Chapter 6
Caleb stared down at the silver star resting in the child’s palm. The blood dripping from its jagged pin wasn't diluted by the dark water surrounding them; it pooled into thick, black drops that sank straight down toward the floorboards below. The air in the saloon grew heavier, smelling sharply of copper and old gunpowder.
“I don’t wear that anymore,” Caleb said through clenched teeth, backing away until his shoulders pressed hard against the solid wooden wall. “I left that life in the dust.”
The older sister stepped closer, the water parting effortlessly around her bare feet. She didn't blink. Her eyes, wide and glassy, reflected the faint, sickly glow emanating from the viewing port beneath the bar where Jonah still watched them.
“The desert don't let you drop what you carry, mister,” the older girl said, her voice dropping an octave into a tone that sounded impossibly ancient. “You carry the man who died for you, and you carry the men you killed for him. Put it on.”
Caleb shook his head vigorously, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. “No.”
Without warning, the younger sister lunged forward with supernatural speed. Before Caleb could raise his arms, she grabbed his right hand and slammed the blood-soaked star directly against his chest. The pin drove straight through the thick wool of his dark trench coat, piercing his flesh with a searing, white-hot pain that made him cry out.
Caleb gasped, his hands flying to his chest, but the star had already fused itself to his skin. A burning circle of red light radiated outward from the metal, and the freezing water around his waist instantly turned boiling hot, scorching his legs.
“Now you’re the law of the house,” Jonah’s voice echoed up from the depths, magnified a hundred times until the entire wooden structure vibrated.
The water began to recede just as quickly as it had risen, draining away through invisible cracks in the floorboards until only a damp, muddy residue remained. The artificial ocean outside the broken windows vanished, replaced once more by the blinding, sun-baked dust of the desolate western street. The front walls dissolved back into open air, and the harsh desert wind blew through the saloon once again, carrying the dry rattle of tumbleweeds.
Caleb fell to his knees in the mud on the saloon floor, clutching his chest where the star burned like a brand. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. When he looked up, his reflection stared back at him from a shattered piece of mirror on the bar counter. His beard was frosted with gray he hadn't had that morning, and his eyes had taken on that same glassy, hollow look he had seen in the girls.
The two sisters stood near the entrance, their yellow dresses completely dry, holding hands as they looked out toward the street.
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“First visitor’s coming,” the older girl said softly, not turning around.
Caleb forced himself up onto unsteady legs, drawing his revolver with a shaking hand as he limped toward the front of the saloon. He peered out the broken window and saw a lone horseman riding slowly through the dust cloud, wearing a familiar black trench coat and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
