Hettie summoned Diablo—but the mage gun didn’t come.
“I’m not Mizzay. She’s been dead four years.” The woman’s voice was raw and low. It was her voice—Hettie’s voice. “You know who I am.”
“You’re using glamor.” Uncertainty was mixed with her panic.
“Ophelia, listen to me. We don’t have a lot of time. You have my memories—the memories of Hettie Alabama. It took a while, but I figured it out. We figured it out. Pee Wee helped us.” She indicated the automaton. “Berkeley’s been using you as a vessel to store my memories. Every time he wiped me fresh, he put a little more of me in you.”
“Stay away from me!” Hettie tried again to summon Diablo, tried to drop into the time bubble. Why wasn’t it working?
“You’re looking for this?” The woman held up the Devil’s Revolver.
Something inside Hett
