Katterina, Beatrice, and Helena mop up from the night before. The Guinevere Hotel's a mess. Overturned tables. Broken chairs. Pools of piss. Piles of shit. The women in satin and lace scrub away human excrement. With unflinching faces, they shovel rotten food and shattered glass. Without sorrow or joy, they do what must be done to restore order to the Guinevere. A noise. There's a creaking above. Boards moan, but none of the waitresses hear a thing beyond their own hammering, sweeping, and sawing. The noise moves, slow and purposeful, throughout the hallways upstairs, then descends down the bar's old staircase, but it isn't until it rights a table with one hand that the waitresses notice Lourdes.

"Good morning," the boy speaks. He stands inside pristine skin. There's not a mark on his body, and if not for the wild hair and yellow eyes, he could be mistaken for a china doll. The waitresses look at Lourdes, but none return his greeting. The best he gets is a timid wave from a half-hearted Helena.

Lourdes watches the women work.

"I heard noises last night," he speaks. Lourdes's voice is child-like. "What happened?"

"Don't you worry, hon," Beatrice states, setting her hammer down. She wipes her brow and says nothing more. None of the women do, and for a time there are only echoes until Emma appears. Arriving from outside, she spies the moon-colored boy at the far end of the bar and sets on a path straight across the Guinevere. Walking over, not around, any obstacle in her way, her boots collect strips of gristle and shards of glass before coming to rest before Lourdes. And there in front of him, she takes in the boy from eyes that are no more than smudges of ink. She slaps Lourdes across the face.

"Two deadbeats came in looking for you," Emma spits. "They wanted to know what happened to the pistolero you put down."

"Did they do all this?" Lourdes asks. His words are innocent. Meek. Surveying the wreckage, he watches Beatrice put together a chair. Cassidy pieces together another. Katterina tries to fix a third, only its legs don't fit quite right, and when assembled, it wobbles with but a breath. Emma takes in this scene, too, and after a moment, she grins.

"This?" Emma laughs, pointing to Katterina's handiwork. "No, this is what we look like after a good night. I put my own two boots up the bums' assholes and threw them out. The splintered chairs, shattered dreams, and human wreckage you see all about is the result of last night's Shakespeare recitation." Emma puts on a mask impossible to penetrate. Truth? With a grandiose flourish, the woman tosses a hand to the stage. Fiction? "An all-nude production of Macbeth."

Lourdes looks at the woman's rigid smile until a small yelp sends him elsewhere.

No, it's Lourdes's nose which moves him away, the boy taking a step the moment before the scream hits the air. Katterina's come to a long sink behind the Guinevere Hotel's bar to wash dishes in an attempt to prove herself capable after assembling her rather delicate chair, but cutting a finger on broken glass, a heavy line of red now courses over her palm. Lourdes, led by his nose, stands beside the girl the instant her blood flows, and Katterina's yelp – not from her pain – comes from the shock that Lourdes from nowhere is at her side.

"You should be more careful," Lourdes, with an urgency in his throat, instructs. He quickly bandages the girl's hand. His wrappings – likewise emerging from emptiness – bind Katterina's palm until her blood is hidden behind four dozen layers of floral-patterned cloth. Emma still stands, a forced smile on her face, staring at the hollow air that should be Lourdes. A long stretch of her dress, imprinted with roses, posies, and columbines, is missing.

After tying off Katterina's hand, Lourdes submerges his own in the soapy water. He takes over for the girl.

"You don't have to..." Katterina starts, still shaken and unsure of what just occurred.

"Nonsense, I have to repay you for last night. For letting me have your room and for everything you're not telling me," Lourdes urges. "I don't mean to cause you trouble." The boy begins to stack spotless plates. Katterina watches, amazed by how deftly he moves. And by how his reflection's not in the mirror.

"You're different from other men," Katterina smiles.

"Oh?" Lourdes whispers. His hands freeze.

"Responsible. Thoughtful. Concerned with others," Katterina speaks.

"Oh," Lourdes breathes. The boy splashes his hands back into the sink; however, as soon as he returns to his task, he winces. A beam of white crosses his jaw. Reflected off the mirror behind the bar, it comes from the outside. Not unawkwardly sidestepping this light, Lourdes looks up. A figure's framed in the doorway.

Lourdes takes the outline in. The shape obscured by the light, he can't put a face or even a height or weight on the thing, but it moves through the room with a resolute gait. The Guinevere's women all stop their work to observe the silhouette as it passes. Cutting straight to the bar, it places a pistol down for all to see. Sunlight shines off a badge.

"Stephens, to what do we owe the honor of one of this town's fine law enforcement officers entering our humble establishment?" Beatrice asks. The woman, a step behind the man, brings a hand to his neck. She touches his shoulder and lets her fingers weave their way to his belt. With a slap, Stephens pushes the woman back.

"I've received complaints," Stephens speaks. "About noise. And a duel." The man stands tall before the bar, turning slowly so his polished badge touches the eyes of all in the room. Emma spits at the officer's feet. Beatrice spits behind his back. Helena busies herself with sweeping the floor. A cock crows.

Stephens returns to the bar and points a finger at the boy.

"You're Lourdes, no?" The officer asks. He looks out at the child with a constant gaze. Lourdes narrows his eyes, the badge's light still bothering him.

"I am," Lourdes answers. His brow knits.

"Don't you bring any unwanted trouble into this town," Stephens states. The man's hand falls over his gun, his well-groomed nails rapping against its barrel. The song of single-minded metal. "Don't think you can get away with disturbing my peace."

"I'm simply passing through," Lourdes tells the man. "I have no intention of causing problems, Sheriff." Lourdes, devoid of any emotion, gives Stephens a blind face. Stephens purses his lips. He crosses his arms and studies the child's countenance. Then, from behind the lawman, laughs. Beatrice and Emma giggle. It's tiny at first, but it grows until both double over. Stephens scowls.

"Darling, Stephens here ain't the sheriff!" Beatrice, leaning into Lourdes, chuckles. "Mr. Stephens is this town's last, lonely deputy."

"Of course, what he lacks in rank, he more than makes up for in arrogance!" Emma leers. The woman pushes a finger into Stephens's chest. "How many other deputies have you watched as they were lowered into the ground? It's only a matter of time, Sullivan, until you find an outlaw who can shoot straight, too. In fact, if word of good Mr. Lourdes's deeds have made it to you, I'd have thought twice before marching in and laying a gun before a boy who knows how to bury a bullet inside a man. Deputies around here all have expiration dates."

"My title doesn't matter! What matters is the law!" Stephens snaps. "When will you stupid women realize, instead of trying to lock up your customers, I'm here to protect you. I put a target on my chest every day to keep you safe, and more than the gambling, the drinking, and the whoring, you now invite this into your home?" He spits at Lourdes. He pushes Emma back.

The boy's response is a sideways glance. The Guinevere's girls answer with only sneers. A creak. All eyes look up. A slender woman with a body that won't reveal its age stands atop the stairs.

"Don't you bring any unwanted trouble into this town. That's what you said, right, Mr. Stephens?" The woman inquires. "Unwanted trouble? How's that different than wanted trouble?" With smooth steps, she descends to the floor. "In a town that's run by rackets, why are you picking on a little boy?" The Guinevere's waitresses part, allowing the woman to pass straight to the deputy. She stands a foot above his head. "Is it because the wanted trouble pays handsomely to keep the mayor's office empty and the sheriff's office looking the other way?" The woman looks down with sharp eyes. "Is it because this little boy hasn't given you a bribe?" A chime. She places a coin purse next to Deputy Stephens's gun. "I'd like to remind you the Guinevere Hotel is never late with its rent, and dear Lourdes is a guest of the Guinevere." Moving like liquid, the woman wraps Lourdes against her chest.

"I simply came here to state a complaint was made, nothing more," Stephens speaks. His eyes don't meet the woman's. His eyes don't meet Lourdes's. He shifts his weight. "Good day, Madam Jane. Good day, Mr. Lourdes."

The deputy turns on his heels, plucking up his pistol and purse. He pushes his way past Emma, Beatrice, and Helena and, with quick steps, marches through pools of piss to the door. His pistol finds its way back inside its holster. The purse finds a home inside the man's coat. Anxious and with his hat pressed over his eyes, Deputy Stephens bumps into Julia beside the exit.

"Goin' so soon?" The woman asks. Stephens doesn't answer, instead darting without a word into the washed out street. Julia waves and then, looking down, feigns surprise when she finds Stephens's purse now sitting in her cupped hand. She tosses the bag back to the woman beside Lourdes, who snaps it from its path and slips it instantly away. The woman releases the boy.

"I was loading my shotgun when you blew one of my patron's brains across the floor," she speaks. "My name is Jane." The woman extends her hand. "I own the Guinevere Hotel." Lourdes takes it. The woman's beautiful. Dark hair frames powdered skin, pure white interrupted only by crimson lips and long black lashes. Naked shoulders with beads of sweet-smelling sweat. A tall and ample shape somehow contained in a delicate gown of such intricate needlework and innumerable lace it must have been tailored by an aristocrat for his favorite mistress. Jane's smile, eyes, and silhouette all give off a spice that is at once both sensual and maternal. And vicious. Her mere presence overpowers men, yet a boy now stands before her with eyes immune to her magnetism. She tilts her head slightly to the right and then the left as she analyzes the thing in her court. She parts her lips. "I started at the Guinevere wiping tables. I worked the bar long enough – and the customers hard enough – to buy her from the man in charge. She's mine." Jane's hands reach out as if to touch the whole of the Guinevere Hotel before setting on her hips. "That's my history. What's yours?"

"Like I told your girls, I'm just a drifter passing through," Lourdes answers immediately.

"I've been told you don't talk much," Jane clucks. "That's fine by me. In my experience, there are two types of men who don't talk: bad men who are too busy scheming and good men who prefer to let their actions speak. Time will tell which you happen to be, but you could at least confirm one thing for me..." The woman moves in close, her lips brushing against Lourdes's ear. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

Lourdes narrows his eyes.

"I don't believe you're just a drifter the slightest bit, but a welcome's been extended for you to stay here, and you can as long as you don't bring any more of your kind," Jane speaks softly. She pulls away from the boy. The other girls don't say a word. "If you do, I'll turn my shotgun straight on your heart."

Lourdes's face tenses as bewildered lines strain his newborn skin. He blinks. His lips part, and the sound of innocence enters the air.

"My kind?"

Madam Jane doesn't let Lourdes play make-believe. She lifts her left hand and, with a flash, brings it against Lourdes's cheek. She slaps him, and a gold ring topped with a sharp piece of glass slices his snow white skin. A trail of scarlet marks the boy where her diamond ripped into him as Jane poises her palm to do it again. This line, inch by inch, evaporates before the harlots.

"Don't play dumb with me, demon," Jane spits.

With his eyes on the floor and wiry hair across his face, Lourdes doesn't move for a time. His fingers dangle at the ends of his arms. There's no noise in the Guinevere. Jane holds her hand up strong. Jane's women collect in pools of light beneath the bar's windows and doors. Then, a decision made, Lourdes cocks back.

"What gave it away? The yellow eyes? Translucent skin? Maybe the fangs?" Lourdes asks. A thick grin drowns his face. Dust swirls at his feet. Inhuman eyes burrow into Jane's skull. A rank of daggers stand at attention where a moment ago were teeth. Lourdes has made his move, and now he waits for Jane to make hers. No stakes. Jane merely stands her ground. No garlic. Her girls do, too. No holy water. Katterina's the only one to so much as blink. No crucifixes.

Jane brings her hand down on Lourdes's scalp. A pat, not a chop, meanders through the creature's hair. She pets Lourdes. Her fingers caress his cheeks and ever so softly shut his lips. Jane isn't afraid of the thing pretending to be a boy. The last of the woman's diamond mark vanishes from Lourdes's face. After surprising the lawman, Jane now perplexes more preternatural prey.

"Your people have been showing up more and more in these parts," Jane tells. "I wish I could say you were the first we've seen, but that'd be a lie, and I haven't lied to you nor do I plan to." She inspects Lourdes's jacket and fiddles with a loose button. With a few motions, she mends the demon's clothes.

"They're not my people," Lourdes breathes. "The same dead blood may sit listlessly in all our veins, but I have no more in common with them than you do the deputy." Lourdes tries to put force behind his words, but they escape as a whimper. "I came out here to escape from them. I thought I'd be alone, but I was wrong."

Katterina takes in the scene with uncomfortable eyes.

"I wasn't lying when I said I was passing through. I have no intention of making any long-term friends," Lourdes continues. "I'll be out of here at nightfall."

"No," the nightingale informs. "You won't."