The Devil's Standoff

chapter 2

The haze enveloped Hettie like a welcoming embrace, then parted with equal affection as if to study her.

“Hello, Hettie.” The soft, melodic greeting had her looking about. It was no place she could describe, yet if she had to she would say it was a path between blotted stars, a road through the unknown.

Despite the strangeness, Hettie knew this place. She’d been here before in a vision—this was the place in between life and death, dream and awake.

She also recognized her guide.

“Patrice?” The old woman came into focus. Only, Patrice Favreau, Soothsayer of the South, was not the gnarled crone in the wheelchair Hettie had first encountered in New Orleans. Instead, she stood tall and erect, looking almost as young as Hettie’s mother had before she was killed. A thick shawl of roses draped over her shoulders and pooled around her bare feet. Her violet-rimmed eyes shone, and she smiled.

Hettie remembered the little black snake, its needle-sharp fangs sinking into her flesh, and she swallowed drily. It was a golem, Uncle had said … or had it been a real serpent hiding among the decoys? “Am I … are you dead?”

“No, dear. I’m simply … well, I’m not sure there’s anything simple about it.” Her hands fluttered like a wounded bird trying to escape from the bottom of a well. “I seem to be rather lost.”

“Your body is still in New Orleans. Asleep.” She felt it with the kind of certainty one had for simple facts, but couldn’t justify her claim. It’d been weeks since she’d last seen her … or had it? Time didn’t seem to have meaning here. To remind herself as much as Patrice, she said, “You were attacked by the warlock Zavi in our shared vision, and you haven’t woken up since.”

The woman ran a hand over her hair as if trying to pat her memories back in place. “Yes … yes, I recall that. Your sister…?”

“We saved her.” A brief smile flitted over the woman’s features. “Sophie’s been waiting for you to get better. Can’t you get back to your body?” The guilt that balled within her felt more real than their surroundings. Patrice’s granddaughter, Sophie, had risked a lot to help Hettie and her companions rescue Abby and find out what was causing the soothsayers to lose their future-predicting abilities, but all they’d achieved to date was putting her grandmother in a coma.

Patrice frowned. She seemed to withdraw into herself, sinking into the haze. “I … I don’t know.”

“Is the soothsayers’ blackout causing this?”

“I’m not sure.” From somewhere behind her came the soft hiss of a snake. The mist thickened, and she looked away. “Hettie, help me.”

“How?”

The mist closed around her. Hettie spun every which way, but she was alone once more.

The air grew cold and thin. A calm settled over her. Acceptance. Resignation.

Perhaps Patrice was wrong. Perhaps this was death. She closed her eyes, letting the mist twine around her. Real or not, the snake’s poison was slowly working its way to her heart and brain. And then she’d be dead. The burden of Diablo would no longer be hers …

And Abby would be alone.

No. She threw off her despair, and the mist cleared. She could not leave her sister. Patrice and the other soothsayers needed her help. There was still work to be done.

She started walking, the ground soft and wet beneath her feet. The gray gave way to the site of a smoking crater, writhing with creatures wallowing in thick red ichor. Hettie stood high above it, watching the crater slowly fill with blood. In the center, the bodies of her mother and father and Abby floated facedown.

She screamed, but the sound was carried away by the wind. She tried to run toward the site, but it was too far, and getting farther with every step she took toward it.

This isn’t real, she told herself, reining in her racing heart. She shut her eyes and pressed her aching hand against her eyelids. You’re dreaming. You’ve been snakebit and you’re having hallucinations …

Someone grabbed her hand and tugged her around. For a moment, she thought the dark brown hair and sprinkling of freckles were hers in a reflection, only this mirror image had her mother’s kind eyes and her father’s hard frown.

“Paul?”

Her dead brother squeezed her hand hard, crushing her fingers until her bones snapped. She fell to her knees with a cry.

“Let … let go…” she gasped. “Paul…”

He stared down at her silently, his vise grip tightening. The mist closed around them once more. And then there was darkness.

Pain burned through her. All her old injuries, from the gunshot wound in her thigh to the one that had left a feather-shaped scar on the side of her face, seared across her senses.

“She’s coming ’round.”

Hettie cracked open her swollen eyes. Uncle hovered over her. She sensed Abby nearby, though she had no inkling of her sister’s state. “Abby…”

“Drink,” Uncle ordered, holding a small bowl to her lips. The liquid was bitter but blessedly wet, and she gulped it down.

“The golem bit you good, put a hex like the devil on you. Walker lifted it, but your hand is gonna hurt like a son of a b***h for a while.” The old man looked her over. “Soon as you can stand, we gotta get moving. No telling how close the Pinks are now.”

At her confused look, he explained, “With those golems on us and you firing Diablo willy-nilly, we had to leave before the Pinks or anyone else got a bead on us. We didn’t have time to fix you, so Walker put you under a stasis spell. Rode for half a day before we could stop. You’ll have to thank the man proper later. He saved your life.” He slid a dark, rueful look over his shoulder. The bounty hunter stood guard, his rifle slung over one shoulder as he scanned the horizon.

“You okay, Hettie?” Abby asked in a small voice.

She sat up slowly. Her right hand was heavily bandaged. “I’m fine,” she lied. “How about you? Did those snakes hurt you?”

“No. Walker made them go away.” She couldn’t be sure, but Hettie thought Abby sounded petulant about it.

“What happened, Abby? Who were you talking to?”

The little girl blinked at her. “I … I don’t know.”

Hettie pursed her lips. She looked to Uncle. “You think the Pinks sent the snakes?”

He tugged on his beard. “Not sure. Raising golems isn’t their style—too unpredictable and hard to control at a distance. And the Division of Sorcery wouldn’t send something so deadly for us if they wanted Abby alive.” His eyes narrowed in deep, disturbed thought. Hettie’s skin lifted in goose bumps. The last time Abby had been submerged and communicating with distant strangers using her abilities, she’d been talking to the warlock who’d kidnapped and nearly killed her. “Either way, I don’t want to face whoever dropped that spell on us. We need to go.”

They rode south. Hettie ached head to toe, and there was a strange taste in her mouth. Her right hand burned with every minute flex. Blackie tread carefully, seemingly aware of Hettie’s pain. She had a hard time holding the reins in her left hand, but the magicked stallion didn’t need guidance.

As they made their way across the rocky landscape, she mulled over her conversation with Patrice. The whole episode had felt like a dream. Perhaps it had been. She told Uncle about it as they rode.

“You and Patrice have shared a connection, and you’ve been to the place in-between, so it’s not impossible that what you saw was real. She might have been trying to warn you. Or you could have been having a fevered delusion.” He shook his head. “There’s no telling with visions—that’s why soothsayers are so few and far between. It takes years of training to be able to interpret what they see with any precision. And with this soothsayers’ blackout, we can’t know anything for sure. On top of that, there’s no telling how your bond with the Devil’s Revolver might interfere. This is new territory for me.”

He sounded troubled by that admission.

By the end of the day, the dark spine of the Wall fringed the horizon. They rode until the moon was a bright chip high above them, then stopped for the night, nearly falling out of their saddles with exhaustion.

There was no campfire or magic well this time. Uncle refused to risk doing anything that would give away their location. As she lay on the ground, Hettie watched the Wall with a growing sense of hope. The Pinkertons wouldn’t be able to open a remote Zoom tunnel on top of them south of the border. The magical barrier had been raised after the Mexican war, providing an impenetrable shield that kept spells—as well as people—from crossing the border. It was one of the many reasons fugitives fled south: the authorities had a much more difficult time tracking them there.

By midafternoon the following day, they were in sight of the Wall’s base. The monolith stretched over the landscape like a great black viper rippling over the sand. Hettie got a strange chill just looking at it.

“The shoring crews are farther west,” Walker said, scanning the length of the Wall with narrowed eyes. “No border patrols in sight.”

“Why are they shoring up the Wall?” Hettie asked.

“Magic needs bolstering now and again,” Uncle explained. “The bigger the spell, the more magic and maintenance it needs. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Yes, but why are we fixing it from this side if it was built to keep Americans out of Mexico?”

“Walls work both ways. The folks on the losing side of the war don’t like a big old monument reminding them of their failures, so they make up their own story, make it look like we’re the ones in charge. They send out men and crews and make it seem like we’re doing something important, like we’re the ones keeping invaders out.” Uncle spat on the red earth. “Men in Washington gotta justify their wages somehow.”

“Politics aside, there’s no way for us to get through,” Walker said. “The Division and the Pinkertons will probably be looking for us at the gates.”

“So how do we get through?”

“With help.” He picked up a stick and drew several runes on the ground, whispering an incantation. Then he broke the stick in half and tossed the pieces away.

A sound like a muffled crack of thunder rolled across the land. Walker lifted his nose in the air like a hound scenting its prey. “He’s coming.”

The wind picked up, whipping dust all around them. Abby cried out and shielded her eyes, and Cymon huddled close to her, growling a warning.

Hettie put herself between her family and the rust-colored dust devil skating toward them. Walker and Uncle held their ground, unafraid even as the wind tore at their clothes and sand scoured their exposed skin. The wind died abruptly, and the swirling sand settled. From the tiny cyclone a thin man emerged, his skin dark and leathery, his face young but lined. He wore only battered leather trousers and a small vest. His neck was hung with so many charms and talismans on leather thongs, they formed a kind of shield on his chest. His hair was a matted, tangled mess festooned with bits of leaves and twigs. His eyes, the strangest shade of sulfur-yellow, glinted with devilry.

“So, the prodigal son returns.” He said it with the precise enunciation of an Englishman, surprising Hettie. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d ever come back, Woodroffe.” He raised his eyebrow at Uncle, who stood with one hand casually resting on the grip of his holstered sidearm. “You’ve grown your family, I see.” His roving eyes landed on Abby and widened. Hettie stepped in front of her sister, propping her hands on her hips and glaring.

“We need safe passage into Mexico,” Walker said.

“Heading home, hmm? You think your people will appreciate the new additions?” He gestured at the group.

Walker growled, “What’s your price, Coyote?”

The man scratched his head and paced in a tight circle. His movements went from smooth to jerky intermittently, as if a fisherman had his limbs on a line and was trying to lure trout as he reeled the bait in. “Last time, it was just you. This lot will cost you.”

“How much?” Walker repeated tightly.

The man Walker called Coyote picked at his nails. “Six months.”

“That’s highway robbery,” the bounty hunter growled.

“I don’t have the juice to carry all of you through safely. Half of that six will probably be sapped away just moving you through the Wall.”

“You know it’s not my juice to give. Six months is impossible.”

“Then how about him?” He tipped his chin toward Uncle. “Seems you’ve got plenty to go around.”

Walker’s jaw firmed. “He’s not paying.”

“Well, if not him, the little one will do.” He smiled, his teeth surprisingly large and white. “She’s bursting with juice. I can almost taste her from here.”

Hettie had Diablo pointed at Coyote’s head before her fury registered. The derelict sorcerer stumbled back with a yelp as though he’d been smacked. “Come anywhere near my sister and I’ll blow that tongue out the back of your skull.”

“Mother of— Walker, what have you unleashed?” He looked between the bounty hunter and Hettie, hands raised. “Who is she?”

“Someone who doesn’t like you.” Walker’s lips twitched. “I’d listen to her, Coyote. She’s got an itchy trigger finger.”

“It’s not her finger I’m worried about.” His gaze stayed locked on Diablo. “Three months of juice, Walker. And only because you’re a friend.”

“Two weeks, you soul-leech.”

“Twenty days, straight from you. That’s my final offer.”

“Deal.” Walker spat in his palm and held it out. Coyote did the same, then took one of the many leather thongs from around his neck and wrapped it around his dust-covered wrist. He clasped Walker’s hand tightly, chanting in a language Hettie didn’t recognize, looping the strip of material around the bounty hunter’s forearm.

“What’s going on?” Hettie asked Uncle.

“They struck a bargain. That Coyote’s borrowing magic from Walker.”

She frowned. “But … what keeps him from just taking all his magic?” Her hand twitched over the ghostly form of Diablo, readying to defend the bounty hunter.

“It doesn’t work that way. Borrowing magic requires consent on both sides.” He notched his chin toward the men. “They can exchange no more, no less than what they bargained for.”

The air shifted as if the wind had momentarily changed direction. Walker gave a grunt. Coyote breathed deep. His eyes dilated, and he threw his head back, mouth slightly open. Hettie could’ve sworn she saw him inhaling a wisp of bluish smoke. He held it and then released, shoulders sagging. His spine loosened, and he smiled as his eyes went back to normal.

“Ohhh.” He reached for Walker and made to embrace him, but the much taller, much broader man pushed him away and hastily untangled the thong from around his arm. Dark bags hung beneath Walker’s eyes. Coyote laughed. “Gonna be a shame to give up all that lovely juice. Such a delicacy…”

“Just get us across the Wall,” the bounty hunter grumbled. “And do it before I let the girl shoot you.”

“Of course, of course, a bargain is a bargain.” He scooped the ropes of talismans off his neck and laid them on the ground. They weren’t individual necklaces, but one long rope looped multiple times around him. He arranged the hoops on the ground.

“Bigger,” Walker instructed. “The horses and the dog are coming with us.”

Coyote looked like he was about to protest, but glanced once more at Hettie and reworked the rope pattern. Soon he had a wide circle of leather on the ground.

“I’ve never encountered a mage gun like that,” he said without looking at her. “Metals have an odd effect on my spells. Unless you want to get stuck in the Wall and become a permanent part of the masonry, you ought to leave it behind.”

“She’s not leaving it behind for you to put your grubby hands on,” Walker snapped.

A lump formed in Hettie’s stomach. “Is that a risk? Can we get stuck?”

“Stuck?” Coyote’s yellow eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth in a rictus of a grin. “It’s worse than that. If anything disturbs the spell on either side of the tunnel, matter will resolve around you, in you, turning you slowly and excruciatingly into part of it. I know men who’ve screamed for days as they turned to stone. Sometimes the patrol captures people trying to cross the border and melds them into the Wall halfway, leaving their limbs sticking out, wiggling to warn away others.”

Abby squeaked. Coyote chuckled lowly. “That won’t happen, little one. Your uncle Coyote will not fail you.”

“Where’s the exit point?” Uncle asked. He’d been silent up to now, which was odd for him. He usually tried to take charge wherever possible.

“A day’s ride from Villa del Punta. You know, for the very low cost of three months, I could drop you right in the center of the village. I have an aperture hidden away there. Not even Raúl can find it.”

Walker glared at him, and Coyote laughed. “I’m kidding. I thought you would appreciate the joke.”

“So … is this like a Zoom tunnel?” Hettie asked.

“It’s nothing like the Zooms,” Coyote said, irritated. “Zooms can’t go through the Wall. This is a spell I made all by myself. It’s the only way to get through the Wall around here, unless you’d rather go through one of the gates.” He eyed them speculatively. “Which I very much doubt. Only the most desperate of fugitives summon the Coyote.”

“Are you sure this is safe?” Hettie asked Uncle quietly. She glanced at Abby, who’d been watching the strange man as intently as a jackrabbit sensing a nearby predator.

“As safe as walking through solid matter is for anyone, I reckon.” Jeremiah scratched his nose. “Is this a drop and swim?”

“Ah, you’ve done this before.” Coyote peered at him, then blinked. “Do I know you?”

“Doubt it.” He looked away and kicked his toe in the dust. “Well, what’re we waiting for?”

“Hettie, stay close to Abby, but don’t hold hands.” Walker pushed them together. “You’re going to jump in after me—Abby first, then Hettie, the horses and Cymon, and then JB. Whatever you do, keep moving. It’ll feel strange at first, but don’t stop, or you might get stuck.”

Abby stared at the loop, her gaze blank. Hettie tapped her shoulder, and her sister blinked slowly up at her. “Like swimming,” she said dreamily.

A shiver skated down Hettie’s spine.

“Hang on to your hats, amigos.” Coyote grinned. He jumped into the circle and began chanting, dancing in a strange half-squatting position, kicking his feet and stomping his heels. Arms outspread, he sprinkled some kind of grain over the ground inside the loop. Where the grains landed, light spread. Soon, the whole circle glowed. Coyote gave a whoop and jumped—

He slid into the ground, as if he’d disappeared down a large gopher hole.

“C’mon, let’s git.” Walker leaped in, his black duster flapping out behind him. Abby hesitated.

“Hurry up, girls. The door won’t stay open long,” Uncle called.

“Everything will be okay.” Hettie said it to reassure herself as much as Abby. She gave her sister’s bum a swat. “Just like swimming, right?”

The girl smiled and hopped feetfirst into the pool of light as easily as if she’d jumped into a puddle.

Hettie stood on the edge, suddenly nervous. Uncle had the horses by the reins. But Cymon cowered, tail tucked between his legs.

“The damned mutt won’t come,” Jeremiah said. “Grab him.”

“C’mere, Cy! C’mon!” But the big brown dog wouldn’t budge. He shrank down on his haunches, ears flattened.

The horses gave nervous whinnies as they approached the pool of light. Uncle tugged on their reins. “Jezebel, don’t you dare flinch. You been through worse, and I can’t imagine you’re scared of a little light. Don’t let these two young ’uns beat you to the other side.”

The old gray mare lifted her chin. With the dignity of a queen, she marched straight into the portal, front end tipping forward. Her hind legs kicked the air as she was swallowed up by the light. Lilith and Blackie followed more cautiously, unwilling to be cowed.

Meanwhile, Hettie was trying to wrestle Cymon into the pool. He twisted out of her grip and scooted backward, sitting down hard.

“If he doesn’t come now, he won’t come at all,” Uncle shouted.

“We can’t just leave him alone in the desert.”

Jeremiah huffed. “C’mere, you stupid dog. Don’t you know what’s good fer ya?” When Cymon didn’t move, Uncle hefted up the dog, cradling him under his bottom like a baby. Cy wrapped his front legs over his shoulders, clutching him tightly.

“Hettie, hurry up and step on through. I’ll drop Cy in after you.”

She went to the edge of the shimmering pool but could see nothing past the brilliantly shining surface. Tentatively, she knelt and pushed a hand past the ground, meeting only the slightest resistance, as if she’d dipped her fingers in cold syrup.

“I said git!” Uncle planted a boot on her hindquarters and shoved her in, and she pitched headfirst into the pool.

She’d expected a splash, or gravity’s pull, and for a moment she thought she was in free fall. But the momentum of her tumble slowed abruptly, and her sense of direction spun.

Keep moving or you’ll get stuck. She started pumping her legs as if marching, pinwheeling her arms to get forward movement. Slowly she regained her equilibrium, and up and down became clear.

Gray fog filled the air. At closer inspection she realized it wasn’t mist, but fine particles like dust. It swirled as she moved, creating little eddies where the others had been, and she followed the path they’d cut toward a distant pinprick of light that didn’t seem to get any closer. Her muscles ached as she crawled through the miasma.

“Keep moving.” Uncle’s sharp directive startled her into redoubling her pace. A labored panting and whine told her Cymon was on her heels.

“Abby?” she called out.

Her reply came back faintly. “I’m here.” Hettie couldn’t see her through the gloom.

The horses nickered, Jezebel reassuring her that she was keeping them all moving.

“We’re almost at the end.” Walker’s voice came from far away. “Don’t stop.”

Hettie slogged on, limbs burning. Her lungs felt heavy, and her heart thudded sluggishly. She was so tired. All she wanted was to rest, to lie down and just … stop. Her eyelids drifted closed, and she started to slip away …

Someone grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. With a gasp, she launched ahead, then slipped out into clear, hot air. She fell to her hands and knees, grit in her eyes, hacking as if she’d been wandering through smoke.

She looked up blearily.

And found herself staring into the barrel of a rifle.