CHAPTER 20

Bloodletters

Whenever Archer closed his eyes now, he dreamed of Sefia. Every night, as soon as he drifted off, there she was. She was Argo, missing a face. She was Oriyah, with Hatchet’s gun to the back of her skull. She was in the ring, or in the crates, or on a funeral pyre. It was inevitable—retribution for the pain he’d caused—and it’d be Sefia who paid the price.

He wasn’t the boy from the crate anymore. He was worse—he lived and breathed violence like a shark in water. It was all around him, and those closest to him would drown.

When he dreamed, he saw himself killing dozens and dozens of people, felt the thunder drumming in his chest, and when he woke, he wasn’t always sure if they were memories or something else.

Fights yet to be fought. Battles yet to be won.

“There’s a word for that, brother,” Kaito said, sharpening his curved sword. “Bloodlust.”

Archer began counting down the days until they reached the next crew of impressors.

Five days.

Four days.

Three.

With two days left, they turned northwest into the Szythian Mountains, riding into the high plains while the jagged ridges rose around them and groves of naked aspen rattled like bones along the slopes. When the winds blew, Archer imagined he could smell the smoke from the impressors’ camp on the air.

That afternoon, they passed a split-rail fence and a small herd of cattle grazing among the sage. Beyond lay a log cabin and a barn, with a few figures wandering between them, hauling bales of hay.

It must be a peaceful life, Archer thought as he watched a group of men on horseback ride toward the cabin, dust drifting up behind them.

His gaze went to Sefia, where she sat on one of the carts beside Aljan, teaching him to read. Maybe there’d been a brief time, on the Current, when Archer imagined he could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. They could’ve spent their days working alongside Reed’s crew, and their nights, clasped, breathless, in the crow’s nest while the watch passed over the decks below. But he wasn’t that boy either.

Not anymore.

Half of the riders dismounted in the yard. Chickens dodged out from under their boots as they threw back their dusters, revealing six-guns glinting at their waists.

Archer straightened in the saddle.

Something called inside him, like distant thunder, warning of a storm.

He was already turning toward the riders when the gunshot shattered the air. There was a cry from inside the barn.

A fight. His blood surged.

Without a second’s pause, Archer urged his horse over the fence. Behind him, Kaito let out a whoop.

Then they were riding hard through the sagebrush, roaring with anticipation.

Two women staggered out of the barn. The men on horseback closed in.

Archer drew his revolver. Around him, he could sense Frey and the boys pouring over the plain like a deadly tide. Only a few more breaths before they reached the yard. He pulled the trigger.

One of the men collapsed. Blood arced from his skull.

Before the first drop hit the ground, Archer was in the yard, shooting, fighting, pulling riders from their shrieking horses.

Frey shot out the kneecap of one man. Versil thrust another to the ground. Scarza ducked a bullet, which skimmed his silver hair, and raked his knife across a robber’s side. The man collapsed. Blood ran through his hands like water through the cracks of a crumbling dam.

Archer was thrown from his horse. He hit the ground and came up on his feet again, cutting, jabbing, nicking arteries and severing hamstrings, feeling his revolver kick back in his hand as each of his bullets reached their targets.

In the chaos he found Kaito—streaks of blood on his brow, blade flashing in his hands—and they came together like wind and rain, furious, driving, demolishing anyone who stood in their path. This was what they were meant for. This was where they were home.

While they cut and carved, shot and battered, two little girls ran into the fray.

One of the robbers turned, his revolver gleaming in the weak autumn sun.

Archer shot. So did Kaito. Three bullets sped through the air. One hit the man in the back, making him grunt with pain.

Kaito was on top of him in an instant, his face seamed with savage joy. In one quick motion, he slit the man’s throat. Blood splashed Kaito’s chest and neck and lips. The robber fell, choking, gasping, still.

A cold wind, smelling of earth and sage, blew across the plain.

All the robbers were dead.

Blood drenched the ground, turning the hard-packed dirt of the yard to mud.

Someone screamed. They screamed and screamed.

One of the girls was crumpled on the ground. She was small, so small. She couldn’t have been more than ten. The other girl kept shaking her, making her dark brown hair fall into her face, across her unblinking eyes.

A wound gaped on the side of her head.

Archer felt like his insides had been carved out. He ran for them, but the ranchers made it there first, knocking him aside. They were crying, gathering the girls into their arms—a single body of grief.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. Is she—” But he didn’t need to ask.

His revolver fell from his hand. Mud spattered its wooden grip.

His bullet or Kaito’s? Kaito’s or the robber’s? All three had fired their guns.

“Archer?” Sefia’s voice seemed to echo around him. “Archer, look at me. What happened?”

He shook his head, tried to push her away. He’d been right about him and violence, hadn’t he? My bullet or Kaito’s? Kaito’s or the robber’s? “She’s dead,” he croaked.

“You killed her!” One of the ranchers launched herself at him, striking him over and over with her fists. “You killed her!”

He didn’t try to defend himself. Cuts opened up on his brow, his cheek. A blow to the stomach made him double over, wheezing. The ground tilted beneath him. He saw spots of blood on his boots. The rancher didn’t stop wailing even when the others pulled her off him.

•   •   •

Red streaked the sky as they left the ranch, leaving the grieving family, the bloody yard. The air, no longer smelling of cattle and sage, was thick with ash.

At the head of the group, Archer rode alone. He hadn’t allowed anyone to touch him, hadn’t wanted to be touched, and now his fingers were stiff on the reins, glazed in other people’s blood.

His bullet or Kaito’s? Kaito’s or the robber’s? He kept picturing it over and over in his head—three pops of gunfire, the man crimping as one of the rounds struck him, Kaito finishing him off, and then the screaming. The screaming. No matter how many times he reimagined it, he still didn’t know.

His bullet or Kaito’s? Kaito’s or the robber’s?

“The ranchers said the Delieneans have a name for us,” Kaito said, trotting up beside him. When Archer didn’t reply, he continued: “Bloodletters. Can you believe that? They’ve been talking about us up and down the kingdom, the things we’ve done, the people we’ve saved.”

“Now they’ll talk about the people we didn’t.”

Kaito tried to hit him lightly on the shoulder, but he smacked the boy’s hand away, hard. Kaito sat back, dismayed. “Come on, brother, don’t be like that. If it weren’t for us, they’d all be dead.”

“She was just a kid,” Archer snapped.

“So what? We’ve all killed kids before.”

“She was innocent!”

“So were we!”

Archer didn’t want to hear Kaito’s casual disregard, like one dead girl was nothing, was to be expected, because deep down, he was afraid. Afraid of forgetting the wound, the limp neck, the screaming. Afraid of them just becoming another set of nightmares, to be fought off in the dark.

And because deep down, all he wanted was to hurt someone else, someone who deserved to hurt, so he could forget all the other hurts he’d caused.

He grabbed Kaito by the collar, nearly pulling him off his horse. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “It could’ve been your bullet that hit her.”

Kaito shoved him back, spitting. “It could’ve been his. Or yours. It doesn’t matter. People die, brother. That’s what we do. Why do you think they call us ‘bloodletters’?”

“We’re not murderers.”

Kaito laughed in his face. “We kill people and we get people killed. You better come to terms with that now if you’re going to lead us.”

“And turn out like you? I don’t want to be a butcher, Kaito. I’m better than that.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Archer knew he didn’t mean them. Kaito was the best of them. A better warrior, a better brother, than Archer would ever be.

He needed Kaito, the bloodletters, the battles, the mission. They were who he was.

A killer. A captain. A commander.

Clack. Clack. The Gormani boy drew his sword a handspan out of its scabbard and let it fall back again. Clack. The sounds ricocheted around them like gunshots, making Archer flinch.

“Kaito, I’m sor—”

Before he could finish, the Gormani boy cut him off. “I’m going to find us a place to camp. If that’s all right with you, chief.” Clicking his tongue, he kneed his horse into the darkness, which quickly swallowed them up.