Page 131 of New Storm Rising
“I hear you have a message for me?”
The Spaniard nearly jumped out of his skin. Whirling around, he came face-to-face with a tall, blond, blue-eyed man. A moment later he wished he hadn’t. The man’s face was the face of an angel. But his eyes…
His eyes were the eyes of a devil.
The Spaniard swallowed and nodded. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. The moment he’d ridden across mountains and deserts for.
“Señor C-Creed.”
The name of the most wanted man in more than a dozen states rolled off his tongue haltingly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a letter sealed with an ornate red wax seal. A sight very seldom seen in this modernized country—yet far more common in the old world. In the Spanish Empire, in particular.
“H-here you go, Señor.”
He held out the letter. The hand that took it was refined. Elegant. Not at all what you’d expect the hand of an outlaw to look like. Maybe this man wasn’t as bad as his reputation would lead you to believe.
With a low tearing noise, the envelope opened. Moments passed, as Creed read in silence. Finally, the desperado with the angel’s face lowered the letter.
“Good news?” the Spaniard asked hopefully.
“Oh yes.” Creed smiled—then in a blink, raised his revolver.
The Spaniard’s eyes widened. “B-but you read se letter! You know I’m not lying! I’m a messenger!”
“Yes,” Creed agreed. “And now you’ve delivered your message.”
Bam!
A moment later, something hit the floor with a thud. Still smiling, Creed holstered his revolver.
“Men?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Someone, take the body away.”
“Yes, boss!”
“And…”
“Yes?”
“Prepare the horses.” The smile on Creed’s face widened into a beatific expression of someone who would never do evil—because he could not tell it apart from good in the first place. “I think it’s time to meet up with our new employers.” Pulling a bullet from his belt, he methodically reloaded his revolver. “Them and their unwelcome travelling companions.”
***
“Bleeeeargargargargargh!”
Carriages. Were. Inventions. Of. The. Devil.
I wasn’t certain if they were patented by Lucifer Ltd, but I was darn sure the bastard was behind them in some shape or form. Dry-heaving, I came back up and pulled myself back into the coach that was rattling down the road.
“Here,” Mr Ambrose held out a cloth to me.
“Th-thanks.” Taking a deep breath, I reached out to take the cloth—and jerked back when I realized what kind of cloth it was!
“Rikkard! Ambrose!”
“Yes?” he enquired, his chiselled face completely innocent and unperturbed, as if hehadn’tjust offered me a piece of adult-rated underwear to wipe my mouth with.
