The Devil's Standoff

by V. S. McGrath

  Stubbs grinned, but it was not in pleasure. “How … generous. I can’t see how we can refuse.”

  They were further invited to spend the night in camp as “honored guests.” Ling knew enough Spanish to understand the captain was instructing the soldiers to house them in the worst tents and piss in their food.

  “He’s lying about the Alabama girls,” Ling said when they left the command tent. “They’ve been here.”

  “And they’re not in Chihuahua any more than my dear dead ma is.” Stubbs pointed. “You gonna unload my horse or what?”

  Ling bit his tongue as a pair of soldiers passed. The men watched them suspiciously, and Stubbs sent him a quelling look. “Rub the horses down while you’re at it.”

  They didn’t say anything more until they were ensconced in the tent the soldiers escorted them to, one a little too close to the latrines. Stubbs planted talismans around the inner perimeter and cast an anti-eavesdropping spell.

  “We should leave as soon as possible and head for Villa del Punta,” Ling said. “Abby Alabama’s powers are growing. We need to get to her before she hurts someone.”

  “We do that and we’ll tip our hand too quick. As far as anyone knows, we’re not chasing—” He made a gun-trigger motion with his pinky sticking out to mimic Diablo’s pricking thorn. “So don’t let on that we are. That mage gun is more than a story around these parts, as is Javier Punta.”

  “But then why go on to Chihuahua? We know they’ve gone to the village. There’s nothing to be gained in prolonging our search.”

  “You think the Mexican government is just going to let two Americans roam freely around their country? If we make a beeline for Villa del Punta now, we end up with our throats slit wherever we camp next. Only thing that keeps us from being jumped now is all the paperwork that’ll go with finding two dead agents in a border station.” He started unlacing his boots. “Besides, Villa del Punta is a bleedin’ magical fortress. If the two of us tried storming it, we’d be thrown clear across the Wall in pieces. If the Alabamas are there, we’re going to need a lot more help to get them out.”

  He shook the sand from his boots, then removed a little piece of blue-green feldspar from the heel. Feldspar was a powerful and expensive talisman against influence spells. The Division of Sorcery had given Ling a similar talisman, though it was not as showy as the piece Stubbs was cleaning off. He wasn’t even certain it was a Pinkerton-issued talisman—it was far too expensive. Stubbs inserted it back into his boot.

  “I don’t like being watched,” Ling said.

  “Then you’re in the wrong business. We’re going to have to put up with this escort. I’ve waited over thirty years to get Diablo. I’m not about to blow my chances by being impatient.” He cut Ling a look. “You need to slow down yourself. How do you expect to take Abigail Alabama back to the Division, anyhow? You gonna hit her over the head, tie her up, and sling her across the back of your horse?”

  “I plan to reason with Hettie.” Ling hadn’t had the chance to explain the dangers Abby and the rest of them faced, but Hettie would understand why her sister needed to go with him. She was practical, reasonable. If she still refused to listen … Well, the Division had given him carte blanche to bring Abigail in.

  “Good luck with that,” Stubbs scoffed. “Just remember that as soon as I get Diablo, our partnership is dissolved. I’m not keen on being anywhere near that little witch. Or her sister.”

  Whether he was referring to Hettie or Abby, Ling wasn’t certain. “I won’t forget.”

  “For now, we do as the captain says. We’ll head to Chihuahua, cooperate all the way there. We’ll be best buddies with our escorts and follow their lead.”

  “The Alabamas could be long gone from the village by the time we get there. And what about Diablo? Walker Woodroffe said Punta wants to unmake the mage gun.”

  “You believe that noble sacrifice crap, eh?” Stubbs snorted. “Figures. No, I don’t think there’ll be unmaking of any kind. Maybe Woodroffe believes the old man, but I assure you, no man with Punta’s power would relinquish it. He wants the Devil’s Revolver for the same reason any man does, and Hettie Alabama is hand delivering it to him.”

  After a meal of pork stew that Stubbs relished but Ling left alone, the Pinkerton agent fell asleep on his pallet. While Ling was certain he could follow Abby’s trail to her location, he would be a fool to disregard Stubbs’s insight. The Pinkerton agent was just as determined to find Diablo as Ling was to find Abby. What Ling needed right now, though, was to learn just how potent her indigo powers were.

  He left the tent to explore the camp, studying the patterns of Abby’s power to piece together what had happened. She’d been in the captain’s tent, but the brunt of her magic hadn’t been released there. A wavering cloud that grew deeper in color told him she’d been gathering her strength: she’d felt threatened.

  The greatest release of Abby’s indigo power lay closer to the Wall, but a pair of soldiers stopped him from investigating further. The area was cordoned off; in the half dark, twisted piles of rubble rose from the ground like tombstones. The stench of rot and dust was thick and gritty in his mouth.

  Through his own healing abilities, Ling sensed death and decay and a sense of wrongness, like a malignant growth bubbling over flesh. The Wailing Wall, he realized, and was glad the guards had stopped him. He had no wish to witness that particular molestation of nature’s laws. Whatever had happened with Abby had happened there. He shuddered and hoped none of his friends had met their end in the Wall’s stony embrace.

  Former friends, he reminded himself sadly. The Alabamas had been the closest thing he’d had to family since his arrival in America. He remembered the looks of shock and outright betrayal when he’d revealed himself to be a Division agent. Hettie had looked especially hurt, but she didn’t understand the importance of his position, the gravity with which he held his post.

  He would do anything to protect her and Abby. He needed to make her understand that.

  At the medic’s tent, plaintive moans and the smells of blood, urine, and vomit would’ve warned anyone else away, but Ling was compelled to enter. Inside, five men lay in filthy cots, their clothes stained and reeking, their bandages and bedclothes in dire need of changing.

  “What are you doing here?” A short, gaunt man with an unmistakable air of authority hastened toward Ling, eyes shooting darts from behind his round spectacles. “Who are you?”

  “Your English is very good,” Ling remarked calmly. “Did you study in California?”

  The man’s expression shuttered. “You must be with the gringo. If you are looking for opium, I don’t have any.”

  “I don’t require your services. I thought I’d offer them.” He brandished the badge of office he showed only under the direst circumstances. The doctor stared wide-eyed at the silver pin fashioned after the staff of Asclepius—a snake twined around a rod set against the Division crest. The Mexican glanced up at him in surprise.

  “I am Dr. Fernando,” he introduced himself, going red-faced. “My apologies. I did not know—”

  “And I would prefer it stay that way,” Ling said demurely. “I am Dr. Tsang.”

  “Doctor-patient privilege extends south of the border.” His seriousness assured Ling his silence was guaranteed.

  Ling panned the room with his third eye. An indigo miasma hung in the room as thickly as the stench. “Tell me about your patients, Doctor.”

  The physician guided him from bed to bed, listing out the injuries and ailments each suffered. Broken bones for the most part, but also internal bleeding and the numerous problems that came with long periods of inactivity, unsanitary conditions, and malnutrition.

  “I can ease some of their discomfort and speed along the healing.”

  Dr. Fernando looked skeptical. “I have seen the benefits of Eastern ether magic on patients, but I am not sure these
men will consent to treatment.”

  Ling wasn’t surprised. Talismans were used to ground magic based on the belief that raw power would get out of control, but Eastern magic, or ether magic, was wielded without a physical anchor. An inexperienced and improperly trained sorcerer could lose control with unfiltered power, but that was true whether or not talismans were used. The stigma had more to do with prejudice against Celestials.

  The doctor approached the more lucid patients and explained softly why el Chino was there. Most of them glared and made their refusal clear. Dr. Fernando sighed. “They would rather have me cut off their limbs than let ether magic touch them.” He went to the last bed, where the man who’d been moaning loudest lay, shirtless, sweating, smelling strongly of urine.

  “Broke his hip,” the doctor said resignedly. “And he is succumbing to sepsis. Frankly, I’m not sure you can help him.”

  “I can make him more comfortable, given permission.”

  The doctor murmured to the man in Spanish. He eyed Ling and rasped something to the physician. “He says he will permit your help. Only, should he lose his soul, he vows to haunt you for the rest of your days.”

  “Duly noted.” Ling gingerly drew back the blanket. The soldier’s legs and groin were draped in soiled bandages. His flesh was mottled with bruises. Ling closed his eyes and opened his palms, letting magic fill them like soft summer’s light in a shaded glen. He placed his hands on either side of the young soldier’s hips and concentrated.

  The fracture was not small. Frankly, it was a miracle the young man wasn’t screaming. Ling pulled a thread of power from his body and wove it across the bone. As he did, a dull ache throbbed through his own hip. This was the price of being a healer: he took on the pain and sometimes the injuries of those he healed. He could not take all the soldier’s agony away without causing himself great harm, but he did what he could to ease his suffering.

  When he pulled away from the fracture, he placed one hand over the soldier’s heart and slowed his blood flow. His eyes drooped closed, and his body slackened.

  “He should sleep until noon tomorrow.” Ling stumbled forward, dizzy, aching. Dr. Fernando helped him into a chair.

  “I thank you for that. It will mean a night’s rest for me and my patients, as well.” The doctor sat. “Forgive me for asking … how is it that a Celestial is a Paladin healer with the American Division of Sorcery?”

  Ling picked his words carefully. “The same way all sorcerers earn their place in these times. With much training, much sacrifice.”

  Dr. Fernando nodded sagely. He poured them each a drink from a flask he kept locked in his desk drawer. Ling gratefully accepted it, and they toasted each other grimly with the strong-smelling liquor.

  “How did so many of your men get so badly hurt? Was there an accident?”

  “I was not there. I have only heard the stories. Apparently, a group of gringos—two men and two girls—were arrested and brought to the camp by the patrol. Rumor has it one of the men was El Cobra, the son of Javier Punta.”

  El Cobra. Walker Woodroffe had used the moniker Camden Cobra when he’d been fighting in bare-knuckle matches. It had to be them. “Where are they now?” Ling asked, trying not to show his interest too keenly.

  “Escaped. It was quite a scene, apparently. Got their horses and rode out of here, leaving a mess behind. And,” he added, getting up and beckoning, “an unfortunate guest.”

  Ling followed him to a muddy area just outside of the encampment. His heart thudded hard at the dark shadow lying motionless on the ground. As they approached, it lifted its head.

  Cymon. He knew that big jaw and those soulful eyes—not to mention that smell—anywhere. The Alabamas’ mutt had been a fixture on the ranch. That he’d been abandoned told him their flight had been a desperate one.

  The dog slowly got to his feet and hobbled toward him, whining as he butted his head against Ling’s outstretched palm.

  “I rescued him from the brutes who were taking their anger out on him.” The doctor reached down and scratched behind Cymon’s ear. “I have done all I can. He is a tough dog.”

  “He is.” A cursory examination told him Cy’s ribs were bruised, and his ankle was sprained, but he looked relatively well-fed and was on the way to recovery. Ling summoned a thread of magic and wove it through the dog’s whole body. Cymon sighed and cuddled closer as Ling removed the muzzle. “I will take the dog with me when I leave tomorrow.”

  Dr. Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Well, if that is your wish. Though he may be too injured to be of any use.”

  “I’m not concerned about his usefulness. He was part of a family once.” Ling caressed the dog’s big skull. “He will want to return to them.”

  The mess in Hettie and Abby’s room looked much worse by the light of day, but the chaos and destruction wasn’t confined in there. Throughout the house furniture had been tossed, dishes broken, and in one room a rug had hung itself on the chandelier. Abby’s nightmare had turned the great house upside down, and the servants cleaning up looked nervous and none too pleased.

  In the main dining room, the man who’d been in her room last night was arguing with Raúl. Clearly they were talking about her and Abby. The man stopped abruptly when he spotted her.

  “Buenos días, señoritas.” Raúl smiled broadly and gestured. “Please, join me for breakfast. Luis was just leaving.” The look he flicked the man was as effective as a whip. Luis hurried out.

  “I guess he told you what happened.” Hettie and Abby took seats next to each other.

  “I do not think there is a person in Villa del Punta who did not know. Only the great house was affected, but the ripples of magic were felt throughout the village.” He did not seem displeased—quite the opposite. “Abby leaves quite an impression.”

  As Raúl sat, servingwomen placed big platters of sausages, peppers, and eggs on the table, then disappeared, casting Abby and Hettie the briefest of narrowed looks. Walker appeared in the doorway soon after, searching the girls’ faces worriedly.

  “We’re fine,” she preempted stiffly. “Abby had a nightmare.”

  “I know.” He pursed his lips. “Jeremiah told me. He’s left to … attend to business.”

  Raúl’s glance bounced between them, then returned to his meal. The unspoken conversation between her and Walker rang in all their ears: Jeremiah had left because the situation with Abby was untenable, and Uncle would rather risk the dangers beyond the safety of Villa del Punta’s walls than continue dealing with the unknowns of Abigail’s mysterious powers.

  Walker sat. “I let him take Lilith. She’s younger than Jezebel and isn’t as easily recognizable.”

  She smiled briefly, acknowledging his generous gesture. A man’s horse was his best friend, but a man’s magicked horse was a partner in life. It also told her he trusted the old man would return. “Thank you.”

  After breakfast Hettie and Abby were once again relegated to Raúl’s stewardship. He wanted the data they’d collected yesterday transcribed.

  Hettie hadn’t been sure what to expect from a sorcerer’s workshop. In Newhaven there’d been a small sorcerers’ salon where magic practitioners could consult the thinly stocked library for spells and recipes to make potions and talismans. The space could also be used as a studio. Hettie had been there once or twice with Pa. It’d been an empty, sterile space, which kept different spells from contaminating others. A ring of markings on the wall contained the spells.

  Raúl’s workroom was nothing like that salon. The sty was completely at odds with his pristine appearance. His worktable was covered in notes and drawings. Piles of melted candle wax caked the thick hardwood. Three large south-facing windows helped light the room, their sills writhing with potted plants, but the space also featured a cobweb-coated chandelier and many multiarmed candelabras. Shelves overflowed with bottles and jars and phials, books, scrolls, and knic
kknacks. The bric-a-brac spilled onto the floor, as well.

  “Apologies for the mess,” he said, shifting a pile of books off one chair. “This is my father’s workshop. I’m not inclined to clean up in here in case—when he wakes up and wants to use it again.”

  Hettie waved him off, distracted. A copy of the Arcanum lay closed on a lectern in the corner. Newhaven’s salon had a copy of the sorcerer’s quintessential spell book, too. She wondered if the massive tome had anything useful to say about the soothsayers’ blackout, but then she realized Patrice Favreau would surely have looked there and beyond for answers to the mysterious loss of her colleagues’ scrying abilities.

  A map of the province was pinned to one wall. Arrows and runes were printed in neat, tiny script all over, but Hettie could discern no pattern to the notations. Her job was to write the numbers she’d recorded into arrows and runes on the map. It took Raúl a long time to explain how the runes worked, but once she had it figured out, she set herself to the task.

  Abby curled up on a pallet on the floor in the corner and promptly fell asleep. Her behavior reminded Hettie so much of Cymon, her chest tightened.

  “Does she have nightmares often?” Raúl asked, watching from his armchair where he read a book.

  Hettie lifted a shoulder. “Now and again, like any child. But she’s never moved furniture around the way she did last night.”

  “It may be that her powers are stronger here because of the node. Have you noticed any increase in her abilities as your neared the village?”

  Maybe, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with their journey south. She didn’t want to go into the ordeal Abby had faced with Zavi, her death, and the bargain that had brought her back as a blood drinker. It would bring up too many questions.

  When Hettie didn’t respond, Raúl sighed. “I understand that you don’t trust me. Be assured, I only want to help her learn how to control her powers. After last night, I’d think you’d realize she needs guidance—someone who can show her how to keep her gift from affecting others.”