Chapter 1

<Copyright © 2025 by Deana J Holmes. Shared by Bad Unicorn Press. All rights reserved. Not for AI. If AI bots attempt to scrape this, those responsible will be cursed with papercuts between their fingers and one tenacious bald spot in an inconvenient place.>

The earth pulses—a demand. An order: Wake.

My heart obeys, dragging me from the soft reaches of oblivion. Awareness slams through me like a crack of thunder, shaking my bones.

Blood burns as it ignites in my veins. 

The pain that follows is so bright, so loud, that I cannot stop myself from screaming—or opening my mouth to try. But instead of sound emerging there’s only dirt, filling my mouth, smothering any cry that might emerge. Surrounding my entire body. Dirt—damn. I’d forgotten about the dirt. 

I’m in the earth. 

Buried six feet deep, just as the spell demanded. 

Curse it all. I knew awakening would hurt. I thought I’d prepared. But I guess nothing can prepare you for being dead, even if it’s only for a few hours. My lungs soundlessly scream in the way my voice can’t and I fight back the panic brewing in my throat. This grave is the plan, and I’ve awoken as intended—which means the plan worked. All I need to do is stay calm. Any moment my love and our team will pull me free of the earth. 

Don’t panic. Hold steady. 

I need to trust in John and the others.

I think I close my eyes—inside the earth it’s impossible to tell for sure—and work to steady my heart, my body aching for the touch of familiar hands. For warmth and certainty to grip my arms and pull me back into the living. 

But nothing comes. 

My lungs wail for air. 

Why am I still in the earth? I should be out by now, I should be breathing. Something has gone horribly wrong. If I don’t break free of my temporary grave now, it will become my permanent resting place. 

Terror lends me strength. 

Hooking my fingers, I claw upward. 

The ground is cold, hard. So unlike my scattered memories of the soft packed earth I’d been laid in only a short time ago. Gods, it shouldn’t be this hard. My body is stiff—stiffer than I imagined possible. None of my limbs are working right, but I can’t stop. I twist and turn, reaching for the surface with increasing desperation. 

My fingers break free and I almost pause, waiting for a firm hand to take hold and lift me the rest of the way. 

Yet there is only the kiss of chilled air on my skin. 

I search blindly for a handhold and grip what feels like the edge of the grave. Then I pull. My muscles groan and strain as if they have forgotten what it is to move. How am I so cold after a few hours? It is summer and, even though the desert cools sharply in the dark, I should have been sheltered by the earth. 

The urge to surrender to the dark sweeps over me. 

Sweet oblivion, it whispers. Take your endless rest within the arms of the earth. 

No. Arms burning, lungs so tight it feels as if they’re crushing my heart, I refuse to give in. I pull and kick and claw and fight until my face clears the surface and I can gasp in my first, blessed lungful. 

I stay there, my head only halfway free, gulping in air, until my blood stops sizzling and my lungs cease their assault on my ribs. And still no one appears to ease the rest of my journey. They should be here by now—they swore nothing would stop them from aiding my return. So why aren’t they here?

I search the area and find nothing but the dim outline of cavern walls. 

A relief, not to be faced with the bodies of my loved ones. But I can’t understand why none of them are here. Surely, even if our plan went so catastrophically wrong and the Midnight Marshals needed to hold a line against the demons, one of our team would have broken free to reach me? 

“Hello?” My voice is a fragile croak. “John?”

There is no reply. 

Nor is there any aid. 

I struggle free on my own, slowly extracting myself from the earth until I stand barefoot in the cave. Moonlight gleams in a soft pool to my right and I staggered toward it, trusting the pale glow to lead me to the mouth of the cave and into the open. My legs don’t want to cooperate, my gait as unsteady as a freshly born colt. Yet I don’t stop. I stumble and catch myself on the rough stone, leaning into the cavern wall as I keep going. 

After the earth, I need to be in the open. 

To feel the air and the moon upon my skin. 

The moment I step free of the cave, the full moon fills my vision. Its pale light is too bright, too bold after the pure black of the earth’s grip. Eyes burning, I fall to my knees and bow my head, letting my eyes adjust to the softer sheen of the sand between my fingers. Even without sight, I know this place, the valley that holds everything I love, the mountains that stand as distant sentinels, guarding its borders. My body drinks in the freedom of the wide, open space, my lungs stretching  to match. 

Moonlight seeps through to my bones and I feel a trickle of strength returning. 

I take a deep breath, then another. 

Finally, I muster the will to stand. 

A quick survey of my person reveals my gown is a tattered mess, hanging in torn shreds above my ankles. All color has leeched from the gingham, and what remains of my petticoats are barely a memory. My coat, John’s favorite duster that he’d given me for extra protection, is crusted with dirt, the once supple leather thin and crackling beneath my touch. Too much damage for so short a time in the ground. 

How am I in such a state? 

My satchel gone, my boots vanished into the ground. No stocking worth mentioning remains on my feet or legs. There is no horse tethered outside the cave, nor are any supplies left for me. 

None of this is what we planned. 

My stomach twists with dread. 

Our plan has gone horribly wrong—there is no other explanation for why John wouldn’t be here for me. The last words he said to me as he and our team laid me in the ground were a promise: That he’d return for me, come hell or high water. 

Water wouldn’t stop him. But hell? 

That might just do it. 

I have to get to town. Quickly. If my spell triggered a counter-curse, who knows what demons could be plaguing our lands? Or worse. John and the team must be near out their minds with worry, and if things are as bad as I fear, they’ll need my powers to push back whatever evil escaped our net. 

Even in my stiff, earth-beaten state, I know the path to Devil’s Reach. It’s both a comfort and a taunt, to tread such familiar ground and yet be completely unprepared for whatever lies ahead. 

With each step, I reach out, trying to sense what happened. 

But my senses refuse to stir from their slumber. 

Gods damn it, I’m too depleted. 

I grit my teeth and push on, trusting my memories to guide me. Even when it’s nothing but moonlit shadows, the landscape is as familiar as breathing. Yet, it also feels somehow different. Altered. I can’t say why—there’s no reason for the rocks to appear smoother than they did before I lay inside the earth, or for the angle of the tundra to seem ever so slightly off beneath my bare feet. 

The problem must be me. 

I try to scrub dirt from my eyes—pointless, given the layer of grime covering my entire body. My feet hurt, the cold earth biting into my uncovered soles, but that’s the least of my problems. 

Shadows tug on the edges of my vision, skirting behind rocks and shrubs. 

Have my senses finally woken up? I try to bring the shades into focus, but they slip away., replaced by streaks of light beyond a swell of earth. Torches? Oh, thank the gods. The Midnight Marshals might be late, but they’re on their way.

Yet the light is too focused, too narrow for torches. 

Lanterns? 

No. Even lanterns don’t have such reach. Or speed. My brows furrow. None of the Midnight Marshalls would risk their horses riding so fast in the dark—unless they feared my life depended on it. 

Then they’d risk anything. 

I push myself into a shambling run, desperate to emerge from the brush and make myself visible on the trail that lay ahead. I burst through a stand of trees and stumble onto a strange, flat trail. It’s where the trail should be, yet it’s an odd, dark stone—not dirt packed hard from countless hooves and wagon wheels. 

But I can’t worry about the strange rock. Not now.

“John!” I cry. “I’m here!”

I wave wildly in the direction of the lights. 

They speed toward me, traveling at an impossible pace. No, none of our horses can run that fast in the dark. My eyes must be deceiving me. I scrub at them again, desperate to find something sensible in the disparate sights. Yet nothing emerges. The lights draw closer, bringing with them a distant roar that builds in volume.  There’s no way anyone can hear my cry over that racket, yet they’re coming straight for me. 

It is large and loud and…gods, have I walked onto a train track? 

Impossible—I wouldn’t mistake the trail for the railway. Besides, my resting place was north of the town—the opposite side from the Northern Pacific Railroad. Still…. I search the path and find nothing but the strange black stone. 

No steel rails, no wooden ties. 

I am not on a train track, yet the light hurtling toward me does so at the speed of a raging locomotive. I stare at the twin points of illumination, glaring at me like the eyes of a massive cougar within the dark. 

It unleashes a cry unlike any I’ve heard before. 

My eyes widen and I throw myself to the side of the strange path. Gravel bites into my arms and legs as I roll clear. 

The lights scream past. 

And no, it’s not a train. It’s a massive, horseless carriage. Huge and angry, with a mouth of  steel teeth bristing between the beams. Its rumble shakes the earth like thunder and its glare is powerful enough to challenge the tallest lighthouse on the cape. It is like nothing I have ever seen, and more terrifying than the pair of vorax demons John and I faced in the foothills. Those teeth-filled creatures I understood. 

But this? 

I have no idea what that is. 

What vile sorcery has claimed my lands? 

Coughing up dust, I push myself back to my feet. The marshals must need me. I hurry along the edge of the path, following it as it winds unerringly toward my home. My feet ache and my body quivers from the effort—I push myself harder, moving as fast as I can beside the unfamiliar surface. 

A sign looms large ahead of me. 

I stop and gape up at it. 

“Welcome To Devil’s Reach!” It proclaims in bold letters, the writing hanging overtop an image of people laughing within one of those horseless carriages. “Home of hidden treasure and the final rest of the devil’s witch.”

What?

I blink at the sign, waiting for the illusion to fade into mist. Yet it remains still and steady before me. I rap my knuckles on it—a wooden knock sounds. If I had my satchel, I’d toss salt to be sure. A futile gesture, as the fear in my gut tells me this is no mere illusion. It must represent a deeper, darker power. 

The size, the color, the message. 

What foul creature dared charm such lies to a sign as large as a wagon? 

This cannot stand. I have to find my team and end this curse before it does any more harm to my town. 

I scoop up the shreds of my skirts and run. 

The noise and light reach me before I enter the town proper. I’m aware that it’s wrong, yet the pieces wash over me, distant and fractured, as if I watch a sunset through the broken shards of a mirror. Everywhere are people and those strange carriages, all illuminated by unnatural lights that glare across the space, forming words and images in searing hues of blue and green and red. 

The words they form, I don’t understand. 

Casino. Gas station. Diner. 

What are these things and why are they polluting my town? 

I shake my head, unable to make sense of it. The people milling about the streets appear to be human, but I cannot trust my eyes. This cannot be real. These figures must be demons disguised as old men drinking beer on a patio and parents carrying a sleeping child into a home. Or the residents have been possessed and forced to wear strange, foreign garb while eating oddly-shaped sticks of meat. 

I pause, reaching for the power that is normally at my fingertips. 

Only the faintest crackle stirs inside me. 

Gods. I am not ready for a battle—I cannot fight this nightmare alone. I have to find John and the others. 

Bracing myself, I keep going, plunging into the demonic center of the town I loved. Gone are the sweet-eyed horses tied to hitching posts. In their place are contraptions with two wheels… bicycles. I heard of those before fleeing Boston, but there had been none to be seen in Montana. Why would the demons manifest bicycles of all things? And why line the streets with rows of metal carriages, all different shapes and colors?

Evil works in truly bizarre ways. 

I can’t fathom why a curse would choose this.

The familiar sound of the tavern’s piano is gone, as are the songs from Madame Yen’s House for Weary Bones. Instead, there are a row of buildings with strange melodies screeching from their open doors. Glowing images of goods and plated food do their best to stab my sensitive eyes. 

The town square remains where it should be—though none of it is right. 

Some kind of party appears to be underway in the center, with a host of people circling brightly colored tents. Are the demons celebrating their victory? A strange way to celebrate, with no obvious human sacrifices or feasting pit. I suppose I should be grateful they haven’t reached that stage yet. And if they have taken John and the others prisoner, that is where they will be held: the heart of the corruption. 

I stagger into the teeming park. 

The demons don’t attack, so I ignore the strange looks they send my way. 

I force my way through the throngs and search the gathering for my loved ones. They have to be here. But I can’t find them, can’t see through the illusion—whatever magic has twisted my town is too strong for me to break. 

Yet there is hope in the crowd. 

The people and demons gathered are dressed in a mix of recognizable garb—gowns and dusters—and the strange clothing that had glowed within the strange shops. It must mean that the town is resisting the spell, that the people still know who they are. If I can find my team, I know we can save them. Which means I have to stop fumbling around in this curse and focus whatever powers I can access.

I close my eyes and picture them. 

John Adam Goodnight. My beloved. 

Samuel Longshot, our eyes on the horizon. His deep laugh warming the campfire on cold nights, just as his spicy rabbit stew would warm our insides. 

Jesse Wilk, the sneakiest set of hands this side of the Mississippi. Irreverent gambler, pain in the ass, and John’s best friend. He’d vanish for days at a time, only to return with wild tales and help when we needed it most.

And then there was Henry Mooncrow, the best tracker in the northern territories, his amber eyes gleaming as he shows me where a mother fox teaches her young cubs to hunt rabbits…

“May.”

I stiffen at the sound of my name. 

Spinning around, I scan the crowd. “Henry?”

Raven-black hair flashes in the crowd. “You should have stayed dead, May.”

It is the voice I know—and at the same time, it’s not. For all he’d earned the name Blood, his words always held a hidden warmth—a love and respect for life. This man’s tone is hollow. Cold. As if his life has been siphoned away. 

“Henry,” I say, searching for him among the people. “Don’t give into the demons.”

“Too late for that, May,” that cold voice floats over me. “Far too late.”

A chill runs through my veins at his words. Icy fingers brush the back of my neck. I twist around, but not fast enough to catch sight of him. I can’t find him in the crowd. “Henry, please,” I beg. “Where is John?”

“You don’t want to know.”

My fingers curl into fists. “Tell me where he is!” I shout at his shadow. “I demand you tell me where John is!”

A faint laugh is the only reply. 

I vaguely notice people scattering around me, but I can’t worry about the shades. 

Instead, I focus on tracking the shadow of the man I’d known as he weaves between them. I’d never imagined Henry would be the first to fall. I can’t even tell if that’s what happened, or if the demons are merely stirring my fears. 

Yet I can’t deny it feels real. 

Henry is the only one beyond John who called me May. 

“Damn you, Henry.” Heart pounding, throat tight, I grab at the shreds of power in my blood. My voice is rough, my throat raw from the dirt and worry, yet I force myself to speak the words as loud and as clearly as I can. “With power and purpose I bind you to speak truth. I demand you tell me the fate of John Goodnight!”

Don’t demand things you don’t want, May. 

“I want John!” I shout. “I need John Goodnight!!”

“Well, ma’am,” a new voice intrudes, “that’s easily solved.”

I jerk as a painfully familiar figure emerges from the crowd. 

“Oh, my gods. John!” I rush forward, only to abruptly stagger to a halt. “John?”

“Ma’am.” The man tips the brim of his hat up with one finger, exactly as the John I know does. Yet the hat is the wrong shape, sporting a wider brim with an exaggerated heart bowing the top where the clean lines of his bowler once lay. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You appear to know my name, but I’m at a loss as to yours.” 

He has the same face as my John, the same rich brown hair. 

A silver star graces the right breast of his coat. 

But his eyes are green instead of gray. And there’s no flicker of recognition in his gaze. Worse, his moustache is gone. Instead of the bold line of brown framing his upper lip, there is only a day’s growth shading the edge of his jaw. 

My John insists that a man of the law always has time to mind his appearance. 

And this man’s clothes are wrong. He’s wearing a simple brown shirt buttoned up and tucked into trousers of a darker hue, with a jacket shorter than any self respecting Marshal would touch. On his feet are shoes—shoes! Where are his boots? What has happened to his vest and fitted jacket, and why aren’t his pistols slung across each hip, the colts glistening at the ready for a gunfight? 

“John?” I whisper his name again. 

“That’s right,” he says obligingly, but without a hint of awareness. “Sheriff John Henry Goodnight, at your service, miss. But folks here tend to call me Sheriff Jack.”

If I was anyone else, the smile he sends me would be a comfort. 

It might even be charming. 

But I’m me, and it’s all I can do to smother the cry of denial brewing in my chest. 

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” he continues, appearing oblivious to my struggle, “we’ll get you somewhere safe until you can come down from that high.” A black box on his shoulder squawks, He presses his thumb to it and says, “Yeah, Flo, I’m at the scene. No need for backup. It’s just another of those witch-obsessed lunatics. Betting this one got all dressed up and took something she shouldn’t have—then went and got herself lost in the wilderness.”

“Confirmed,” the box croaks, its voice like an angry crow. “I’ll get ready to put her up for the night.” 

I stumble back. “What witchcraft powers that speaking box?”

“Just a couple double-A batteries.” His lips curve into a lopsided grin that is so like my John’s it slices my heart in half.

“I… I don’t understand,” I gasp.

“Yeah,” he drawls, “I reckon you don’t.”

“What…” I can barely speak through the pressure in my chest. I back up until my shoulders collide with a thick wooden post with a carved cougar perched at the top. “What happened here? The town stands—how can the town still stand when everything about it is wrong?”

“Well, now,” he says, “that might require a longer conversation in a quieter place. Let’s start with your name.”

I blink at him. “My… my name?”

“That’s right. What’s your name, Miss?”

“Mayweather.” I force the word out. “Mayweather McCreedy.”

“Ah,” he chuckles. “A McCreedy. Well, that explains it.”

“It does?” Hope flickers inside me. “You know my name?”

 “Everyone around here knows the name McCreedy. And while I wish you’d drop the routine, I have to give you full points for creating a unique first name—and for having the best costume I’ve seen in years.” He flashes another of those gut-wrenching smiles. “You look like you’ve climbed out of a grave from the Wild West and are here to finish your family’s curse. It’s most impressive and I’ll be sure to note that in the report.” He takes my arm and steers me toward a white, horseless carriage with angry lights blazing along the top. “But it’s time to shelve curses and sober up.”

“No.” I shake my head and weakly try to pull my arm free. “You don’t understand.”

“I’m pleased to report I do, in fact, understand,” he says patiently, voice worthy of a school teacher who’s dealing with a particularly challenging child. His grip doesn’t waver as he pulls me along—yet it is not the grip of a demon. “I’m less pleased to report that it’s the year twenty-twenty-five and we’ve no need of extra curses or devils to tear us down—we’re doing a bang up job on our own. Good news for you, miss. You can rest easy and sleep off whatever you took.” 

“But…” I gape at him. “The curse…”

“Is unnecessary,” he says with a smile. “Devil’s Reach is already full up with trouble. We’ve got no need for an old time witch to invite the devil himself to our door. He’s been and gone.”

The man pushes me into the carriage.

I barely register the strangely soft seat or the myriad of smells. 

All I can do is stare at this John who’s not mine as the carriage rumbles to life and he speaks into the black box. 

“On our way to the station,” he says. “See you soon, Flo.”

“But the town is here,” I whisper. “I died to save it.” 

And our desperate gamble must have worked, because there are homes and shops instead of a smoking crater. John—or an echo of him—sits in the carriage before me. A shade of Henry haunts the streets. 

It is not the town I left, but it lives. 

That must mean we won. 

So why does it feel like I lost?