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  But before Frenchy could swipe that blade, Devon threw his paw out and caught the man’s hand with his long, black claws. He could feel the claw digging in, the delicious resistance of his flesh and bone and tendon telling Devon he’d found purchase in Frenchy's arm. That arm kept moving with even greater power, the reassuring thunk of the man's tendons as they popped preceding Frenchy’s hand flying off the end of his forearm. Blood leapt out of the wound in a red, liquid spike; Frenchy’s hand flew across the livery, the knife still in its grip.

  Frenchy screamed and clutched his forearm with his remaining hand. Blood poured up and out of the stumped arm, flowing down to coat his flesh and soak his shirt.

  Devon lurched at his stricken adversary, eager to enjoy the death strike to come. Devon clamped his jaws over Frenchy’s wounded forearm, biting down hard but not hard enough to crush the bone. The blood flow slowed, flesh rising up on each side of Devon's jaws.

  It would make what would come next even more satisfying.

  Devon put his huge paw flat onto Frenchy’s chest, pushing him down to the floor. Frenchy lay on his back, punching at Devon as he pressed down, jaws locked around his other arm. Devon couldn’t even feel the man's feeble punches even as they bounced off his face, his ear, fingers trying to push out his eyeball to no effect.

  Devon leaned forward, pushing even more of his weight onto Frenchy's chest. His face became red, an ugly devil mask with a long, black beard and bald head. A long groan leaked out of his twisted grimace, his free hand pulling at Devon’s paw as it pushed harder. Devon could feel Frenchy’s ribcage bending inward, knowing it would take only another push to crack those ribs and send the man's breastbone right into his heart.

  Devon looked down at Frenchy, and his victim looked up with a quivering face, darkening from red to purple. Devon pushed harder, bubbles of saliva rising up out of the man’s mouth to pop and trickle down his cheek.

  With what Devon knew would be Frenchy’s dying breath, the former leader of the Skull Crushers motorcycle gang managed to squeeze out, “Why?”

  Devon dipped his massive head down to Frenchy’s, huffing his hot breath into the man’s dying face. He growled, clacking his jaw in front of Frenchy’s, who lacked the strength even to flinch. But he knew what Devon’s answer had been, he had to have known.

  Sasha, he didn’t say.

  Another hard stomp inspired a loud crack, Frenchy’s chest sinking under the weight of Devon’s paw upon him. His chest fell inward, blood leaping out of his mouth as he wheezed out his last breath, his free hand falling to clack against the floorboards by his head, eyes staring out as blood ceased to pulse out of his stumped arm.

  Devon released the man’s arm and let it fall to his side. He sniffed for any sign of life, listened for his heartbeat and found none.

  Now, like so many others, you… are… dead.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sasha sat on the ground of the thoroughfare, Mamma’s head in her lap. She stroked her hair, knowing her sister to be well beyond comfort… or any feelings at all. “I’m sorry, Mamma,” Sasha said, knowing she would never be heard, much less forgiven. “I’m so, so sorry…”

  Footsteps approached from the livery, and Sasha knew without looking up who was approaching her.

  Devon walked up, his human body naked, blood running down his back. Sasha slipped out from under Mamma’s head before she scrambled to her feet to run to her man.

  “Devon, are you all right?”

  He nodded, wincing with pain. "It's not too bad, thanks to my other form.”

  Sasha breathed a sigh of relief, looking over his taut frame, caked with muscle. “All fat is blessed,” she said, wrapping her arms around Devon’s neck and pulling herself close to him. They surveyed the dead Skull Crushers of Hangman’s Gulch, the survivors and women long gone or in hiding.

  Devon turned back to Sasha. “Gather your things.” Sasha nodded, unable to pull herself away from her beloved, even for another moment. “I’m okay, Sasha, I'll be all right.” He looked around. “But we don't belong here.”

  Sasha looked around too, seeing the life she'd led, the people she’d known; some she'd loved, some she'd hated, some she’d felt both ways about. But she knew Devon was right—she didn't belong in Hangman’s Gulch, she'd never belonged there.

  “But... where do we belong?”

  Devon turned her to face him, resting his big, strong hands on her forearms. He looked her square in the eyes, cracked a little smile, and said, “Together,” his voice low and grainy. “We belong together.”

  Sasha gathered her things and Devon dressed and started up his Harley. Sasha knew that Devon had been right again, as he seemed to be about everything. Sasha had found her purpose, and that was to love him and be with him, whatever would come. She'd been waiting for a reason she could not have known. But Sasha’s waiting had not been in vain, and her life would not be wasted as she feared.

  Sasha and Devon rode off together, heading west and leaving the surviving Crushers to bury their dead—and to wonder what their own lives would bring. Surely they would anticipate with high hopes that any more mysterious strangers would ride in and rescue them from the ghost town prison that their lives of freedom had become, and had to become.

  Ahead lay the future, a long, black strip of asphalt leading them onward. Sasha didn’t know where they were going, but she also knew it didn’t matter. As long as she and Devon were together, she would be home, she would be happy, she would be alive. Hangman’s Gulch receded further into her past with every second, her old life making way for the new, loneliness obliterated by true love at long last.

  THE END

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