Devil's Paradise

Chapter 2

El Paraiso del Diablo, Texas
1867

Lindsey lazily stretched his arms over his head and promptly fell to the ground when the chair he’d been napping in leaned back too far on its hind legs to remain upright.

“Ow! Fuck! What the hell?”

He rolled to his feet as the sound of someone’s laughter drifted towards him. A voice calling out a taunting, “Didn’t break yer neck now, didja’ Marshal?” just confused him even more.

The lawyer’s eyes made a quick sweep of the room he was standing in, taking note of the antiquated furnishings, the wooden floors, the shotguns mounted on the wall and locked behind a glass-covered cage. A glance down at his own attire caused his eyes to widen in astonishment.

Gone were the light blue button-down shirt, dark slacks and tie, as well as the expensive leather dress shoes. In their place were well-worn, dust-covered boots – complete with spurs – covering his feet, faded button-fly jeans that molded his thighs. A brown leather vest lay over the coarse, blue long sleeve shirt; on his left breast a Marshal’s badge was pinned in place. The items that seemed to stand out the most were the matching Colt .45 pistols secured to his hips. How he knew their exact make was anyone’s guess…he’d long since given up what to think.

The front door opened suddenly to reveal a man dressed in similar garb.

“Afternoon, Marshal.”

“Pete.”

The man’s name seemed to slip from his lips, as if he’d been here years instead of just mere moments. Pete Thompson, one of three deputies he oversaw here in the town of El Paraiso del Diablo, Texas. Devil’s Paradise.

“I’ll take over if’n you wanna git somethin’ to eat.”

“Yeah…uh…yeah,” Lindsey replied. “You do that.”

Lindsey darted out of what he soon realized was the local jailhouse, stopping abruptly when he got his first good look around. He’d seen damn near every Clint Eastwood western ever made, had some slight inkling of what to expect. But even so, as his blue gaze swept up and down the buildings that lined either side of the dirt “road,” he couldn’t prevent his jaw from dropping slightly.

The boys at Wolfram & Hart had obviously done their homework. The buildings, the carriages…right down to the costumes of the people that greeted him warily as they passed him on the walk – they all looked one hundred percent authentic.

Sounds of boisterous laughter caught his attention, and his feet moved off in that direction. As he drifted closer to the noise, he tried to figure out why Holland would want to pull a charade like this. Surely not for trying to form some type of attachment to the former vampiress?

Sudden insight into Holland’s mind had him hurrying down the walkway, oblivious to the wide berths given him by the town’s inhabitants.

‘Please, god, don’t let Darla be inside there.’

He soon reached his destination and paused outside the swinging double doors of the saloon, a place called The Morning Star. Bracing his hands on either door, he pushed them inward and stopped just inside. His eyes scanned the relatively small crowd, dismissing the occupants as possible threats. Conversations halted momentarily when the men inside paused to see who had entered, then reluctantly began again…only in a much quieter tone. As if they feared upsetting him. Interesting.

“What’ll it be, Lindsey? Your usual?” the bartender warily called out to him from his place behind the counter.

Lindsey didn’t react to the man’s knowledge of his name, but he did take him up on his offer. Cutting through a few tables and nodding at some of the men that offered a polite greeting, he made his way towards the L-shaped bar. He sat down on the stool closest to the wall, so that his back was protected against attack and he could keep the room’s occupants in sight. He nodded his thanks as a shot of whiskey was set before him.

“Yer just in time for the songbird, Marshal,” the bartender told him. “’M thinkin’ you’ll like this one.”

“Songbird?” he mouthed to himself once the man moved away. Surely Darla wasn’t singing for this crowd.

Feminine laughter – her laughter – drew him out of his seat. A crowd of men were gathered around a circular table situated in a corner of the room, no doubt watching others playing poker. One of them shifted suddenly, and Lindsey’s eye nearly popped out of his head as he finally caught sight of Darla.

The corseted bodice molded her torso like a second skin and pushed her breast up so high that they were precariously close to toppling out of the thing. How they managed to stay hidden seemed to defy the law of physics. A black choker was draped around her slender neck, a cameo pinned to its center so that it nestled into the hollow of her throat. Her blonde hair was swept off her neck and pinned up in some elaborate “do.” He thought she looked stunning.

And apparently so did all the men clamoring around her table.

Lindsey stepped away from his chair and walked towards her table. He’d not secreted her away from Angel – though he’d still yet to figure exactly how he’d managed that – to have her fawned over by men left and right, especially when he was standing right here.

She seemed to sense his approach and she lifted her eyes from her cards to meet his. Her smile grew wider, falsely so, as her eyes grew colder.

“Get up,” he ground out once he stopped beside her chair. Most of the men had fallen back leaving an open place right next to her.

“Why, Marshal Lindsey! How good to see you again,” she drawled in a fake Texan accent. “Would you like to sit in on a hand?” She gestured to the table in front of her that was set up with cards and chips. “You boys won’t mind if our good Marshal sits a spell, now will you?”

“I said get up.” His tone of voice should have alerted her to his anger. But, she’d been a vampire for centuries before he’d even been born. And honestly, his ire was child’s play compared to what she’d experienced at the hands of the Master on one of his gentler days.

“You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble now, would you? This is my job after all.”

‘Job?’ Surely Holland hadn’t set her up as a prostitute in this farce.

The men around the table sensed the tension between the two, collectively holding their breath while waiting to see who would back down first.

The decision was taken out of their hands when a man walked up and pulled Darla to her feet.

“Hey, doll-face. Yer mine for the next hour,” he told her, leaning into her neck and nipping lightly at the smooth flesh below her choker. Darla turned and gifted him with a radiant smile.

“Mmmmm,” she purred enticingly and wound her arms around his neck.

“Darla,” Lindsey growled her name.

“Sorry, Marshal. Duty calls. You want time with me, you gotta pay up. Just like the rest of ‘em. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

She didn’t wait for his reply. Just turned her back on him and allowed herself to be led up the stairs to the second story of the saloon.

Lindsey stared after her retreating back for a moment, stunned. What the hell had just happened? And why? How did he turn into one of the good guys, straight out of a bad western? And Darla. Why had she reverted back to her pre-vampiric profession?

Nothing came to him, and he slowly trudged his way back to his spot at the bar.

“Leave the bottle,” he told the bartender, his shot glass having been topped off. He was definitely going to need it.

Fingers running the length of the piano pulled him from his silent musings about his current situation, and Lindsey lifted his head to see a female wearing a costume much the same as Darla had, step onto the small stage next to the piano.

Silence settled over the saloon as the girl began to sing. Her soft, husky voice seemed to call to him, and Lindsey grabbed bottle and glass and sought a seat closer to the raised platform.

At some point, the piano man stopped playing, and just her voice could be heard. Thoughts of Darla, of his situation, were forgotten as her voice held him captive. The lyrics washed over him and called to his inner musician. His hands itched for his guitar.

All this before he’d even gotten a good look at her face.

If Darla was an angel, this girl was a goddess. But, it was her eyes that held him spellbound. Pain, not unlike his own, seemed to radiate from deep within their blue depths. It was like looking in a mirror, and seeing himself reflected back at him.

As the last notes fell from her lips, the men rushed the stage, eager to have a turn at the “songbird,” and he was just about to get up – to claim the girl for his own – when she started in with another song. Everyone backed away and resettled in their seats…and waited. This time when she finished, Lindsey was the first that stood, easily snagging her hand before the others could reach her. Others objected, but at a sharp look from him, they backed down.

She said nothing as he led her away towards the stairs. Put up no fight. It was like she was broken. Whatever backbone she might have possessed once upon a time had been crushed by this life.

The life of a whore.

As they reached the steps, another girl came bounding down from the upper level. Her chipper attitude was at odds with her profession; it was like she actually enjoyed the attention of the men vying for her body.

She blocked their ascent, and Lindsey looked at her quizzically. She ignored him and stared intently at his face…like she was looking for something. Finally, she nodded approvingly.

“Hurt her, and there’s no place you can hide that will protect you,” she told him ominously. Oddly enough, he believed her. There was something…off… about her.

Anya put her hand beneath Tara’s chin and forced her to look up. “Don’t worry. He’ll give you lots and lots of orgasms,” she told the girl matter-of-factly.

Tara gave a brief, resigned nod; but other than that, did not react to the blunt words of the girl in front of her. It was no more than she deserved – forced to play the whore in some place of her own making.

Oh, the ex-vengeance demon had taken great delight in telling her about her past exploits, and how once granted, a wish could only become null if the owner’s power source was destroyed – like hers had been. Anya had gone on to mention that she personally knew the particular vengeance demon that had granted her wish, grumbling under her breath at having been subjected to her “friend’s” wish. Her hope of rescue had been squashed when Anya had explained that Halfrek always kept her distance from her subjects, so they were none the wiser. Though, she had managed to hear her friend’s voice as she’d been cursed to this alternate…whatever.

Tara heard, rather than saw, Anya flounce off down the remaining stairs to make herself available for the next man that could afford an hour of her time. She felt her hand pulled as the Marshal resumed his trek up the stairs, and she offered no resistance, just plodded along behind him.

“Which one?” he asked once they reached the top.

She opened her mouth, but found the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she led him to her room – the one she’d woken in that morning, alone and confused. At least until Anya had barged inside. Tara had taken comfort in the former demon’s presence; at least until it had been spelled out for her exactly what was expected of her as one of The Morning Star’s “girls.” The only reason she hadn’t been on her back before now was because Anya had spoken to the bartender, fabricating a tale of her singing abilities, and that she’d need a few hours to prepare her voice before taking what passed for an excuse of a stage.

He’d grumbled, but the ex-vengeance demon had been adamant about her talents and how it would increase business, and in the end, the man had given in. After he’d left, Tara had hugged the girl tight in thanks of the reprieve.

Now, those few hours had gone, and the Marshal was the first in line of the crowd of men that were eager to sample her wares.

‘Don’t think about it,’ she silently told herself and she opened the door to her room and stepped inside.

The soft click of the door as he closed it behind him resounded in her ears. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, staring out the window into the late afternoon sun. The silent chant came out of nowhere. A defense mechanism to seal herself off from what was about to happen. Pleas to be anywhere but there echoed in her mind until they consumed her.

So intent on her fruitless task, she didn’t hear him as he stepped up behind her. His hands on her bare shoulders caused her to stiffen momentarily before she forced herself to relax. To submit.

To accept her fate.

The kiss to her shoulder was unexpected, as were the arms that wrapped around her body and just seemed to want to hold her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her softly, his voice slightly muffled against her hair. “Hell, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here…I just…I just couldn’t let them touch you.”

Tara crumbled at the reminder of his words, her stoic expression giving way to grief as the tears she’d held back since waking to this strange, new world finally fell.

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