Two: When Trouble Knocks

Damian stood on the weathered porch of the saloon, watching the sun dip behind the wooden structures lining the street. The familiar clamor of the town buzzed around him, but his gaze was fixed on two figures nearby. Old Man Hargrove hunched over his cane, gesturing animatedly as he attempted to convince Lucy—a widow whose husband had fallen victim to consumption fifteen years ago—that his homemade pickles were the cure for everything. Damian stifled a laugh, recalling how Hargrove had once brought a jar of his infamous pickles to the town potluck, only to receive a heartfelt note from Mayor Weaver suggesting they should be “admired from a distance.”

Yet, even as amusement flickered through him, a heavy weight settled in Damian’s gut, tugging his thoughts away from the lighthearted moment. A week after he’d taken the amulet, Everly’s frantic warnings still echoed in his mind. Curiosity gnawed at him like a wild beast. He’d always believed the heart-shaped relic, pulsing with a strange, living glow, was more than it seemed. It didn’t just shimmer; it breathed with secrets he was eager to master. The intricate engravings on its dark metal surface, intertwining symbols of light and shadow, had captivated him. He yearned to uncover its secrets, never suspecting that the radiant light emanating from the amulet could hold anything but a thrilling discovery.

The night Everly stormed into the saloon had unlocked something deep within Damian. It was as if a veil had lifted, peeling back the familiar and revealing a hidden world layered over his own—a realm where shadows drifted with unnatural grace, unbound to any surface. They pulsed around him like sentient things, twisting through the air with a dark, hypnotic rhythm. An ancient bond stirred in his core, awakening a connection to this magic that both gripped and unsettled him. The depth of it frightened him—a raw, nameless force he couldn’t deny yet barely understood, binding him to a mystery he’d only begun to glimpse.

A profound sense of regret settled over him. He remembered Everly standing defiantly against the darkness while he had obeyed her command to flee, leaving her vulnerable in the heart of danger—just as their father had abandoned them when their mother succumbed to consumption all those years ago. He refused to follow in his father’s footsteps.

The remnants of his past mistakes clung to him, a relentless specter he could no longer ignore. Damian took a steadying breath, feeling the familiar edge of guilt eating away at his resolve—but he was done letting it consume him. He needed to face Everly, to aid her in shouldering this burden, even if he didn’t yet know how. But he’d find a way. Somehow, he would make this right.

As he stepped off the boardwalk, distant voices drew his attention to a group of men in long coats, their faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats and dark bandanas. Even from a block away, Damian could tell they were armed to the teeth with gear guns and sabers with mechanized hilts. These men were not locals of Hollow Creek. Their mere presence hung in the air like a storm cloud, unsettling and charged with an unspoken threat. Unnatural shadows gathered and darkened around them, twisting Damian’s stomach as he recalled the shadows that rippled from the amulet.

“Evenin', Sparks!” A hand clapped his shoulder, and Damian started. Rhett Thompson grinned from beneath his brass-embellished oilskin hat. “Where’s Evie? I thought she was joinin’ us for drinks at The Steel Horse.”

Damian turned away from the strangers ambling outside the Mercantile. “Stayin’ out of trouble, I hope.”

Earlier that week, he had relayed to Rhett every word Everly drilled into him about the amulet. Its power was beyond anything either of them could comprehend, wielding shadow and light with the potential to tear their world apart if it fell into the wrong hands. Everly, a Warrior in Faith just like Grandma Destiny, stood at the front lines against such evil, destined to protect not just their family but the very fabric of their world.

Everyone across the Embervale Territory knew about the existence of Faith magic and the serious repercussions that came with revealing it in public. While Damian was also familiar with Grandma Destiny’s strong opposition to the policies surrounding such dire repercussions, he had never suspected magic ran in the family. How could they have hidden this from him for twenty-seven years? Under the same roof, no less.

Rhett scratched a spot behind his ear. “That sister of yours is more trouble than a rattlesnake in a haystack. It pains me to see her carrying such a heavy load—it’s too damn big for one person.”

Damian lifted his chin in agreement, though a heaviness settled in his chest. He decided to delay seeing her until later tonight; Everly likely wouldn’t expect him home this early. After all, he usually returned late from his evenings with Rhett, the two of them sharing drinks, their camaraderie a brief reprieve from the burdens of the day. Crossing the threshold of The Steel Horse, he allowed his worries to drown beneath the boisterous laughter, lost to the warm haze of cigar smoke curling lazily in the lamplight.

“Howdy, boys!” Slicker waved them over, a splintered toothpick gripped between his teeth. “The usual?”

“You know it, Slick.” Rhett leaned against the bar, the wood worn and chipped from years of careless patrons. “I reckon you’re offerin’ a discount, is that right?”

“The hell you talkin’ about?” Slicker shot him a dark look.

“I’ll be mighty glad to remind you of that favor we did for you the other night.”

Damian chuckled. “He’s got a point, Slick. Surely you haven’t forgotten that bunch we wrangled—the young fellas from the mill who weren’t too pleased about bein’ cut off so early?”

Slicker leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright, alright, I’ll give you a half-shot off, but only because I like you boys.” He poured their drinks with a flourish, the amber liquid sloshing into dusty glasses.

As they took their seats at the bar, Damian glanced around the lively room. The patrons were a mix of ranchers and steam engineers, all drawn together by the promise of whiskey and good company.

“Speakin’ of favors,” Rhett started, taking a sip from his glass. “How do you plan to help Everly keep that amulet safe? It did some remarkable things last week—beyond its strange glow. It nearly split Slicker’s stage in half! Folks are askin' questions.”

Damian glared into his tumbler, Rhett’s words landing with more force than he wanted to admit. He knew his friend hadn’t seen the peculiar shadows flickering from the amulet. When he had mentioned them, the question in Rhett’s eyes spoke volumes, confirming his suspicions.

He threw back the whiskey in one gulp. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle.”

Rhett studied him for a moment, clearly unconvinced. “You know I’m right here with you, don’t ya? If this thing’s as dangerous as it looks, we oughta think ahead—figure out how to keep Evie safe before trouble shows up on her doorstep.”

The saloon doors swung open with a crash, and the long-coated men Damian had spotted outside lumbered in, bringing more shadows with them. Oil lamps dimmed, and the handsome fire shrank in the fireplace. The raucous men around the poker table fell quiet, watching the newcomers, their hands inching toward the gear guns at their belts.

Damian’s pulse quickened as his gaze met Rhett’s, both sharing a look that hinted at their mutual unease. The cloaked men prowled the edges of the saloon, eyes sweeping over the tables, as if they were searching for someone—or something.

“Looks like ‘trouble’ just walked in,” Rhett muttered, his hand subtly brushing the grip of his gear gun.

The leader of the group, a tall figure with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. “We’re here for one person,” he called out, his voice low and sharp. “A girl. Red hair, troublemaker. Goes by the name Everly Cunningham.”

Damian glanced at Rhett. “We need to get out of here,” he whispered urgently, but before he could make a move, the leader locked eyes with him, an oily smirk curling the corners of his mouth.

“Well, well. If it isn’t her brother. You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you?”

A chill settled in the pit of Damian’s stomach, his heart skipping a beat. How did this man know him? The casual way he referred to their relationship sent a cold ripple of dread coursing through him. Each word dripped with sinister knowledge, unraveling a web of questions in Damian’s mind. What else did they know? What had Everly stumbled into?

“Howdy, there.” Rhett flashed that easy smile he reserved for grouchy old Miss Prewett, the town’s sharp-tongued spinster—the same smile that usually made Damian suppress a groan.

With his rakish good looks, Rhett had a way of drawing the attention of the young ladies in town, but Damian knew his friend was interested in only one—though Rhett would never admit it.

A flicker of something softer always crossed Rhett’s face when Everly was near. Damian had seen it countless times—Rhett standing a little closer to her, especially after that brawl at the saloon last summer. Fights were as common as a whiskey shot in Hollow Creek. A slight at the poker table or a drunk disgruntled by the music was often enough to spark an uproar. One flying fist could send the place into chaos, much to Slicker’s frustration.

Rhett had jumped in without a second thought that night, taking a bottle to the head before he even realized it, shielding Everly from the debris as if his own pain were an afterthought. Since then, he’d made a habit of scanning every room for threats before they could reach her. And tonight, even with his easy smile, Damian could tell his friend was tense, ready to throw himself in front of a stampede of steam horses if it meant keeping Everly safe.

“Mind if I ask what this is about?”

The leader slid his gaze from Damian to Rhett, his lips twisting in disgust. “Don’t speak to me, varmint.”

“Whoa now, I take offense to that, partner. After all, I did scrub up nice today.” Rhett held up his hands in defense. The gesture was deceptive. Rhett was the second quickest draw in Hollow Creek, just behind Damian. They didn’t make a show of it, but that didn’t mean they’d shy away if someone dared to challenge them.

Feigning a blush, Rhett wiped the grease from his nails onto his vest. “Whoops, looks like I missed a spot. Just the hazards of being a steam engineer in this dusty town, wouldn’t you say?”

The leader’s disdainful expression deepened as he turned his back on Rhett, stepping closer to Damian. “You’re either with the girl or against her. Tell us what you know, or we’ll drag it out of you—one broken bone at a time.”

A hot surge of anger flared up inside Damian, but he forced it down, keeping his expression cool. A fight here, in a place packed wall-to-wall, wouldn’t do anyone any good—and might just tip things in the wrong direction. “Everly isn’t a threat to you.”

The tension thickened like the smoke in the air, and the other patrons in the saloon held their breath, sensing the standoff brewing.

Rhett’s charm faded, replaced by a scowl. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he warned, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

A low chuckle escaped the leader’s lips, a sound devoid of humor. “Am I supposed to be afraid of her?” He turned slightly, addressing his men. “Find the girl. Bring her to me, and I’ll show this town what true fear looks like.”