In most towns out west, theyâre just stories. Devils and ghosts and other such spirits are talked âbout âround campfires or over drinks, tall tales to spook those who donât know better than to believe them. In most towns, a dead animal or a missinâ child is generally the work of coyotes. In most towns, rules can be broken, laws can be ignored, if youâve got brains enough or bullets enough to keep from gettinâ strung up or shot down.
Lily Lake ainât one of those towns.
âDonât you go angerinâ the Gentry, boy,â a mother cuffs her son upside the head, pulling him by the arm away from the three well-dressed men heâd been about to slingshot a pebble at. One of the men turns to watch them leave, his eyes solid blue all they way through where the whites should be, blue as a clear summer sky over the desert. He smiles with too many teeth, and the boy turns hurriedly away.
âAre you tryinâ to cheat me?â A loud hiss, and the saloon goes silent, all eyes finding the table where one of the Good People is staring down an out-of-towner. The fool has one hand on his gun and the other in his pocket, where heâs no doubt been slippinâ cards.
âWhatâd you do about it if I was?â He asks, to the winces of the townsfolk.
âIf you arenât playinâ by the rules we agreed on, there will be consequences,â the faery says, long nails on long fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the tabletop. The man moves to take his hand from his pocket, and the faery lunges quick as a rattler across the table, nabbing at whateverâs inside. The manâs eyes widen as the faery holds up the cards heâd been secreting away; he seems to finally realize he ainât dealinâ with somethinâ human.
âThe hellââ he draws his gun.
âNo!â At least three people yell, because who knows what affiliations this faery has, what kind of trouble could be brought down on the town of Lily Lake just by a gunshot.
âIs that a threat?â The faery asks, soundinâ almost delighted by the possibility.
âYouâre damn right itâs a threat,â says the outsider, poor fool. The gun is wrenched from his hands, hittinâ the ground with a small clatter.
âTake this outside,â orders the bartender, calm and steady, and the faery does, dragging the man by the front of his shirt. There is a sound that is not a gunshot, but is equally as final.
Lily Lake, everythingâs always fair. Certain laws arenât ever, ever broken. The town Sheriff doesnât have to do much. Gunslingers, outlaws, they pass through, time to time. Most make it out. Some donât.
âPeople say the west is nothing like back east, is that true?â A visitor asks, a young lady. The man sheâs talking to laughs.
âLily Lake ainât nothinâ like the rest of the west, either,â he replies.
(Turns out the girl is stayinâ, marrying some man in town no-oneâs heard of. âPoor girl,â some whisper, thinking of the family she must be leavinâ behind for her faery beau.)
In most towns out west, a raven is just a raven, a snake is just a snake. In most towns, a gunshot is the only really worrying sound to listen for. In most towns, people cheat at cards, and kids throw pebbles, and Sheriffs and their Deputies are in charge of keepinâ the peace.
Lily Lake ainât one of those towns.
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