Table of Contents
The Quick and the Undead
Copyright
Dedication
The Vampires of Tombstone, Texas
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
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The Quick and the Undead
The Tombstone, Texas Series
Book 1
by
Kimberly Raye
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-567-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-580-5
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 by Kimberly Raye
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Man (manipulated) © HotDamn Stock
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:Mquj:01:
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the fabulous Brenda Chin.
Thank you for believing in me, challenging me, and listening to me whine about characters, plots, pets, catastrophes and the Twinkie.
Your support and encouragement mean the world to me!
The Vampires of
Tombstone, Texas
Boone Jarrett: Sheriff/Bank robber
Taggart James: Mayor/Bank robber
Seth Farley: Saloon owner/gunfighter/card shark
Ethan Dunn: Owner of Stage & Freight/train robber
Luke Ketchum: Stable and livery owner/horse thief
Clay Laramie: Deputy sheriff/gunfighter/hired gun
Rhett Clancy: Gunsmith shop owner/fastest gun in Texas
Madeline Reed aka Maddie: Singer at saloon/thief and pickpocket
Belle Cassidy: Brothel owner/thief and prostitute
And . . .
Ike McCoy: Maker of the other nine, founder of the Tombstone Ten gang
Prologue
Texas, 1841
“BOONE THADDEUS Jarrett.” The booming voice echoed in his ears as he stood on the makeshift platform. Wind whistled around him, making the wood tremble. The rough fibers of rope cut into his wrists and ankles. He felt the sticky warmth of blood on his skin.
The dust of a ruthless posse filled the air and burned his eyes, reminding him of the past forty-eight hours and the fact that he’d damn near killed himself trying to set things right. The smell of a long, hard, failed ride and the pungent stench of burned flesh choked him even more than the noose fastened around his neck. His palm throbbed and blistered where the telltale “T” had been branded into him.
Punishment for his crime.
But not the only punishment.
“You have been convicted by the Republic of Texas of the crime of armed robbery,” the voice went on, “and have been sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead. Do you have any last words?”
Heat clawed at his throat as he opened his mouth. “I . . .” He swallowed. “I’m . . .” innocent. He caught the denial. Useless. That’s what it was. No one would believe his sorry ass any more than he believed himself.
He’d given up his badge to take matters into his own hands. To walk into that bank and stare down the barrel of his Colt at the man who’d robbed his father of everything. He’d demanded restitution, and when the thief had refused to give it, Boone had taken it. He’d loaded his saddlebags and ridden hell for leather out of town.
He deserved this.
Reason didn’t make right. Hell, there was no right in this godforsaken shithole. James Hidalgo had taken it all. He’d pillaged the town and raped the people—all within the confines of the law, or so he claimed. And now he was about to eliminate his biggest adversary.
“I should have pulled the trigger,” Boone managed to say. “I should have killed him.”
He heard the gasp that echoed through the crowd, pure shock that he would dare speak out against the richest man in town, the man who’d taken them hostage years ago and sucked them dry every day since.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shrouded figure of the executioner—one of Hidalgo’s hired guns—and the flash of a burlap sack as the man readied it to slip over Boone’s head.
He fixed his stare on the sea of faces in front of him, savoring his last glimpse of the people he’d defended for the past few years in the same way he’d savored his last bite of beef stew less than two hours ago. Unlike the stew, it was actually worth the effort.
He saw the compassion. The understanding. They knew why he was up here. They knew because each and every one of them had lost thei
r livelihood to James Hidalgo. The man had been one of the Old Three Hundred given land rights by the Mexican government. The war for Texas Independence had rendered those rights null and void. At least on paper. But Hidalgo had too much wealth and power to relinquish his hold on the citizens of the ravaged town. He’d held tight, strangling them for all they were worth.
Boone had refused to go down without a fight. He’d taken a stand, and now he was perched on this rickety platform, waiting for the clock to strike midnight and send him straight to hell for the effort.
Stupid sonofabitch.
Not stupid because he’d dared to go after what was right, but because he’d dared to stand up in the first place.
The sentiment gleamed in his father’s eyes as the old man stood across the street in front of the mercantile, hat in his hands as he watched the spectacle.
Watched because it just wasn’t in his genes to do anything more. Silas Jarrett was a man who took what life dumped on him and made do. He didn’t believe in trying to change one’s lot.
“You play with the hand you’re dealt, boy, and don’t you ever forget it.”
The man didn’t know how to stand up for himself, much less his only son. Even though Boone had been the first and the only person to stand up for him.
Silas was too afraid. The whole damn town was, and after tonight, that fear would be multiplied. Hidalgo was using Boone’s execution as an example. It was his warning to an already petrified group of citizens.
Don’t fuck with me.
The hard burlap scraped across Boone’s bruised cheek. The hood whooshed down over his head. The blackness closed in on him, but he kept his eyes open anyway. He wasn’t looking the other way or cowering in fear. Not back when Hidalgo had stolen his father’s land out from under him, and not now.
Not ever.
Wood creaked as Pastor Woodruff stepped up next to him. A warm hand touched his shoulder. “Heavenly Father, we ask for your love and mercy on this poor, misguided sinner. We ask your salvation, your forgiveness . . .”
But Boone wanted neither.
Justice. That’s all he cared about. To reclaim his father’s land, and see the man who’d stolen it pay for his deceit.
The need burned hot and bright through him, jabbing at him like the fiery brand that had marked his hand. His back stiffened. His fingers tightened. His teeth clenched.
“. . . name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit . . . Amen . . .”
He held tight to the anger burning deep inside him, the rage, letting it feed his resolve and keep him silent when any other man would have begged for his life.
Hidalgo had taken too much. Boone wouldn’t offer up his pride on top of everything else. If he was going to die, it would be with his head held high and hate eating a hole through his heart.
He sucked in his last breath and braced himself for the quick snap that would inevitably come.
Boots slapped the platform. Wood creaked and groaned. A latch clicked. And just like that, the floor fell out from under him.
He plunged. The rope tightened. The air stalled.
The boom of a gunshot drowned out the crack of bones. The rope went slack and he slammed into the ground.
Pain exploded in his skull as more gunshots echoed. Shouts erupted. Horse hoofs beat the dirt. Before he could drag in a much-needed breath, he felt his body being lifted, tossed. He slammed into a hard surface a split second before the earth seemed to shift and move beneath him.
A wagon.
The truth rooted as he dug his hands into the rough frame. Splinters pierced his flesh as he fought for a grip. The wagon jostled, yanking at his muscles until they screamed. Hidalgo obviously wasn’t going to be content with watching him hang. He wanted to exact his own revenge because Boone had called him out. It was a fate much worse than the gallows.
Rumor had it the man had been an officer under Santa Ana, and one of his most vicious compadres. He’d made a big show of declaring his loyalty to Texas, but Boone saw his demonstration for what it was—more lies and manipulation. He had no loyalty to the Republic or its citizens. If he had, he wouldn’t be stealing the dirt out from under them.
A slow, treacherous punishment. That’s what Hidalgo had in store for him now.
Boone stiffened and ignored the urge to let go and tumble to his death. He might be headed for something more terrifying, but at least he was breathing. And another breath meant more time.
To live.
To fight.
Hidalgo might kill him in the end, but Boone wasn’t going down with just a whimper like his old man.
He wasn’t Silas Jarrett. Not now. Not ever.
He bounced along for what seemed like forever before the wagon started to slow. A heartbeat later, rough hands reached for him and hauled him to his feet. He stiffened as the burlap scraped across his face.
He blinked and the thick blackness gave way to a moonlit Texas night. His body went tight as he found himself eye-to-eye with a man he’d never met before.
Yet he knew him all too well.
Everyone did.
Ike McCoy was a legend. An outlaw who robbed banks, stole cattle, and left a string of bodies behind. He was the most feared man in Texas, and the most wanted. He’d made a name for himself as a fierce soldier during the revolution. But after the war, he’d gone rogue and had traveled the wrong path straight into a life of crime.
As sheriff, Boone had put up a mess of posters advertising reward after reward for Ike McCoy. Hell, he’d ridden in more than one posse after the man, not that they’d ever managed to catch him.
Standing in front of him, Boone could understand why. He was average height, average build, with medium brown hair and a scraggly beard. There was nothing exceptional about him. Nothing larger than life that made him half as invincible as rumor claimed.
At the same time, his dark eyes gleamed with an unearthly light that said he wasn’t just a cold-hearted killer.
No, he was the devil himself.
The thought struck, and a strange sensation skittered up Boone’s spine. An icy wind that lashed around him, gripping and squeezing.
“Did Hidalgo hire you to kill me?” Boone asked even though his gut told him this was something else.
The outlaw shook his head. “I work for no one. I chose you on my own. I’ve been watching you. Long enough to know you’re better than average with a gun and you’ve got balls. Balls too big for some pussy lawman. You missed your true calling, Sheriff Jarrett.” His eyes seemed to gleam brighter in the darkness. “But I’m here to steer you onto the right path and give you a chance at that revenge you want so badly.” His lips pulled back. His fangs glittered.
“What the . . . ?” Fingers closed around Boone’s throat and stalled the “fuck” before it could burst past his lips.
A growl ripped open the silence, followed by the unholy voice of pure evil. “Nobody hired me to kill you, Jarrett. I’m going to do it just because I want to.”
Pain ripped through Boone’s jugular and blood gushed down the front of his shirt.
“Because I want you.”
The outlaw leaned closer. His mouth closed over the open gash. And Boone felt the life being sucked right out of him.
Chapter One
Present Day
THIS WAS THE last place he wanted to be.
At least that’s what he told himself as his sharp gaze cut through the dimly lit room. Lincoln—that was the name he’d been using lately—hated the musty scent of cheap cigarettes, dollar longnecks, and women willing to do just about anything for either. And vampires. He most certainly hated the putrid smell of those lowlife bastards, and this place was crawling with them.
But then, that was the point. If he wanted to catch a vampire—ten of them to be exact—he had to join t
he party.
It had taken him a long, long time to come to that conclusion. To work up his courage to stand up and do what needed to be done. But he’d finally had his come-to-Jesus moment and now he was all in and this close. He’d spent months hanging out in dives, making the right connections, muscling sources until they became informants—willing or otherwise. Wasted time because he’d happened upon his current lead by chance.
He was close. He could feel it. Smell it. Smell them. Finally.
His heartbeat kicked up a notch as he made his way to the scarred oak bar that ran the length of one wall. He slid onto an empty stool and his blood pounded faster. The silver blade of his knife burned through the thin cotton of his shirt and an anxious ripple rolled through him.
Not that he was excited about what he was about to do. Not the killing itself. He dreaded every moment of what would happen. But those vampires owed him. They’d killed his only son, condemned him to hell, and Lincoln wouldn’t rest until they’d paid for their sins.
He eyed the redhead parked at the far end of the bar. She looked a little different from the vision burned into his mind, but vampires had a way of blending in and changing, and so he held tight to his enthusiasm.
She was one of them. She had to be. He’d searched too far, too long. The latest piece of information he’d received from a very reliable informant had led him here, to this shitty hole-in-the-wall bar just outside of Austin, Texas. After years spent dreaming of this moment, of plotting, of staring at the old Wanted posters stuffed into his pocket, it was time he finally caught up with them and righted the wrong they’d done to him so long ago.
Yes, it was his time.
He watched her eyes glitter with a feral hunger as she leaned into the cowboy standing next to her. Her bright red lips curved into a smile as she ran one crimson-tipped nail up his arm, the curve of his neck. She stopped just inches shy of his pulse point, the pad of her finger resting against his skin.
The Quick and the Undead: Volume 1 (Tombstone, Texas) Page 1
