The Legend of Diablo

Chapter 3-2

“—and be back before I can even blink.” He exhaled and forked a hand through his hair. “I can’t protect you when you do that.”

“It’s not your protection I need.” She stepped up to him so her chest brushed against his. He inhaled sharply. “Now are you going to get naked, or do I have to do it for you?”

His scowl crumpled, betraying his powerlessness. He gripped her shoulders and kissed her deeply, softly, fiercely, until a new kind of ache grew inside her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, kneading the firm muscles of his back.

Frantic with the need to touch him, to feel something other than the nauseating emptiness inside her, she tore at his clothes, popping the buttons off his shirt front and running her fingers over his scarred chest. He let her, his rough hands curving around her hips.

Walker had always been a tender and considerate lover. From the very first time, after he’d nursed her out of a state of wretched grief, he’d taken things slowly, eased her into a part of adulthood she hadn’t given much consideration. And for a short while, that had distracted her.

He’d asked her to marry him after that first time. She’d said no, knowing he’d only done so because honor demanded it. Deflowering her was hardly the worst of his crimes, after all, and there’d been no baby. If he’d been disappointed by her answer…well, that was neither here nor there.

Afterward, he lay in her bed with one arm draped over his eyes, snoring lightly. Hettie watched the rise and fall of his scarred chest. The burns and bullet wounds, some of them recent, mapped out so many stories. It was only then that she noticed the silence, and she conjured Diablo. The sly little devil had dropped them into the time bubble, stealing a moment out of time for her and Walker.

She couldn’t find the heart to admonish the demon in the mage gun—he meant well. But it was disconcerting when Diablo exercised its own free will.

She dressed, letting Walker sleep, and headed down into the saloon, reveling in the silence of the time bubble as she poured herself a whiskey. She spent what time she could in the solitude of her silent, frozen world, thinking, planning, researching, sometimes traveling. She was probably adding at least ten to twelve hours on a regular basis. Not that it mattered much to her—ever since Abby had been taken, she hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

“Did you have a good rest?” Rok perched above the smashed bar mirror, his query snide. Hettie ignored him as she sipped her drink.

“As many of those as you drink, you can’t shut me up. Jeremiah never seemed to get that.”

“It’s not for you.” She slugged back the last finger of whiskey, letting the burn trickle down her throat and into her gut. Sometimes that bite was the only thing that relieved the cold, hard lump growing in the depths of her soul like a tumor.

Rok cackled and ruffled his smoky feathers. “Sip of courage, sip of courage. How much bravery can you drink?” A desiccated hiss flickered past his snipping black beak.

Hettie put the bottle and glass back and wiped her mouth, steeling herself for the talk with her men. She dropped the time bubble when she’d practiced her words and anticipated every objection she could think of, then headed to the big house.

Her people were still riding high on their triumphant return, celebrating their victory. One of the men played a merry jig on a fiddle. Others clapped along and drank. One of the newly juiced sorcerers was showing off, juggling three glow stones while changing them from red to blue to yellow, green, purple, brown…

“Waste of magic is what that is,” she said flatly.

The fiddle squeaked and stopped abruptly. The juggler fumbled the stones, and they clattered to the ground. He gathered them up quickly and muttered an apology. Everyone looked down at their boot tips.

“Don’t mind her. She’s just jealous ’cuz she’s mundane as a mule.” Duke Cox sauntered toward her, whiskey bottle in hand. “Gracing us with your presence, then?”

She kept her feet planted, staring Duke down the way she would a mangy dog. “Tomorrow, I want you to assemble a team and ride out to Gull Falls, find out what you can about that payroll. Send a posse to Jailor’s Creek, too.”

His expression fell. “Can’t you give us a rest? This campaign took weeks to plan.”

“You got somewhere else to be? We didn’t pull in half as much as I thought we would in No Hope, and if I recall correctly, the men like to get paid.”

He glowered and lowered his voice. “I didn’t make you leader so you could push us around and make us do all the work.”

“You’re right. You didn’t make me leader at all. I took over because you couldn’t get anyone to go along with your dumb-ass schemes.” She conjured Diablo in front of his face. “Need me to remind you how motivating I can be?”

Duke’s lip lifted in a silent snarl, though his eyes never left the bloodred trigger thorn. The men around him had gone quiet. “Gull Falls and Jailor’s Creek. Fine. What about you?”

“I’ll be heading to Junesfield. Alone.”

“What about Walker? He going with you?”

There was no man she trusted more at her back, but someone had to keep an eye on Duke and the others. “Easier if it’s just me.” Besides, holding the time bubble with more than one person was harder. “Take care of the men while I’m gone,” she told him. “I don’t want to hear about any fights or any misbehavior they’ll regret.” She panned the room with her warning look. The more eager, loyal men nodded solemnly. Duke, despite his paranoia and pettiness, nodded along. He was a soldier, though not a great one. For all his posturing, he liked being told what to do—more than anything, he craved approval.

She went to talk to Lena and the other sorcerers who lived in the abandoned schoolhouse. She and Walker had recruited the truthteller out of a town near the border. She’d been a late-blooming gifted, her minor abilities suddenly flaring to life at age seventeen, and like so many gifted these days, she’d fled rather than go to the Academy.

When Hettie walked in, Lena was talking lowly with Tommy, who looked despondent. “It was an honest mistake,” Lena assured him, “but honest mistakes get people killed out here. Next time, breathe. Take it slow. Better to be right than fast, and careful rather than dead. Understand?”

Tommy nodded. Hettie waited for him to go before stepping out of the shadows. “He’s still green,” she said.

“He’s eager to please. He looks up to you.” She smiled crookedly. “But he’s learned his lesson. I’ll work with him more on his Vision.”

Hettie nodded. “Did y’all make it through the day okay?”

“We’re fine. Las Furias were very good. Hardly fought us.”

“They know better than to misbehave on a mission.” The three sister mares she’d brought with her from Mexico had proven their value ten times over. She was glad she’d reclaimed them from the Favreaus’ Yuma household. “Duke will be splitting the crew into two teams to wait out those payroll wagons. I want you to go with him, keep an eye on the sorcerers, and make sure they don’t overjuice. I’m heading to Junesfield. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You’re still looking for Abby.” It wasn’t a question.

“All these Fielding canisters gotta be headed somewhere. Wherever the Division is depositing them has to be where they’re keeping Fielding, if he’s still alive. Abby’ll be there, too.”

“Is that what the League’s been telling you?” Lena asked archly.

To Lena, the League of Sorcerers for Free Magic could not be trusted. When she was a child, the League had burned her father’s salon to the ground and killed him when he’d tried to stop them. She couldn’t condone those who purported to fight for the rights of the gifted when they attacked Division-sanctioned sorcerers.

Hettie didn’t have the same qualms. Not when Abby’s life was at stake.

According to her League contact—aka Sophie Favreau, who had been secretly funding them for years—the Division had been marshalling its forces, though for what purpose, no one could say. Since the government didn’t seem worried, no one else was either, but the League was adamant the Division was on the cusp of something sinister.

When Sophie had presented the League with Hettie’s story about her sister, they’d taken up her cause, helping in the search for Abby the same way they helped the hundreds of others whose gifted loved ones had gone missing. They funneled any information they could to Hettie through Sophie. In return, one day, Hettie had promised to help them.

“I haven’t had a lead in weeks,” she said. “I have to go. Be certain.”

“The League could be manipulating you. Giving you false hope.”

“For Abby’s sake, they’d better not.” She notched her chin up. “I’m trusting you to care for the sorcerers. Duke’ll make sure everyone gets their juice, but you’re the one I trust with their lives.”

Lena studied her. “You say you’re coming back…but you’re not sure you believe it. What is it you think you’ll find where you’re going?”

“I was hoping y’all could tell me.”

“Vision doesn’t work that way,” Lena said regrettably.

Hettie sighed. If it were that easy, she would’ve found Abby by now. “You know how it is. I don’t know what’ll turn up, so I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Lena embraced her, leaning her forehead against hers. “Vaya con Dios,” she whispered.

Hettie doubted God went anywhere with her. But she accepted what comfort Lena offered.

She ordered one of her men to saddle a fresh horse and stock her with provisions, then went to the Fielding canister for a hit. Six men guarded the stockpile at all times. They’d amassed three partially filled canisters and one working Fielding engine, which Horace had retrofitted with leads out to juice. The portable prototype they’d stolen three years ago was still squirreled away for safekeeping.

The Mechanik in charge of the machine quickly attached her to the engine. “Single shot?”

“Double.” She had no idea what she was going up against.

He turned the dial to the spot marked two, then threw a few levers and hit some buttons. That the design of the engines had evolved over time made Hettie suspect Alastair Fielding had been rescued at Swedenborg and was once again in the Division’s employ. Some days she regretted not shooting him dead when she’d had the chance.

The iridescent glow of magic lit up the leads and clamps attached to her forearms. A cold, shivery trickle suffused her veins, dripping into her heart and mind, opening her senses, filling her until she wanted to soar up into the sky.

She reminded herself it was for everyone’s good—the juice helped her extend Diablo’s abilities for much longer periods. The expansive sensation of the stolen magic sliding into her was simply a pleasant side effect of the transfer. A necessary evil. She wasn’t hooked.

By the time she was ready to go, she found Walker saddled and dressed for a long journey, holding the reins of her horse along with his magicked mare, Lilith.

“No,” she told him preemptively.

“Not your call to make.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You think you can up and leave whenever you like and not even tell me?”

“I could just bubble out of here, y’know.”

“But you didn’t.”

She huffed. Walker knew her too well.

“I take it you’re not going by remote Zoom, then,” he said.

“After No Hope, the Division will be looking for any strong magic signatures, and I don’t want them tracking us here. Besides, the sorcerers need their rest, and I don’t want to juice them any more than is absolutely necessary.”

He eyed her critically. “You juiced.”

“Don’t start.” She took the reins and adjusted the saddle.

“I don’t like what it’s doing to you.” It had taken him years to shake off the hunger for magic, and it continued to be a struggle. He’d lived nearly half his life holding Javier Punta’s power, then given it up. He wouldn’t even go near the canisters if he didn’t have to.

“You worry about yourself. I’m fine.”

They said nothing more as they saddled up. She wasn’t about to admit to him how relieved she was for his company. Still, she wished he wouldn’t treat her as if she needed constant minding. She could take care of herself. She was the only one who could.

The village was surrounded.

From the highest rooftop, using his Vision, Javier could see everything beyond the walls. The neatly arranged army formed a patchwork quilt of regimented soldiers around Villa del Punta. Battle spells bounced against the magic barrier, but every strike made him flinch, like a pellet stinging his skin. He could hold the protection spell almost indefinitely—even in his sleep. Abzavine had seen to it that the bond was permanent. But Duarte’s men had dug in for a long campaign. They’d cut off all access in and out of the area and were bombarding the village day and night.