Excerpt One
The Huntsmen had arrived.

They were all large, dressed in furs, leathers, and thick boots. The men had thick beards and braids; the women either wore braids or had shorn hair. All of them wore armor of some kind, with runic designs upon their crests. Ghost green flames danced and kissed across their skin. As Valentine watched, she saw that their skin flickered and faded in the moonlight, alternately translucent and opaque. During the translucent phases, she saw their skeletons underneath. 

She shivered.

Then, beyond the Huntsmen, she saw the mounts.

They were stunning.

Each horse shimmered, dressed in golds and silvers, blues and violets, coppers and moonlight. They were enormous, with hooves the size of dinner plates and lush manes that draped across the starlit skin. Valentine watched as they huffed, stamped their feet, and half-reared. They were ready, she could tell. They wanted to hunt, to chase.

She heard Malcolm’s prosaic voice in her head. Choose the smallest mount. 

Valentine scanned the herd. There. 

The smallest mount glowed like a golden fire in the moonlight, with a silver mane. Compared to the others, this one was dainty, almost delicate. Valentine cast a quick glance at the Huntsmen, then started forward, crouching low to avoid notice. As she moved forward, she draped the bridle over her shoulder, then pulled out the packet of frankincense and myrrh. She poured it into her hands, then crept forward. She stopped before the golden creature, a good six feet away. Though this mount was smaller than the others, it was by no means tiny. 

When Valentine stilled, the horse raised her head.

What do you want, mortal? The voice sounded like a crack of lightning in her head. The eyes glowed with violet flame.

Excerpt Two
Valentine looked Bill over. She remembered the stories in the old ballads, the ones of dancing with the devil only to never come home. Bill didn’t seem like a devil, but he clearly wasn’t an angel, either. She certainly didn’t trust him. What did she know of cowboys, particularly a legend like Pecos Bill? What did he want? What could she give without too high a price? A memory, a faint song remnant tickled the back of her skull, then poured out of her mouth. 

“Your lariat,” Valentine said. “The snake. Or the one you used to rope the moon. You still use it?”

Bill leaned back, his eyes watchful. “Funny that you ask. It’s worn down some. I’m hardly able to use it much these days.”

“I could take a look,” Valentine offered. “See if I can fix it.”

“You?” Bill scoffed. “What do you know about lariats? Despite your get-up, you’re not a cowhand or a rancher.”

Valentine leaned forward. Somehow, she knew she was on the right track. The same intuition that guided her in writing a great song nudged her further down this line of questioning. “It won’t cost you anything to let me look at it. If I fail to fix your lariat, we’ll leave you alone and find the Bloody Bones ourselves. But if I succeed, you will tell us where and when to find the killer. Or the Bloody Bones.” Valentine tried to be specific. She remembered the folk tales and legends she grew up on all had stories about bargains built on imprecise language or wordplay that ended badly for the mortals.

She couldn’t afford for this to end badly. She had to find the Bloody Bones. 

It was the only way to get her life back.

Bill narrowed his eyes at Valentine for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. 

“I accept your terms.”

Bill led them upstairs to a humble studio above the bar. Valentine was startled by the appearance of the simple abode; she had stayed in many, many places like this. She had assumed a legend would reside in a worthier home, someplace like the elegant casino where she had met Dale Wright, High John, and Paul Bunyan. Valentine didn’t say anything, though. She didn’t want to hurt Pecos Bill’s feelings. She already felt that she was on treacherous ground with him.

Bill left them standing in the doorway and walked over to the closet. He pulled down a saddlebag made of tanned, worn leather and reached in to pull out a lariat. Walking over to Valentine, he placed it in her hands. 

“Here she is.” Valentine heard a faint note of pride, and worry. “The lariat I used to harness tornados, to pull Sue down from the moon after the Widow-Maker had tossed her.” Bill gave an affectionate smile. 

“How is Sue these days, Bill?” Valentine heard Six ask from behind her.

The smile vanished. “Gone.” 

Bill didn’t elaborate. 

Valentine turned the lariat over in her hands. The rope was frayed from use, with threads slipped loose from the main coil. The material felt heavier, denser than the rope she had handled on her parents’ hobby farm. Silver and copper strands wove through the fabric, with a few faint gold threads, the only other hint of something supernatural about this workaday tool. Valentine bent closer to examine the silver and copper, and her own long, gold hair fell forward, resting against her hand where it held the rope. 

She had an idea. “Six, do you have a knife?”

“A knife?” Six shifted his weight on his feet. One hand ruffled through his hair.

“Yes.”

“Uh, no.”

Bill reached into the saddlebag. “Will this do?” 

Valentine looked up to see that Bill held a sheathed, single-sided blade the length of her forearm. “Yes.” 

Setting the rope aside on a nearby chair, Valentine took the knife from Bill and pulled the blade from the sheath. She swept off her hat, the silver accents twinkling in the faint light of the studio. Valentine gathered her long hair into roughly two chunks, on either side of her face. Using the knife, she sawed off one handful of the golden length, then the other. 

She heard Six gasp in surprise. A deep rumble came from Church.

In less than a minute, she had an armful of golden hair. 

Valentine handed the blade back to Bill, who took it without comment but with a keen gaze. She picked up the lariat and sorted through the coils until she found one end. She examined the braided coil, holding it at arm’s length and then up close. After a moment, she knew what she needed to do. 

Valentine placed the lariat on the worn Formica table, on top of a clutter of magazines and old newspapers and dirty dishes. She then reached for her own shorn locks and began to braid thin strips of her hair, one after the other. Silence hung over the room as the legends watched her, and Valentine began to sing, under her breath, an old song about a maid seeking her heart’s desire, a bluegrass tune she had first played when learning the mandolin. She sang in a low voice and continued to braid the shorn gold until there remained no more strands. 

Valentine picked up the lariat, and starting from one end, she wove the braided gold into the twisted rope. As she wrapped and tucked and twisted the golden strands into the fabric, the silver and copper strands flared and brightened, as if coming back to life. The gold threads glowed in response. Valentine worked her way down the length of the rope. She was relieved that she had just enough hair to repair the lariat. All the while, she sang the old tune. When she ran out of verses, she simply started the song anew. 

Finally, the lariat was done.