The Legend of Diablo

Chapter 1

“The funds just aren’t available.”

Jane set her jaw. “You know that’s not true.” She dug her heels in literally, refusing to let the three men past the office door until she’d made her case. Though they towered above her five-foot-six stature, they’d never try to remove her forcibly. “If we’re going to catch her—”

“The agency has more urgent cases, Jane.” This from Eric, the Pinkerton Agency’s chief of sorcerers and her direct boss. “Paying cases, I might add. The Blackthorn Rogues are the Division’s problem, not ours.”

“The Blackthorn Rogues have killed fifty-six men in the past four months,” she said. “The Division and local law enforcement don’t have the resources to stop them. We do.”

Eric and Jefferson exchanged the briefest of glances, but they shook their heads. “I’m afraid it’s not within our jurisdiction.” Jefferson was the agency lawyer, the one responsible for telling them what they could and could not do. Ever since New Orleans, he’d been in a lot more meetings with her.

Jane clenched her fists. “Three years ago, Diablo was the only thing all of you cared about.”

“Three years ago, we had a paying client whose patronage we depended on to fund our other ongoing investigations. But that’s gone now, thanks to the mismanagement of those funds and a certain botched operation.” Eric huffed.

Jane folded her arms across her chest, heat rising in her. “Thomas Stubbs wasn’t my responsibility.” She took a step forward, pressing her unblinking gaze upon Eric like a thumb. “As for New Orleans, if you’d given me the resources I’d asked for—”

“Stop this right now,” William Pinkerton barked. He’d been silent up to this point, and his sharp tone cut through the room. “Jane, that’s enough. I won’t have you using your parlor tricks on your fellow agents. Especially not your superiors.”

She lifted her stare off Eric, and he relaxed. She cut her uncle a look. William Pinkerton was a fair man, but she didn’t dare push her luck. He went on, addressing the men. “Bringing up New Orleans doesn’t change what happened. It also doesn’t give Jane any credit, despite years of exemplary service.” He added that last for her benefit.

“You need to let go of the Rogues, Jane,” Jefferson urged. “There’s enough work for all of us without having to chase down a gang of common thugs.”

“I’d hardly call Hettie Alabama common,” Jane snapped. The gang leader had eluded her for over four years now. She hadn’t even come face-to-face with the outlaw yet. “There’s a reward out for her, right? What is it now? Three thousand dollars?”

“Five thousand,” Eric said, “dead or alive.”

“A reward like that would be worth the investment. Not to mention the publicity we’d get.”

“Jane.” William’s voice was low, sympathetic, but not warm. “I understand your dedication to this case. I know what catching her would mean to you.”

“Do you?” She set her teeth.

“Quentin was a good man and a good agent. They all were,” he said more quietly. “I want Hettie Alabama to hang just as much as anyone. But the Pinkerton Detecting Agency is not in the business of vengeance. Leave that to the gunslingers and bounty hunters. Put your feelings aside. Hettie Alabama is too dangerous to go after. We’re stretched thin as it is.”

“With Division truancy and missing persons cases,” she scoffed. “There’s a killer on the loose, and you expect me to stand by and let her go?”

“I expect you to do your job.” The steel edge of his tone and his unwavering glare were a stark reminder that William Pinkerton had not helped build what amounted to the largest private army in the United States because he had a bleeding heart. “Drop this Blackthorn Rogues business, Jane. That’s an order. Eric will assign you something worth your talent.”

He started toward the door. At first Jane wouldn’t budge, but William kept coming. He was a large man whose girth shouldn’t be mistaken as the result of idleness or gluttony. At the last minute, she stepped aside, and the three men barreled past her through the door and down the hall.

Jane cursed and punched the doorframe as she exited. This wasn’t just about Quentin, though the Pinkerton agent who’d taken her under his wing deserved far better than he’d gotten. All she wanted was justice and to put a stop to the killings. Over the years, Hettie Alabama had murdered eight of their agents, and dozens more men from the Division and police force. How could her uncle and the others let her get away with that?

She stalked to her office. It was one of the smallest, but it was private, and it was hers, and she’d worked herself to the bone to earn it. She extracted a flask of whiskey from the corner filing cabinet. The liquid scorched down her throat and into her belly, dissipating some of the haze of her anger.

Someone behind her cleared his throat, and she turned.

A man sat in the lone visitor’s chair crammed against her desk. He was in his thirties, with sandy hair that needed a trim, and spectacles. No ring, so he was a bachelor. And though the briefcase he clutched on his lap was of good quality, his scuffed shoes and threadbare suit were not.

“Does your employer know you drink on the job?” he asked pointedly. His accent was cultured—English, for certain, but toned down after years spent in America. But she didn’t need to take in all those details to know who the man was. She’d only scheduled one meeting today.

“Probably.” She returned the flask to the filing cabinet. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He straightened. A ramrod would envy his posture. “See here, miss. I’ve been waiting for quite some time now, and I haven’t even been offered a cup of tea—”

“Would you like one?” she asked.

He blinked, nonplussed. “Pardon?”

“A cup of tea.”

“Y-yes, but—”

She stuck her head out the door and yelled, “Margaret!”

The secretary she shared with another agent leaned back in her chair, peering across the hall. “Oh, Jane, I meant to mention, your ten o’clock—”

“So I’ve discovered. Please bring Professor Gallagher a cup of tea. And coffee for me.” She shut the door again and went to the desk.

Professor Gallagher stared at her. “You’re Agent Pinkerton?”

“Jane Pinkerton,” she said cursorily. “Agent will do fine, though.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry… I was given to understand… That is, the letters I received—”

“You assumed they were from my uncle, the esteemed William Pinkerton, head of the Pinkerton Detecting Agency, which was why you left your students at Harvard so quickly.” She nodded along, straightening the few items she allowed on her desktop. A ledger, a fountain pen, a magnifying glass, and the glass paperweight Quentin had gifted to her the day she’d received her Pinkerton badge and master sorcerer’s shield. The paperweight had a thick blue-gray swirl in it—the eye of the storm they all lived in, Quentin used to say, not unlike the unblinking, never-sleeping eye the Pinkerton Agency’s logo was styled after.

She sized up the man sitting across from her. “I assure you I had no intention of misleading you, professor. Everything I wrote in my letter was true. You’ll be paid handsomely in exchange for your help with this case.” If she could get the money. Without funding approval, though, she’d be paying the good professor out of her own pocket until she could convince Uncle William otherwise.

The man looked skeptical. “With all due respect, Miss Pinkerton—”

“Agent,” she corrected, arching an eyebrow at him.

He pursed his lips. “Agent… I was hoping I could speak to someone who had more…authority.”

“You mean a man.”

His cheeks flushed, and he pushed his shoulders back. “Yes, I mean a man. I was expecting to deal with Mr. William Pinkerton—”

“My uncle is far too busy to deal with consultants,” she interrupted. “As for your expectations, professor, those were yours and yours alone.” She could see she was starting to rile him, so she gentled her tone and softened her eyes. “As a man of scholarly magic, science, and intellect, you know very well that assumptions lead to disaster.”

He shifted uncomfortably beneath her pointed gaze. “I suppose you’re right. It was my error.”

“Not an error, just an assumption. But it’s your unadulterated insight that I need for my investigation. That, and your expertise on the mage gun known as the Devil’s Revolver.”

Margaret bustled in with the tea tray laden with biscuits and tea, and coffee for Jane. She placed it on the desk in front of the professor and walked out again. He seemed put off that the secretary hadn’t poured for him.

Jane picked up her own cup of black coffee. “I understand you are the foremost expert on Diablo,” she said encouragingly. Men did love to listen to themselves talk, and it would put him at ease and provide her a refresher, as well as a moment to enjoy her coffee.

Gallagher didn’t disappoint. He sat forward. “Well, I’ve always been fascinated by the stories of Elias Blackthorn. You see, my father witnessed the Rogues robbing a bank in Virginia. Despite the stories of a black-hearted bandit, this Elias—presumably the one before Jed Crowe—evacuated the women and children from the bank. Then he disintegrated the bank manager’s desk to get him to open the safe.” The professor’s gaze grew distant. “My father told me that story so often… But his version of events didn’t line up with the legend of the demon inside taking over the wielder’s soul. I suppose I can’t resist a romantic tale. That’s how I ended up writing my doctoral thesis on mage guns throughout history.”

“Yes, I’ve read it.”

He ventured cautiously, “I’d heard rumors that Diablo resurfaced as early as four years ago. There were police reports about an altercation in Barney’s Rock a few years back in which at least three men were killed by a single gunshot that glowed green—Diablo’s signature mark. And there were stories of a man and a horse cut down by a green light in Hawksville, Montana.”

Jane remained silent. She didn’t want to tip her hand until the professor agreed to cooperate…and be discreet about it.

“I’d also heard the Pinkerton Agency has been looking for Diablo for quite some time. At one point, I tried to talk to the agent in charge of the file… Thomas Stubbs. But I understand he’s been dismissed for mismanagement of agency resources.”

“Among other issues.” Fellow agents had complained of the man’s casual disregard for bystanders and the safety of the general public. Stubbs had taken to assigning the most unscrupulous agents to his details, many of whom had also been sacked. Uncle William had buried the scandal with Stubbs’s dismissal.

“I can only imagine. I met him less than a year ago. He was quite hostile toward me. I offered to share what I knew about the gun, but he wasn’t interested. Said he knew all he needed to. It seemed to be a rather personal matter to him.”

That lined up with what she’d heard about the veteran agent. Stubbs had been so obsessed with Diablo, he’d resorted to lying and stealing from company coffers to fund his search. At least, that was what Eric and Jefferson had reported. The anonymous client who’d originally hired the agency to find the mage gun had pulled their business after learning about Stubbs’s overzealous spending. Uncle William had made the whole company tighten its belt and file a lot more paperwork as a result.

“So you’ve been actively searching for Diablo?” Jane asked him.

“Only in my spare time, and with limited resources. Mostly I resort to letter writing. I’m hoping to get funding for a cross-country trip next summer to visit all the towns Diablo’s reportedly made an appearance in.”

“And what will you do with your findings?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Publish them, I suppose, but they’ll likely be deemed too lowbrow for scholarly interest and too boring for a dime store novel. I’m not the storyteller my father was, unfortunately. I firmly believe, however, that the immortal Elias Blackthorn wasn’t the legendary gunslinger or boogeyman the tales make him out to be. I’m convinced their villainy is the gun’s doing.”

“Never underestimate man’s propensity for evil, professor,” she said flatly. “We as a species are capable of great cruelty.”

“I’m only interested in the truth, not tall tales.”

She considered him a long moment and poured his tea. He added three spoonfuls of sugar himself and slurped loudly. “What can you tell me about the Elias Blackthorn who had Diablo before it disappeared?” she asked.

“Jed Crowe? Not as much is known about him, apart from the fact that he was the father of Butch Crowe, who changed the name of the Blackthorn Rogues to the Crowe gang when he took over. Unfortunately, every last member was summarily executed for Weredom in Sonora, so I didn’t get a chance to interview any of them.” He sighed. “As far as anyone’s been able to determine, Butch Crowe never had Diablo. Apparently, the father-son relationship was somewhat fraught, according to a barber they frequented in Texas. The man cut their hair every month. Word is, the elder Crowe wanted his son to have better…but that’s neither here nor there.”

He waved a hand. “Anyhow, it’s said Jed Crowe was typical of the other Eliases—ran his crew with an iron fist. Had a streak of cruelty in him that got wider and wider, especially toward the end of his life. Some think that’s what Diablo’s blood price is—a bit of the wielder’s humanity.”

“Not you, though.”

“I think the men who’ve had Diablo weren’t all hardened criminals; they became them over time. The mage gun made them arrogant and overconfident in their power. They say the demon in the gun whispers to the wielder. Whether you believe in heaven or hell, something—whether it’s a creature from another dimension, a ghost, a human soul—is inhabiting that weapon. Some say the demon casts an influence spell on the wielder, making him or her the true slave. Perhaps Diablo has affected Hettie Alabama in a similar fashion.” He paused. “I could have told you all of this in a letter. Why did you need me to come all the way to Chicago?”

Jane set her cup down. “I understand you went to the Academy.”

Gallagher shifted in his chair. “It was not my most successful venture.”

“You flunked out.”

“The practical spellcraft eluded me,” he bit out.

“You had some interesting theories, though.”

“Which I never attempted to realize in any way, shape, or form.” He was perched on the edge of his chair now, looking ready to flee.

“You can relax, professor. I’m not going to report you for theoreticals, though they are, in fact, the reason I asked you to come.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Do you think you could do what you proposed? Sever the bond between the Devil’s Revolver and its wielder?”

His hands trembled as he removed his glasses and polished them with his pocket square. “As I said, I was never any good at the practical side of spellcraft. I only built the theory out of a few old spells I’d read about… old wives’ tales and superstitious habits, really.”

“You’d be surprised how much magic a superstitious habit can hold,” Jane said. “If you believe anything enough, you can reshape reality.”

“I’ll be honest,” he added hesitantly, “that paper was something I wrote on a whim, to see whether the university would accept any cockamamie idea its students threw at it. A progressive institution should foster free thinking, of course, but what I proposed was frankly ridiculous.”

“Your teachers seemed to find your ideas interesting enough to pass you.”

“I passed because I was outrageous, not because I was right or because I’d defended my theory sufficiently. My professor of Mechaniks thought it had merit, but the man was tippling throughout his lessons. I could have sold him magic beans if it was late enough in the day.”

His embarrassment was understandable. His theories had been unprovable by magical standards, and a joke by mundane ones.

And yet he’d gained a teaching post in one of the most prestigious universities in the country, made a name for himself in magical and Mechanikal academia. A man didn’t get that far on outrageous theories or a lack of confidence in them.

“Gods, I thought I’d buried that paper,” he mumbled. He frowned at her. “How did you find it?”

“I’m a detective. It’s what I do.” She faced him. “Let’s be open with each other, professor. I don’t believe for a moment you are truly that embarrassed about your ideas. So answer me truthfully: is it possible to separate the mage gun from the wielder?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Even if I could find all the ingredients and it was actually possible? No. I couldn’t perform such a spell on my own. I’m not sure anyone would be willing to perform these rituals. They’re not Division-approved, for one.”

“As if that’s stopped anyone in the past.”

“Secondly, some of the spells I proposed combining are dangerous. Illegal, even. I only figured out how to stitch them together because I recognized the common elements from all the disparate cultures—the use of blood, the fasting and the prayer…” His shoulders sagged. “But again, it’s theoretical only.”

The door shuddered open. It was Margaret. “Agent Pinkerton, you wanted to be notified if the Division was attacked again?”

Jane leaped out of her chair and grabbed her bowler hat and reticule. “Where?”

“A small town in Texas called No Hope.”

“Cheerful.” She looked to the professor. “Professor Gallagher, I’ll cut to the chase. I need to stop the Blackthorn Rogues and haul in their leader. You said you wanted to find the truth. That’s all I want as well.” And to avenge her mentor. “You want Diablo, I want the wielder.”

His eyes widened. “You’re hunting Hettie Alabama.”

She nodded. “And I need your help to stop her before she kills any more innocent people. Diablo is the source of her power—without it, she’s nothing. If you’re amenable, I will deputize you now and place you under the standard Pinkerton nondisclosure agreement we give all our contract hires.”

“Y-you mean a silence spell.” He paled.

“I assure you it won’t hurt unless you actually try to tell anyone what you’re doing with us…” She added as an afterthought, “Or they put a truthtelling spell on you.”

He eyed the door as if ready to bolt back to Harvard.

“If you can figure out how to separate her from the mage gun, we can end her reign of terror. In exchange, you’ll receive the stipend you were promised, a portion of the reward money, and you will be given a chance to study the mage gun Diablo at your leisure.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”