The Devil's Standoff

by V. S. McGrath

  “You mean someone like you.”

  “I am qualified,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Since my father’s illness, I’ve taken over training and educating the gifted children here. I’ve coaxed many latent minor gifts out, as well.”

  Hettie doubted he had ever encountered anyone like Abby, though. Her indigo powers weren’t common, according to Ling, which was why the Division of Sorcery was so interested in her. Besides, Hettie didn’t fully trust Raúl. The man was hiding something.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked, nodding at his book, hoping to distract him.

  “Research. When my father made El Diablo, he bound it with a mixture of several kinds of lock and key spells, but I have no idea which spells he used. If I could produce a master key spell of some kind…”

  She sat forward as hope filled her. “You could unbind it from me?” She hadn’t meant to squeak in excitement, and she pursed her lips now.

  Raúl smiled. “I make no promises. It will take time to find anything that might help.” He laid the book on his lap. “I hope you understand I only want to help you and your sister. I would not trust you any more than you trust me, except that we have my brother’s judgment in common. Walker never made friends easily.”

  After that Hettie kept conversation at a minimum as she worked. It was some time before Abby stirred. Slowly, she propped herself up and yawned.

  “Good morning again, señorita,” Raúl greeted. “I have a task for you. Do you think you would be able to help me?” He didn’t look to Hettie for permission, and it annoyed her, but she didn’t have a chance to protest.

  “With what?” Abby stared up at him.

  He beckoned her over. “I have this drawing here. It has some markings on it, but my eyes aren’t very good. I need help tracing them. Can you see them?” He unrolled a scroll. Hettie only saw a few lines sketched out in a circular pattern, but nothing else. She’d been given something similar when she’d been tested for magical abilities. Numerous spells were written in special magicked inks only the gifted could detect. A sorcerer’s potential was determined by how many spelled lines they could see.

  Raúl handed Abby a piece of charcoal. She placed it on the ground and slowly and carefully filled in radial lines and curves, extending the pattern. Raúl sat back and watched, eyebrows rising as the paper filled with more and markings, runes, and then … a rabbit. Or something that looked like a rabbit. The sorcerer cleared his throat. “What’s that you’re drawing?”

  “Cymon,” she said happily, drawing two more man-shaped blobs next to the rabbit. Her and Abby, she supposed.

  “Cy’s our dog,” Hettie explained. She told him briefly how he’d been left behind at the border.

  Raúl pursed his lips as Abby kept drawing. “Are you done tracing the lines?” he asked finally.

  “Mm-hmm.” She drew a long, squiggly line from Cymon and the blobs to the circle pattern. “Okay.” Finally satisfied, she handed the scroll back to Raúl. “This is for you.”

  “Thank you. It’s very clear now.” There was a hitch in his voice. He studied the sheet wide-eyed. “Would you like more to do?”

  Abby shrugged, and he handed her another scroll. Raúl gestured to Hettie to follow him while Abby worked. “I’ve never seen a complete test diagram before. Minus this”—he pointed at her drawing of Cymon—“Abby can see every spell written on the sheet.” He glanced at the ten-year-old, who was quietly humming to herself. “She may be the most gifted potential I’ve ever encountered.”

  They didn’t go on any more expeditions—the chupacabra attack had made everyone nervous, and the villagers were on alert. They didn’t say it to her face, but Hettie sensed that they believed she and Abby had something to do with the creature’s sudden change in habits. Considering Diablo’s ineffectiveness against the monster, she wasn’t sure they were wrong about that.

  Instead Raúl devoted most of his time in between his various village duties testing her sister and researching Diablo’s curse. Clearly Walker’s brother was an important man in Villa del Punta. People went to him for advice, to mediate disputes, and to get help with spells or talismans. He also tutored the gifted children.

  Raúl insisted Hettie and Abby join the class as observers, though they stopped short of actually participating. “It’s not a good idea,” Hettie told him frankly. “Abby can be … easily distracted.”

  “You won’t know until she tries.” His tone teetered between condescending and critical. She didn’t appreciate his judgment—he had no idea what her sister was like.

  When the students had gathered in the courtyard behind the great house, Raúl greeted his class and in English introduced the girls. There were five students in all, ranging from age twelve to sixteen. They looked nervous and wouldn’t meet Abby’s unblinking violet gaze.

  “Pedro,” the sorcerer addressed the oldest boy, “recite the rules of magic, por favor. In English.”

  The teenager stood. “One: you do not do magic to harm others. Two: you do not waste magic if you do not have to. Three: what is made by magic is shared.”

  “Bueno. Good.” Raúl beamed and said to Hettie, “I give them English lessons occasionally, though others in the village are in charge of the mundane lessons.”

  She nodded, and when he didn’t proceed, she added, “It’s very good.”

  Relief showed in his grin. She wondered whether the praise he sought was for his students or himself.

  The lesson was not what Hettie had expected: she thought they would be casting spells and learning incantations, or maybe reading from spell books. But Raúl spent the first hour meditating with the students, eyes closed, hands resting on their knees, breathing deeply. After a long time squirming and fidgeting, Abby slid to the floor and fell asleep. Hettie’s chin drooped, and though she would have preferred to walk around and get her blood moving, she didn’t want to disturb the other students. So she sat still and let her legs go numb.

  The meditation was followed by an exercise in which they passed a small pebble around and made it glow different hues, the brightness wavering with each pass. Hettie noted the protection circle Raúl drew around the ring of students before the game began. Abby woke up in time to watch as the pebble changed hands, turning warm orange, then bright blue, then strobing rainbow—Pedro’s way of showing off.

  When the lesson ended and the students dispersed, Raúl led the girls back into the great house for lunch. “Did it look like fun to you, Abby?” he asked. “Is it something you’d like to try?”

  Abby didn’t reply. Her attention wandered as a fly buzzed around her head. Raúl called her name several times, but still she did not respond. He looked to Hettie, vexed, but she shrugged. “That first hour wasn’t particularly exciting.”

  “Meditation is important to help sorcerers learn how focus and turn their awareness inward,” he explained. “Abby will need to learn to sit still for a long period if she wants to train.”

  Hettie wouldn’t say anything to encourage her sister. She didn’t like the way the other children had looked at her. Besides, she hoped they would leave once Diablo was back in Javier Punta’s possession and Uncle returned.

  “So those rules … are they universal?” Hettie asked. They sounded vaguely like something her pa had once told her, though he hadn’t attended the Academy. Magic etiquette, he’d called it.

  “They are our rules here in Villa del Punta. I believe the Division Academy has some oath it makes their students recite that is similar, but frankly, you Americans seem to delight in flaunting the rules, even when they are designed to keep you safe.” His lips twisted up wryly. “It is not as if the Division can enforce the latter two rules. The first, however…”

  She thought about the Pinkerton agent Uncle had killed in Newhaven. He’d never told her how he’d done it, but she was certain his head hadn’t exploded by any mundane means. “What’s ‘harm,
’ anyhow? I mean, I’ve seen people use spells to help them hunt game and catch horses. I’ve heard folks have used magic potions to poison people, or spells and talismans to make them do things they don’t want to. How are you supposed to deal with that?”

  Raúl’s smile was sad. “As I say, the Academy makes its students recite an oath. It is not binding, from my understanding. I believe the Division has some rules and means of enforcement, but I do not know how they manage to watch everyone. Certainly not now with this magic drought.

  “Here, we rely on magic as an aid to make our lives better. Growing food, cooking, building and making things that last … We have an abundance of magic, but we only use it to keep us comfortable and safe.”

  “You don’t think magicking food to taste better is a waste? Seems like cheating to me.”

  “Don’t let Rosa hear you say that,” he said seriously. “And no, it is not a waste. Rosa’s mundane cooking is fine, but her skill with magic to enhance flavors…” He made a vague gesture and sighed dreamily. “Her gift is incomparable. It would be a waste not to use it.”

  “Must be nice to be so flush with magic.”

  “I do not take the well for granted,” Raúl conceded. “I realize that as an outsider and a mundane, you are not used to seeing this much magic in use.”

  “Pa was always pretty frugal about using it. We had the usual spells around the ranch—protection spells to keep the herds safe, that kind of thing. He said there was little we needed magic for that hard work and imagination couldn’t get done.”

  “Some things are much easier with magic, though. Practical or otherwise, magic is a force that has touched every aspect of our lives. We in the village have always known that, and consider ourselves blessed.”

  “So … no one’s ever broken these rules of yours? No jealous lovers throwing curses at each other? No gratuitous displays of power?”

  He eyed her steadily. “The people here listen to me and my father. Those who don’t…” He left the sentence hanging. Hettie chewed the inside of her cheek and decided her imagination was sufficient to fill in the blanks.

  After lunch, Hettie transcribed Raúl’s backlogged survey notes while Raúl did more tests with Abby. She developed a crick in her neck, and her eyes grew tired of squinting at the tiny lettering on the map. It was dull, tedious work. She didn’t want to be ungrateful, but she was restless and on edge. Knowing that Uncle was out there with the chupacabra, the Pinkertons, the Division, and everyone else circling did little to soothe her nerves.

  The days fell into a pattern: breakfast, lessons with the gifted, tests with Abby, lunch, chores, and reading. In an effort to better understand the forces within Abby, Hettie had borrowed one of Raúl’s books on magic—one of the few in English he owned. It was all over her head, but she slogged through it and sometimes asked Raúl for clarification or explanation. He did enjoy lecturing her.

  Thankfully Abby didn’t have another nightmare. Even so, the villagers continued to avoid them. Walker was frequently on patrol or volunteering to help a villager fix a roof or mend a fence, as if he were trying to make up for the time he had been away. He took his meals at the great house, but every time he inquired about Javier, Raúl shut him down. The tension between the brothers made everyone lose their appetites. Soon Hettie only saw the bounty hunter in passing, when he would take a moment out of his day to see if she or Abby needed anything before Raúl sent him off on another errand. It was almost as if the sorcerer was trying to keep her and Abby isolated.

  One day Raúl left the girls in the workshop on their own. When Hettie returned from using the facilities, Abby was gone.

  Oh, no. Hettie hurried through the great house, calling her sister’s name. Fear balled in her stomach as she ran outside and scanned the courtyard. At least she wasn’t lying in the fountain surrounded by snakes.

  A teenage serving girl swept the veranda. Hettie asked, “Have you seen Abby?”

  She stared at her blankly.

  “My sister? Um … señorita?” She indicated how tall Abby was, then remembered the word she’d often heard Raúl and Walker use in reference to the sisters. “Hermana?”

  The girl pointed toward the stables.

  In his paddock within the village walls, Blackie swung his head toward her, neighing and pawing at the ground for attention. Abby sat atop the split rail fence in the next paddock over. She turned and waved.

  “Blackie wanted to see you,” she said. “I heard him calling.”

  “What have I told you, Abby? You’re not to wander out of my sight, not even in the village.” Her anger came in waves, mostly aimed at her own carelessness, but the backlash of her self-recriminations caught Abby, and her sister flinched. Hettie tried to modulate her voice. “I was worried sick.”

  “Nothing happened.” Abby’s tone bordered on belligerent, surprising Hettie. Abby wasn’t one to talk back.

  Blackie whinnied. He tossed his head and marched to the far side of the fence, indicating the three mares next door.

  “He wants your help,” Abby explained.

  Hettie studied the three chestnut ponies. The one with the white blaze and white-blond mane danced restlessly, a pronounced stagger to her walk. She gave a fitful whinny and then stopped, stooping low to the ground and collapsing to her knees.

  Hettie had seen this before with some of the mustangs she’d broken for Pa. She jumped the fence. Carefully she approached, not wanting to startle the other horses. “It’s okay, girl,” she cooed as she knelt by the horse’s head. The horse remained still. She brushed her palm over her muzzle and scratched her behind the ear. The horse kicked, startling Hettie, but she laid her palm across her neck and the horse stilled with a pained sigh.

  “Que pasa? What have you done?” A man with a red kerchief tied around his neck ran toward her, his face mottled with anger.

  “She’s got colic,” Hettie said. “She needs help right now. Do you have a bezoar?”

  The man looked stricken, glancing between her and the horse as if unsure he’d understood.

  “If we don’t help her right now, her insides will be so twisted up we’ll have to put her down. Do you have a magicked bezoar?” she repeated sharply.

  “Sí, sí, I will get it.” He shouted instructions at the gathering stable hands. Hettie stayed with the horse, whispering lowly, rubbing soothing circles across her broad neck. The horse rested her head in Hettie’s lap, lying still even though she was probably in excruciating pain.

  Poor thing. Blackie and Abby watched from the other side of the fence. “You knew she was sick, huh?”

  Blackie lowered his head, and Hettie smiled. “Extra oats for you.”

  “Do I get extra oats?” Abby asked from her perch, and Hettie laughed.

  The two other mares in the corral held vigil close by, shoulder to shoulder like sentinels. Worry shone bright in their huge eyes. “She’ll be all right,” she told them, full of confidence. “The bezoar should ease the pain, and once it passes, she’ll be fine.”

  The man in the kerchief returned with a brown lump wrapped in velvet. Bezoars were medical talismans used to pull poison and impurities from the body, and were sometimes charmed to quickly work their way through a digestive tract to clear any blockages. Small ones were sometimes used on people, but Hettie had only seen them used with large animals. Her father had made a few in his time for his horses.

  The man approached cautiously, one eye on the two mares. One of them stomped the ground hard and lowered her head, and he stopped.

  “Easy there,” Hettie admonished the horse. “He doesn’t mean to hurt her. Maybe you should give me that.” She took the bezoar from the man. To the sick mare, she said, “I need you to swallow this, okay?”

  “She will not take anything unless you force it down,” the man said.

  “Well, no wonder she’s got colic, then. You can’t just force th
em to eat.”

  “These three are stubborn. We call them Las Furias. They’ve been unbreakable.”

  Hettie froze. “You telling me these are unbroken mares?” She glanced over her shoulder, keenly aware now how dangerous a situation she was in. Wild horses were unpredictable creatures.

  One of Las Furias took a few menacing steps toward the man, nostrils flaring. He backed away.

  “I’ll take care of this,” she told him. “Just give us some room. I don’t need this girl fighting me.”

  “Señorita, I cannot—”

  “You will, or you’ll have a dead horse on your hands.” She focused back on the horse, who watched her, deep brown eyes pleading. “It’s all right. Just swallow this down, and I promise you’ll feel much better.” She put it under the horse’s lips. It was covered in a slick ichor that was supposed to taste good to horses, but the mare only spat it back out.

  “Aww, c’mon, girl. It can’t be that bad.” She met her gaze squarely. “Do it for me. Or at least, do it for those two. They’re worried about you, can’t you see?”

  She put the bezoar to the mare’s mouth. This time she lipped it up and clamped her teeth around it. Hettie pushed it the rest of the way in and cinched her arms around the animal’s muzzle so she wouldn’t spit it back out. The horse thrashed, wide-eyed. The sisters stomped their hooves in protest.

  Gradually the mare settled. She’d swallowed it down, so Hettie was certain it wasn’t a case of choke, plus there’d been no lumps in her neck. All she could do for now was sit and wait and comfort the animal.

  It was only a few minutes before the horse gave a pained whinny. The bezoar must have found the blockage. The mare rolled to her feet, lifted her tail, and—

  Hettie jumped out of the way as the horse unburdened herself. It seemed like a long time before she was finally done.

  Abby laughed. “All better!” she declared, hopping off the fence.