The Devil's Standoff

by V. S. McGrath

  Hettie grabbed her arms and pulled, as if she were pulling a newborn calf from its mother. The moment they touched, they splashed down into the pond and normal time. Abby’s moan warped into a scream, and she flailed.

  “Abby, wake up!” Hettie hauled her sister toward the edge of the pool. The snakes rallied, their numbers seemingly doubled, almost as if they were boiling up out of the sand, closing the gap in the ring of serpents contracting around them.

  “Hettie!”

  A fat, striped snake had wound its body around her sister’s neck and chest. Abby gasped as she tried to pull the creature off. Hettie grabbed the boa’s head, but as she went for her knife, a small black snake curled around her wrist and sank its teeth into her flesh.

  Searing pain burned through her, but the creature slipped off and plopped into the water in a splash of muddy sand. A curious anger, as if this bite were a personal offense, sharpened Hettie’s focus. She ripped the boa off Abby, blasted a new path through the snakes, and pulled her sister to the edge of the pool.

  The air vibrated with Walker’s sonorous incantation. She glanced up in time to see him raise his hands, glowing with bright gold light, before he spoke his final word.

  A ring of fire appeared on the earth around the pond, engulfing the snakes. The curling, twisting bodies crumbled into sand.

  Uncle hurried toward them, gun drawn. He shot several rattlers on his way to them. “They’re not real—they’re golems,” he shouted as he scooped up Abby and Hettie. He half carried, half dragged them back toward the camp. Walker stayed rooted, hands raised until the three of them were out of range. With another shout, the flames spread into a wide ring, flaring into an inferno that lit the night sky and engulfed the tiny white sphere.

  The heat and light and hissing and rattling fizzled out with the suddenness of a dissipating summer storm. Hettie lay on her back, breathing hard as if her lungs were shrinking. She could no longer feel her hand. A violent shaking overtook her, and her brow was hot and slick with sweat.

  “Walker!” Uncle’s shout seemed to come from a great distance. Hettie fought, but her eyelids each weighed a hundred pounds, and they drooped and dragged her down, down, down …

  The haze enveloped Hettie like a welcoming embrace, then parted with equal affection as if to study her.

  “Hello, Hettie.” The soft, melodic greeting had her looking about. It was no place she could describe, yet if she had to she would say it was a path between blotted stars, a road through the unknown.

  Despite the strangeness, Hettie knew this place. She’d been here before in a vision—this was the place in between life and death, dream and awake.

  She also recognized her guide.

  “Patrice?” The old woman came into focus. Only, Patrice Favreau, Soothsayer of the South, was not the gnarled crone in the wheelchair Hettie had first encountered in New Orleans. Instead, she stood tall and erect, looking almost as young as Hettie’s mother had before she was killed. A thick shawl of roses draped over her shoulders and pooled around her bare feet. Her violet-rimmed eyes shone, and she smiled.

  Hettie remembered the little black snake, its needle-sharp fangs sinking into her flesh, and she swallowed drily. It was a golem, Uncle had said … or had it been a real serpent hiding among the decoys? “Am I … are you dead?”

  “No, dear. I’m simply … well, I’m not sure there’s anything simple about it.” Her hands fluttered like a wounded bird trying to escape from the bottom of a well. “I seem to be rather lost.”

  “Your body is still in New Orleans. Asleep.” She felt it with the kind of certainty one had for simple facts, but couldn’t justify her claim. It’d been weeks since she’d last seen her … or had it? Time didn’t seem to have meaning here. To remind herself as much as Patrice, she said, “You were attacked by the warlock Zavi in our shared vision, and you haven’t woken up since.”

  The woman ran a hand over her hair as if trying to pat her memories back in place. “Yes … yes, I recall that. Your sister…?”

  “We saved her.” A brief smile flitted over the woman’s features. “Sophie’s been waiting for you to get better. Can’t you get back to your body?” The guilt that balled within her felt more real than their surroundings. Patrice’s granddaughter, Sophie, had risked a lot to help Hettie and her companions rescue Abby and find out what was causing the soothsayers to lose their future-predicting abilities, but all they’d achieved to date was putting her grandmother in a coma.

  Patrice frowned. She seemed to withdraw into herself, sinking into the haze. “I … I don’t know.”

  “Is the soothsayers’ blackout causing this?”

  “I’m not sure.” From somewhere behind her came the soft hiss of a snake. The mist thickened, and she looked away. “Hettie, help me.”

  “How?”

  The mist closed around her. Hettie spun every which way, but she was alone once more.

  The air grew cold and thin. A calm settled over her. Acceptance. Resignation.

  Perhaps Patrice was wrong. Perhaps this was death. She closed her eyes, letting the mist twine around her. Real or not, the snake’s poison was slowly working its way to her heart and brain. And then she’d be dead. The burden of Diablo would no longer be hers …

  And Abby would be alone.

  No. She threw off her despair, and the mist cleared. She could not leave her sister. Patrice and the other soothsayers needed her help. There was still work to be done.

  She started walking, the ground soft and wet beneath her feet. The gray gave way to the site of a smoking crater, writhing with creatures wallowing in thick red ichor. Hettie stood high above it, watching the crater slowly fill with blood. In the center, the bodies of her mother and father and Abby floated facedown.

  She screamed, but the sound was carried away by the wind. She tried to run toward the site, but it was too far, and getting farther with every step she took toward it.

  This isn’t real, she told herself, reining in her racing heart. She shut her eyes and pressed her aching hand against her eyelids. You’re dreaming. You’ve been snakebit and you’re having hallucinations …

  Someone grabbed her hand and tugged her around. For a moment, she thought the dark brown hair and sprinkling of freckles were hers in a reflection, only this mirror image had her mother’s kind eyes and her father’s hard frown.

  “Paul?”

  Her dead brother squeezed her hand hard, crushing her fingers until her bones snapped. She fell to her knees with a cry.

  “Let … let go…” she gasped. “Paul…”

  He stared down at her silently, his vise grip tightening. The mist closed around them once more. And then there was darkness.

  Pain burned through her. All her old injuries, from the gunshot wound in her thigh to the one that had left a feather-shaped scar on the side of her face, seared across her senses.

  “She’s coming ’round.”

  Hettie cracked open her swollen eyes. Uncle hovered over her. She sensed Abby nearby, though she had no inkling of her sister’s state. “Abby…”

  “Drink,” Uncle ordered, holding a small bowl to her lips. The liquid was bitter but blessedly wet, and she gulped it down.

  “The golem bit you good, put a hex like the devil on you. Walker lifted it, but your hand is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch for a while.” The old man looked her over. “Soon as you can stand, we gotta get moving. No telling how close the Pinks are now.”

  At her confused look, he explained, “With those golems on us and you firing Diablo willy-nilly, we had to leave before the Pinks or anyone else got a bead on us. We didn’t have time to fix you, so Walker put you under a stasis spell. Rode for half a day before we could stop. You’ll have to thank the man proper later. He saved your life.” He slid a dark, rueful look over his shoulder. The bounty hunter stood guard, his rifle slung over one shoulder as he scanned
the horizon.

  “You okay, Hettie?” Abby asked in a small voice.

  She sat up slowly. Her right hand was heavily bandaged. “I’m fine,” she lied. “How about you? Did those snakes hurt you?”

  “No. Walker made them go away.” She couldn’t be sure, but Hettie thought Abby sounded petulant about it.

  “What happened, Abby? Who were you talking to?”

  The little girl blinked at her. “I … I don’t know.”

  Hettie pursed her lips. She looked to Uncle. “You think the Pinks sent the snakes?”

  He tugged on his beard. “Not sure. Raising golems isn’t their style—too unpredictable and hard to control at a distance. And the Division of Sorcery wouldn’t send something so deadly for us if they wanted Abby alive.” His eyes narrowed in deep, disturbed thought. Hettie’s skin lifted in goose bumps. The last time Abby had been submerged and communicating with distant strangers using her abilities, she’d been talking to the warlock who’d kidnapped and nearly killed her. “Either way, I don’t want to face whoever dropped that spell on us. We need to go.”

  They rode south. Hettie ached head to toe, and there was a strange taste in her mouth. Her right hand burned with every minute flex. Blackie tread carefully, seemingly aware of Hettie’s pain. She had a hard time holding the reins in her left hand, but the magicked stallion didn’t need guidance.

  As they made their way across the rocky landscape, she mulled over her conversation with Patrice. The whole episode had felt like a dream. Perhaps it had been. She told Uncle about it as they rode.

  “You and Patrice have shared a connection, and you’ve been to the place in-between, so it’s not impossible that what you saw was real. She might have been trying to warn you. Or you could have been having a fevered delusion.” He shook his head. “There’s no telling with visions—that’s why soothsayers are so few and far between. It takes years of training to be able to interpret what they see with any precision. And with this soothsayers’ blackout, we can’t know anything for sure. On top of that, there’s no telling how your bond with the Devil’s Revolver might interfere. This is new territory for me.”

  He sounded troubled by that admission.

  By the end of the day, the dark spine of the Wall fringed the horizon. They rode until the moon was a bright chip high above them, then stopped for the night, nearly falling out of their saddles with exhaustion.

  There was no campfire or magic well this time. Uncle refused to risk doing anything that would give away their location. As she lay on the ground, Hettie watched the Wall with a growing sense of hope. The Pinkertons wouldn’t be able to open a remote Zoom tunnel on top of them south of the border. The magical barrier had been raised after the Mexican war, providing an impenetrable shield that kept spells—as well as people—from crossing the border. It was one of the many reasons fugitives fled south: the authorities had a much more difficult time tracking them there.

  By midafternoon the following day, they were in sight of the Wall’s base. The monolith stretched over the landscape like a great black viper rippling over the sand. Hettie got a strange chill just looking at it.

  “The shoring crews are farther west,” Walker said, scanning the length of the Wall with narrowed eyes. “No border patrols in sight.”

  “Why are they shoring up the Wall?” Hettie asked.

  “Magic needs bolstering now and again,” Uncle explained. “The bigger the spell, the more magic and maintenance it needs. Nothing lasts forever.”

  “Yes, but why are we fixing it from this side if it was built to keep Americans out of Mexico?”

  “Walls work both ways. The folks on the losing side of the war don’t like a big old monument reminding them of their failures, so they make up their own story, make it look like we’re the ones in charge. They send out men and crews and make it seem like we’re doing something important, like we’re the ones keeping invaders out.” Uncle spat on the red earth. “Men in Washington gotta justify their wages somehow.”

  “Politics aside, there’s no way for us to get through,” Walker said. “The Division and the Pinkertons will probably be looking for us at the gates.”

  “So how do we get through?”

  “With help.” He picked up a stick and drew several runes on the ground, whispering an incantation. Then he broke the stick in half and tossed the pieces away.

  A sound like a muffled crack of thunder rolled across the land. Walker lifted his nose in the air like a hound scenting its prey. “He’s coming.”

  The wind picked up, whipping dust all around them. Abby cried out and shielded her eyes, and Cymon huddled close to her, growling a warning.

  Hettie put herself between her family and the rust-colored dust devil skating toward them. Walker and Uncle held their ground, unafraid even as the wind tore at their clothes and sand scoured their exposed skin. The wind died abruptly, and the swirling sand settled. From the tiny cyclone a thin man emerged, his skin dark and leathery, his face young but lined. He wore only battered leather trousers and a small vest. His neck was hung with so many charms and talismans on leather thongs, they formed a kind of shield on his chest. His hair was a matted, tangled mess festooned with bits of leaves and twigs. His eyes, the strangest shade of sulfur-yellow, glinted with devilry.

  “So, the prodigal son returns.” He said it with the precise enunciation of an Englishman, surprising Hettie. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d ever come back, Woodroffe.” He raised his eyebrow at Uncle, who stood with one hand casually resting on the grip of his holstered sidearm. “You’ve grown your family, I see.” His roving eyes landed on Abby and widened. Hettie stepped in front of her sister, propping her hands on her hips and glaring.

  “We need safe passage into Mexico,” Walker said.

  “Heading home, hmm? You think your people will appreciate the new additions?” He gestured at the group.

  Walker growled, “What’s your price, Coyote?”

  The man scratched his head and paced in a tight circle. His movements went from smooth to jerky intermittently, as if a fisherman had his limbs on a line and was trying to lure trout as he reeled the bait in. “Last time, it was just you. This lot will cost you.”

  “How much?” Walker repeated tightly.

  The man Walker called Coyote picked at his nails. “Six months.”

  “That’s highway robbery,” the bounty hunter growled.

  “I don’t have the juice to carry all of you through safely. Half of that six will probably be sapped away just moving you through the Wall.”

  “You know it’s not my juice to give. Six months is impossible.”

  “Then how about him?” He tipped his chin toward Uncle. “Seems you’ve got plenty to go around.”

  Walker’s jaw firmed. “He’s not paying.”

  “Well, if not him, the little one will do.” He smiled, his teeth surprisingly large and white. “She’s bursting with juice. I can almost taste her from here.”

  Hettie had Diablo pointed at Coyote’s head before her fury registered. The derelict sorcerer stumbled back with a yelp as though he’d been smacked. “Come anywhere near my sister and I’ll blow that tongue out the back of your skull.”

  “Mother of— Walker, what have you unleashed?” He looked between the bounty hunter and Hettie, hands raised. “Who is she?”

  “Someone who doesn’t like you.” Walker’s lips twitched. “I’d listen to her, Coyote. She’s got an itchy trigger finger.”

  “It’s not her finger I’m worried about.” His gaze stayed locked on Diablo. “Three months of juice, Walker. And only because you’re a friend.”

  “Two weeks, you soul-leech.”

  “Twenty days, straight from you. That’s my final offer.”

  “Deal.” Walker spat in his palm and held it out. Coyote did the same, then took one of the many leather thongs from around
his neck and wrapped it around his dust-covered wrist. He clasped Walker’s hand tightly, chanting in a language Hettie didn’t recognize, looping the strip of material around the bounty hunter’s forearm.

  “What’s going on?” Hettie asked Uncle.

  “They struck a bargain. That Coyote’s borrowing magic from Walker.”

  She frowned. “But … what keeps him from just taking all his magic?” Her hand twitched over the ghostly form of Diablo, readying to defend the bounty hunter.

  “It doesn’t work that way. Borrowing magic requires consent on both sides.” He notched his chin toward the men. “They can exchange no more, no less than what they bargained for.”

  The air shifted as if the wind had momentarily changed direction. Walker gave a grunt. Coyote breathed deep. His eyes dilated, and he threw his head back, mouth slightly open. Hettie could’ve sworn she saw him inhaling a wisp of bluish smoke. He held it and then released, shoulders sagging. His spine loosened, and he smiled as his eyes went back to normal.

  “Ohhh.” He reached for Walker and made to embrace him, but the much taller, much broader man pushed him away and hastily untangled the thong from around his arm. Dark bags hung beneath Walker’s eyes. Coyote laughed. “Gonna be a shame to give up all that lovely juice. Such a delicacy…”

  “Just get us across the Wall,” the bounty hunter grumbled. “And do it before I let the girl shoot you.”

  “Of course, of course, a bargain is a bargain.” He scooped the ropes of talismans off his neck and laid them on the ground. They weren’t individual necklaces, but one long rope looped multiple times around him. He arranged the hoops on the ground.

  “Bigger,” Walker instructed. “The horses and the dog are coming with us.”

  Coyote looked like he was about to protest, but glanced once more at Hettie and reworked the rope pattern. Soon he had a wide circle of leather on the ground.

  “I’ve never encountered a mage gun like that,” he said without looking at her. “Metals have an odd effect on my spells. Unless you want to get stuck in the Wall and become a permanent part of the masonry, you ought to leave it behind.”