The Devil's Standoff

by V. S. McGrath

  “It’s really you, isn’t it?” She approached, feeling a little unsteady. “You’re … you were Blackie.”

  “Not the most original moniker I’ve ever borne. Apologies for my current state”—he gestured magnanimously at his bedridden form—“I am still weak from my transformation. But I am forgetting my manners. Eight years in the form of a horse has left me a little rusty in the niceties of social protocol. Yes, I was the horse you befriended whom you called Blackie. Eight years ago, I was known as Horace Washington, and would greatly appreciate being called so once more.”

  “Your name’s Horace?” Walker asked incredulously.

  “The irony is not lost on me, Mr. Woodroffe. But my cursed form wasn’t a play on my name—which was not the one my mother gave me—as much as my profession.” He winked at Hettie. “White folks have a peculiar habit of giving me whatever name they see fit.”

  Hettie cringed. “How did this happen to you?”

  “I was a hostler who started with nothing and built myself a fine business. I plied horseflesh all along the East Coast, set up important men with fine stallions and their pretty daughters with gentle fillies. I was even welcome in some salons—can you imagine?” He gave a rueful chuckle. “Then I crossed paths with a Kukulos warlock and his cult of hooded sorcerers.” His smile faded, and he glanced down at his hands. “It wasn’t natural to them that a negro should be on the same footing with white folks.”

  Hettie frowned. “So what happened?”

  “They fell upon me and my crew one night while we were in transit. The Kukulos strung up my men, took my horses. And then they turned me into a beast of burden to show me my place.”

  “That’s some mighty strong magics,” Walker said, his tone just shy of skeptical.

  “There were seven of them with middling gifts. I’m no sorcerer, but I know my magic classes, and these men were well-educated and well-equipped, not some band of ragtag hatemongers. And they were organized.” His ominous tone sent a chill along Hettie’s spine. “In a matter of minutes, I had gone from man to beast. And it was the lead warlock’s intention to break me and ride me till I died. But it is always hubris that claims such men in the end.”

  “You got away?”

  “I did. Right after I kicked the man’s skull in.” He smirked. “I suspect that’s a hanging offense.”

  “Welcome to the club.” The corner of Walker’s mouth curved up. “So you’ve been on the lam ever since?”

  “Looking for a way to break this curse, yes. When no solution was forthcoming, I thought I’d be content to live among the wild horses in Wyoming. And then you came along, Miss Alabama.” He turned adoring eyes upon her. “You and your soft words, hard head, and big heart. You could’ve lured any of the mustangs away, but you came after me. It was kismet.”

  Walker cleared his throat loudly, and when he did, Hettie realized she’d been inching closer, drawn by Horace’s story and that smooth, deep voice with its refined words and lilting accent. She sat back, heat suffusing her cheeks.

  “So it wasn’t by chance that Hettie managed to … tame you,” Walker prompted.

  “With all due respect to your skills and abilities, Miss Alabama—or your rough hands, Mr. Woodroffe—I am not a man who can be tamed.” He flashed a wicked smile.

  It was Walker’s turn to flush. Cheeky charmer, indeed.

  Hettie cleared her throat. “I’m sorry for … for everything I’ve put you through.” Suddenly every harsh word, every instance she’d kicked him or tried to spur him to go faster, loomed up in her mind. She remembered how Abby had geised him to turn around when she’d tried to send them back to the village during the chupacabra attack and how mad Blackie—Horace—had been. She wanted to hide her face. “I had every intention of setting you free,” Hettie said, guilt eating her stomach away.

  “Of course you did.” He nodded. “But my interests were here, with the Sorcerers Puntas, and with you. You saved my life when those cougars had me trapped in the canyon. You brought me to this place and helped release me from this curse. And so I am indebted to you. When I have reclaimed my wealth, I will see to it that you and your dear sister are well compensated.”

  Hettie smiled politely. Was the man delusional? Had eight years as a horse addled his mind? Even if anything he said were true, she was an outlaw. The word of a negro, even a rich one, probably wouldn’t exonerate her.

  “One step at a time,” Walker said. “Get your strength back. You’re welcome here in Villa del Punta for as long as you need, Mr. Washington.”

  “You are a true gentleman, Mr. Woodroffe.” He bowed his head graciously. “I promise not to occupy your household longer than necessary. I am eager to return to my life, but not before repaying you and the lovely residents of this town.”

  Mrs. Woodroffe returned with another bowl of gruel, and Horace Washington took to it as a horse to a bucket of oats, if a horse could be taught to use a spoon. His hearty laughter and flirtatious banter with his nurse followed Hettie and Walker as they exited.

  “You believe him?” Walker asked when they were out of earshot.

  “Don’t you?”

  Walker’s narrowed gaze scanned the wall. “A transformation spell takes a lot of effort and planning. It’s not something any old sorcerer can whip up on the fly, much less seven of them. Whoever hexed him had to have planned it for a long time, so I have to wonder what Mr. Washington’s left out of his story to warrant such a complex revenge.”

  Hettie chewed on that. She didn’t want to be suspicious, but Walker’s reasoning made sense.

  Then again, considering she was a wanted outlaw, she hardly thought anything about Horace could be quite so bad.

  General Vidal “El Toro” Cabello had certainly earned his name, Ling thought grimly. The man looked like a bull walking around on tiny hind legs. He stood a good head above Ling, with hulking shoulders and a massive barrel chest. Despite being in his sixties, his neatly trimmed black beard was untouched by gray, and his deep bronze skin was nearly wrinkle free.

  “Glamor,” Stubbs told him later, but Ling wasn’t so sure. Cabello could be using a rejuvenation spell, even though they’d been banned because they required children’s blood. Considering the man’s reputation, he wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Thank you for welcoming us into your garrison.” Stubbs’s tone barely hinted at the weeks they’d waited for their guides to bring them to the general.

  “I am never too busy to meet with our allies from the north.” Cabello’s voice echoed through the room as if he were shouting down a long tunnel. The man was wasting magic on a projection spell when it clearly was not needed, probably to intimidate them. The general was a well-known battlefield sorcerer, but the amount of power he was using could not be sustained naturally. If the stories were true, he was borrowing magic from people who’d been coerced into lending him their power.

  Stubbs went on casually. “Tell me, why are your troops camped out here so close to Christmas? You do celebrate it here, don’t you?”

  “Duty takes us where we are needed with no regard to calendar dates.” He rearranged a pile of books on his table. “If you are worried we are preparing for some kind of northern invasion, I can assure you that is not the case, and I certainly would not deign to shed blood on a holy day. We are not barbarians.” He flashed a grin. “My troops are here to root out a more local problem. An … infestation, you might say.”

  “I’ve been hearing about some kind of creature roaming these parts. What’s it called now? Chu … chu…”

  “El chupacabra.” Cabello clapped his enormous hands as fire lit his eyes. “Great sport, those creatures! They’ve been harassing us at night, picking off our guards or mauling the horses. I’ve yet to catch one, but when I do, I will stuff and mount its head and present it to Presidente Diaz.” He laughed heartily, which seemed like the only way a man his size could laugh.
“But that is not the infestation I speak of. There is a much more insidious species of vermin befouling the land. The governor has asked me to help rout them from their nest.”

  “Trouble with the locals, eh?” Stubbs grimaced sympathetically. “Had my share of that back when I was a government man, too.”

  “Not just locals. Religious zealots.” He tapped a finger on a map marked with a red square. “This cult follows a man named Javier Punta and his two-faced dog of a son Raúl. They’ve squatted on that land for over two hundred years, hoarding the much-needed magical power that pools in the vicinity. I’ve heard they perform the darkest magic there, and that Punta himself has used blood magic to sustain his unnaturally long life.”

  Cabello leaned in. “I understand your search for the two fugitive girls may involve Punta’s bastard stepson. A gringo by the name of Walker Woodroffe.”

  Stubbs shrugged. “Woodroffe’s just some bounty hunter, far as I know.” He scratched his chin. “He was working with our government for a time. Not sure where he went after that.”

  Ling marveled at the Pinkerton agent’s ability to dissemble under the Mexican general’s truthtelling spell. It pressed in on all sides, and even though it wasn’t focused on Ling he had to fight the urge to blurt out everything he knew.

  “If the girls are with him, it is a good bet they are in Villa del Punta. We could help each other, you know.” Cabello sat back. “I will not pretend I do not know why you are after them. I sensed them as soon as they crossed the border. There is an unusual amount of magic between these two.” He licked his lips. “I cannot help but conclude they are more than simply runaways.”

  “Your instincts serve you well, sir.” Stubbs chose his words carefully. “You’re right. They’re wanted criminals. Those girls must face justice in our country for the crimes they’ve committed.”

  Cabello considered him with a thoughtful look. “Out of respect for your … sense of justice, I will give you some free information, Señor Stubbs. Our scouts reported that a pair of gringas entered Villa del Punta some months ago. I genuinely fear for their safety—Punta is a polygamist, and has taken child brides. What perversions may visit the young women of Villa del Punta is something that keeps me up at night.”

  Stubbs’s lips crimped. “I shudder at the thought.”

  “There is more. Since their arrival, there have been reports of strange magical manifestations in the area. I have felt ripples of this power for a while, but the sensation when it is fully unleashed…” He trailed off, a glazed look in his eyes between hunger and fear, like a starved wolf considering whether it could take on a full-grown buffalo.

  Ling wondered whether it was Abby’s indigo power or Diablo the general had been sensing. He could feel the Devil’s Revolver when Hettie pulled the trigger and he was within a half a mile or so, but beyond that he hadn’t been able to track the mage gun. Abby’s power resonated differently, and few sorcerers were aware of her gift. They had to be trained to sense it the way he could.

  The general asked, “What did these girls do, exactly?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose the nature of their crimes,” Stubbs replied.

  Cabello regarded him steadily. “I do not think you understand my request, señor. Nor do I believe you grasp the position you are in here.” With barely a nod, six soldiers drew their weapons and surrounded them. Two men hauled Ling out of his chair and pushed him to his knees. Stubbs remained seated, glancing around him curiously.

  The general paced. “We may not seem sophisticated in our methods, but I assure you, we have our sources. We know the prestigious Pinkerton Agency sent their best agents to track down these two girls.” His gaze slid to Ling like oil. “What we don’t know is why.”

  Stubbs didn’t flinch. “You flatter me, sir. This is a routine mission entrusted to a middling agent, at best.”

  El Toro laughed unkindly. “Humility does not suit you, Señor Stubbs. Nor does lying. I can sense both your gifts, even with all those hide spells. You are a master-class sorcerer, not some agency lackey. And this Chino is no mere servant.” He eyed Ling shrewdly. “Did you really think you could hide your power from me? I can smell it like the stink of your people.”

  “So much for cross-border relations.” The Pinkerton agent sighed. “I don’t see what threatening a lowly Chinaman will accomplish. I hardly have enough information to share to make my employers’ wrath worthwhile.”

  Cabello bared his teeth. “Who says I am threatening him?”

  Before he could react, two men dumped Stubbs from his chair. The Pinkerton agent barely got out an exclamation before they kicked his legs out from under him and clamped manacles around his wrists. He struggled, meeting Ling’s eye, face full of fear.

  “That is the problem with you Americans. You think you can come to my country, flash a piece of tin, and do whatever you want, as if the dust on your shoes matters more than the laws and lives and pride of the people you walk all over.” Cabello sneered in disgust as he unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. A tattoo snaked from his palm around his wrist and up his arm—an inscription in Latin written in bloodred ink. It seemed to writhe beneath the man’s dark arm hair, like living vines or tentacles. “We build a wall that touches the sky, and still you crawl through like vermin. You are nothing but snakes in our garden.”

  The men on either side of Stubbs firmed their hold as El Toro stood before him. “Let me show you what happens to snakes.”

  His meaty fingers wrapped around Stubbs’s neck, and he began a chant. Ling could sense as well as see the magic power being drawn off the agent. It appeared to Ling like a bluish vapor being pulled from his skin. It entered El Toro through his tattoos, which glowed bright with power. The general’s eyes darkened, and he inhaled deeply.

  Stubbs gasped, and Ling bit back a cry. The general was taking his magic.

  “Stop,” Ling shouted. “You don’t need to do this.” Nonconsensual magic transference was practically unheard of. Only a few had ever practiced such dark magic. Cabello had shown his hand—he was a Kukulos warlock, and the worst of his kind.

  “So he does speak.” Cabello sneered down at him. “I thought perhaps you were as stupid as your countrymen with their nonsense monkey babble. But I would rather listen to that than this one. He is arrogant.” He squeezed Stubbs’s neck.

  “That may be true, but silencing him will not get you what you want,” Ling said, forcing coolness into his words. He and Stubbs would not escape this interview alive unless Ling thought fast.

  “What I want?” The military man snickered. “Do you think I want anything more than to drain you both dry and then leave your corpses for the buzzards?”

  “I think a smart man like you wants power.” Ling nodded. “Magic power.”

  “When you are powerful enough, you simply take what you want.” His grip around Stubbs’s neck tightened, and the Pinkerton agent gurgled. “Is that not how you Americans do it?”

  “I can offer you something better,” Ling said calmly. “Have you ever heard of a weapon by the name of Diablo?”

  Cabello’s composure fractured briefly, revealing the stain of avarice beneath his polished veneer. He released Stubbs, who sagged to the floor, wheezing. The general stood over Ling, his paunch nearly brushing his nose. “El Diablo is the weapon of Javier Punta. It was lost over a century ago.”

  “What if I told you I know exactly where it is and that you could have it if you let us go?”

  El Toro lifted his chin and snorted. “You do not have such a weapon.”

  “No. But the girls we’re chasing do. That’s what you’ve been feeling all this time. That’s Diablo going off.”

  Stubbs glared at Ling, but Ling ignored him. The general’s attention was riveted. “Go on.”

  “Just as we said, we came to Mexico to retrieve the girls. Mr. Stubbs has the additional incentive to bring Diablo
back with us. The gun means nothing to me, except that the older sister—Hettie Alabama—is Diablo’s wielder. If she’s in Villa del Punta, then Diablo’s with her.” He fixed his gaze on Cabello. “Let us go, and we’ll give you Diablo.”

  “You could be lying.”

  “Why would I? Clearly you have us at a disadvantage. I have no desire to die today.”

  “You stinking traitor!” Stubbs shouted. He got a boot to the ribs for his interruption.

  Ling raised his chin. “Use your truthtelling on me now. Ask me about what I’ve seen, about my search for the girls. I knew nothing about Diablo before I embarked on this mission. I’ll open my mind to you, and you can root through my memories. You are powerful enough to do that, aren’t you?”

  “If you think I’m going to fall for one of your infernal Celestial soul traps, you are sorely mistaken.” Cabello stroked his chin. “But I can tell you speak truly. Diablo is in the village.”

  “Far as we know. Let us help you retrieve it. All we ask in exchange is to be released and allowed to go back to our country unharmed with the girls in our custody.”

  Cabello tilted his head. “I could simply kill you now and get Diablo for myself.”

  Ling shook his head. “If you know anything about the legends, you know a gate to hell will open if the wielder is killed. The only way it can be passed along is if she willingly hands the gun over. I can convince her to do that. We have … history.”

  The general regarded him shrewdly. He nodded to the soldiers, and they lowered their weapons and lifted Stubbs back into his chair. They didn’t remove his manacles. Red-faced, the Pinkerton agent grumbled and swore, coughing. He looked as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t seem to meet Cabello’s juice-darkened eyes. Ling didn’t blame him—he’d been violated, humiliated in front of Ling and all these men, his stolen power shining like oil in Cabello’s uncanny stare.