The Devil's Standoff

chapter 10-2

She thought about the Pinkerton agent Uncle had killed in Newhaven. He’d never told her how he’d done it, but she was certain his head hadn’t exploded by any mundane means. “What’s ‘harm,’ anyhow? I mean, I’ve seen people use spells to help them hunt game and catch horses. I’ve heard folks have used magic potions to poison people, or spells and talismans to make them do things they don’t want to. How are you supposed to deal with that?”

Raúl’s smile was sad. “As I say, the Academy makes its students recite an oath. It is not binding, from my understanding. I believe the Division has some rules and means of enforcement, but I do not know how they manage to watch everyone. Certainly not now with this magic drought.

“Here, we rely on magic as an aid to make our lives better. Growing food, cooking, building and making things that last … We have an abundance of magic, but we only use it to keep us comfortable and safe.”

“You don’t think magicking food to taste better is a waste? Seems like cheating to me.”

“Don’t let Rosa hear you say that,” he said seriously. “And no, it is not a waste. Rosa’s mundane cooking is fine, but her skill with magic to enhance flavors…” He made a vague gesture and sighed dreamily. “Her gift is incomparable. It would be a waste not to use it.”

“Must be nice to be so flush with magic.”

“I do not take the well for granted,” Raúl conceded. “I realize that as an outsider and a mundane, you are not used to seeing this much magic in use.”

“Pa was always pretty frugal about using it. We had the usual spells around the ranch—protection spells to keep the herds safe, that kind of thing. He said there was little we needed magic for that hard work and imagination couldn’t get done.”

“Some things are much easier with magic, though. Practical or otherwise, magic is a force that has touched every aspect of our lives. We in the village have always known that, and consider ourselves blessed.”

“So … no one’s ever broken these rules of yours? No jealous lovers throwing curses at each other? No gratuitous displays of power?”

He eyed her steadily. “The people here listen to me and my father. Those who don’t…” He left the sentence hanging. Hettie chewed the inside of her cheek and decided her imagination was sufficient to fill in the blanks.

After lunch, Hettie transcribed Raúl’s backlogged survey notes while Raúl did more tests with Abby. She developed a crick in her neck, and her eyes grew tired of squinting at the tiny lettering on the map. It was dull, tedious work. She didn’t want to be ungrateful, but she was restless and on edge. Knowing that Uncle was out there with the chupacabra, the Pinkertons, the Division, and everyone else circling did little to soothe her nerves.

The days fell into a pattern: breakfast, lessons with the gifted, tests with Abby, lunch, chores, and reading. In an effort to better understand the forces within Abby, Hettie had borrowed one of Raúl’s books on magic—one of the few in English he owned. It was all over her head, but she slogged through it and sometimes asked Raúl for clarification or explanation. He did enjoy lecturing her.

Thankfully Abby didn’t have another nightmare. Even so, the villagers continued to avoid them. Walker was frequently on patrol or volunteering to help a villager fix a roof or mend a fence, as if he were trying to make up for the time he had been away. He took his meals at the great house, but every time he inquired about Javier, Raúl shut him down. The tension between the brothers made everyone lose their appetites. Soon Hettie only saw the bounty hunter in passing, when he would take a moment out of his day to see if she or Abby needed anything before Raúl sent him off on another errand. It was almost as if the sorcerer was trying to keep her and Abby isolated.

One day Raúl left the girls in the workshop on their own. When Hettie returned from using the facilities, Abby was gone.

Oh, no. Hettie hurried through the great house, calling her sister’s name. Fear balled in her stomach as she ran outside and scanned the courtyard. At least she wasn’t lying in the fountain surrounded by snakes.

A teenage serving girl swept the veranda. Hettie asked, “Have you seen Abby?”

She stared at her blankly.

“My sister? Um … señorita?” She indicated how tall Abby was, then remembered the word she’d often heard Raúl and Walker use in reference to the sisters. “Hermana?”

The girl pointed toward the stables.

In his paddock within the village walls, Blackie swung his head toward her, neighing and pawing at the ground for attention. Abby sat atop the split rail fence in the next paddock over. She turned and waved.

“Blackie wanted to see you,” she said. “I heard him calling.”

“What have I told you, Abby? You’re not to wander out of my sight, not even in the village.” Her anger came in waves, mostly aimed at her own carelessness, but the backlash of her self-recriminations caught Abby, and her sister flinched. Hettie tried to modulate her voice. “I was worried sick.”

“Nothing happened.” Abby’s tone bordered on belligerent, surprising Hettie. Abby wasn’t one to talk back.

Blackie whinnied. He tossed his head and marched to the far side of the fence, indicating the three mares next door.

“He wants your help,” Abby explained.

Hettie studied the three chestnut ponies. The one with the white blaze and white-blond mane danced restlessly, a pronounced stagger to her walk. She gave a fitful whinny and then stopped, stooping low to the ground and collapsing to her knees.

Hettie had seen this before with some of the mustangs she’d broken for Pa. She jumped the fence. Carefully she approached, not wanting to startle the other horses. “It’s okay, girl,” she cooed as she knelt by the horse’s head. The horse remained still. She brushed her palm over her muzzle and scratched her behind the ear. The horse kicked, startling Hettie, but she laid her palm across her neck and the horse stilled with a pained sigh.

“Que pasa? What have you done?” A man with a red kerchief tied around his neck ran toward her, his face mottled with anger.

“She’s got colic,” Hettie said. “She needs help right now. Do you have a bezoar?”

The man looked stricken, glancing between her and the horse as if unsure he’d understood.

“If we don’t help her right now, her insides will be so twisted up we’ll have to put her down. Do you have a magicked bezoar?” she repeated sharply.

“Sí, sí, I will get it.” He shouted instructions at the gathering stable hands. Hettie stayed with the horse, whispering lowly, rubbing soothing circles across her broad neck. The horse rested her head in Hettie’s lap, lying still even though she was probably in excruciating pain.

Poor thing. Blackie and Abby watched from the other side of the fence. “You knew she was sick, huh?”

Blackie lowered his head, and Hettie smiled. “Extra oats for you.”

“Do I get extra oats?” Abby asked from her perch, and Hettie laughed.

The two other mares in the corral held vigil close by, shoulder to shoulder like sentinels. Worry shone bright in their huge eyes. “She’ll be all right,” she told them, full of confidence. “The bezoar should ease the pain, and once it passes, she’ll be fine.”

The man in the kerchief returned with a brown lump wrapped in velvet. Bezoars were medical talismans used to pull poison and impurities from the body, and were sometimes charmed to quickly work their way through a digestive tract to clear any blockages. Small ones were sometimes used on people, but Hettie had only seen them used with large animals. Her father had made a few in his time for his horses.

The man approached cautiously, one eye on the two mares. One of them stomped the ground hard and lowered her head, and he stopped.

“Easy there,” Hettie admonished the horse. “He doesn’t mean to hurt her. Maybe you should give me that.” She took the bezoar from the man. To the sick mare, she said, “I need you to swallow this, okay?”

“She will not take anything unless you force it down,” the man said.

“Well, no wonder she’s got colic, then. You can’t just force them to eat.”

“These three are stubborn. We call them Las Furias. They’ve been unbreakable.”

Hettie froze. “You telling me these are unbroken mares?” She glanced over her shoulder, keenly aware now how dangerous a situation she was in. Wild horses were unpredictable creatures.

One of Las Furias took a few menacing steps toward the man, nostrils flaring. He backed away.

“I’ll take care of this,” she told him. “Just give us some room. I don’t need this girl fighting me.”

“Señorita, I cannot—”

“You will, or you’ll have a dead horse on your hands.” She focused back on the horse, who watched her, deep brown eyes pleading. “It’s all right. Just swallow this down, and I promise you’ll feel much better.” She put it under the horse’s lips. It was covered in a slick ichor that was supposed to taste good to horses, but the mare only spat it back out.

“Aww, c’mon, girl. It can’t be that bad.” She met her gaze squarely. “Do it for me. Or at least, do it for those two. They’re worried about you, can’t you see?”

She put the bezoar to the mare’s mouth. This time she lipped it up and clamped her teeth around it. Hettie pushed it the rest of the way in and cinched her arms around the animal’s muzzle so she wouldn’t spit it back out. The horse thrashed, wide-eyed. The sisters stomped their hooves in protest.

Gradually the mare settled. She’d swallowed it down, so Hettie was certain it wasn’t a case of choke, plus there’d been no lumps in her neck. All she could do for now was sit and wait and comfort the animal.

It was only a few minutes before the horse gave a pained whinny. The bezoar must have found the blockage. The mare rolled to her feet, lifted her tail, and—

Hettie jumped out of the way as the horse unburdened herself. It seemed like a long time before she was finally done.

Abby laughed. “All better!” she declared, hopping off the fence.

Hettie grimaced as the horse staggered away. A quick look at the leavings indicated no permanent damage, thank goodness. She spotted the bezoar and gingerly fished it out of the steaming pile.

“You saved her.” The man took off his straw hat, wonder on his lined face. She hopped the fence and handed him the bezoar.

“You’ll want to look into how she’s being fed. Spread her food out more, and make sure she’s not bolting it down. Give her more water, too.”

He made a noise in disgust. “I will have to whip the boys. They are too scared of Las Furias to do their job correctly. They don’t seem to mind you, though.” He assessed her with hazel eyes flecked with blue, his posture shifting as he nodded. “You are very knowledgeable of horses?”

“Pa and I used to break wild mustangs for market.”

He nodded. “He taught you well. Only a demon charmer could get Alecto to lie still the way you did.”

Her palm tingled; for some reason, she suddenly pictured Diablo laughing at her.

“My name is Marco. I am the stable master.”

“Hettie Alabama,” she introduced herself.

“You have a way with Las Furias—perhaps you could break these horses where we could not. We have tried for weeks, but they will not even allow themselves to be separated.”

“Could be they won’t be broken. Might be better off if you let them go.”

“Raúl has ordered us to keep them. They are the last of a herd who used to graze in the area. The herd has since moved on. We think they might be naturally magicked.”

That was a rare find. Naturally magicked wild horses were more spirited and intelligent and supposedly healthier from living in places where magic was strong. Herds didn’t often stay in one place long enough for that magic to take hold, though. She could understand why Raúl would want to keep the mares.

“I’m surprised you’re asking, considering you turned me and my sister down for a job before.” It was petty, but she had a hard time forgiving folks their prejudices. She hated hypocrisy.

“A mistake, clearly. I was not keen to have El Diablo’s servant among my hands.”

“Me, a servant? It’s the other way around.”

“Perhaps.” He grimaced. “If you will accept my apology, I would welcome you now.”

It was on the tip of Hettie’s tongue to throw the offer back in his face, but this was the first time someone from the village other than Walker or Raúl had reached out. And she’d much rather work in the stables taming three excellent mares than in Raúl’s stuffy workshop transcribing numbers. There was one important consideration, though. “What about my sister? I can’t leave her alone. She tends to wander.”

Marco frowned, glancing at Abby, who studied a fencepost intently. “I am not sure you want her around the stables, then. She could be hurt if she goes near the wrong animals.”

Not to mention who else she might hurt if she lost control of her powers. Marco seemed aware of this without actually mentioning it. He eyed her sister as if she were a cougar lying in the sun—as harmless now as any barn cat.

“I’ll think about it.” In her heart, though, she knew she’d have to say no. She couldn’t leave Abby alone. Not even with Raúl, despite his best intentions. His interest in her abilities made Hettie uncomfortable.

She simply could not trust Abby’s care to anyone else.