Della learned early to let go of everything that doesn’t matter–you need both hands to hold on tight to anything you want to keep. Don’t get bogged down by the weight of inconsequential bullshit, or somebody or something will snatch what matters right out of your hands. She’d lost two daughters and a son before she’d seen twenty years. When she finally escaped the misery of her past, she promised herself that she’d never again lose anything she truly loved. She built the Silk Rose Saloon in St. Louis with blood money taken from the last man who’d laid a hand on her. That seemed like a square deal, but Missouri was still a dangerous place for a woman to openly defy the expectations of gender, race, and society. When the Silk Rose went up in flames one night, taking most of its staff with it, the neighbors shook their heads and clucked their tongues and whispered What else could she expect, living like that? Evidence of arson was brushed under the rug. But Della had made a promise to herself, and she knew her soul would never rest easy anyway, so she bargained with the only thing she had left to lose.
Twelve years ago, the Silk Rose unfolded itself whole on a street corner in Never, New Mexico, with Dellaphina Jones on the deed as sole proprietress. Customers may find that the rooms have a whiff of smoke–or maybe brimstone–now and then, but everything is otherwise circumspect.
Marguerite “Rita” Griffin
Rita is a REVENANT SPIRIT.
Marguerite Griffin — Rita, to those who know her — is a woman who has always lived by quick wits and quicker lies. Once, long ago, she was a grifter’s daughter, raised in a painted wagon that rattled along the East Coast, peddling false cures and impossible promises. Born in 1772 to a family of travelers and tricksters, deception was her birthright. She wore it well until the night in 1800 when the con caught up with her: A knife in the dark. A pair of angry hands. A body sinking into the Ohio River.
But Rita never truly left.
Now, more than eighty years later, she lingers in Never, working at the Silk Rose as if she belongs there, wearing borrowed smiles and dresses that never seem to collect dust. No one questions where she came from. No one notices that she never eats, never tires, never leaves so much as a footprint in the dust outside her room. She keeps her secret well… until the rains come.
Rita cannot cross water. Even the thought of the creek to the east of town makes her breath hitch, though there is no breath left in her lungs. And sometimes, when the wind howls through Never’s streets, she swears she can still feel the weight of cold, dark water pulling her under.
Gladys Daugherty, aka Molly
Strictly speaking, Molly Daugherty doesn’t really exist. Neither did Gladys Daugherty, or Gilda Cartwright before her, or Glenna Gordon before her. None of them lasted longer than a series of letters, each one sealed with a perfumed kiss and mailed to a man looking for love in the personal advertisements of various Midwestern papers. After the letters, a meeting; then a wedding; then a few weeks or months of wedded bliss before tragic accidents befell Mr. Gordon, Mr. Cartwright, and Mr. Daugherty, each in his turn. Each one’s worldly possessions went to their newly-minted widow, who sold everything for a quick profit and then…summarily disappeared.
Of course, the money of a relatively poor lonely heart doesn’t stretch very far, and sometimes a woman needs to make ends meet while she’s looking for her next true love. The Silk Rose is just a starting point for a lady with ambition.
Jo Dove
FC: Indya Moore
Jo Dove was born into the wrong shape. She’s known that as long as she’s known anything, and almost as soon as she understood that fundamental fact, she learned how to hide it. Boys weren’t interested in fabrics. Boys didn’t pay attention to fashion. Most of all, boys didn’t cry when they got their hair cut short or got their face shoved into the mud or got a whipping by their papa for all those sins combined. Boys kept their chin up and said Yes’m and Nossir and did their chores and ate their scraps and were grateful, dammit, for every word that didn’t come with a slap. Smart boys kept their mouths shut and their eyes open, until they could steal enough money to disappear.
If boys-who-were-girls couldn’t steal enough, sometimes they found a way to make a deal, and they disappeared anyway. Jo’s deal put her in debt to a demon, but it also opened a door out of Mississippi and straight into a new life. Never might fall short of paradise, but it’s miles better than where she came from, and it brought her to the first taste of home she’s ever known in the arms of the Silk Rose and Madame Dellaphina Jones. She still has a debt to pay. Someday, the devil’s going to collect. But until then, she’ll make the best of this life with her voice and her body and all the charm the good Lord gave her.
Albert DuCarmont
Albert DuCarmont is a man who keeps his head down and his fists ready. As the bouncer and handyman at the Silk Rose, Never’s rough-and-tumble saloon and brothel, he’s seen just about every kind of trouble a lawless frontier can offer. Drunken brawls, sore-loser gamblers, men who think “no” isn’t an answer — Albert handles them all with the same steady, unshakable presence. He isn’t the fastest gun or the sharpest tongue, but he is strong, reliable, and not easily rattled.
Yet, despite his simple outlook, Albert isn’t blind. There’s something wrong about Never, something that prickles at the edges of his instincts. He’s worked in plenty of towns, but nowhere else have shadows seemed too dark, or whispers carried from empty rooms. He’s seen men walk into the night and never come back—but no one seems to grieve them. He’s heard laughter in the Silk Rose that didn’t belong to any living throat.
Albert doesn’t have a name for what’s wrong with Never, and he isn’t a superstitious man, but he keeps an iron nail in his pocket and a Bible under his bed. Just in case.
Sally Ducker, aka Allie
Sally Ducker — Though at the Silk Rose, everyone knows her as Allie — is a young woman with sharp eyes, a sharper tongue, and a knack for making men believe she’s exactly what they want her to be. She came west from New England chasing excitement, adventure, maybe even a little notoriety. What she found was Never, a town that hums with secrets beneath the shuffle of boots and the clink of whiskey glasses.
Allie plays the game well enough to keep herself safe: Smiling when needed, teasing when useful, disappearing when it’s best. But she didn’t come all this way just to scrape by in the Silk Rose. Her sights are set on the Pearl, the town’s high-class gambling hall and brothel, where the women wear silk instead of threadbare lace and the clients leave real gold on the nightstand. If she plays her cards right, she’ll get there.