Jack Credence was dead. He had been for over a year. His gang, which used to run with twelve to twenty members now ran with just four.

Rôme Credence, charismatic and cocksure, postured himself as the new gang leader, but in actuality, the role fell to his sister, Phine, who, while a touch on the abrasive side, was significantly more grounded in reality. The two had shared a womb before birth, and very little since. They were the last two living descendants of Jack and his cajun bride, Cécile.

Beside them rode Remy Savoie and Arlan Charlemonde.

The four of them had grown up together along the banks of the Mississippi and when Rôme and Phine had left the French Quarter to follow their father, it was only natural that Remy and Arlan would join.

Remy was the son of a Cajun boatman and a German whore. He had inherited his mother's blond curls and his father's shiftless inability to hold down a job. Unlike his father, though, Remy preferred opium to liquor.

Arlan's grandmother had arrived in Louisiana following the Haitian Revolution. Newly widowed with four mouths to feed, she'd made and sold Voudon charms to make ends meet.

There was something in the air tonight that made Arlan wish he had one on hand.

Phine tugged on the reins of her horse and came to a halt.

"You sure about this?" Remy asked quietly in French, coming to a stop beside her.

"I thought you liked the plan," she said.

Remy shrugged. "I do, but something feels—off."

Rôme pulled up beside him and clapped him on the back. "Hein, mon grande, showing some nerves, eh? You don't have to worry, I'll take care of you."

Arlan tugged the collar of his duster coat tighter to his throat, but kept his mouth shut. He'd be damned if he admitted to being spooked.

"Maybe take care of yourself first," Phine said. "I'm surprised you can find your horse most days, the way you drink."

Rôme scoffed. "Who's plan was this?"

"Mine," Phine said evenly.

Rôme looked incredulous. "I'm pretty sure I'm the one who said 'Let's go to Misery and rob it.'"

"You wanted to rob the bank, like the idiot you are," Phine responded. "I'm the one who suggested the saloon and hammered out the actual details."

"I still say we should rob the bank," Rôme said. "More money."

Phine snorted. "You were rocked too close to the wall in your early years. What good is money if we don't make it out alive?"

Arlan tuned them out. The Credence twins argued most days, and it was only the days they didn't that worried him.

The dust kicked up and swirled behind him and a chill crept down his spine.

"If we're doing this, let's get to it," Arlan said.

Rôme dug a knee into his horse's side and clicked his tongue, "Alors, en avant."

Behind them, the dust rose higher and coalesced into a large, impenetrable wall of sand. Had any of them looked back, they might have re-evaluated their plans for the evening, but each of the four had their fixed firmly on the town ahead of them.

***

Deidre polished the glass in her hand to a fine shine before setting it down on the counter beside the rest.

She took pride in having a clean barroom, even if the only people to enjoy it were the town drunk, the pianist and one lone man in the back who kept rolling a coin across his knuckles in the hope that someone would notice and be duly impressed.

No one did.

Deidre inspected the glasses one more time for rogue fingerprints before replacing each one carefully on the shelf below the bar.

The back of her knuckle brushed against the stock of a single trigger, short-barreled shotgun.

It didn't have a lot of range, but within the walls of the saloon, range wasn't necessary.

On the small platform to the right, the piano fell silent as the pianist, a man named Sherman, paused to knock back the remainder of his bourbon.

"I'm paying you to play, not to drink," Diedre said without looking up from her task.

"Ain't nobody listening, lady," Sherman replied, but resumed playing anyway.

Deidre huffed to herself, but she had to admit the man was not far wrong.

Ryelin, her hand still wrapped around a mug of beer, snored loudly at a table near the center of the room and the man, Rasin, had the abstracted look of a man tending to his grievously wounded pride. Neither would have been at this saloon, if the barkeep at the River Snake hadn't thrown them out.

With a sigh, Diedre grabbed the open bottle of whiskey and made her way to the back where Rasin sat.

Without asking, she tipped the bottle and filled his glass.

"Cheer up, Rasin," she said. "They'll let you back in tomorrow."

Rasin forced a smile that never touched his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Diedre raised a brow. "That business at the River Snake?"

Rasin waved one hand dismissively. "That. Just rumour. You see how it gets around in this town. I left of my own accord. Couldn't stand the crowd. Wanted somewhere quiet to think. You know how it is."

She did know how it was. Pete, himself had told her when she'd stopped by the River Snake to borrow a case Rum.

For all that Pete and Diedre were business rivals, they both knew the value of keeping neighborly relations. The time between supply trains was costly when you ran out of stock and both found it more profitable in the long term to simply share. Besides, no one else knew the ins and outs of a town like a barkeep, and the two enjoyed a frequent and mutual exchange of gossip.

"Besides," Rasin continued, "why would I want to be there when I could be here with you?"

He reached for the bottle of whiskey, his fingers resting momentarily over hers. She glanced to where their skin touched, his honeyed, brown and hers a rich, almost black and resented the contact.

"Leave the bottle, darling," he said.

Pulling her hand from his, it was her turn to force a smile.

"Of course," she said.

Returning to the bar, she grabbed a clean linen from a basket under the bar and busied herself with polishing the bar top. Anything to keep herself from scrubbing the spot where their fingers had met.

Sherman paused again. When Diedre lifted her head to scold him, she saw why. Four masked gunmen stood at the entrance to her saloon.

She dropped her cloth and grabbed for her shotgun, but it was Ryelin who fired the first shot.