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The outlaw gasped for air, as a surge of pain shot through her body. She wiped her brow and looked out on the horizon, the desert was flat and uninviting. And soon, the night would come.
She took another step, another surge of pain. It originated in the bullet wound in her thigh, the bullet lodged within was cutting at the bone and flesh with every step, but the outlaw persisted. Each step sent a wave of cold, stinging pain from the wound, through her leg, up her spine, into her skull, where it manifested as a dull ache.
Another step, she clutched the holster at her hip, where her trusty revolver rested. Perhaps for good, this time.
“Never again,” she swore to herself, “never again, I’ll never shoot another man again…”
Each step was agony, and she knew the night would be worse. All her supplies were stashed in town, her horse had taken a bullet for her, and there was little to no chance of finding firewood in the desert.
Still, she continued into the setting sun.
“Please, God,” she swore to him, “let me get through this night. I promise I’ll go to church, I’ll never kill again.” But she clutched her revolver nonetheless.
As the red sun blinded her, she continued aimlessly into its embrace. Her back was cold, her leg was stiff, and her ears were ringing. Each step could be her last, but she had no intention of dying tonight.
Something cast a long shadow at her feet. She approached it, finding an old dilapidated wooden wagon, its axle was broken, and the poor travelers had abandoned it and the cupboard within on their journey west.
The outlaw knew they’d likely be lying dead in the dust somewhere nearby, their sun bleached bones exposed to the wind. Regardless, it was wood, and it was dry, and it would provide warmth that night. She approached the wagon, hearing the cawing above.
A large black bird was circling overhead. She thought it might be a scavenger, sensing the outlaw’s impending death, but she tried not to let the omen looming above get to her.
Belabored, she pried off planks, pulled out drawers from the cupboard, took a piece of rusty steel from the axle, a piece of flint from the ground, and plopped it all down in a pile nearby to the wrecked wagon.
Then, the black bird settled on the broken wheel of the wagon. A raven, with a beautiful, resplendent, black feather coat. In the last rays of sunlight, the black reflected greens and blues shimmers. The outlaw stared it down, but ignored it for now.
She bent down, with no little effort, and took a handful of dried desert grass, then she began striking the flint and steel over it, creating small showers of sparks. It took a few tries, but eventually, a fire was lit. And the old dried wood went up fast. Warmth for the night, just as the last dying ray of sunlight set in the east.
“If this is your doing, God,” she said to no one in particular, “then I guess I better say thank you.”
“Oh he’s not gonna help ya one bit, darling.” A voice spoke out.
The outlaw sat up, ignoring her pain as a surge of panic went through her. She pulled out her revolver and pointed it at the busted wagon, where the voice seemed to have originated. The big black raven was still sitting on the wheel, staring her down.
“Who’s there?!” She yelled, her hand was shaking, and her grip was loose, “Show yourself, now!”
“You still think there’s some god looking out for ya?” The voice spoke again, the outlaw’s vision was blurring, “He’s dead, y’know? Has been, for a long time.”
“I told you to show yourself, damn it!”
“Fine, just promise me that you won’t shoot me, darling.” The voice was feminine, calm, playful, “Can you do that for me?”
“That’s not up to you to decide.” The outlaw began moving away from the fire, towards the wagon. The raven was still staring her down. The outlaw passed the bird, her revolver pointed forward, the grip was still weak, she’d lost a lot of blood.
“I can smell it on you.” The voice said, the sound coming from behind the outlaw.
She turned around fast, pointing her gun towards where the raven had been perched on the wagon wheel. Now, a woman was sitting there. A big frilly dress, her legs crossed, heeled boots, and a veil covering her face. Two red pupils glowing underneath.
The outlaw shot the woman, losing her grip on the gun. It fell into the sand, and bullet disappeared somewhere into the desert. She could have sworn she hit the veiled woman, but there was no blood. Not even a flinch.
“That wasn’t very nice of you now!” The woman said, scooting forward and jumping down from the wheel, “How would you feel if I shot you the moment I saw you?”
The outlaw’s breathing was heavy, her sweat was dripping down her face onto her chest. The tourniquet around her leg had come loose, and a gush of blood splashed out on the sand.
“There it is,” the veiled woman said, taking a deep breath through her nose and exhaling, “that smell again. What a wonderful scent, don’t you think?”
“What the fuck are you?” The outlaw asked, her left eye was struggling to stay open, her vision was one big blur. Except for the veiled woman. She was perfectly in focus.
“What am I?” she asked, “Why, I’m just a traveling portent of death.”
She lifted her veil with her dainty pale fingers. Her exquisitely soft face was equally pale like a porcelain doll, her big red eyes glowed like the lanterns outside a brothel, and her beautiful lips were dark like the night. She smiled, exposing her white teeth. He long, fanged, sharp teeth.
Before the outlaw could yelp out in fear, the woman pounced, sinking her fangs into the outlaw’s neck. It started as a sting, she tried to fight the beastly woman off, but those dainty fingers, those soft hands, they gripped like a vice. Then, the pain subsided. Not just in her neck, but also the wound in her leg. The blood had stopped flowing down her leg, because it was all flowing into the veiled womans throat.
It wasn’t just a lack of pain, though. It was pleasure. As the blood flowed out of her neck, she found herself moving into the embrace of the woman stealing her life. The waves of cold stinging pain she had felt all day, now were waves of warmth. It was good. And the outlaw found her self moaning into the ear of the veiled woman, who released a smile on her lips, accidentally spilling a mouthful of hot blood down her breasts.
They stood like that for a moment, the outlaw panting and squirming, as her mystery woman drained her of her life. And when she was done, the woman pulled her fangs out from the neck, she smiled, blood trailed from her dark lips into her breasts. As the pleasure soon also subsided, the pain didn’t return.
The outlaw’s fingers were stiff, her skin was cold, and her lips were blue. She looked into the blood red eyes of the veiled woman, and tried to speak, but no sound came out. She knew she should be dead in the ground now, there was not a drop of blood left in her body.
The veiled woman smiled once more, then swept the outlaw off her legs, and carried her like a damsel in distress towards the fire. When had the woman arranged a blanket for her to lay on, the outlaw thought to herself, but there it was, a red and green crochet blanket.
She laid the outlaw down on the blanket, and placed herself beside her. She put her face down to the outlaw’s blue lips, and took a deep breath through her nose, exhaling it with a shiver.
“What a smell,” she said, and pulled a hidden knife out from her boot, “the smell of a woman who refuses to die.”
The knife slashed across the veiled woman’s wrist, and the outlaw’s eyes went big. Then she placed the wrist over the mouth of the outlaw, and let the dark, thick, sanguine flow down her throat, just like the veiled woman had taken the outlaws blood before.
And when color had returned to the outlaws lips, they were dark too. Her skin was still pale, as if there was no longer drop of blood within her. She touched her canines, poking her tongue on the now long, sharp, teeth.
She sat up, extended her hand to touch the veiled womans face. They both leaned in, and shared a deep kiss. The outlaw could taste her own blood on the womans tongue, and it sent another shiver of pleasure down her spine.
Since then, the locals of the nearby towns have warned travelers not to enter the desert at night. Or else, they might find a raven circling overhead, and a big black dog with glowing red eyes ambush them, from behind an old broken down wagon.