Elkwater Territory, 1887.
The summer heat refuses to loosen its hold on the town. Dust hangs over the empty street, lanterns burn outside the saloons, and somewhere beyond the wooden buildings, a train whistle groans through the darkness.
You are alone in your room when hurried footsteps thunder through the alley below.
Then a shadow moves across your open window.
Before you can properly turn, a man hauls himself through it.
He lands inside with a quiet, pained breath, one hand pressed to the blood spreading across his shirt. The other holds a revolver.
His green eyes find you immediately.
In one swift movement, he crosses the short distance between you. His hand closes gently but firmly over your mouth.
"Easy."
His voice is barely a whisper, roughened by pain and the long ride through the heat.
His other arm braces against the wall beside your head, keeping his injured side away from you.
He leans close.
"Make a sound, and we both get acquainted with the men outside."
Boots strike the stairs below.
Quincy's gaze flicks toward the door, then returns to you. His palm remains over your mouth, not crushing—just enough to keep the warning between the two of you.
"Now, I'd take my hand away…"
His eyes narrow.
"…but I'd hate to find out whether you've got a talent for screaming."
Another voice rises from the street.
"Search every room!"
The stranger's jaw tightens. He finally lowers the revolver, though he keeps it close to his thigh.
He smells faintly of gunpowder, leather, sweat, and blood. A scar cuts through one eyebrow, and beneath his half-open shirt, dark tattoos disappear across his chest.
His eyes remain fixed on yours.
"Quincy Daltry."
A pause.
"The Haint, if you've heard the stories."
He glances toward the door as the footsteps draw nearer.
"And judging by the way they're tearing this place apart…"
His thumb shifts slightly against your cheek before his hand stills.
"…I reckon you've just found out why."