Then he started to shoot into the crowd.

It was fast, so fast it took until the third person to drop before I reacted in shock. I gasped and Dullahan gripped me tighter. Remington looked like a person playing a game—one of those plastic guns facing an arcade screen, little pixel enemies to take down for a high score.

Except this wasn’t a game and those weren’t pixels. His bullets buried in the hearts of each person they pummelled. He was well practiced at this—shooting fish in a barrel. His hand was steady and his stance was loose as he smoked with one hand and shot with the other, snuffing out life as if he were pulling up dandelions. He killed as many people as bullets were in his gun before he had to flick the chamber open and root around for another round.

“What the fuck is he doing,” I hissed as Dullahan finally pulled us into the hall and towards an elevator.

“He’s doing what he does. Remington was previously number one on the Council hit list and for good reason. He must have struck a deal. Take us out and he gets left alone,” Dullahan growled in my ear as we made it down the hallway. The sound of bullets intermixed with screams kept coming from the other room. Still, our breath seemed loud in the hallway as we waited for the elevator, the seconds stretching slowly until we heard the shooting stop.

The jingle of spurs and the heavy stomp of boots had me holding my breath. The memory of those eyes on me, milky with death, made me swallow thickly. A moment later Remington was strolling into the hallway.

“A woman,” he said, sounding unimpressed. Just then, the elevator dinged and the woosh of the doors clued me in that our ride was here. Dullahan was still clutching me tightly against his large body, endless amounts of warm strength pressing against me, making my nerves shot. I squirmed against his hold and felt something harder than muscles brush against my ass. And here I thought I was the only one that got turned on in a shootout.

“What is she, bulletproof?” Remington asked.

“What are you, a talking corpse?” I shot back.

“Something like that,” Dullahan said to both of us as we backed into the elevator. Remington strutted forward so he could watch us shuffle in. His head tipped to the side as he eyed me.

“My bullets don’t miss and my gun doesn’t misfire.” The cowboy smirked before burying his lit cigarillo into the palm of his hand, burning himself. A trail of smoke accompanied the scent of charring meat. The fact it reminded me of the smell of bacon made me feel sick. Not a single reaction showed up on his face as he hurt himself. He had dead eyes even when they had color.

The elevator doors shut just as Remington lifted his burnt hand and waved goodbye. He mimicked a gun shooting, and then blew smoke from his finger barrel and winked.