Slowly he slid back the viewing panel. It was totally dark within. The singing continued with another discordant verse.
The thick wood wasn’t magicked, but it had been braced with iron, which negated many direct unlocking spells. There were other ways around that, though. Jeremiah traced around the edge of the lock mechanism with a piece of chalk, then retraced the path with charcoal. As he uttered the incantation, the lines flared white-hot. In seconds the wood around the lock had burned clean through.
The singing stopped. Jeremiah wiped his brow, drew his sidearm, and kicked the bolt. The lock popped out of the door and clattered to the floor inside the cell.
The door swung open. He stepped in, covering his nose against the putrid stench.
When his eyes finally adjusted and tracked the movement in the corner, he kept his lips tight to hold in the scream climbing up his throat.
The distant baying of a coyote made Hettie’s hair stand on end. It was answered by a second howl, and suddenly a whole chorus yipped and yowled beneath the full, waxy moon. She closed the shutters and rubbed her arms.
She hadn’t seen Abby all day. Her sister had been with Raúl, preparing for the ceremony to lift Diablo’s curse. The sorcerer hadn’t even had lunch. Hettie worried that without a blood feeding, Abby might not be able to function.
She’d tried to visit Javier earlier—she’d feel better about this ceremony if he could assure her, or even be present. But she found the flinty-eyed Luis guarding his door.
“Señor Punta is sleeping,” he’d said, shifting his rifle from one arm to the other. “He is not to be disturbed.”
Apparently Raúl had put the guard on his father’s door. But why? Did he think Javier would try to talk her out of the ceremony? Did he think Diablo would harm its maker somehow? She’d been visiting him regularly, so the only reason she could think of was that Raúl was serious about letting his father rest.
Or making him rest. It wasn’t inconceivable the guard was there to keep Javier in rather than people out.
Stay out of local politics, Uncle’s voice reminded her sternly. Tonight was her one shot at being free of Diablo. She had to focus on that and Abby’s safety.
She glided her thumb along the revolver’s grip and the matte black finish of the barrel. She placed it deliberately on the windowsill and walked away, but her eyes kept going back to it. She would not summon it. If this spell worked, she would never have to see it again.
“Hettie?”
Diablo leaped into her palm. Walker stood in her doorway, eyes shifting between the mage gun and her face. He licked his lips, and she tightened her grip. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She shoved the revolver back into her pocket and sat on her trembling hands. “What do you want?”
“Raúl sent me to get you. It’s time.”
She stood, smoothing a hand over her hair. It was finally starting to grow out some, but it still didn’t cover the scar across her cheek and temple. She tilted her chin down as she passed Walker in the doorway.
“Hettie—” He touched her elbow, but seemed to think better of it and withdrew his hand. Her heartbeat kicked up another notch, and she forced herself not to flinch.
“What?”
His eyes were always narrowed as if he were looking to some other time and place through the wrong end of a dusty spyglass. But right now, confined within the space of the door frame with only a few inches between them, it was like he could only see her.
“I’m sorry for what happened … before.”
She had to break eye contact. “It wasn’t you. You were—”
“It was me, Hettie. If you hadn’t been there, I might’ve hurt Abby. I might’ve—” He closed his eyes. “I did hurt you.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “I can take my licks and give ’em back.” She started to turn away, but Walker stopped her.
“You don’t have to do this. If things go wrong … there’s no telling what might happen.”
“I know.” Raúl had briefed her on the procedure. When the ritual began, Abby would siphon off as much of Diablo’s power as she could and feed it into Raúl, who would turn the magic back onto itself to sever the bond between Diablo and Hettie. It was like tricking a snake into biting itself, he’d explained. The only problem was this had never been done before, so there was no telling what kind of consequences there might be.
She reminded herself that Diablo had almost killed Walker when he’d attacked her. And it had come to her defense when Abby had fed on her too long. She couldn’t risk hurting the people around her again. Diablo was like a rabid dog—it had to be put down for all their sakes.
Walker followed her to the horse paddocks. They were far enough from the rest of the buildings to ensure that if anything happened it would not spread into important and inhabited areas of the village.
A containment circle had been drawn in the main spellground in the middle of the paddock. A long piece of hemp twine strung with various protection charms was woven around the fence to act as a secondary barrier. Raúl and Abby were already there with lamps and candles. Several other gifted men from the village were checking out the containment circles. Abby moved lethargically, and Hettie worried. She should have fed her before this, but it would be hard to explain their prolonged absence if they disappeared now.
“We’re almost ready,” Raúl said. “I just need some of your blood to add to the gris-gris.”
“You’re using voodoo?” Walker stepped forward. “You didn’t say anything about mixing magics.”
“Don’t be so provincial, brother. There is no such thing as pure magic, and no such difficulty mixing it, either. Rituals are just procedures built upon years of slowly changing traditions. Different cultures access power via their own rituals. This voodoo spell in combination with a few others is the best way I know to achieve our goals.” He held out a knife to Hettie. “I need about a tablespoon.”
“Give me that.” Walker snatched the dagger out of Raúl’s hands. “Can I have a word alone with Hettie?”
Raúl raised an eyebrow and walked away, directing the men to take their places around the paddock.
The bounty hunter turned to her. “I may not have all his training, but I do know what I’m talking about. I’ve told you before everyone has a different theory about where their magic comes from, but that’s all it is. Theory. Belief. That’s why we can’t risk mixing them up. We’ve no idea how they’ll interact, or even if they work together.”
“But Uncle mixes magics all the time.”
“JB’s experienced, and he knows what he’s doing. My brother may be educated, but God knows what he’s cobbled together for this spell. The results are unpredictable at best, disastrous at worst.”
Diablo whispered at her to listen to him. But she could hardly trust the mage gun, or Walker for that matter. What if he was still craving magic? What if he simply wanted her to relinquish Diablo to him?
She couldn’t wait for another solstice to find out. “Raúl wouldn’t do this if he thought he’d put me and Abby in serious danger. I have to give this a chance.” She held her hand out.
Walker grudgingly passed her the knife. Raúl came to her with a small bowl, and she sliced the palm of her left hand, letting some of the blood pool before pouring it into the bowl. Raúl bandaged her hand. “The ceremony might undo any recent spells performed on you, so I don’t want to use any healing on you right now.”
“What about all my other injuries? And Jeremiah’s protection spells?” She thought about the magic Ling had used to heal her various wounds.
“Anything performed before yesterday should remain intact.” His gaze shifted. “I hope.”
She rubbed her scarred temple. Well, if this didn’t work, a cut on her hand would be the least of her worries.
Raúl instructed her to enter the paddock. Abby stood by the
fence, wearing a simple robe of undyed cotton. She was methodically lighting candles from a long black taper, her eyes slightly unfocused. Hot wax dripped down her forearms, but she didn’t seem to notice.
The neigh of a horse had her looking up. Las Furias were watching from their corral. So was Blackie. He blew out stiffly and gave a shrill call that was either a warning or a wish for good luck.
“Stand here, please.” Raúl gestured at the center of a large symbol drawn on the ground with colored sand—a series of triangles and lines that meant little to Hettie. Various talismans rested at different points of the geometric shape: a snakeskin, a bundle of quartz tied together with twine, a large striped feather, a freshly slaughtered chicken, the bowl of her blood, and various other items. She knew they were all oriented to align with the movement of stars and winds and such, but the finer details were beyond her understanding.
“I need you to place Diablo in this box.” He held out a metal chest.
She looked at him skeptically. “You know I can summon it through pretty much anything, right?”
Raúl didn’t reply except with a tight pursing of his lips. She put the revolver into the box, but her touch lingered.
Last chance, came the whispered thought.
She withdrew her hand, and Raúl snapped the box shut. She felt a thread of connection tauten between her chest and the mage gun. For some reason she thought about the night Abby was taken, the night the ranch burned, the night her parents had died, the night she was almost killed …
“Hettie?” Abby’s sunken, violet eyes glowed huge in the dark, and they canted to the bowl of blood. “I’m hungry.”
Maybe it would be better if she put this off. Abby had some intense work ahead of her, and she needed sustenance. But before she could voice her concern, Raúl called.
“Come, Abby. Hettie, stay there.” Her sister shuffled toward the sorcerer—at least she was still responsive. Maybe everything would be fine …
The men moved into position. Walker jumped over the fence, out of the paddock and the protective circle. He watched her worriedly.
The night sky was clear, and a light breeze blew in from the south. The torchlight around them cast warm, flickering shadows. But when the men began chanting, the breeze stopped, and the firelight dimmed as if someone had thrown a gauzy cover over her head.
The stillness pressed in on Hettie, stifling her senses like a wet wool blanket. Her ears felt stuffed up, and the pressure behind her eyeballs increased until she thought they might burst from her skull. Words she didn’t understand throbbed through her. She couldn’t see, but somehow she could sense Abby there, drawing something off her, as if she were pulling on an unending thread in an effort to unravel the blanket suffocating her.
And then came the tug. Her chest constricted. A second tug, much harder, had her collapsing to her knees. She clutched her heart, trying hard to scream, “No!” But it came again and again, tearing at the fabric of her being. She hung on tight, hands clawed, every muscle straining to hold her soul together.
An insidious whisper coaxed her from within.
Let go. Let go, Hettie. It’s all right.
“I can’t.”
Let it go. This is for the best.
“You don’t know that.”
The air chilled, and an icy burn began in her lungs.
Mine.
“No.”
mine.
“No!” She slapped at the piercing talons tearing at her, saw through the golden syrup haze of her time bubble a hundred thousand little snakes striking at her, nibbling away, punching tiny fang marks into her flesh. With a cry, Diablo flew into her palm. The moment they connected, the snakes recoiled and evaporated.
An inhuman cry pierced the night as the spell collapsed. Hettie gasped, taking in a lungful of air as the bubble of time exploded. The wash of magic receded like the scrabble of sticky fingers over her skin.
She lay still for a long time, barely registering the darkness pricked with a million little points of light above her. Stars. The sky. This was not hell. She was still alive and breathing. And somewhere, very nearby, was Abby.
She sat up slowly, only realizing as she propped herself up that she had Diablo clutched firmly in her fist.
Hello.
Raúl had failed.
Some of the torches had gone out. Others had been knocked down. The sand that made up the diagram she lay in had melted into crusts of sooty, sparkling glass. The talismans smoldered. The twine containment circle around the paddock was on fire, and the men who were not laid flat on the ground scrambled to beat the flames out.
Walker knelt by her side. “What happened?” she asked. Her head spun as he helped her to her feet.
“The confinement spell didn’t work. You summoned Diablo and that box just … melted.” He pointed to where Raúl stood grimacing at a pile of slag.
She spotted her sister sitting on the ground in shock. Hettie pushed Walker away and checked Abby over carefully. “Are you all right?”
“Hungry.” It came out a whisper.
Right. “I need to take my sister to bed. She needs to rest.”
“Not yet. We need to make sure you haven’t been … compromised.” Walker instructed one of the men to bring Abby indoors.
“I’ll be right there,” she promised Abby as she was led away. Then she turned to Walker. “What do you mean by compromised?”
“Those were some powerful magics at play, Hettie. There can be … side effects.”
“If you’re talking about demon possession, I can tell you right now I’m fine.” Demon possession had been known to happen among blood magic users, mostly. “Besides, I think Diablo would’ve scared off any spirit trying to take over my body.” She pushed the mage gun back into her pocket, then started toward the gate, but she collapsed to her wobbling knees as a rushing sound filled her ears.
Walker was at her side in an instant. “She’s clean, brother,” Raúl called. “Those effects you’re feeling are simply fatigue,” the sorcerer explained ruefully, as though he blamed her for his failure. “The spell tested your bond to Diablo to its limits.”
“So … that’s it. I can’t be separated from Diablo.”
Raúl grimaced. “No. I couldn’t lift or reverse the curse, either. I’m afraid—”
Someone shouted, and men ran toward the far end of the corral to the paddocks where the horses were kept.
“What the…” Walker stood, hand on his sidearm. “Stay here.”
The men shouted in Spanish, rifles raised and pointed toward Blackie’s paddock. Hettie’s heart hammered. “What’re you doing?” She elbowed her way through the men, Diablo in hand. Was it another chupacabra?
She looked all around, searching for Blackie. Had he gotten loose?
No. Not loose. Instead, there was a naked man lying facedown in the sand. His night-dark skin shone wetly, as if he’d been born full-grown from the earth itself.
He stirred, a hand reaching and spasming, fingers curling and uncurling. He looked up then, a long, handsome, smoothly shaved face. His soulful eyes shone as they anchored onto her.
The men cocked their guns.
“Stop. Stop!” She ran forward and put herself between the villagers and the man. “Don’t shoot!”
“Hettie, what are you doing?” Walker cried.
“It’s him.” She stared down. “It’s Blackie.”
I’ve never encountered a transmutation curse as powerful or as complicated as this one,” Raúl explained a day later. They’d gathered in the church to discuss “Blackie,” who’d been taken to the infirmary after his collapse and was being cared for by Beatrice. “He’s not a Were. He isn’t even gifted. Someone very powerful turned that man into a horse. I can’t begin to fathom how long he’s been cursed.”
Hettie had heard plenty of stories of witches and wa
rlocks hexing people they didn’t like. The Division had outlawed such spells centuries ago and had burned or locked away all the texts about transmutation. Weres and other transfigurations were considered travesties against nature by most of the world’s sorcery communities.
“How come no one noticed Blackie wasn’t supposed to be a horse before?” she asked.
“It’s like looking for a pin in a pile of needles and not being told that’s what you’re looking for. Even a good sorcerer wouldn’t be able to sense anything more than an inkling of magic, and he’d assume it was for increasing the horse’s intelligence or stamina.” Walker grimaced. “Raúl’s spell of undoing must have broken the curse.”
“But who’d do such a thing to the poor man? And why?”
They wouldn’t get the answers for another day. It was late the following afternoon when Hettie received a message that el Negro was awake and asking to speak to her.
“Blackie” sat up in bed, wolfing down a bowl of thick porridge. The man’s broad chest and thick muscles strained against the seams of his linen shirt. His large hands cupped the large bowl with ease. He made Walker look tiny in comparison.
He slurped the last of the porridge, scraping the bowl with the spoon. Walker’s mother chuckled. “It’s refreshing to see a patient enjoying my gruel.”
“Pray you’ll forgive my manners, madam.” The man’s deep baritone made Hettie’s insides quaver. His broad grin lit the room. “I’ve eaten in some of the finest restaurants in New York, Chicago, and Boston, but I’ve never had such delicious sustenance as this. It would nourish fallen Icarus and make him sprout real wings with which to fly.”
“Charmer!” Beatrice laughed and took his bowl. “You behave, and maybe I’ll get you another bowl.”
“Fair lady, I would bathe the feet of lepers for another taste.” He pressed his palms together and bowed his head, smiling mischievously.
Walker rolled his eyes. “He’s a talker, this one.”
“Forgive my verbosity. Years of enforced silence have inspired me to flex my linguistic skills. Ah, here is my savior.” The man sat forward. “Miss Hettie Alabama. I am ever so grateful to you for breaking that curse.”
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