The Devil's Standoff

chapter 13

No one seemed to have noticed Diablo going off. Hettie knew that wouldn’t last, though. “Raúl?”

“I lost contact. What’s happening?”

“I have Beatrice Woodroffe, but she was separated from the others. They’re somewhere else in the camp. I need a way to figure out where.” She dragged Beatrice into hiding as a pair of soldiers marched past. Hettie whispered, “We were being kept in a magicked tent. Can you tell from where you are which ones are spelled?”

“They’re all spelled to one degree or another.”

“Well, then, I need to know which ones have extra magic on them. Ones with spells to keep people in.”

He paused. “Yes, I can tell which are which. But I can’t see you to guide you to them.”

She looked toward the hills. Any kind of signal would attract way too much attention.

Raúl said, “I have an idea. I could project what I see to you.”

She hesitated. “You mean, let you into my head magically?”

“Yes. It would be temporary, and it will drain some of my power, but I can do it.”

“How?” It sounded like a complicated spell, and she assumed some kind of talisman would be needed, or at least physical contact.

“I have one of your hairs. I found it on your serape and took it just in case.”

Everything inside Hettie recoiled. “You just … took it?”

“I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was … insurance. And it was a good thing I did, too.”

Hettie would have words with the sorcerer later about respecting her personal bits and pieces, but right now she had to focus on the task at hand. The alternative would be creeping around in the dark looking in every tent until they stumbled on the villagers or until Walker or those soldiers’ bodies were discovered. “Do it.”

“Close your eyes and open your mind.”

She’d been through something like this before with Patrice Favreau. She closed her eyes and felt something brush her scarred temple. Her head snapped back, and a hot, bright flash seared the backs of her eyes, as if her brain were a match head that’d been struck.

The layout of the camp became like a memory of a dream—familiar but indistinct. In her mind’s eye she could see the tents glowing faintly with spells to keep out wind and rain. Magicked tents with special spells on them glowed much brighter. And judging by the false memory, the prisoner tents were interspersed throughout the camp.

Hettie headed for the closest one. No one stood guard. She pulled the flap back. Six roughly dressed men and women looked up as Beatrice held her finger to her lips, then quickly explained in Spanish who Hettie was.

“How do we get them out?” Beatrice asked. “We only have the two amulets, and I doubt we can get more of them without drawing attention.”

“I’ll work on that. How many more people are we missing?”

“Four more.”

One of the men spoke up and said something that made Beatrice blanch.

“What is it?”

“Raúl’s cousin, Julia, was taken to the officers’ tent. She is young and … exceptionally beautiful.”

Hettie swore. “Okay. We need to find the others first. Everyone needs to get ready to run straight to the easternmost exit. The others will be waiting.” Beatrice related her instructions, then followed Hettie out of the tent.

“Raúl, we need to break the spells on the tents holding the prisoners. Can you do that?”

He hesitated. “Perhaps.”

“Yes or no, Raúl?”

“Walker would be better suited to this job. If I do this, I will be spent for the rest of the night, and we will have no protection on the journey home.”

“Well, until you get in contact with him, it’ll be on you to break those spells.” She headed for the next magicked tent, Beatrice on her heels.

“Maybe you should stay here, Mrs. Woodroffe,” she cautioned.

“If you think I’m going to leave my son in danger, you’ve got another think coming.”

Like mother, like son. Hettie didn’t argue. They scuttled to the next tent but found only boxes of supplies. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” Beatrice suggested.

It would double their chances of being discovered, but their odds of escaping were decreasing with every minute that passed. Hettie searched through her mental map. “The nearest magicked tent is in the next row, third from the north end. I’ll go two aisles over, tenth from the south end. We’ll meet at the end of the aisle. If anything happens to you, raise hell.”

She nodded and slipped into the shadows.

“You let an old woman put you all in danger.” Raúl’s disapproval and frustration telegraphed to her clear as light down a long tunnel.

“Well, you can yell at her when we’re dangling from the gallows. Now stop distracting me.”

Over in the next aisle, a soldier emerged from a tent and looked in her direction. She turned a sharp corner and forced herself to walk away at a leisurely pace, as if she belonged there and was simply on her way to another part of the camp.

He said something out loud, but she kept walking. His voice grew louder. Hettie forced herself not to run. Her sweaty grip flexed around Diablo.

Boot steps approached her from behind. She didn’t have a choice. Just as she turned to silence him forever, a shadow darted out. He arched back as a hand covered his mouth and a gash opened up in his neck. Blood gushed from the wound. The soldier struggled only briefly, then fell to his knees.

Hettie gaped as Beatrice wiped her knife across the man’s sleeve. Something between awe and fear tingled across Hettie’s skin. “There was nothing in that tent.” The healer’s voice quavered, and she nodded at the body. “We should hide him.”

They propped the soldier up against a barrel in the shadows, making it appear as if he’d simply fallen asleep there.

The remaining villagers were in the next tent. Hettie told them the plan and turned to Beatrice. “You stay with them. I’ll find Julia.” She couldn’t leave the young woman behind.

“But … you don’t know what she looks like.”

“Raúl will tell me. Wait for my signal.” She headed for the officers’ tents.

Raúl’s mental picture of his cousin came as clearly to Hettie as if she’d known the girl all her life. Smiling rosebud lips and an hourglass figure, long, dark hair, and innocent, doelike eyes—Hettie wasn’t surprised the officers had singled her out.

The command tent echoed with music and rough laughter. A lot of spirits were being passed around. If Walker was in there, he hadn’t been discovered yet. A handful of soldiers remained on duty outside.

Short of slitting the tent open from the side, there was no way in. “Raúl, I’m going to have to accelerate a part of our plan to distract the guards. Have you made contact with Walker yet?”

“No. Which part of the plan—”

She was already heading away from the command tent. “Keep your eyes peeled. I need to know where Walker is the moment you spot him.”

The pigs in the pen were mostly asleep. The area wasn’t guarded, which was a relief.

Carefully, she unlatched the gate. There were maybe fifty pigs in all, sleeping happily in their own filth.

Drawing Diablo, she pointed it at the ground and focused. Scare the pigs. Get them running.

She pulled the trigger.

The gun went off like a crack of thunder, the green ball of light crashing into the ground with the force of an avalanche. The swine leaped up, funneling out of the pen through the open gate like a great wave crashing over and through a break in a shoal. They stampeded through the camp, mindless with fear.

Shouts went up as one, then two, then five tents collapsed in the pigs’ run for freedom. When Hettie reached the command tent, the guards had abandoned their posts to chase down the pigs. Apparently saving their supply of pork was more important than babysitting their drunken commanding officers.

Hettie breathed deep. Diablo at the ready, she ducked into the tent.

Four men lounged in chairs ranged roughly in a circle, drinks and cigars in hand. A very pretty young woman perched on one man’s lap, looking terrified as he stroked her bare arm. Hettie instantly recognized Julia.

Walker was nowhere in sight.

Someone shouted. Instinctively she ducked, dropping into her syrup world. She moved carefully around the men, their faces frozen in surprise and confused dismay.

She wasn’t sure how much she could do in her suspended bubble. Once the warlock Zavi had stretched that bubble so she’d walked all the way through the underground caverns at the old Sonora Zoom station. She hadn’t done anything like that since. Staying suspended in the cocoon of time was like flying in a dream: it didn’t work if she tried too hard, and it seemed to require the right balance of concentration and instinct. It made her scalp buzz, and her senses became more heightened.

Testing her limits, she grabbed a clear bottle full of foul-smelling tequila. It lifted as it normally would, but when she poured some out the liquid left the bottle and stayed suspended, droplets tumbling slowly through the air. She took the bottle to the far wall of the tent and poured the contents onto the canvas, then grabbed a lantern and set the flame to fabric. The flame lapped at the trickle of alcohol and expanded into a blue-orange tongue.

Hettie breathed hard. The air wavered, its gold hue paling. She was losing her grip on the time bubble. She sprinted at Julia and grabbed her around the waist.

The moment she touched her, the time bubble collapsed. Julia lurched forward, and Hettie pushed her on, screaming, “Run, run!”

A fireball erupted across the back of the tent as the flaming tequila hit the canvas. The men shouted in alarm. Hettie dragged Julia behind her.

“Who are you?” she cried as they burst out of the tent.

“I’m here with Raúl.” All around them, soldiers chased pigs. More than half of the army was awake now, half dressed and stumbling through the dark, alternately dodging or corralling the panicked swine. She pushed Julia ahead as the officers shouted.

Thick smoke billowed from the command tent. A bell rang furiously. The pigs were forgotten as soldiers poured out of their tents to the panicked shouts of “Fuego!”

There’s your signal, Raúl. Hettie pointed. “Run toward that gap. Raúl and the other villagers are waiting for you there.”

Julia hesitated only briefly, then fled.

Gunfire erupted behind her, and a bullet whizzed past Hettie’s ear. She dove behind a pile of crates. Three men with rifles advanced toward her. Soon there’d be more, and she’d be surrounded.

Let them come, Diablo challenged. Its weight doubled with hungry anticipation. The Devil’s Revolver became an impossible burden when it was denied its destructive purpose.

“Raúl, where’s Walker?” she shouted.

“I’m still trying to find him.”

Hettie scrambled into position. She glanced at Diablo and scowled. Don’t you kill anyone else tonight. Just stop them from shooting me.

She took a breath and stood from her cover, simultaneously dropping into her time bubble.

The soldiers stood plainly in the open, shooting without cover—a little overconfident, she thought in disgust. She took aim at the trunk of a tree to their left and focused, picturing exactly how she wanted it to fall.

She pulled the trigger. Hell-green power scythed through the air, exploding against the base of the trunk and gouging a piece of the ground out. Hettie’s time bubble popped, and she ducked back down.

She heard a snap, a loud creak, then a sound like ripping. Shouts, and then a thunderous boom couched in a cloud of crackling. The gunfire stopped.

She peeked out. The tree had toppled so that the ripped-up roots and spindly branches shielded her from any more direct fire.

Good job. Diablo responded with something like grudging satisfaction.

She ran. Above them, the posse from the village fired into the camp to draw the army’s attention away from her.

“I see Walker,” Raúl said in her ear. “He is north of you. He has his gun drawn and is heading east.”

“Have you broken the spell on the tents?”

“I will. But once I do, my connection with you will be severed.”

“Do it. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

She ran east, skirting half-dressed soldiers fumbling for their weapons as they searched for their attackers. Hettie sensed more than heard the spell Raúl cast—it was like a giant foot stomping out a fire in the camp, only when it was lifted, the enchantments on the prisoners’ tents had been shattered. The captives streamed out, rushing for the horses to make their escape as planned.

A wave of flame and power lifted the hair from her neck and heated her skin. Hettie knew Walker’s fire spell well. She turned toward the source, but the whisper of a bullet grazing her cheek had her throwing herself into a tent to escape a barrage of gunfire.

The shooting ceased abruptly. She looked up: the word explosivos stenciled on one of many wood crates fairly shouted down at her.

Smart of the soldiers not to blow them all to high heaven, but a tent full of explosives was not going to stop them from rushing her. She scooped up several sticks of dynamite from one open crate and dropped them into her pockets. Then she slit the tent open on the other side with her boot knife and dove through the opening, rolling into the next aisle—and right into a group of soldiers. They shouted and raised their rifles.

Hettie lobbed a stick of dynamite toward them and dropped into her time bubble. With the men taking aim in slow motion, she scrabbled to her feet and ran, dodging bullets that swam through the syrup of time like lead-colored fish. Ten feet away, she targeted the still-hovering stick of dynamite and pulled the trigger.

When the bubble popped, heat bloomed on her back, and the concussive force of the explosion propelled her forward, nearly lifting her off her feet. Screams and the smell of singed flesh and smoke filled the air. Hettie kept running.

Around the next corner, a broad black shadow bounded into the open, sidearm in one hand, gloved fist glowing with power. Walker ran as though he were chasing the devil.

“Walker!” She caught up with him. “The villagers are all out. We need to get to the rendezvous.”

“No can do,” he said between gritted teeth. “The visiting general is El Toro Cabello.”

As if that explained anything? Hettie grabbed his elbow and dragged him back. “Raúl and the others are waiting.”

“You don’t understand. El Toro killed Raúl’s mother and more than a dozen of the villagers.” His eyes burned bright. “This might be my only chance to get that despot.”

Hettie scowled. She could not afford to let Walker go on some vengeance-driven rampage and endanger all their lives. “I don’t care if it’s Judas himself. Our job here is done. So you come with me now or I follow you.”

He glared. She glared right back.

A group of soldiers appeared from around one corner, pistols in hand. Hettie threw herself against Walker. “Get down!”

They hit the dirt as Diablo roared into her fist, and Hettie barely had the sense to tell it not to kill anyone before her finger twitched over the trigger. A volley of green fire hurtled through the air and crashed to the ground like cannonballs, splashing great gouts of eerie green flame in front of their assailants.

Walker rolled over top of her, speaking an incantation. His palms glowed bright white, dazzling Hettie’s vision.

“Grab on to me!” Hettie wrapped her arms around his waist, face buried against his chest. He clapped his hands together.

Every bone in her body juddered hard. Her hearing deadened as a wave of pure force pounded through their surroundings within a fifty-yard radius, flattening the tents, splintering crates and boxes, and putting out Diablo’s green fire as effectively as a bucket of sand. The nearest soldiers lay splayed on the ground, silent, blood pouring from their ears.

Walker rolled off, panting hard. Hettie had to prop him up. She shook her head, trying to pop her ears. “Come on.” She pulled him to his feet.

They hobbled past dazed soldiers staring around the scene of magical destruction. Hettie whistled, and Blackie trotted into view, shaking his head as if he, too, were trying to regain his hearing. Hettie mounted in front of Walker, and he clung tight to her as they galloped away, leaving the army garrison in ruins.

Hettie and Walker were the last to arrive at the rendezvous point, a ring of hills a few miles from the garrison camp. The villagers were tending to their wounded by the light of a few dingy lanterns, looking tired and hunted. Two men had been shot, one in the leg, the other in the gut. Beatrice bent over the gut-shot man, furiously stanching the spurting wound.

“You made it.” Raúl’s statement was more surprised than relieved. His glazed eyes looked sunken, and he stood slightly bent, radiating exhaustion.

Walker slid off Blackie. “How did we do?”

He gestured tiredly. “We have injured. But we rescued all the villagers, and we have enough horses to get them back to Villa del Punta.”

“El Toro was the visiting general at the garrison.” Walker’s voice hardened. “I tried to go after him…” He trailed off.

Raúl clenched his fists and looked away. “He must be the one summoning the chupacabra. He is the only one strong enough.” He shook his head. “But that is not important right now. We must get our people home.”

“We can’t leave yet,” Beatrice said over her shoulder. “If we move Juan now he’ll die.”

Raúl’s features tightened. “The army will be looking for us. We must go.” He called out clipped orders. The villagers wavered, looking to Javier Punta’s wife for instructions.

She didn’t say anything at first. Then, seeming to sense the villagers’ hesitation, she said, “Go. I will be right behind you.”

As Raúl and the villagers mounted up, Hettie knelt by the healer. Juan, the young scout, lay pale-faced and trembling. Blood was smeared across Beatrice’s cheek as she pressed a fresh wad of cloth to the wound. Blood blossomed over his tunic. “How bad is it?”

She barely looked up. “The bullet is still inside him, but I can’t take it out in the dark like this. If we don’t stop the bleeding, he’ll die.”

“Can’t you do anything for him?”

“My craft is in herbs, and I don’t have anything that can help him. Not even needle and thread.”

Hettie bit her lip. Two-faced liar though he was, Ling had been an exceptional healer—his ether magic had allowed him to heal any injury with a touch. She’d taken his skills for granted. Walker might have been able to help, but he looked like he was barely able to stand. Raúl was in no better shape. Being away from the magical node at Villa del Punta must decrease his powers and stamina significantly.

Beatrice made a frustrated sound. “If I could just close the wound till we get back to the village…”

“What about fire? My pa once cauterized the wound on a cow who cut herself on barb wire. It kept her alive long enough for the vet to come stitch her up.”

“We don’t have time to build a fire hot enough. And if the army is looking for us, they’ll spot a fire for miles.”

No magic, no fire.

Use the fire to heal. Abby’s parting words suddenly echoed through her memory.

Hettie set her teeth and drew Diablo. Juan moaned at the sight of the mage gun.

Beatrice moved to shield her patient. “What are you—?”

“I’ll close the wound up.” Hettie knelt next to Juan.

“With … that?” Her eyes rounded.

“He’s not going to die.” She transmitted her conviction into Diablo. The gun resisted—it went against its nature to heal. Hettie switched the gun from her right hand to her left and directed it again. Save this man’s life. Use your fire. I know you can.

“If you fire Diablo, everyone will know where we are, including the chupacabra,” Walker warned.

“You have a better idea?” She lowered the muzzle to the wound.

Juan struggled, saying something rapidly—a prayer, maybe. Beatrice gripped his hand, and Walker knelt to hold the young man down by the shoulders.

Hettie closed her eyes as Diablo resisted, its growing weight dragging her down. It would be easier to put the young man out of his misery right now. It would be a clean, painless death. There was no guarantee they could save him even if they got him back to the village: he could still die a slow, agonizing death from infection.

He will live, she told the mage gun firmly, and pulled the trigger.

Her time bubble engulfed her, giving her the opportunity to guide the oozing green flame precisely along the edges of the wound. The infernal fire dripped like ichor, melting the skin and fusing the jagged flesh together.

Juan let forth a blood-curdling scream, spine arching. Walker and Beatrice half lay on him to pin him down. Hettie didn’t even realize she’d left the time bubble when the young man finally stopped screaming and lay still.

Beatrice carefully wiped the blood from the wound. The smell of hot ashes and seared flesh filled Hettie’s nostrils.

The healer pressed her fingers to his pulse point. “He’s still alive. Just passed out. You did it.”

Hettie sat back, relief swamping her as two men lifted Juan into a cart they’d liberated from the camp. Thank you, she thought at the mage gun. It didn’t reply. Walker watched her steadily, lips pursed.

Beatrice stood slowly. “Walker.”

The bounty hunter softened and embraced her, gathering the much smaller woman into his arms yet somehow still managing to bury his face against her neck like a little boy.

She held him at arm’s length, searching his face. “You’ve grown so much.” Her bloodied hands left stains over Walker’s haggard features. Tears stood in her eyes, mirrored by those in her son’s. “Everyone thought you were dead.”

Hettie felt as though she were intruding on a very private moment. But as she tried to step away to give them some privacy, she was nearly bowled over by a swirl of hair and skirts.

“Mi amor!” Julia threw herself at Walker. The young woman wrapped her arms around his neck and planted kisses all over his face, lingering on his stiff lips.