Egon and Duncan sit at the Guinevere's bar with a forest of empty bottles in between. They stare at the stage. Perched atop a stool, Emma now starts a routine. Her every curve is covered in petticoats. Her sharp eyes watch over the saloon. Her legs uncross, revealing the briefest flash of lace. Emma waits for the calls, the cheers, and the roars.

"Two more shots!" Duncan shouts. Beatrice, behind the bar, starts counting the bottles of vodka the two've drained but gives up after using all her fingers and toes.

"The well's dry until you two start showing me how you're going to pay," she scolds. Duncan reaches into his coat and passes the woman a blood-stained banknote. Noticing but not caring about the crimson blemish, Beatrice thrusts it into her corset. "Two more shots coming up!" She darts away.

"Aren't the living simple?" Duncan asks his companion.

"Like you're any better," Egon responds. Egon watches Duncan. Duncan watches Emma.

"That woman up there..." Duncan starts, pointing at the stage. "She's living an honest life... She's working... Giving her all... She's a finer human specimen than you'll ever be." Leaning back on her stool, the straps of her dress fallen away, Emma grins at all the gentlemen under her sway. Her fingers trace her thighs and disappear beneath her silk. Duncan's fangs sprout. They grow with every manufactured gasp, coo, and purr pouring from the stage.

Rocking forward, Emma falls from her stool, and with a fabricated yip, she hits the floor. Her eyes hunt through the crowd. Too drunk. Too young. Too old. Too drunk. Not drunk enough. Until she spies a cowhand gripping a glass of brandy at the foot of the stage. His drink's frozen just before the downy stubble on his parted lips, and he's too absorbed in Emma to tilt back his glass just a fraction of an inch. He's too absorbed in Emma to even remember he's holding a drink.

Emma brings her hand to his fingertips. The cowboy blinks. She teases him. The cowboy sweats. The fire in Emma's fingers engulfs him. The cowboy chokes. Emma takes the cowboy's drink. The boy pushes a gold nugget onstage.

"You think that's enough for a night?" The woman laughs in between sips of the stolen hooch. The cowboy adds another stone to the stage. Emma looks him over and lifts an eyebrow. "Keep trying." A third piece of gold shimmers. Emma gives an immodest glance. "One more." A fourth gold rock appears. Sucking down the last of the brandy and licking the glass clean, Emma returns the cowboy's empty drink. "I'll be in room eight in an hour." Standing back up, Emma leaves her garters at her feet. "Who wants me next?"

Hollers. Yelps.

"Living an honest life? Really? You really think that?" Egon asks. His own fangs grow with every lace, ribbon, and stocking Emma sets free. "I'd say she's on our level. Look at her, preying on others. She's a parasite. A leech."

"You think I've got enough?" Duncan asks. He's not listening to his partner. Instead, his hand working its way inside his coat, he produces a stack of red banknotes. Egon punches him. Hard and fast, his knuckles plant themselves into Duncan's face, and pulling away, Egon snaps up the bloody money. A moment passes. Duncan opens his mouth. He's met with another fist. Two drops of blood leak before the demon heals his lip.

"Here you go, good sirs," Beatrice speaks, returning now to Egon and Duncan with two fresh vodka shots. She sets the glasses down and brushes aside a stray hair bobbing about. Egon instantly snatches both. The drunken demon wipes his mouth.

"I don't get it," he sighs, his head coming to rest against the bar. "Liam's trail ends here."

"Liam Macintosh?" Beatrice inquires. The woman, clearing away the outlaws' bottles, can't help but interject. She leans forward so her eyes are level with the slouching Egon's. "The grimy bastard who never paid his bill and always smelled worse than shit?"

"With a face that matched?" Duncan asks.

"Yeah," Beatrice clucks.

"That's him," Egon states. The monster moves close to Beatrice, his head almost touching hers and his eyes delving into her corset. "Where is he?"

"You two his friends?" Beatrice asks. She knows Egon's eyes are no longer on hers. Encouraging it, she runs her fingers through her hair, tossing her tresses back. She lifts the hair covering her chest.

"Business associates," Egon speaks after a moment. He recedes a bit. Egon's eyes weren't on Beatrice's corset. Rather, they were fixed on her neck, a neck now obscured by brushed-back locks. "Know where we can find him?"

"Try looking in hell," Beatrice spits. She picks herself up and serves two more shots, but rather than offering them to the men, she downs the vodka herself. "The rat got his brains blown out for touching one of the girls here." Egon sobers up. Fast.

"What?" Egon gasps.

"Yeah, right over there," Beatrice states. She points to a pile of sawdust on the floor. She points to one of many piles of sawdust on the floor. "When us Guinevere girls are being social, we can give you a lesson in pleasure, but when we want to be alone, we'll teach you the definition of pain. Of course, before any of us could lay out any instruction, some white knight told your pal Liam to stop the only way he'd understand."

"Is the girl safe?" Egon asks, his voice overrun with shallow concern.

"Sure, she's fine. She's serving drinks tonight," Beatrice answers. "I don't think she's in the mood for more, though."

"You're sure Liam's dead?" Duncan asks, speaking after a long time holding his lips. His eyes are still and have for the longest time been on Beatrice's breasts.

"And buried," Beatrice snipes. "A bullet between the eyes is enough to take down most."

"Most..." Duncan smirks. "Let me tell you a little something about Liam Macintosh!" Menace fills the air around Duncan's frame. He makes a move toward the waitress, ready to spit poison, yet only a squeak dribbles out. Egon's claws, clamped on his brother's crotch, prevent anything more spewing forth.

"Where can we find the lucky shot?" Egon asks. Jumping in, he replaces Duncan's roar with a purr. Egon gives the woman a smile, a wink, and a voice made of honey.

"Now, why would you be wanting to know that?" Beatrice laughs.

"Why only to apologize for the inappropriate actions of our dear friend," Egon responds, his voice still rich with sugar.

"I'm happy to relay the message," Beatrice reports. "But I'd honestly prefer not to point the deadeye out to the friends of the man he killed." Her interest in the pair fading, Beatrice turns her attention to other customers, serving a shot of whiskey and filling up two warm beers. Duncan, prying Egon's hand away, finds his voice and hurtles it into the air. His bark petrifies a score of cowboys before reaching Beatrice, now at the opposite end of the bar.

"Answer the question!" Duncan rattles. He cracks his knuckles and narrows his brow. Beatrice stares straight through the scowl.

"I'm afraid I don't know," the woman smiles, still at the far side of the bar.

"Liar," Duncan hisses.

"That hurts so much," Beatrice sniffles, her hands folding over her heart. The woman goes about her work. She serves up another drink and drops a handful of glasses into the sink. Duncan watches and wrinkles his face. He looks to the empty shot glass before him, and then to his right and left. He grabs the closest alcohol he can, a sour beer previously in the possession of a dizzy cowhand, and downs it in one gulp. Duncan wipes his mouth.

"You don't know a thing about hurt..." Duncan growls. "How about I teach you the – as you say – definition of pain?" Duncan stands, again filling the air with venom, but as quickly as he's on his feet, Egon's hand is atop his shoulder and pushing him back to his seat.

"Duncan, Duncan..." Egon interrupts. "You can never keep your temper once there's a drink in you. Granted, you're in control half the time when most men aren't in control any of the time, but there are options other than violence." Egon places a stack of Mr. Wayland's bills before Beatrice, and as soon as they're on the bar, they're gone.

"Thank you, but like I said, I don't know," Beatrice states, back before Duncan and Egon and stuffing her stockings with the red money. "I've only got two little eyes, and neither of them can spot head nor hind of the boy. All I can say is he's not in here tonight."

"Bitch!" Egon roars. He, now, is out of his seat and reaching for the waitress. Beatrice but only takes a step to avoid the swipe. She still smiles. Egon fumes. His hands become fists, and his eyes turn into slits. "How about I send you to hell to find our dear departed Liam?" The demon goes for his gun. Beatrice waits there, a finger tapping against her lips. No worry. No fear. No dread. Egon comes back with an empty hand.

"While we thank the deadeye for protecting one of our darlings, spreading sawdust on the floor to soak up brains ain't that good for business," Beatrice explains. "You two'll find your firearms slung up by the door." Indeed, they are. A row of revolvers lines the bar's far wall. "It's a new service provided by our own Miss Julia. Don't worry, you can pick up your pistols when you leave. Don't expect any loose change to be returned, though. This service ain't free."

"This isn't a game you should play," Egon laughs. Rather than raising his voice, his tone is soft. Contained. Almost inaudible. He sits back down, places a banknote on the table, and signals for two more drinks. Beatrice, with a slight delay, serves them shots. Egon tosses back one. Duncan, a smile from ear to ear, downs the other.

"Let's get to the definition of pain," Duncan states.

-

Lourdes stares at Katterina's ceiling. Sweat beads off his brow, neck, and chest. His fingers dig into the girl's mattress. Lourdes can hear the bar below, echoes puncturing the floor. A table's overturned. Shouting and shattered glass. Lourdes's face twists. Women scream. His fingers tear at Katterina's mattress. Men scream. Lourdes tries to rise, but fusing flesh prevents it. He claws at the air, but his broken frame hits hard against the bed. His hurting bones can't support their own weight.

"You haven't had so much as a conversation for the better part of the past hundred years, and now here you go getting intoxicated by the first woman you look straight in the eye," Lourdes spits at himself. "Not only that, you kill for her in a town you know ain't right. Doesn't matter what blood you've got in your veins, you've made a mistake." He presses Katterina's pillow over his face. "You're too disturbed by your own nature to get strong and too afraid of what comes next to end your existence. And now look what you've done. You're pathetic."

The splintering of chairs and floorboards reach Lourdes's ears. The smell of gunsmoke. Trying again, Lourdes forces muscles that won't move. His mind makes his body stand up. And it does. For a single moment, his silhouette stands – until his frail form falls apart on the floor. A mess of the impossible, Lourdes crumbles as words reverberate from below.

"Two days!"