Free Blood Ties by Quincy J. Allen

another to Maggie Mae Swanson, and even one to old Forsythe who had made it all possible.
    Like many Tinkers, Farris had hired on a capable witch, Maggie Mae, to enhance his inventions. Jake’s arm and legs were a combination of the best clockwork available with top-notch witchcraft. Both Farris and Maggie Mae were as good as they came. It made the limbs smooth, quiet, and strong, so real looking that most people didn’t even know he had them when he walked around in regular clothes … and gloves.
    Jake stepped up to a small dresser at the back of the closet and pulled out three small cigars from a large tin can. He worked the catch on his forearm and opened the compartment. He slid the cigars in and grabbed several matches. They went in next, and he closed the cover.
    He put on tan riding pants, brown boots, and leather spats, followed by a high-collared white shirt, green paisley cravat, and burgundy paisley vest. Opening a small wooden box atop the dresser, he pulled out his father’s leather and brass pocket watch.
    Jake’s gun belt, with scrollwork and curls embossed into the heavy leather, came off a hook on the back of the closet door, and he strapped on his pistols. He pulled several boxes of shells from another drawer and filled the leather pouches on the back of his gun belt with .45 rounds, half of them longer than the others.
    With a quick and easy pull, the modified cavalry officer’s revolver came free of the right holster. It had a dull nickel finish, and he spun it like the gunslinger he was, quickly checking the load. The pistol had been a gift from Colonel Forsythe, presented as Jake lay in the army medical tent where they’d taken his limbs. It used longer .45 rounds than a standard Colt, and Jake had them made special whenever he was in a big city. He tilted it sideways and read the inscription Forsythe had engraved into a brass plate set into the mahogany grip.
    Apologies never make up for blood. ~ Forsythe 1864
    Jake frowned at the words, tracing his finger over them and remembering when Forsythe laid it on his chest. He felt the all-too familiar swirl of anger and remorse over Forsythe, the two feelings fighting with each other for control of his heart, despite the years that had passed. The pistol had seen its fair share of use, and although it was bigger and heavier than the Colts most men in his line of work used, he simply couldn’t bear to part with it. Besides, with its longer barrel and hotter rounds, it had better range, was accurate as hell, and hit like a locomotive. With a single backspin, the Officer’s Colt slipped almost silently back into its holster.
    In a motion faster than a normal man could follow, his left darted to the bronze-finished, heavily filigreed Peacekeeper at his left hip. The glinting metal blurred as it came free, and the etched bronze highlights shone subtly in the weak light. The Peacekeeper, one of a kind, had been custom-made by Tinker Farris, although Tinker had sold the design to Colt, which later released the Peacemaker model 1871 based on the pistol in Jake’s hand.
    Jake’s finger traced the patterns and the sigils etched into the pistol. Maggie Mae had done it up just like his limbs. There were times, like last night, when he saw pale green flashes of light tracing through the runes, but whenever he looked again they were gone. Maggie Mae had imbued it with all sorts of magic that still surprised him from time to time. She had told him once that even she didn’t know everything it could do. She’d said she used a variant of a Loki spell that she’d picked up during her travels through Europe.
    Jake had no idea what that meant, but to date, he’d never had cause to complain. The thing had saved his life more times than he could count. And it was particularly useful against unnaturals ,like demons and werewolves, and whatever the hell Quinn was before the Peacekeeper turned him to ash. Jake checked the load and slid it silently back into its