Between the Marshal & the Vampire

by Tricia Owens

  He moved his hand away, freeing her from her inner dilemma.

  "Keep up your strength," he told her quietly. "We've got a long way to go and I want you showing up at that courthouse looking as fresh and lovely as you do now."

  "I can see that those rumors are true," Mariel said as she sat back. "About the women and your apprehension record."

  He grinned and wrapped his sandwich in a bandana before stuffing it into a pocket of his jacket. The pie he gulped down in four large forkfuls.

  "I'll gladly take that compliment, ma'am." He stood and placed his hat on his head before unslinging his belt from the hook on the wall and cinching his revolver low at his trim hips. He seemed extremely tall and imposing in the suddenly too small compartment. Mariel imagined him taking two steps toward her and looming over her. She thought she wouldn't resist whatever he did after that. I may not live to see the sunrise…

  But Clay, with a smirk on his face as though he'd read her thoughts, opened the door of the compartment and stepped out into the hall. "Darrell will be by. Don't open this door for anyone but him or me." She listened to his spurs take him away, his absence filled by a sense of disappointment.

  Five minutes later, the second Marshal, Darrell, older than Clay by a good fifteen years but full of energy and possessing an unflagging, stern expression, paused outside her compartment to tip his hat at her. She smiled and waved. He returned the wave and continued on to the adjacent compartment where he'd spend the night guarding over her while she slept here.

  It was mostly black outside the window. Night was the danger. Night was when Beaufort's gang was most likely to strike, and it was telling that Clay had assigned himself to this shift. He wanted to meet the danger head on. Hopefully that decision had been made due to a realistic assessment of his skills, rather than an overinflated belief in his abilities.

  "You'll just have to trust him," she murmured to herself. "Both of them." She forced herself to eat her pie even though she hadn't the stomach for it.

  After she'd closed the curtains on both windows, she prepared for bed. Lying in the darkness, she sent up a silent prayer for her Marshal guardians.

  She hadn't considered herself a brave person before now, but she told herself she should. Testifying against Beaufort was a death sentence, or so had claimed her neighbors when the Marshals had showed up in Willowtown to escort her north. Would the inn still be intact when she returned home, or would it be victim to vandals or something unpredictable, like a fire? She couldn't honestly say she loved running the place, but it had become a habit, like eating dinner every day. It was simply something that was part of her existence. If her father hadn't died while he was so young, Mariel might not even live in Willowton. She might not even live in Mountain Sky.

  That had been her half-formed dream, anyway, traveling and seeing the rest of the Empire. As a girl she'd harbored reckless fantasies of leaving her small hometown and joining the crew of an airship. In some fantasies she was the captain of that airship. It was an environment where she hoped a woman could prove her mettle. That was what she wanted: a fair chance to stretch her wings and challenge herself and be bold. The inn felt too small and constricting. Surely she was meant for more? She could shoot as well as most men she knew, could outrace many of them, and was certainly more educated than many, having developed a fondness for reading at her father's knee.

  And yet she spent her days beating out mattresses and stirring stews and making conversation with drunkards. Now that she was away from Willowton for the first time in her life, she acknowledged that she didn't want to return to the tiny town.

  But what would I do instead?

  The depressing question, for which she had no answer, followed her into sleep.

  She was awoken by a jolt that sent her tumbling out of the bed. The moment she sat up from her sprawl across the floor, she was grabbed by her shoulder. She opened her mouth to scream but another hand pressed over her lips.

  "It's me, Miss Johnston." She recognized Darrell, the Marshal, bending over her. "Be quiet, now. Beaufort's men are trying to take the train."

  Mariel's heart stopped. This was her nightmare coming true. "We've stopped."

  "There was an explosion," Darrell said grimly. Mariel could see him slightly now in the faint light slanting through a crack between the curtains. He'd drawn his gun. "They've probably blown the rails. I need you to stay here and don't move. I'm going out to help Marshal Carson."

  "Clay." Mariel's heart began to beat again, only now it thundered painfully in her chest. "He's out there alone!"

  "Not for long." Darrell let himself outside into the hallway. "Keep the curtains drawn and don't open these doors unless it's me or Marshal Carson," he ordered. "Get dressed and be ready to move."

  She was up and dressing before his running footsteps had faded from earshot. She strained to hear what was happening outside the train, but the other travelers were making too much of a ruckus for her to make out anything, their confused shouts and cries drowning out everything. Mariel took a chance and moved the curtain aside ever so slightly so she was granted a sliver of the outside view.

  She gasped at the sight of men on horseback, bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces, guns glinting in the moonlight. She counted at least a dozen, but what if there were more? Even a dozen were too many for Clay and Darrell to defend against on their own. Would the other guests attempt to hold off the gang members?

  Unlikely. The only person who had a stake in doing so was her.

  "And yet I'm unarmed," she murmured.

  She scowled. An airship captain wouldn't sit about in her room, waiting for the villains to come kill her. She cast about the compartment, looking for a weapon, a gun left behind. But of course that was absurd. The Marshals wore their weapons at all times. Which meant she needed to find her own defense.

  After listening to the commotion in the hallway and deeming it safe, she quickly slipped out of her compartment just as shots were fired outside the train. Travelers screamed and ducked back into their compartments. No help there.

  Mariel looked to the door to her right. Hers was the last passenger car, which meant the next one in line was for carrying cargo. Mind made up, she slung open the connecting doors and dashed into the next car.

  Crates filled the car. Most had seen travel, their corners battered or splintered, boot marks and scorch marks marring the wood. Some were marked with destination addresses or were stamped with their place of origin. Others showed no indication of where they were from or who they were meant for, or else were impossible to see in the dim lighting coming through cracks in the slatting; boxes of mystery. She ran her eyes frantically over the variously sized crates as the sound of more gunfire snapped through the air. As terrified as she was, she was angry, too, knowing the Marshals were out there fighting for their lives only so they could keep her alive. That obligation weighed heavily on her shoulders. She was determined not to sit around like a helpless ninny.

  After some searching, she was relieved to come across a crowbar leaning in the dark corner nearest the door she had come through. She hefted it and wove her way between the boxes. She paused at one box, suitably shaped, and wedged the crowbar beneath the crate's lid. Grunting from the effort, she managed to pry the lid off after much jerking and pushing, only to curse in frustration at finding Chinese vases packed in straw. A rat jumped out at her from within, startling a yelp out of her, but she angrily persevered, moving deeper through the stacks.

  When she came upon a long crate, resting on its side, she paused. It definitely looked the sort of container to carry rifles, if a bit too tall. It had no marks on it, save for an origin stamp from Shadow Valley Territory, which meant nothing to her in regards to whether it might contain weapons. She jammed the end of the crowbar beneath the lid and applied her weight to the bar. The lid was stubborn. It creaked as the first nail slowly, reluctantly, began to squeeze from the wood.

  More shots from outside. More screaming from the pas
senger car ahead. Would Beaufort's gang set fire to the train? Darrell had said they'd blown the tracks. Did they have enough dynamite to begin blowing up the passenger cars as well, hoping to blast her to pieces?

  Heart in her throat, she shimmied the crowbar farther along the lid and threw her upper body over the bar, trying to leverage the stubborn lid open. It began to rise, groaning with dismay. A fresh, earthy smell puffed from within the crate, along with the smell of tar. When she repositioned the crowbar, she saw that its metal end was clogged with the black goo. Had the crate's interior been painted with the stuff? To what end? To make it waterproof? Maybe that meant guns were inside!

  Excited, Mariel found a burst of strength and heaved on the crowbar. The nails squealed as they gave up their hold on the wood. The lid exploded open and with the loss of resistance, Mariel tumbled hard to the floor of the car, the crowbar clattering loudly ahead into the dark.

  She lay there, afraid to breathe, afraid the bandits outside might have heard the commotion and would come investigate. Please let there be a gun in here, she prayed as she quickly rose to her knees and peered into the crate.

  A pale hand shot from the darkness and seized her by the throat.

  2

  Killing a man wasn't his favorite thing to do. But funny how Clay found himself having to do it quite often.

  Wasn't funny nor such a surprise, really, considering his line of work, but once upon a time, when he'd been green and hopeful, he'd thought that wearing the star of the Empire Marshals meant he'd be pointing his gun a lot but not necessarily firing it. In his foolish head he'd arrogantly assumed that him being a Marshal would mean the bad men would surrender without a fight.

  He'd been wrong ten years ago and he was wrong again tonight. He watched as one of his bullets found the throat of a horseback rider who tipped off his mount with a death gurgle. Clay took no pleasure in his good aim. Satisfaction, yes, because one less enemy meant Mariel Johnston took another step closer to appearing at the trial at Everton Fort, but no pleasure.

  Thought of the mahogany-haired young woman in the train made Clay's chest seize up with an uncomfortable tension. He liked her. Oh, he'd said that often enough when coming across a pretty lady, but Mariel was something else. Her manner and her speech told him she was an innkeeper only by default. She was a woman meant for more, but life and circumstance had pushed her into the role she now held. Nothing wrong with being an innkeeper. Clay and his fellow Marshals counted on the hospitality of such places. But the world also needed another type of woman, and Mariel was it. It was a shame she wasn't living up to the potential of what she could be.

  He liked her for another reason, of course. She was a stunner. Even through the simple blue calico dress he could tell she was built ample everywhere that he preferred. And she had the prettiest brown eyes ringed with thick lashes. Everything about her inspired thoughts of lying on a blanket in the grasses and watching the clouds move slowly across a never-ending sky.

  Romantic fool. You're going to find yourself with a bullet between your eyes soon enough.

  With the reins of his horse in one hand, Clay fired with the other, just missing a bandana-clad man who rounded the head of the train engine. Ahead, the rails were a twisted mess bent back from the crater where the dynamite had blown. Clay had feared something like this, but there hadn't been a way to check the entire rail line from Willowtown to Everton. He hated the feeling that he'd let Mariel down nonetheless.

  Failure wasn't something he experienced often. Mariel had teased him about his reputation and he'd been happy to take the ribbing, but the plain truth was, the rumors about him were true. He was a top Marshal, always getting his man or seeing his charge safely to wherever he was escorting them. Escorting Mariel Johnston was supposed to be just another job he successfully completed. But the woman and now the danger she faced were proving to be more than he'd anticipated, and that irked him, because Clay wanted to impress her. Maybe more than he'd ever wanted to impress a woman.

  zing!

  He ducked and cursed himself for daydreaming, no matter how pretty Mariel was. He'd be of no use to either of them if he ended up with a bullet between the eyes.

  "Clay!"

  Darrell, on horseback, raced alongside the crippled train, firing expertly into the circling mass of Beaufort's men. The older Marshal took out a man and clipped another, forcing him to drop his gun.

  Maybe we got a chance, Clay thought as he expertly reloaded with one hand. "You take the south!" he shouted to Darrell.

  The other Marshal galloped into the darkness, reappearing seconds later farther down the train, gun blazing, as he tried to pin the bandits between him and Clay.

  "We're taking the girl, Marshal!" shouted one of the men as he took aim at Clay and fired.

  Clay and his horse dodged the shot. "You're attacking Empire Marshals! Penalty for drawing blood is death by hanging. How about you boys turn around and head on home."

  "We outnumber you, Marshal," another bandit shouted back. "Seems the smart thing would be for you and your partner to back off and let us take care of this nice and quick, like. No one else needs to be hurt."

  "Except my charge, is that right?"

  "Just the way it is, Marshal."

  "Rhody Beaufort's turned into such a coward he's gotta go after women now?" Clay shot back, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

  "You know we can't leave here until we've done what we need to, Marshal. Ain't nothin' personal."

  "Sure it's not," Clay muttered to himself and ducked as a bullet whizzed overhead.

  He squinted through the dust raised by all the riders, trying to find a target. He could hear the passengers screaming on the train. Was Mariel petrified? Was she cursing him for being a liar?

  I'll do my best, Mariel. I gave you my word.

  He took aim and shot down another bandit. Though he didn't like killing, he would do his best to eliminate every last one of Beaufort's gang. Because if even one of them got their hands on Mariel, they'd do worse than take her life.

  ~~~~~

  It was as though the night itself came alive and attacked Mariel. She staggered backwards but the night swarmed out of the open crate and followed her, bearing her to the ground with a weight she hadn't expected of shadow.

  Her back hit the ground and the night landed atop her, pinning her limbs in place and turning her face to the side with pale fingers. Ice seared her neck a moment before agony pierced the side of her throat.

  Her eyes went wide at the excruciating pain that tore into her neck. The pain was blinding, like two hot pokers stabbing into her neck. Worse still was the sucking motion, as though her lifeblood was being pulled out of her body through her veins.

  Which it was.

  Nightwalker! flashed through her panicked mind. Never in a hundred years had she expected to come across the monsters who roamed the desert in Shadow Valley Territory. Rumor said they were a race of abominations that had risen from man's attempt to find immortality and walk the Heaven Bridge and back. Though Mountain Sky shared an armed border with Shadow Valley, she'd never heard of nightwalkers crossing over. Remaining in their territory was the only reason the creatures were allowed to live in peace.

  Well, maybe not the only reason. The monsters were preternaturally strong and besides that they were just plain terrifying. Mariel herself was petrified, screaming only in her head as her life fled her. She would be dead in a matter of seconds at the rate her blood was being sucked out of her.

  "Please," she managed to choke out. "I don't want to die…" I wasted too many years of my life. I want a second chance!

  Now, she'd never know if she could be good at anything other than baking a pie or sewing a tight stitch. Now I'll never know what I could have been had I taken a chance.

  "Please," she whispered forlornly.

  Regret was a shroud drawing over her consciousness. It smothered her and distracted her from noticing that the blood wasn't coursing so fiercely from her veins. What cau
ght her attention was the pleasant warmth that began to fill her body, settling between her legs and in the tips of her breasts.

  She murmured her surprise at the complete absence of pain and felt, more than heard, a hum of agreement against her throat. The icy lips against her skin were now warm and soft and the gentle sucking action against her throat was nearly…erotic?

  It wasn't a word she ever used to describe anything, but this felt like an appropriate time for it. She sighed and moved her ankles restlessly. She knew this feeling. Or at least, she'd come close to feeling it when she'd been with her husband. It had been elusive, a too-quick butterfly. Never settling upon her senses long enough to make an impression or make her yearn for more. Now, she curled her fingers against the dusty floor of the car, seeking contact as the warmth within her grew into a languid heat that demanded she lift up her skirts and unbutton her blouse…

  Pale fingers did it for her, gently pulling down her knickers and accessing the bare, feverish skin of her inner thighs. The delicate touch on her flesh filled her mind with rainbows that grew brighter in intensity as the hand rose higher between her legs. She arched into the palm that cupped her wet heat. When had she ever been wet? It was a strange new sensation, awakening her to the reality that she didn't know all that her body was capable of. So much of herself had remained a mystery. Until now…

  A possessive hand slid over her breast. Instead of pushing it away, she clasped it tighter against her, stimulating the rigid peak of her nipple. The firm little nub felt struck by tiny bolts of delicious lightning as the hand gently rubbed and squeezed her.

  A wet tongue lapped at the spot where she'd been bitten. A moment later, the now-warm lips at her throat drifted lower, coasting across her collarbones, raising goosebumps. Mariel reached down, her fingers tangling in soft, silken hair. The scalp beneath was warm against her fingertips. The sensation of life gave her desire a focus. Here was someone who could alleviate the fierce ache building within her.