He lowered his chin. “I am sorry you must carry this burden.”
She rubbed her itching palms together nervously. “There must be something you can do. I can’t hang on to it forever.”
“You must. You are each other’s custodians, inseparable until your dying day.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head. “I can sense that you were tested together, your bond forged in fire.”
Hettie hadn’t told anyone about her journey to hell. Not even Uncle. The old sorcerer had sold her love for her parents to the devil in exchange for her life, and she hadn’t exactly been grateful about it. Hettie had made a similar deal for Abby’s, and she’d come back a bloodsucker. Forced to face that fact, Hettie didn’t much like herself for her hypocrisy.
But she was so tired of hiding the truth. Javier Punta was an ancient and renowned sorcerer. Maybe he’d have a solution to Abby’s unnatural blood hunger.
“Where do I begin?” she asked on a weak laugh.
“Where all tales do. At the beginning.” Javier settled into his bed.
Hettie began her story in Montana, on a ranch with her ma, pa, Abby, Cymon, and Uncle. She went on about Newhaven, about the day she’d first met Walker Woodroffe at a shooting contest. It had been the same day she’d saved Ling Tsang from a gang of hoodlums. The day she’d killed a man in self-defense. The day everything went wrong.
She told him about how Butch Crowe’s gang, backed by a Kukulos warlock, had killed her family and nearly killed her in Crowe’s mad quest to find Diablo. She told him about how Uncle had bargained for her life with the devil. She told him about how she’d gone to hell and back to rescue her sister from the Crowe gang, and all their adventures along the way. Then she explained how her pa, John Alabama, had once wielded the mage gun as the legendary outlaw Elias Blackthorn, and how years before she was born Uncle had tracked John down, spared his life, and helped him build a new one.
“So it runs in your family,” Javier said. “In your blood.”
“It was a mistake,” she said. “I opened the box it was sealed in. Uncle brought me back from the brink of death so I could. Sometimes I think he shouldn’t have…” She trailed off.
“It’s no coincidence that your father was the one who took Diablo from its place among thieves and murderers. It is no coincidence that his life was spared by your uncle Jeremiah’s bullet, or that you were spared by Butch Crowe’s.” Javier folded his hands. “Divine and infernal forces are at work.”
She didn’t much cozy to anyone dictating her life, gods and demons included. But as Pa used to say, life dealt cards blindly.
She’d been dealt the ultimate hand—a power few could wield. Pa had hung on to Diablo without letting it corrupt him for over twenty years: she vowed to do the same. “If I’m going to be Diablo’s caretaker, I need to know as much about it as possible.”
He nodded sagely. “I will answer any questions you have.”
She had so many, it took her a moment to collect her thoughts. “The stories say that you trapped a demon inside a revolver. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and … well, this is a Colt, a lot like my pa’s. They didn’t make these until a few years ago, but you’re … um, a lot older.”
Javier chuckled. “You’re very perceptive.” He beckoned her closer. “If I may, you should see Diablo in its original form.”
She leaned in. He pressed his palm lightly against her brow and murmured a few words, then took his hand away. Stars danced in her eyes, and she blinked them away. “Now look.”
She conjured the revolver without thinking and jumped in surprise.
The thing in her hand was solid and heavy like a gun, had the smooth black grip and cool matte black metal barrel, but she saw something else, too. Like a living thing, only made of light with dark blotches coursing over and through it, squirming like worms or flowing like blood. She squinted, trying to see something more—a face, perhaps, though why she thought there’d be a face she couldn’t say.
“Part of Diablo’s power is that it conforms to the wielder’s thoughts,” Punta said. “It changes with each person who holds it. When I first created it, it took the form of a single-shot pistola. Not that it ever needed reloading in any mundane sense of the word.”
It conforms to the wielder’s thoughts … Maybe that explained why she’d been able to close Juan’s wounds with it, despite its murderous intent.
She had so many other questions about her visions, the time bubble, the revolver’s other fantastic powers. But she found herself asking, “Why did you create it?”
Punta sank back. “In a word, hubris. I only meant to protect the people I loved. All my life I have been hounded by those who sought to control my power—bandits, military, politicians … even my own family.”
A deep sadness glazed his eyes. He went on. “I needed a symbol, an ally to show these people I had the means to protect myself. Once upon a time, staffs and wands were the sorcerers’ symbols of power, but they have grown out of style, except to a few adherents of the old ways. Perhaps you’ve seen my son’s baton? It was once part of another sorcerer’s staff, lost to time now. Raúl does like the old ways best.” He smiled briefly.
“A mage gun, however … creating one was a real show of skill. Few sorcerers can make them; metal and magic do not mix. But I was young and proud and foolish. I wanted my enemies to know I was not to be trifled with. So I endeavored to bind the infernal powers of a demon to my weapon. I did not understand the consequences of my actions…” He looked away. “I did not understand he could not be controlled as Diablo was.”
Goose bumps erupted along Hettie’s arms. “Who is he?”
He paused. “Do you believe in God, Hettie Alabama?”
“I’ve been to hell,” she said matter-of-factly, though she wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “It’d be mighty odd if I didn’t believe in the other place, too.” Not after what she’d been through, though she doubted she’d ever have a chance to confirm it.
Javier pressed his palms together. “One of the rules of magic is that there must always be balance. For all the good magic can do, there are always consequences.” He closed his eyes. “Creating an infernal mage gun demanded the highest of prices. I summoned the demon from hell and bound it to my weapon, but I did not realize at the time that my spell would also summon a divine entity to wield it.”
Hettie’s snakebit hand throbbed, and she felt something cold slither through her. “A divine entity?”
“The powers of a true demon can only be controlled by someone with pure intent and righteousness. Someone above mortal concerns, someone who does not seek power over others. Anyone lesser would corrupt Diablo’s purpose, slide the scale too far into darkness.”
Hettie felt lightheaded. “You’re … you’re talking about an angel.”
“His name was Abzavine.” The words fell at her feet like heavy stones. “When Diablo was created, he was dragged down from heaven and given corporeal form to act as guardian of the infernal power. He is immortal, and a sorcerer of the highest order. He was the one who funneled the magic at this natural node point and built the wall around the village to protect me and the mage gun. He taught me how to use Diablo, how to control it. And he helped prolong my life—it was my duty, he said, to be Diablo’s caretaker. I think he was perhaps punishing me in his own way for tearing him from his home.”
She swallowed thickly. “So … how did you end up losing Diablo?”
“In its quest for the secret that made our home so rich in magic, the military laid siege to our village. As a divine entity, Abzavine was sworn not interfere with human affairs. His perceived indifference soured many of the villagers who’d lost loved ones in the attacks. I lent Diablo to one of my most trusted friends so that he might lead a charge to drive our assailants away while I defended the people within the walls. After the battle, he disappeared with Diablo.
�
��Abzavine was furious with me. He’d told me never to relinquish the weapon to anyone else. The angel left us then to find Diablo. He was angry, and he promised he would return to teach me a lesson. It has been more than a hundred years,” he said wearily. “And still, I await his return. I never thought I would see Diablo again before I saw Abzavine.”
Hettie absorbed the man’s words, but her mind lingered on the angel and the broken statue in the courtyard that had seemed so familiar to her.
Abzavine.
Zavi.
She was certain they were one and the same. It explained the Kukulos warlock’s phenomenal powers, his ability to lend his magic out so readily. It explained why he wasn’t affected by Diablo’s blast.
“That broken statue in the courtyard—”
“The villagers smashed it after he left. They did not think him worthy of their … devotion.”
Two or more generations later Zavi had been forgotten, relegated to an obscure corner of the courtyard, his legacy hushed, buried.
The fallen angel of Villa del Punta who’d nearly brought the world to an end.
“I think I may know what became of your angel,” she said, and proceeded to tell him about the warlock who’d kidnapped Abby. Javier’s expression grew more and more troubled, and when she told him about using Diablo to drop a ton of rock onto the angel, Punta closed his eyes.
“I did not think he would fall so far,” Punta said, disturbed. “An eternal life in heaven has no time or meaning, but he told me once … living on this plane, with mortals dying all around him to mark the passage of time, drove him to distraction. He didn’t like impermanence. He thought we were feckless and changeable creatures. He came to resent the village, and me, over time.”
And so he’d decided to end the world. She couldn’t know the warlock angel’s twisted mind, and yet, deep down, she knew this had to be the answer.
“But … I killed him,” she said, hesitating. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”
Punta’s violet eyes fixed on her. “You may have stopped him for a time,” he croaked, “but he cannot be killed. As long as Diablo exists, so will he.” He looked up into her face despondently. “Abzavine is most assuredly alive.”
Hettie continued to visit with Javier every night that week for a few hours after the rest of the house had gone to bed, though he did not summon her through the dream interpolation again. She asked about magic and about how the Devil’s Revolver worked. He told her as much about Diablo’s powers as he could, but the weapon she possessed had grown in its abilities since he’d wielded it.
“It’s possible that he has learned to accommodate and supplement his owner’s skill set.” He gazed at the weapon Hettie laid on the bedcovers, passing a hand over it. “This … time bubble you spoke of, and the visions … have you only seen the future?”
“Possible futures, though maybe that’s just my imagination.”
Javier tugged his beard. “Perhaps he thinks you do not act quickly enough.”
Hettie frowned. “Diablo thinks I’m slow?”
“Slow-acting compared to his previous wielders, perhaps.” The old sorcerer smiled. “If the legends of Elias Blackthorn are true, then Diablo has been in the company of many quick-tempered men who shoot first and ask no questions. You are more careful in your actions. It’s likely he is simply giving you the tools you need to achieve your goals.”
“What else can he do?” She still found it strange referring to the mage gun as a person, and a male at that.
Javier shrugged. “As with many gifts, we can’t tell until he has been pushed to his limits. You have already accomplished more than I thought possible.” He gave a phlegmy cough, and Hettie brought him a glass of water. It took a while for the coughing to subside.
“Should I call for someone?” she asked, concerned.
He waved her off. “I am simply old. Older than I should be.” His eyes grew distant. “Some people will not accept that I am not long for this world.”
“People like Raúl?”
His lips twitched. “You are perceptive. Yes, my son will not let go. At the first sign of distress, he insisted on putting a sleep spell on me to preserve my strength. I did not want to at first, but…” He shrugged. “It is no way to live, but I can barely tell anymore. I sleep so often, the place between dream and awake has become more home to me than these walls.” He gazed around forlornly.
“Are you telling me that Raúl has been keeping you asleep?”
He folded his hands. “What he does is out of love for me and our people. Still…” He trailed off.
Anger and pity surged through her at the thought, not just because Raúl had lied to her about his father’s coma, but for Javier as well. The old man didn’t want her to think the worst of his son. But he was being kept a prisoner in his own home, probably drugged or magicked into a stupor so Raúl could preserve the village’s barrier spell. Considering the power struggle she’d witnessed between Raúl and Beatrice Woodroffe, perhaps he was aiming to take over as leader of the village.
She confronted Raúl the next morning. The moment she spotted him at the breakfast table, she pointed a finger at him. “You’ve been lying to me.”
He blinked at her, his expression relentlessly neutral. “Have I?”
“You told me Javier was in a coma. You didn’t say it was a magically induced coma. You could’ve woken him at any time, but you kept me and Walker away from him for weeks.”
His brow creased, and his expression shuttered. “I do not understand where this is coming from. Are you making up stories in your head?”
“I’ve been talking to your father. He told me you’ve been keeping him asleep.”
His eyes narrowed. “And when, exactly, have you been speaking to him?”
Maybe he’d used a truthtelling spell on her, because instead of telling him that was not the point, she answered, “At night.”
“You’ve been disturbing my father’s recovery?” He looked a little more than irate. “Have you not done enough harm with your meddling?”
She stiffened her spine. “He was the one who summoned me. And it’s a good thing—he told me you’ve been putting him under sleep spells.”
“For his own good,” he bit out. “He is over two hundred years old—magic or no, he is old and needs rest. And the way the villagers pester him with their petty problems, as if he can solve all their woes with a wave of his hand, they will kill him before he can regain his strength. No one seems to understand that their safety and security depends on his well-being!”
Because as long as Punta lived, the barrier spell remained. She understood Raúl’s reasoning, but she was not assuaged.
Abby appeared then, looking between them with wide eyes. She’d never liked it when people fought. Unfortunately Hettie was too worked up to stop her tirade. “How do I know you didn’t do something to your own father to make him lose his power over Diablo? What if you’re trying to take it for yourself?”
His nostrils flared. “I understand you are upset, but I learned the lessons my father taught me about Diablo. Believe me when I say that I have no desire whatsoever to wield that gun.”
Strangely, she did believe it. His look of sheer loathing told her he was being honest. She wondered how much of the story of Abzavine he’d been told. He straightened. “My interest in El Diablo is entirely academic and, I hope you realize, altruistic. I am certain I can restore your lost years and undo your blood bond with Abby’s help.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Forget it. I don’t want Abby involved in this anymore.”
Raúl’s eyes hardened, and he tilted his chin up. “That is not your choice to make. Abby is the only one who can decide that for herself.”
She shook her head. “I’m her guardian, and I say I don’t want you teaching her anymore.”
“No, Hettie!
” Abby cried. “I want to learn more magic!”
Her sister’s outburst startled her. She turned. “You don’t have to do anything he says. Not anymore.”
“But I’m learning. I can do things.”
“You get too tired.”
“I’m not tired.” She rubbed her tear-rimmed eyes, sniffling.
“Hush now. This is for your own good.” She glared at Raúl, who watched them passively.
“You should understand my position with my father. I couldn’t stand by and watch his health decline, just as you would not want to see your sister in distress.” Raúl continued more gently, “If you want any chance of breaking the curse, you must let Abby continue her studies with me. The solstice is coming. We don’t have much time left to train.”
Abby gripped her hand. “Please, Hettie. I can help. I want to help.”
Hettie ground her jaw. This could be her only chance to free herself from Diablo. If everything Javier had said was true, then Zavi was alive somewhere out there, and he would eventually find Diablo and Abby along with it.
Getting rid of Diablo was her best hope at shaking the avenging angel.
In the following weeks, Abby’s exhaustion became more and more apparent. Constantly training for the solstice ritual meant she was hungry all the time, and Hettie had to feed her twice a day to sustain her strength and focus.
Hettie noticed her sister growing moodier and more belligerent by the day, too. She’d always been docile and compliant, but one night at dinner Abby snapped at her for hovering. She’d never lashed out like that before, and Hettie told Raúl she did not care for her sister’s tone.
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