing range.
No, he had been stupid, and for his stupidity he had almost had his dick blown off.
Sterling shook his head. He’d grown so used to being by himself that sometimes it felt like he was his own best friend, able to give himself hell, but not push the knife in deep enough that it actually wounded him. “Got to be more careful, pendejo,” he said as he flicked what was left of his cigarette at one of the dead Killbillies.
After dusting off his clothing, and once again ignoring a flash of pain he was still experiencing beneath his naval, Sterling made his way back into the tavern. He found the bartender already with a shot of tequila for him, the man in awe of what he had done out there.
“On the house,” he said, just in case this wasn’t clear.
“I think I’ve had enough tequila for today,” Sterling said with a chuckle, not at all questioning why the bartender didn’t try to help him out. Anyone in their right mind would have stayed as far as possible from the battle he had just had. Hell, I’m surprised he stuck around… Sterling thought as he eyed the shot glass.
“Nonsense. Have a shot, heal up a bit more, and then get your Juan, get the hell out of here,” said the bartender, offering Sterling a grin, the man’s teeth surprisingly white and shiny aside from a gold canine. Sure enough, Juan was still in the corner of the establishment, asleep with his back against the wall.
“Are you telling me he slept through all of that?” Sterling asked.
The bartender raised his shot glass and nodded. “That’s our Juan.”
“Shit, amigo, what kind of Juans y’all got around here?”
“Any Juan will do, right? You said it yourself.”
“Sí,” Sterling told the man as he lifted a shot glass with bloodied fingers. “Any Juan will do. Salud. And sorry about the mess out there.”
“It happens,” the bartender told him with a grin. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
The two men salted their hands, licked up the salt, and threw back the shots of tequila.
.Chapter Eleven.
Sterling deposited the large, incoherent man named Juan outside of the peyotera’s trailer home. He figured their best bet would be to keep him drunk until they could perform whatever ritual Don Gasper had in store for him. Rather than knock, he simply let himself in to find the old shaman seated on the ground in meditation, two lines of tiny pebbles spread out on the floor before him. Gasper slowly blinked his eyes open and looked up at Sterling. “Got in a fight?”
“Killbillies. Almost got my ass whooped by a damn aeromancer too. Been a little rusty lately, but I’m getting better.” Sterling cleared his throat. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m trying to level up over here.”
“Are you close?”
“Almost there,” Sterling said as he leaned against the countertop. “I got your Juan outside.”
“Good.”
“He’s drunk as a skunk. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“No problemo.”
“Before we go any further here: you aren’t planning to kill him or anything like that, are you?” Sterling asked. “Because I didn’t sign up for that, just so we’re clear.”
“Kill him?” Don Gasper shook his head. “No, a Juan Circle won’t kill him.”
“I just had to make sure it wasn’t some kind of twisted sacrifice. What’s the point of the circle anyway?”
“The point is to find out where the Sunflower Kid is; I thought you knew this.”
“I know that part, I mean what is a Ju
an Circle exactly? Sorry, my brain is still a bit fried from the tequila they had back there.”
“Good stuff, no?”
“It’ll put hair on your chest, that’s for sure.”
“Then good, good stuff. We’re going to go up on the hill outside of the trailer soon, where we’ll wait for sunset. You’ll find out what a Juan Circle is then. We can’t perform the ritual until it’s night out.” Gasper nonchalantly took a peyote button from a gourd in his lap and started eating it. “I know what to do, trust me. We need to catch us a witch.”
“What about the one that you’re in love with?”
“Magdalena? No, no, a different kind of witch.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Sterling told him as he started to roll up a cigarette. He also rolled up a joint at the shaman’s request.
“Once I finish this button, I will prepare the circle,” Gasper told Sterling as he ate another peyote button. He didn’t seem to enjoy the flavor, the shaman pausing every now and then to drink from a Fanta bottle with a murky liquid inside.
“What’s that you’re sipping on?”
“Water fused with cachana.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Also called witchroot en inglés.”
“Okay, that still doesn’t tell me what it is.”
“They use cachana in the pueblos,” Don Gasper explained. “It’s a secret herb, dangerous, said to have been given to the Indians by gente de chusma, flying demons, no?”
“Haven’t heard that term neither.”
“Lots of terms in my business, old and new, but mostly old,” Don Gasper said as he continued to munch on the peyote button.
“And what business is that?”
“Shaman business.” He took another swig from the old Fanta bottle and nodded to the door. “I should get out there.” Gasper pressed off the ground, keeping the gourd full of dried cacti with him. He was still shirtless, but he had changed into a pair of tattered jean shorts held to his thin frame by a brown rope twisted through the belt loops, charms hanging from each loop.
Cowboy Necromancer: Infinite Dusk Page 18
