revolver, and the shotgun pushed the monster back, but didn’t kill it, letting it come at me again. I was running out of options, and my comrades were too busy fighting for their lives to bother saving me.
The dueling pistols were a last resort. Normally, a one-shot gun isn’t a good pick for a firefight. But these guns were different. Tonight, I had loaded them with bullets I’d made myself. The bullets were a mixture of silver and lead, blessed by a priest, dipped in holy water and rubbed with salt. I figured that had to sting.
The Nephilim came at me, and I fired both guns at close range, closer than I liked, aiming for the eyes. My other shots had opened gaping wounds, and they would have killed a human. But these things weren’t human, even if their mothers had been. No, they took after their daddies’ side, ugly as sin and mean as a jackal. I’d heard that they could cast an illusion, make themselves handsome enough to bed a woman. Must be true, because no one would let something that ugly near enough to spit on them let alone make a baby.
The bullets hit, tearing into the purpled flesh of the Nephilim, searing skin and muscle as blessed metal met unholy flesh. The thing reared back, roaring in pain, clawing at the holes, and for a moment, I was forgotten. It was the break I needed.
Guns were nice, but I trust in swords. I shoved the pistols back into my belt. They had bought me the time necessary to get in close with my sword while the Nephilim was distracted. The sword was blessed, too, but by powers darker than the padre who had said a prayer over my bullets. I came at the ugly half-demon, a cutlass in one hand and a wicked knife in the other, determined to do justice.
I cast a flicker of illusion to make the monster think I had moved to the left, then I swung hard to the right. In the next breath, I sent a flicker of magic to make the cobblestones slick underfoot, so the creature had to think about staying upright. Then, I struck.
My first hit bit deep into the bone, and the upswing gutted the creature. It got in one good blow with its claws, raking them across my chest. I bit back a scream. But these things don’t die easy, so I kept on swinging. Black blood splashed me, but I kept on hacking. First the forearms, then the neck. Just to be sure, I put the blade deep where the heart should be. Only then did the monster lay still. I stepped back, watching, as the body began to shrivel and fold in on itself until it vanished, pulled clean back to wherever the hell it came from, or maybe to hell itself. Don’t matter much to me, so long as it’s gone and it don’t come back.
Again the memories shifted and spun. Time passed. This time, when the images cleared, I was staring down the barrel of a gun. There was a reason a certain street in Charleston got the nickname ‘Dueler’s Alley’. Straight and nearly windowless, it was like sighting down a sluice. Charleston is funny about honor. Do what you please in the dark with whomever you will, and that’s all right. Speak the truth about it to someone’s face, and they aim to kill you.
It would have been a shame if I hadn’t engineered the whole damn thing. In the end, it wasn’t a Nephilim that got me. No, an upstart demon-spawn got its fangs into me. Poisoned me real good. Even witches couldn’t save me, and I’d have blacked my soul to beg a cure from them if they’d been able to fix me.
I could feel the poison in me, burning its way through, taking a little bit of me with each day. I didn’t know whether it would kill me or turn me into some new kind of monster, and I didn’t want to find out. I guess I could have put my gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger, but that seemed cowardly. So I did the next best thing and challenged the best duelist in Charleston, a man I was quite sure wouldn’t miss.
Son of a bitch. I’ve spent a lifetime dodging bullets just so that, here at the end, I could stand and take one like a man. I’m not a’feared of dyin’. There are