The Devil's Standoff

chapter 4

It took them nearly half the day before Uncle was convinced they’d lost the border patrol. He’d strewn spells behind him all along the way, and now, depleted, they settled in the shadow of a cliff face at dusk and took stock of what they had.

“Well, all the supplies are gone,” Uncle said grimly. “Walker?”

“No guns, no water. Still have my talismans, though.”

“Same. They were thorough, but not thorough enough.”

“You two used glamor magic to hide yourselves, didn’t you?” Hettie finally had the opportunity to get angry. They’d narrowly escaped capture and had lost one of the only remaining members of her family in the process. She forced the tears back down as she thought of Cymon and focused on her anger. “Why didn’t you hide all of us?”

“Listen, missy, glamor’s not easy, and I can’t cast it on anyone but myself. Not with everything else I’ve got to juggle.”

“Sophie Favreau did it when we traveled with her on the train,” she countered, unable to believe Uncle, with all his skills, was incapable of something.

“Miss Favreau’s a gifted sorceress that way,” Walker said in Jeremiah’s defense. “Sophie can spread an incredibly wide net for someone so young.”

Of all the things to feel, petty jealousy was the least of the ones she wanted to examine. She wanted to smack the bounty hunter in the face, but stalked away instead.

Cross and sore and mourning Cymon’s loss, Hettie busied herself making a place for her and Abby to rest, all while counting her blessings. They’d lost all their food, tinder, and weapons, but at least they still had their saddles. And it wasn’t quite so desolate farther south—the greenery would give the horses something to eat.

“It’s a day’s ride to Punta’s village,” Walker said. “We’ll rest here for a few hours and get moving again.”

“Can we have some water?” Abby asked.

He glanced down at the girl, then exchanged a pensive look with Jeremiah.

“I thought after that dunking you took, you’d be all full up,” Hettie cajoled, wanting to lighten the mood.

“How did you know how to do that water-bringing spell, Abigail?” Uncle asked.

“You showed Walker.” She said it as though he were stupid, as though it were obvious she could have learned such a complicated spell by observation alone with no training and without using any conduits, like the talismans Uncle had scattered around Walker.

“And the other stuff?”

Abby shrugged, her violet eyes going blank as she picked at her dress and drew swirling patterns in the dust with her toe.

Walker and Uncle shared a loaded look that conveyed all their fears and misgivings, though Hettie knew the men would never admit to being afraid of a ten-year-old.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Abby peered up at her worriedly.

Hettie put on a gentle smile, even as she recalled the sickening crunch of bones hitting the Wall. “No. But promise me you won’t use your magic like that again. If you don’t know what you’re doing, it can be dangerous.”

Abby’s chin drooped, but she nodded her understanding. She curled up on the makeshift bedding of soft dry grass and was asleep within seconds, Cymon and the day’s horrors suddenly forgotten. Hettie envied her sister sometimes.

Uncle beckoned to her and Walker, and they walked a little out of the way of Abby’s hearing. “What in blinking blue blazes happened back there?” Walker whispered.

“Abby’s powers are growing, aren’t they?” Hettie had seen her sister do all kinds of things—make a man run till his heart burst, toss men through the air like they were kittens, open a remote Zoom tunnel … She hadn’t told anyone about that last one, mainly because she’d done it while under Zavi’s influence. The Kukulos warlock had fed Abby blood to give her the strength to perform those complicated spells, and Hettie wasn’t willing to share that secret anytime soon.

Uncle scrubbed his jaw. “Hard to say. Growing, awakening … I don’t know much about this indigo power or how it works. She packs a punch, though.”

“We should discourage her from trying any more spells she’s never done before.” Walker pursed his lips as his narrowed eyes slid to where Abby slept. “One misspoken incantation and she could unleash chaos.”

“I’m not sure she used any incantations,” Hettie said. “Not when she opened that watering hole.”

They fell silent.

“You shot a man.” Walker searched her face, gaze settling over her like a heavy hand. “Are you…?”

“None the worse for wear,” she said, but couldn’t help glancing at her hands. Part of her expected to look down one day and find them completely shriveled. She’d only added seven years to her seventeen, though. Twenty-four didn’t look much different from seventeen, did it? “Do you think the Pinks’ll know where we are?”

“They’ll know because south is the only place we could’ve gone to escape them. The Wall keeps them from opening the remote Zoom beyond the border, though. They’ll have to send agents through one of the gates. We’ll be at Villa del Punta before they catch up.”

“What did that captain mean about you?” she asked Walker. “He called you a traitor and a … messenger of the devil? He said you were leading us into a trap.”

Walker remained impassive. “Superstition and rumors only. I have something of a reputation, and the village … Well, you’ll see for yourself when you get there.”

Hettie stood firm. She wasn’t about to believe Captain Sanchez’s word over Walker’s, but there was a lot about the bounty hunter they didn’t know, and this was the first time any clue about his origins had come up. “I think I’d like to know now. Javier Punta is Diablo’s maker, right?”

“I can vouch for that,” Uncle chimed in, but he gave Walker a narrowed look. “I have a feeling our friend El Cobra hasn’t told us everything, though.”

Hettie was certain he hadn’t, but she hadn’t had cause to think too hard about it. Uncle had trusted him this far, and his judgment had been … well, if not entirely sound, mostly logical. But the more she thought about it, the more the film of the bubble thinned, its rainbow gloss dripping away, the illusion on the brink of bursting.

Walker stood straighter, as if he could sense things falling apart and could prop up his facade with his broad shoulders. Jeremiah scratched his nose. “Whaddya say, Woodroffe? Should I geis it out of you? Test your borrowed magic against the real thing?”

“I’m not hiding anything, old man,” he snapped. “But it’s no one’s business who or what I am. You want to get rid of Diablo, and the man who tasked me to bring it back to him can do that.”

“Who is Javier Punta to you, anyhow, Woodroffe? We’ve earned the right to know, don’t you think? You’re leading us across hell’s half acre, after all. He lent you enough power to level a small town, and all you do is knock a few signposts over. If you were any kind of entrepreneur, you’d have taken the juice and set up shop. That kind of power could get you far in life.” Uncle sucked a thin trail of air between his teeth. “Seems to me if you respect us, you’d tell us who you really are.”

Walker’s blue eyes hardened. He looked away, frowning. “Javier Punta is my stepfather.”

Hettie blinked. That explained why the sorcerer had entrusted the bounty hunter with his powers but not why he’d hidden this information. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Would you have believed me?”

She bit her lip. She wasn’t sure she believed it now, but that had more to do with her suspicious nature than the bounty hunter’s trustworthiness. Thinking about it in hindsight, if Walker had told her his connection to the sorcerer when they’d first met, she wouldn’t have believed a sugared word out of his mouth.

“Look, it’s not important. What is important is getting to the village. Once we’re there, we’ll be safe.” He fixed Uncle with a glare. “If you don’t trust me, you can walk away from this scot-free. I won’t stop you.”

“Except Hettie can’t, seeing as you two are conveniently bound by a contract spell.” He notched his chin up. “I’ll be sticking around, thank you very much.”

At the moment she couldn’t help but feel the sting of betrayal. She’d been naïve when she’d struck that bargain with Walker, but at the time she’d felt he’d had only the best of intentions.

And you’ve already been to hell and back along that road, she reminded herself wryly.

That Walker felt he had to keep lying to them hurt. Then again, Hettie was hanging on to her own secrets.

The rest of the ride was made in terse, watchful silence, the sense of urgency and journey’s end driving them on despite their fatigue. Dust constantly blew into their eyes, and the relentless sun scorched every last inch of exposed skin. They stopped at noon when the heat was at its worst, finding pitiful shade by a cliff face.

It was late in the afternoon when Villa del Punta finally came within view. They crested a rocky hill and found the other side cut into steppes, with a narrow, sloping road zigzagging down its steep face. Below, the low white adobe houses of the village shone like sugar cubes nestled in the sand, arranged in a roughly radial pattern around a big fountain. North of the fountain a building three stories high with a bell tower stood sentinel over the town. The roofs of the larger buildings were shingled with bloodred terra cotta tiles. The smaller buildings had thatch roofs. A high wall surrounded the village. Two gates allowed for access, one pointed west, the other southeast.

The surroundings were not quite as desolate as the desert they’d just exited, but Hettie could see no river or great source of water capable of feeding a village this size. A ring of low hills covered in scrubby vegetation kept the area contained, but the land closer to the village sported thick, tough bushes and tall cacti—a wreath of green crowding as close to the oasis as possible.

“Welcome to Villa del Punta.” Relief and uncertainty weighed heavily in Walker’s words.

Lilith tugged on her reins and started down the long road. The other horses followed readily, smelling water. Hettie looked for Cymon and with a pang remembered they’d left their beloved mutt behind.

The path was barely wide enough for a narrow cart. It was an excellent first line of defense, since traveling the winding road down the hill face would stall potential invaders and ensure they’d be seen. The glint of something in the village told Hettie they’d been spotted: what their welcome would be like, she wasn’t certain.

In due course, they reached the bottom of the hill. The air down on the plateau was much more temperate—moist, even—and the sun didn’t seem quite as unforgiving. It was almost pleasant.

“Wait.” Walker held up a hand. “Everyone dismount. I don’t want us to get shot before we’ve even said hello.”

Jeremiah squinted up at the wall and the massive gate. “You got a front door key, Woodroffe?”

“I think it’s best if we wait to be received. I’m surprised they didn’t send a posse to meet us.” The doubt behind his words had Hettie wondering: How long had Walker been away?

She stared at the high adobe wall, studying the thick, weathered planks of the gate. They could hear nothing beyond the clucking of some chickens and the wind creaking through the thatched roofs. Uncle shifted restlessly, and the horses, impatient for water and food, whinnied.

“Maybe we should knock,” Hettie said, and reached out to rap her knuckles against the gate.

“No, wai—”

A wall of wind slammed into Hettie and threw her back. She landed bottom-first in the dirt with an “Oof!”

“The village has a barrier spell over it, i***t,” Uncle muttered, helping her to her feet. Pins and needles rode all over her arms and legs, and her limbs felt like flaccid sausages. “That shield was put in place by Javier Punta himself, and there’s nothing that can take it down. It’ll last as long as he does.”

“Here.” Walker took Hettie’s hand and murmured a liquid flow of syllables. As he completed his incantation, she felt something slip over her, as though she’d stepped through a curtain of water and had been cleansed head to toe. “You have access through the barrier now. You can come and go as you please. If they ever open the gate.”

“We do not open for gringos,” a raspy voice called from the other side of the wall. “No one will help you here. Move on.”

The bounty hunter stood. “It’s Walker Woodroffe,” he shouted. “I’ve brought Diablo back to my father, as promised.”

A pause. “We don’t know any Walker Woodroffe.”

Walker’s expression darkened. “Chico, I know it’s you. Stick your tiny head over the wall and have a look, will you?”

“You could be using glamor. I stick my head out and you could shoot me.”

“I’m not armed, and your magic would’ve told you that. Now let us in. The girls and horses need water.”

Silence. A bleak anger boiled into Walker’s ice-blue eyes.

“Not exactly the hero’s welcome you were expecting, huh?” Uncle remarked a touch snidely.

“Even with my stepfather’s powers to let us through the barrier, the gate’s still physically barred from the inside, and the door is enchanted. It’ll hold up to any number of magical assaults. Short of a battering ram and the hottest fires of hell, even I can’t bring this thing down.”

Jeremiah hitched his thumbs in his waistband and shifted his stance. “Well, we’re not going to make friends standing on the welcome mat. What are we supposed to do to earn their trust if they won’t even talk to you?”

A cat walked up to the door and meowed loudly. It pushed its head against the gate, then sat, slipping a paw beneath the gap, begging to be let in. Abby stared it, then at the gate. She ran a hand across the wood planks. “It’s locked.”

“We know, Abby.”

“But it’s daytime.” She sounded genuinely confused. “Gates are supposed to be open in the day.”

“They’re not letting us in.”

“But she needs to get in.” She pointed at the orange and black cat, who looked back at her and meowed. Abby stuck her lip out and swiped her hand upward along the wood grain.

The sound of a heavy bar being lifted and dropped boomed through the village. Loud clicks followed as bolts slid from their places. The doors swung open to reveal an empty street. The cat hurried in and disappeared around the corner.

Abby beamed. “There.”

A crack of gunfire split the silence as a bullet kicked up a plume of dust inches from her feet.