The Imp Prince Read online

  Legal Stuff

  Copyright © 2017 All Chaos Press, All Rights Reserved.

  Reproduction of any kind is strictly prohibited unless written permission granted by the editor of the anthology and the individual author.

  The stories included in this anthology are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The individual stories are covered under the copyright of the originating writer. The presence of their creative work in the anthology is by permission of each author.

  The Fae’s Prince, ©Copyright 2017 Ginny Clyde, All Rights Reserved

  The Mechanic Prince, ©Copyright 2017 Taki Drake, All Rights Reserved

  The Gunslingers Lament, ©Copyright 2017 Cara Haslwanter, All Rights Reserved

  The Demon of Darkwood Keep, ©Copyright 2017 Ryland Thorn, All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Legal Stuff

  Welcome to The Imp Prince

  Introduction - The Gunslinger's Lament

  The Gunslinger’s Lament

  Introduction to The Demon of Darkwood Keep

  The Demon of Darkwood Keep

  Introduction to The Fae’s Prince

  The Fae's Prince

  Introduction to The Mechanic Prince

  The Mechanic Prince

  Contributing Authors

  Author - Ginny Clyde

  Author - Taki Drake

  Author - Cara Haslwanter

  Author - Ryland Thorn

  Keep Connected

  Welcome to The Imp Prince

  Welcome to the Phoenix Prime anthology, The Imp Prince. These stories are retellings of the classic fairy tale and deal with family and competition. The very different voices of the authors in this anthology illustrate the range of talent that is contained in the Phoenix Prime writers’ group. This community of authors is working together to leverage tools, techniques, and methods that help bring the best out of each author. I hope you will find the stories as enjoyable as I have, and that you will be looking for more in the coming days and weeks.

  Introduction to The Gunslinger’s Lament

  This story explores what happens when the slow erosion of someone’s ethics and moral stance leaves them in a position of despair. Even with the dark topic, this talented author shows how it is still possible to find elements of contentment and satisfaction in a life that has not been happy.

  Whether it is setting up scenes that send shivers down your spine or ones that create intriguing views and moral considerations, the story is immersive and haunting.

  The Gunslinger’s Lament

  by Cara Haslwanter

  Tendrils of evil chased the gunslinger across the vast expanse of the western territories. He hadn’t meant to trade away his soul. From farm boy to soldier, Quentin tried to do what was right and follow, if not man’s law, certainly God’s law. But from idealistic soldier to battle-hardened gunslinger, he’d felt the goodness drain from him the way spring drains winter – a delicate trickle at first and then finally in a great deluge.

  Quentin’s eyes narrowed as the harsh wind picked up and dust blew into his sensitive eyes. He tugged his bandana over his nose and mouth to protect against the flotsam and jetsam of desert debris that stirred and climbed inside his eyes, nose, and mouth. The distant, tinny sound of a saloon piano echoed in the desolate landscape. Out of long habit, his hand reached for the shabby leather of his holster and the smooth pearl handle of the Colt revolver he’d worn since the War Between the States. He had nothing to lose in this life except his horse and meager possessions, but he wasn’t quite ready to face the Almighty and atone for his sins.

  He neared the main street and an alarm bell sounded in his head at the desolation that encircled the town. Stray tumbleweeds rolled through the main street and only a brace of horses stood in front of Granger’s General Store. Quentin’s eyes focused and he tilted his hat up to allow for an improved peripheral line of vision. He pulled his Sharps from the saddle holster and situated it across the pommel of his saddle. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention and every muscle in his body tightened. Still, he rode forward, ignoring his screaming instincts.

  The two rows of buildings had the barely-there look of a mining town. A small corral on the north edge of town held a chestnut mare, several years past her prime. The blacksmith, a boy barely old enough to shave, pounded his anvil to a rhythmic beat. Moonshine’s hooves kept an off-beat from the anvil pounding, providing a syncopated melody to the steady metronome of work.

  The leather of his well-worn saddle creaked as he dismounted and hitched his horse in front of the saloon. The air was charged with electricity and his nipples and groin tightened in response. He slid his Sharps back in its holster and slung his crossbow across his back.

  The doors of the Silver Dollar Saloon swung open noiselessly and Quentin stepped into the cool shadowy depths of the bar. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he took in the sad interior of the saloon. Three working girls sat in one corner playing cards. A bartender cleaned an already pristine bar. A thirteen-year-old girl hit the keys of the old upright piano with disturbing regularity, if not with any discernable melody.

  Every eye in the place turned to look at him. Quentin nodded and tugged at the brim of his hat in deference to the women. He approached the bartender and tossed a coin on the polished surface. “Whiskey,” he said.

  The bartender poured the amber liquid into a clear shot glass and slid it to him. “We don’t need no damned gunslingers in this town,” she said, her eyes narrowed with mistrust.

  Quint knocked back his drink and eyed the place up with feigned disinterest. “Seems customers are in short supply.” He knocked the brim of his hat up with one long index finger. “Seems mighty suspicious.” Quint kept his gaze trained on the mirror over the bar, his eyes darting as he watched for threats. The little girl at the piano abandoned her rendition of some unrecognizable frontier ballad, swung on her seat, and watched the gunslinger with shrewd brown eyes.

  “Nothing suspicious about it, Mister,” the piano player said. “All the men gots killed by Baron Fury.”

  “You hush up now, Gentille,” the bartender said. “Shoo. Don’t you need to torture us some more with that terrible piano playing?”

  Gentille sat down next to him and arched a single eyebrow. She stared the bartender down. “I am taking a break,” she said, her chin lifted in defiance. The girl turned to Quint. “My name is Gentille,” she said. “But you can call me Genny. Most everyone does.”

  Quint didn’t want to know more about this town. He didn’t want to like a feisty girl named Gentille. He certainly didn’t want to start calling her Genny or begin caring about her welfare.

  Whatever war this town had with Baron Fury, he didn’t want to be a part of it. His soul had enough marks on it and he’d killed enough men for a dozen lifetimes. He had little hopes of getting past the pearly gates of heaven and was content with his choices. And yet, this open precocious girl drew him in with her worldly innocence.

  “I’m Quentin,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But most folks just call me Quint.”

  “Nice ta meetcha Mr. Quint,” Genny said. “Don’t pay no mind to Miss Loretta,” she said with a wave of her hand towards the bartender. “Her husband was one of the men the Baron killed last week.”

  Quint grunted in response. It was one thing to dislike the rude bartender, another altogether to feel the early stirrings of pity. Loretta filled up his shot glass and Quint nodded his thanks to her.

  “Are you a gunslinger, Mr. Quint?”

  Quint
was taken aback by the directness of the question. “I carry a gun, yeah. Be foolish not to.”

  “We need your help,” Genny said. “Will you help us?”

  “Genny, stop that right now,” Loretta scolded. “The Baron’s spies are probably already aware of Mr. Quint’s visit. We don’t need any other reason for him or his men to come to town.”

  “Oh hush, Loretta,” said a young woman entering the saloon from the door that led to the upstairs rooms. “She’s only asking what we’d all like to know.”

  Quint stared at the young woman with something akin to horror. She was beautiful. Not in the way even features or smooth skin were pretty. Not even in the way of youth or health. This woman was incandescent. Her skin was as luminescent as a sunset. She was all radiant color and eyes a man could lose his soul in.

  “Damnit, Plum, get your ass back upstairs,” Loretta scolded.

  “I’m tired of being a prisoner,” Plum complained, her voice as passionate as a windstorm and as fierce as a preacher’s. “I am tired of being a victim.” She turned to Quint, her brown eyes beseeching in a way that risked smelting the core of Quint’s soul from the darkness that surrounded it. “Will you help us, Mr. Quint?”

  “Nothing I can do will bring your menfolk back,” Quint said, straightening his shoulders and his resolve. “Why don’t y’all just run?”

  Plum’s eyes narrowed with a displeasure Quint felt to the bottom of what passed for his soul.

  “Diana,” Plum called. One of the three girls playing cards approached with trepidation. “Why don’t you show Quint here what happened when you tried to run?”

  Diana faced him, chin up and eyes narrowed, as though daring Quint to mock her.

  Quint took in the marks on her skin. Her forehead and cheeks were marred by a two-inch-long rectangle shaped dent with a small irregular circle beneath it. The scars were cruel in their placement along the dewy contours of her youthful cheeks, but would have faded with time. To insult the wounds further, someone had cauterized each small cut with a hot iron.

  “A belt,” Quint guessed, glancing at Plum. She nodded.

  “See your fill, Mister?” Diana spat. “Because they’re not even the worst.” She lifted the hem of her long skirts and petticoats to expose a healthy expanse of smooth beautiful leg. Near her thigh stood a distinct burn of a cattle brand -The Crazy F. He hadn’t seen that mark since he’d left the Florida panhandle.

  “We’re safe so longs as he wants Plum and she stays hidden,” Genny said. “But as soon as he gets her, we’ll all be deader ‘n a barrel of doornails.”

  Quint knew that brand - knew it as well as the Colt that rested comfortably against his right thigh. Nausea filled him as multiple pieces fell into place — the abstract cruelty of the attack, the desire for a woman he couldn’t have, and the widespread slaughter of all men over the age of puberty.

  Unwittingly, Quint reached out to trace the dark black scarring on Diana’s once flawless skin. She swatted at his hand and dropped her skirts. “There are more brands,” she said, her eyes narrowed and her voice shook with barely constrained fury. “But you’ll need to pay Loretta for an hour on the whoopie cushion to see those.”

  The man who made those marks was relentless in the pursuit of what he wanted. No force of man or nature had so much as slowed him down.

  But you’re property of the devil, Quint thought. A gunslinger with a smooth aim and a longer kill sheet. He shook his head. Evil forces used against more evil forces might put his ledger back near the black. Might prompt hope in his already tarnished reputation – a risk he couldn’t take.

  “I sold my soul to the devil a long time ago, ladies. I am no knight in shining armor,” Quint said. “I am not the man you need to help you.” Even as Quint said the words, he knew they were a lie. A man without a soul had nothing to lose and he’d traded his long ago for a sharpshooter’s eye and a gunslinger’s aim. He could kill this man who called himself Baron Fury without a backward glance.

  The deeper question, the darker question, was the risk of hope. If he helped these ladies, that quiet mustard seed of goodness that still remained, might begin to grow. A man without hope for redemption was dangerous to others. A man who still hoped was dangerous to himself.

  Plum sauntered towards him, her eyes narrowed with intent. “I can save myself, Quint. I don’t need you for that.” Her hands went to her hips with sass and attitude. “But if anyone can help my friends and family, it’s you. You are the only hope for their lives.”

  Quint shook his head, but already he felt that long forgotten mustard seed begin to grow under Plum’s words. “Their lives are already forsaken,” Quint said. “Get to church and pray for your redemption.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Genny screamed. “It’s a snake!” Genny stood in one corner and pointed to the corner of the saloon.

  With a smooth movement honed by years of practice, Quint slid the strap of his crossbow from shoulder to hand with perfect precision. He approached the corner, ready to confront a deadly copperhead or rattler. He stared at the little grass snake for a moment before one corner of his mouth kicked up in a reluctant grin. “It’s just a garter snake,” he announced. Using a broom and a whisk, Quint gathered up the little snake and turned to take him outside.

  As he approached the swinging saloon doors, the snake began to stir and morph into an angel the size of a large butterfly. The angel waved one tiny hand Quint felt the heavy weight of his soul begin to warm and grow.

  “I don’t want this,” he shouted to the angel. For the first time since he’d fought and won his first duel, Quint began to feel real fear. Deep coils of panic threaded through him and pulsed around him. He was comfortable in the black and didn’t want the risk of being brought back into the light.

  “I am the angel Papillon,” the little angel said. “And yet you saved a lowly garter snake when it was well within your power to kill me. Perhaps your soul is not as far gone as you would have liked.”

  Quint fell to his knees with the pain of Papillon’s words washed over him. “No,” he said again, his voice and features growing hard with his fear. “I do not want this.” He reached for his gun, determined to send his soul to hell once and for all. He cocked the weapon to aim at the angel only to find it dancing in the air around his forehead and creating a small crown of rainbow-colored fairy dust.

  “I have granted you the power of understanding, empathy, and the ability to read a person’s mind. Don’t waste the gift,” Papillon said as it dissolved into a contrail of sparkling dust.

  Stunned, Quint turned to look at the women who surrounded him. He was immediately inundated by their thoughts, memories, and fears. He sat, stunned at the overwhelming onslaught of information. He sighed, realizing no man had ever entered as neat a trap. He was well and truly caught and the kernel of hope for salvation was at risk. Slowly, using his mind, he closed down the voices until they were little more than a soft hum.

  He rose from his knees and straightened to his full height. So be it. If he was in this web, he would be in it until the end. He would pull every trick, every bit of luck, and every ounce of skill he’d learned in twenty years of living by his gun’s sights. His sharp blue eyes met every woman’s face as he glanced around the room. “What are our assets?”

  “My sister Peaches and I,” Plum said, waving to the other woman in the saloon. “Gina, Diana, Loretta, Genny, and Bobby.”

  “Bobby?”

  “He’s out working in the forge,” Plum said.

  “Any other kids?”

  “About half dozen boys spread out,” Loretta said. “But damn hard to chase them down.”

  “Any additional weapons?”

  “I have this,” Peaches said, pulling her derringer out of her garter.

  Her little pea-shooter gave Quint the ghost of an idea, but he needed to think on it further. Quint’s mind spun. Five women, two children, and himself against Fury weren’t much in the way of assets. “Can any of you can shoot?”
r />   Loretta pulled a rifle out from under the bar. “My husband taught me how to fire this,” she said with a proud smile. Quint nodded.

  “I’ll go get Bobby,” Genny said.

  “Thank you, Genny,” Quint said. “Any of the other boys if you can find them, too.” He turned to Loretta. “Can you draw me a map of the town?”

  After securing Moonshine in the corral and giving the gelding some water, Quint assessed their collected weapons. Two shotguns in addition to his own – a Sharps, his crossbow, a Bowie knife, his trusted Colt. He examined the map of the small town. “We are total sitting ducks, ladies.” Bobby cleared his throat. “And gentleman.”

  Quint closed his eyes and spread his thoughts out. Thanks to Angel’s gift, Quint was able to sense the Baron’s thoughts. “The Baron is on his way,” Quint said. “He will attack at dawn.” Quint’s index finger pressed against the map’s north side of town. “Here we have the horse corral and the forge. What’s this building here on the south side of town?”

  “That’s the church,” Loretta said. “On the other side is the graveyard.”

  Quint tapped the spot several times. “That’s where we want to meet with Fury,” he said. “I’ll try to parlay with him.”

  “He ain’t going to be talked out of taking Plum,” Genny said.

  “You’re probably right,” Quint said with a nod. “Good thing that’s not my plan. Now, if only we had a spare wagon.”

  “We got the one outside the general store,” Bobby said. “Mizz Granger left it behind after her husband was killed by the Baron.”

  Quint turned to Loretta. “Why didn’t you list that among our assets?” Loretta only shrugged. “Okay. We’ll need half a bottle of whiskey to make a bomb out of. Bobby, can you show me where the wagon is? We don’t have much time and I need to set up a trap for Fury.”

  “What should we do?” Plum asked.

  “Pack up whatever you can’t live without,” Quint said. “If this goes well, you’ll have your freedom. If it goes poorly, you’ll have to run for it.” He turned to Diana. “Can you and Peaches go to the general store and gather us up something for dinner?” The two women nodded and left.