The bounty hunter didn’t respond, even as Sanchez marched up to him. Walker stood a good three inches taller. “Look at me. Are you Walker Woodroffe?”
When he didn’t answer the captain barked at the guards to hold him secure. He drew a piece of sandblasted glass on a hemp cord from his pocket, brought it up to his eye, and spoke a few words. The glass flashed, and the captain’s eyes widened. “El Cobra.”
Coyote’s scream rent the air, and they all turned. The four robed men had placed their hands on the wood frame and were chanting in unison. The smuggler arched and thrashed, but his skin was glued fast to the stone. Then, slowly, he sank into the Wall as if it were quicksand, the fleshy surface creeping up over his limbs first, then sucking his loins and torso in.
Before the stone crept up into his throat, Coyote screamed, “Help me! God, don’t let them do this to me!”
“God will not help him,” the captain said with a sad sigh.
Rock climbed over Coyote’s wild hair, drawing it out of his eyes. The chanting continued over his hoarse cries. Only his face was visible now. Like demented masons, the four sorcerers placed their hands over his face and moved it to the lowest corner of the Wall, condemning him to the dust and bird dung accumulated there. Coyote’s wide-open eyes darted left and right, and he wailed through lips cracked open in one corner.
Abby sank to her haunches and curled into a tight ball, rocking on her heels.
“Not to worry,” the captain said lightly. “He won’t be alone for long.” He gave a command to his men, and four of them seized Walker and marched him toward Sinner’s Block.
“What are you doing? He’s done nothing wrong!”
“That man is worse than a traitor,” Captain Sanchez said viciously. “He is the messenger of the devil, a spawn of wickedness and deceit. I promise you, whatever it is he told you about guiding you to your parents, he was leading you into a trap.”
The sorcerers gathered at the edges of the Wailing Wall. Walker glanced back at Hettie in alarm.
Her heart lurched. Diablo leaped into her hand, and in a flash, she had it pointed at Captain Sanchez’s head. “Order them to stop.”
The man tipped his chin up, unconcerned. “Do that, and your sister and uncle are dead.”
Hettie glanced to either side of them. One man had a handgun pointed at Uncle’s chest. The guard behind Abby dug his rifle into her back. Poor Abby had wet herself. Liquid pooled around her feet as she rocked. Her face remained buried in her lap, and blood dripped from the scratch on her knee. Her sobbing grew louder.
Hettie’s left arm trembled, the weight of Diablo’s urge to kill straining her muscles.
She could do it. Diablo had shot three men with one blast before. But could she disarm both Uncle’s and Abby’s guards and the captain and save Walker?
We can.
Without killing?
Diablo glimmered in her vision, as if laughing at her.
“Tell your men to put their guns down,” she repeated. “Now.”
Captain Sanchez looked at her, bored. “Kill the old man.”
“No!”
The world turned into syrup. Hettie took aim and picked her targets, breathing hard, her heart bashing against her ribs at triple speed as she squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times.
Three balls of pure green energy glided from the matte black barrel, the first two sailing toward Uncle’s and Abby’s guards. The third floated leisurely toward Walker.
As Hettie whipped her hand back around to Captain Sanchez, she released her slipping grip on her time bubble.
The guards screamed and fell to the ground, clutching bloody stumps where their hands had been.
The third target hit its mark, exploding in a blinding green blossom of destruction in the center of Sinner’s Block. The sorcerers and soldiers cried out as rock tumbled down, unleashing a moist cloud of birds, old blood, rotted, petrified flesh, and flies.
Walker dove out of the path of the tumbling debris and rolled to his feet, hands ablaze with light. He clapped them together loudly and spread his arms, unleashing a wave of fire that set the tents in the immediate area ablaze.
Hettie watched Sanchez’s face go from smug to shocked in an instant. When he turned back to look at her, she had the muzzle aimed between his eyes.
“We’re leaving now,” she said, a metallic taste in her mouth.
But then Abby’s guard staggered to his feet. He shouted angrily and reached to grab Abby by the hair.
The moment he touched her, Abby slapped her palms down on the ground. She and the soldier splashed into a deep pool.
Hettie’s head exploded in stars as Sanchez backhanded her. She reeled back, dropping Diablo. The captain kicked her in the stomach. She gagged on bile-flavored air.
Abby screamed long and loud. Hettie glanced up just in time to see her rise out of the water, fists clenched and pressed against her temples, eyes squeezed shut. Her piercing wail grew louder and louder until it shook the air and made the back of Hettie’s eyeballs hurt. She put her hands over her ears as the pressure in her head increased.
Captain Sanchez staggered back, hands over his ears. He yelled at a group of soldiers, and they charged toward Abby, weapons drawn.
In a panic, Hettie called Diablo to her. She aimed as one of the soldiers lifted his pistol.
Abby took a breath. It sucked the air out of everyone’s lungs, and Hettie gave a wordless cry.
The next blast from Abby rolled out of her in a wave Hettie could see like heat shimmering off the desert sand. It bounded toward Hettie in slow motion as Diablo’s syrupy time cocoon enveloped her. She pushed to her feet and ran, sprawling for cover behind a pile of crates.
The wave hit like a locomotive, flattening the tents and soldiers. The knot of men who’d been less than ten feet away from her sister were thrown like rag dolls against the Wall, their bodies hitting with great cracking sounds. Silence fell as debris rained down from the sky and the fire raged.
Where was Uncle? Hettie peered around but couldn’t spot the old man.
“Hettie!” Walker staggered toward them. He didn’t the see the man behind him climbing to his feet, gun in hand.
“Get down!” She threw her arm out and pulled Diablo’s trigger.
Her heart raced desperately across the distance, torn free as Diablo’s power was unleashed to fulfill its purpose. The hell-green bullet made of dark magic and Hettie’s blood gleefully ripped through the man’s chest.
Hettie’s spine snapped back as her body shattered into a million glittering fragments and set her insides ablaze. This was the price of Diablo’s deadly power—nails driven into her eyes and fingers, fire racing over her skin and liquefying her innards as the infernal magic gulped down a year of her life in one painful, soul-sucking draw.
She was getting used to it, she told herself. This would be the seventh man she’d killed with Diablo.
Lucky number seven.
You’ve killed nine people, she corrected herself harshly as the final moments of pure agony released their grip. She needed to burn those two lives into her the way Diablo had the other seven. Two men she’d killed without the Devil’s Revolver. One of them with nothing more than her bare hands and a bit of rope.
Keeping that in mind made the agony more bearable. Like she really deserved it.
The pain subsided to a burning ache, releasing her from its paralyzing hold. It took her a few seconds to realize she was staring not into the sky, but into Walker’s worried blue eyes.
“We have to move.” He helped her to her feet. Abby stood nearby, whimpering.
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay, Abby.” Hettie pushed out of Walker’s hold and hugged her sister tight. Diablo stuck firmly to her palm.
The horses charged up, Uncle on Jezebel’s back. “C’m
on.” They hastily mounted and rode out of the camp. A handful of soldiers had rallied and took aim. Walker threw two more waves of fire behind them, dissuading anyone from pursuing.
“Wait! Where’s Cymon?” Abby cried.
Hettie stared around. Where was their dog?
“Leave him!” Uncle shouted over the thunder of hooves.
“No!” Abby struggled in front of Hettie, but Blackie was already gathering speed, his strides eating up the dusty ground. Her little sister sobbed and cried Cymon’s name in the vain hope he’d come bounding toward them. He didn’t.
Hettie bit her lip and told herself Cymon would be fine. The soldiers wouldn’t take their wrath out on a poor, defenseless dog. And Cymon would behave himself. He wouldn’t see or know that Abby and Hettie were being threatened. He wouldn’t bite anyone without good reason …
She palmed the tears from her cheeks. He would be a good dog.
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 o
f 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 Devil's Standoff Page 4