“It was in self-defense.” She stuffed her mouth with a hunk of bread. A good a plug as any—she didn’t like that she sounded defensive about it. “I’m here to return it to its creator and maybe take back those years.”
Raúl’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid that may not be possible. Javier, my father, is very ill. He lent Walker his magic before he went on his quest. When Walker uses his powers, Javier also suffers the consequences. He grew weak quickly.” The accusation lay thick in his words.
“Once I return his power, he’ll get better. I should go now.” Walker stood.
“No.” The word cut the air, and Walker sagged as if he’d been held up by strings. “He’s comatose, and far too weak. He might not survive the ordeal if you relinquish his power to him in this state.”
Walker gripped the edge of the table. “If not now, when?”
“When he is awake.” Raúl sat back. “He is old and has been sick for a long time. It would be best if we waited until he has regained his strength first. For now, all you can do is wait.”
“Sit down, Woodroffe.” Uncle bit into a pear. “No sense in pacing. Maybe we’ll finally get a chance to relax.”
Hettie expected Walker to argue, but he only sat back with a sigh. He looked worn-out, as if he’d been carrying a heavy burden for too long.
“With all due respect,” she said, “I came a long way to bring Diablo here. Abby and I have places to be.” She didn’t like the idea of staying in Villa del Punta too long. The Division or the Pinkertons would catch up to them sooner or later.
Raúl’s lips flattened. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. My father is the only one who can unmake El Diablo.”
Hettie flexed her hand, the bandage straining against the still-throbbing snakebite. “What if he never wakes up?”
“Hettie!” Uncle barked in admonishment. She ducked her head. She was not usually so tactless, but she had journeyed across the desert, been chased by all manner of cruel men, threatened, shot at, and worse to bring Diablo home. Even so, that didn’t give her the right to be unkind.
“Sorry,” she muttered, cheeks heating. She snuck a look at Walker, realizing she’d been talking about his father, too. She sat straighter and said more loudly, “I apologize. That was rude and uncalled for. I’m tired.”
Raúl studied her and hummed in understanding. “Contract spell. My brother’s, judging by the crude spellcraft.” He nodded at her sympathetically. “Your eagerness to uphold your end of the bargain is understandable. He didn’t give you much choice.”
Hettie’s knee-jerk reaction was to be outraged—she’d been manipulated by influence spells before and didn’t care one whit for them. But she didn’t think the bounty hunter had purposely spelled her to be rude toward her hosts. That was all her.
And yet Walker did not defend himself.
“Let us forget this matter for now. I imagine you would like to rest. I will look into the curse and see if there is anything I can do to help. But all you can do now is wait.” The sorcerer stood. “If you’ll pardon me, I have matters to attend to. Walker, I assume you will want to stay at your mother’s. Your friends can take quarters here in the great house. I’ll have one of the women show them up.” He bowed to Hettie and Abby. “Señoritas.”
Uncle’s eyes didn’t leave Raúl’s form until he exited. He leaned in close and dropped a handful of pebbles onto the tabletop and waved a hand over them, muttering a short incantation. “I don’t like this. We shouldn’t stay here any longer than we have to.”
“What happened to having a chance to relax?” Hettie said archly.
Jeremiah cast her a sour look. “Don’t get sassy with me, missy. In fact, hold your tongue while you’re here. That smart mouth of yours is going to get us all into trouble.”
Walker said, “No one here will harm you. Raúl is my brother, and the people listen to him.” The simple statement didn’t assure Uncle of anything, though, judging by his skeptically raised eyebrow.
“No offense, Woodroffe, but you’ve been away too long to expect to know what he’s about. You two obviously got some sibling rivalry issues.”
Walker grimaced. “We’ve always been at odds. My mother and I weren’t even allowed to live here after she and Javier got married—Javier wanted to appease his son, so we kept separate households. Mainly, though, I think he resents that I was picked to go on the mission to find Diablo.” He gestured. “I should probably mention there’s no point in trying to cast silence spells here. Raúl can break your enchantment without batting an eyelash. He was a prodigy when I left—truly my father’s son. Can’t imagine how much more powerful he’s gotten since.”
Uncle grimaced. “Forgive an old man his habits. It makes me feel better.” Still, he didn’t put the stones away.
Hettie drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “How long will we have to wait before Javier Punta can take Diablo back? And what do we do after that? We can’t stay here.” She glanced at Abby, who gnawed on a chicken wing tip. “The Pinks and the Division—”
“One thing at a time,” Uncle interrupted. “For now, we get our rest and lick our wounds. We need to keep our heads down and our noses clean, understand? Don’t be poking into anyone’s business.”
Hettie sighed inwardly. Nothing about his hard, lined features assured her they were at their journey’s end.
Hettie, Abby, and Uncle were installed in two rooms on the second floor at different ends of the hall. The young servingwoman gestured at the washstand and pitcher, then pointed out the window to the fountain. “Agua.”
Hettie knew that word. Apparently she’d be fetching her own water. The gilded Favreau mansion in New Orleans this was not, but at least she wasn’t sleeping on the ground. “Gracias.”
The servant swept out, darting a furtive look at Abby before shutting the door tightly behind her.
Hettie led Abby to one of the two beds with straw-stuffed mattresses and clean sheets. What a luxury after so many weeks on the run. “How long are we going to be here?” her sister asked.
“I’m not sure. Awhile.” She helped her sister undress. She would’ve liked to bathe her, but she was too weary.
Abby yawned. “You think Mr. Woodroffe’s pa can help us?” She lay down, and Hettie pulled a woven blanket up under her chin.
“I sure hope so. Now, you close your eyes awhile.”
Abby’s brow furrowed. “You won’t leave me, will you?”
“Never.” She kissed her forehead and hugged her tight, wondering at the sudden doubt in Abby’s heart. She would never abandon her sister. “I’ll stay right here till you fall asleep.”
It didn’t take long. The beds looked soft and inviting, but Hettie wanted to tend to her aching snakebite wound before she collapsed.
She grabbed the pitcher from the washstand and headed into the courtyard where the fountain stood. The day’s heat had soaked into the flagstones, radiating warmth through her legs. The sun was just beginning to set, casting its dark gold sheen across the white adobe buildings and setting the red terra cotta roofs ablaze. A sweet breeze from the north carried the faintest hint of wood fire, and for a moment Hettie thought of the farm in Montana.
The fountain was more elaborate than anything she’d seen in any other town, but not so ostentatious that it was gaudy. The main well was carved of smooth white stone and ringed with benches featuring carved medallions. A three-pronged finial adorned the center, and water arched from it to the big bowl below. The water was clear and sweet-smelling. The fountain must have been magically coaxed to life the way the water hole had been, drawn from depths unreachable by mundane means and sustained by the magical node. It really was an oasis. For a moment she closed her eyes, and her muscles uncoiled.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
Hettie dropped the metal pitcher and whipped around, Diablo primed and ready. Raúl put his hands up in s
urprise. She blew out a breath. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.” The sorcerer cleared his throat. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t point that at me.”
Embarrassed to be treating her host so rudely again, she jammed the gun back into her pocket, willing her heart to slow its mad pace.
Raúl smiled tentatively. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier,” he began. “I was taken off guard by my brother’s arrival. We rarely receive strangers here in the village, and we’ve all been on edge lately. Still, I should not be taking it out on you or your family.”
If anyone should apologize, it ought to be her. And yet she hesitated. It wasn’t that she thought the sorcerer was being insincere, but something about him made her wary.
She nodded and said, “We appreciate your hospitality.”
If Raúl noticed she hadn’t returned an apology in kind, it didn’t register on his face. “I hope you understand that even though my father is ill, I will try my best to help you. It was his wish that El Diablo be taken out of the world.”
“I’d be grateful for that.” She didn’t like being beholden to anyone, and if she had to thank the man any more it’d start sounding obsequious, but it seemed the polite and proper thing to do. She stooped to set the jug under the spigot. Raúl sat on one of the benches and watched.
“You’ve been through many ordeals,” he observed after a moment. She didn’t meet his gaze.
“That I have.”
“How did you get that scar?”
If he was half the sorcerer Walker said he was, Raúl could probably glean the hole in her soul from when Uncle had made a bargain with the devil, trading her love for her parents in exchange for her life. “Long story.”
His laugh was a soft patter like the water splashing in the fountain. “You don’t talk very much for a woman.”
“I don’t.” Rude again. But she didn’t want to share her tale, relive the past few months. She wondered for a fleeting moment if he was going to use a truth spell on her to get her to talk. The thought made her palm itchy, and Hettie brushed the revolver in her pocket, just to feel its weight.
“Your hand.” He snagged her wrist and drew her closer. Hettie instinctively pulled away, but Raúl was already unwinding the bandage. He exposed the wound, and Hettie set her teeth. The punctures were small and closely set, but the flesh around the bite was dark purple and swollen. Blood crusted around the edges. The sorcerer tsked. “An imperfect healing job by my brother, no doubt.”
“He saved my life,” she said tersely.
Raúl turned her hand over and smoothed the pad of his thumb over the top. “You have been through enough pain and suffering, I think. Allow me.”
Before she could object Raúl was murmuring an incantation. Soft, white power like Ling’s healing ether magic pulsed from his palm and across her skin, tingling over the muscles around her thumb. The wound closed up, and the flesh lightened. Within seconds her hand was whole.
He held on for a second longer, smiling. He barely looked winded. “Much better, I think.” He held her palm up for her to inspect. It did look better, though it still ached.
“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand hastily, discomfited by the intensity in his gaze.
The jug was taking forever to fill from the spigot. She should have just dipped it into the basin. Raúl sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Your sister is a potential. You’re running from the Division, aren’t you?”
Hettie fixed her face to a careful blank.
“You wouldn’t be the first family to escape across the border to protect their gifted loved ones from the American Division of Sorcery,” he went on casually. “I understand training at the Division Academy can be quite brutal.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, though it’d been a fear early on, especially when Abby had claimed she’d been speaking with their dead brother, Paul. Turned out necromancy was just one of her many gifts.
“I’ve heard that since the magical drought began they’ve been pushing students to the outermost limits of their abilities to see what they are capable of. Under high stress, sometimes certain powers manifest.”
The Division had only started making training mandatory a few years before Hettie was born, so she couldn’t confirm or deny Raúl’s claims. There’d only been one gifted student in Hettie’s school among her age set. Sophie Favreau was the youngest person in town with formal training. Being from a rich and influential family, though, she’d probably had the best private tutors. Patrice had told her as much.
He pressed on, “Your sister has been through a lot. Tell me, has she ever hurt anyone with her powers?”
Hettie’s throat tightened. It was fair for Raúl to ask whether Abby posed a threat to the village, but what would he do if he knew the extent of her sister’s mysterious abilities?
“You don’t need to worry about her. As soon as I return Diablo to your father and break this curse, we’ll leave. Until that happens we’ll stay out of everyone’s way. Excuse me.” She carried the water jug into the house, feeling the sorcerer’s probing stare on her back.
She hoped she could keep that promise.
Hettie awakened with a start. She’d been dreaming of wading through a waist-high viscous mixture of blood and molten rock. She’d been digging through it, searching for something. But as she drew her hands out of the ooze, the flesh melted off until all she had left were bones.
The stuffiness and complete dark disoriented her until she remembered they were in a room in the great house in Villa del Punta. Someone had come in the night and closed the shutters. It bothered her that she’d slept through that.
Head thick with cotton, Hettie opened the shutters of the window farthest from her sister’s bed. The burnished edge of the sun gilded the horizon, banishing the desert chill and giving the peaceful-looking village a rosy predawn glow.
At the far end of the village she spotted Raúl striding toward the main gate. He splayed a hand against the wood, then walked away again. Perhaps he was undoing a lock spell.
Abby was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m hungry.”
“It’s still early. Go back to sleep. Breakfast will be ready later.”
“No, I mean I’m hungry.”
Of course. She’d been so tired after dinner last night she’d forgotten to blood feed her. She reopened the wound on her trigger finger, then sat on the bed while Abby latched on. She stroked her blond hair away from her pale face. “It can’t go on like this,” she said tiredly, more to herself.
Abby released her finger with a sick pop. “Why not?”
Hettie struggled to explain. Even though the sanguine nourishment made her sister more self-aware, more normal, she was still only a ten-year-old girl. “A lot of people don’t like blood magic,” she said. “Do you remember how Zavi kidnapped all those children?”
Abby nodded slowly, lips pressed tight together.
“Well, most blood magic uses blood from innocents. That’s a bad thing.”
“But you’re not inn’cent, Hettie. And I’m not hurting you, am I?”
She was going to say she wasn’t, but in truth, Hettie was hurting. Drained. “I’ll keep feeding you what I can, but I can’t do it forever.”
“Maybe Uncle could—”
“No, Abby. We can’t let anyone know about this, especially not Uncle. If they knew, they’d…” She didn’t want to imagine it. “They’d get scared. No one can know, understand? Don’t ask anyone for blood, or go taking blood unless I’m there to tell you it’s okay.”
Abby reluctantly nodded and went back to feeding.
Later, Walker knocked on the door. He’d bathed and shaved, and his suit had been cleaned. His ice-blue gaze flicked over her. “I managed to borrow these from some neighbors.” He handed her an armful of clo
thing—a plain dress and apron for Abby, and for Hettie, a man’s old stained shirt and trousers.
She accepted the bundle of clothes, struggling not to be insulted. She wore trousers because it was more practical for ranch work and traveling, not because she had anything against a well-tailored dress. She wasn’t about to complain, though. At this rate anything was better than the tattered and soiled maid’s dress. She would burn the thing first chance she got. “Will we be seeing your father today?”
“Probably not, but I’ll talk to Raúl. In the meantime, though, you’ll be expected to pitch in where you can. I’d rather you and Abby have time to rest and recover, but it’s the rules. No one in the village freeloads. We all do our part.”
She didn’t mind. Good food and a night’s rest on a soft bed had reinvigorated her, and the hand Raúl had healed felt almost normal. Maybe being on a magical node had sped along her recovery. Even Abby looked healthier. Anyhow, she didn’t want her and Abby’s idleness to draw the resentment of the villagers.
By the time they were dressed—she’d need to mend and alter the clothes at some point so they fit—the servants were stoking fires and preparing food for the day. Uncle was still asleep, according to Walker. He’d snuck a jug of wine up to his room last night, so they weren’t likely to see him till noon. After a breakfast of dried fruit, eggs, and flatbread, Walker led them to the kitchen, where a trim woman with a broad forehead and streaks of white shot through her raven hair stood stirring something in a pot over the fire. She murmured an incantation, waving a hand over the cauldron, and a rich smell emanated from it.
Walker said something to the cook in Spanish. Her gaze canted toward the two girls, and she muttered a few sharp words, then turned back to her pot.
The bounty hunter looked put off. “Rosa says she doesn’t need help in the kitchen right now.”
Considering how the other servants were rushing around, cutting and peeling vegetables and so forth, Hettie thought there’d be plenty for two girls to do. She pointed to a group of women grinding corn outside, beyond the scullery. “How about that? It looks simple enough.”
The Devil's Standoff Page 6