The Devil's Standoff

by V. S. McGrath

  “You’re free to do what you need to do as long as you don’t hurt anyone else,” Beatrice reiterated. “But I want you think carefully about what that means … for your sister.”

  “Did the manure offend you?” Horace called from the stable doorway. “Because you can’t change its nature, no matter how hard you fling it.”

  Hettie stabbed the pitchfork into the straw. “Just trying to make things right in here.” Her talk with Beatrice had thrown her off so thoroughly, she was no longer sure whether her conversation with Ling and Stubbs had ever happened. Beatrice’s parting words haunted her, too—of course Abby’s safety was her first concern. But was she willing to risk it by fleeing Villa del Punta alone?

  Despite her self-doubts, the sense of imminent danger lingered. All she knew was that she should be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Being near Jezebel and the other horses made her feel better about a speedy escape.

  It occurred to her then that she’d been ignoring her closest ally. She’d spent more time with “Blackie” the horse than Horace Washington the man, and that she hadn’t confided in him last night unsettled her. She’d often visit with the horses when she wanted to get something off her chest—maybe because they didn’t tell her they didn’t believe her. But since Horace’s transformation—or more accurately, his return—she’d kept her distance. Not because he’d been a beast, but perhaps because he was now a man.

  “You know I don’t make up stories, right?” she ventured.

  “Not unless it suits you.” His grin became a smirk.

  She told him about the encounter with Ling and Stubbs and everyone’s reaction to it. Horace’s brow wrinkled. “I know it sounds crazy. And maybe it was just a dream. But I can’t shake this feeling. The chupacabra attack, the weakening of the barrier spell … something’s going on. Walker, Raúl, even Beatrice won’t listen to me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She thought hard. “I need to speak to Javier, but Raúl used a sleeping potion on him, and I think Luis is guarding his door.”

  “Do you believe the sorcerer will help you?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’d feel better if he knew.”

  Horace paused and then beckoned. “I know a way I can help you.” He led her across the village to a house where a young woman was scrubbing laundry. She looked up as they approached, her eyes narrowing on Hettie.

  “Buenos días, Señorita Carrera.” Horace gave a gentlemanly bow, lips parting to flash a brilliant smile.

  The young woman blushed, and her shoulders relaxed. “Buenos días,” she said softly.

  Horace spoke to her in rapid, fluent Spanish. At least it sounded fluent to Hettie. The young woman’s face grew more and more excited as Horace went on, and then she nodded enthusiastically, clasping her hands. “Sí! Sí, sí!” She was all aflutter now, and then she lifted her skirts and ran toward the grand house.

  “That should buy you some time.”

  “I don’t understand? Who was that? What did you say?”

  “That was Maria Carrera, Luis’s daughter. I told her I wanted to have a word with her father about a business matter. Luis tools leather in his spare time—nothing fancy, but he takes pride in his work, even if no one else sees his talent.” At her confused look, he said, “I said I wanted to commission his work for a number of saddles.”

  Hettie lifted an eyebrow. “That’s all?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I might have implied that I wanted to marry her.”

  She scowled. “Am I going to have to rescue you from a shotgun wedding?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll let her down easy. Now you hurry on. If there’s a sleeping potion involved, there’s probably a waking agent nearby—another potion or perhaps some smelling salts. Nurses have to feed their patients now and again, so they need to be roused. I’ll keep Luis talking for as long as I can. You do what you need to do.”

  Javier’s door was locked. Hettie drew Diablo and closed her eyes. I just need to get the door unlocked. Don’t blast the door open, don’t blow holes clear across the room. Just get the lock off … quietly.

  She pulled the trigger, felt the green glow of power in her fingertips, focused and branching out slowly in her mind’s eye. A cloud of latticework bloomed from the barrel of the gun, filled the lock, and dissolved the tumblers within. The bolt turned white-hot, then melted away, sliding down the edge of the door. The acrid smell of burning wood and hot slag filled Hettie’s nostrils.

  She slipped in, gently shutting the door behind her. Javier lay in his bed, arms folded over his front, the sheet pulled up to his chest. His breathing sounded labored.

  She searched around for a waking agent but found nothing. Raúl must have kept it with him. She didn’t have time to go hunting through the house. She approached the bed. “Javier.” She shook him. “I need you to wake up.”

  His breathing stuttered. No sound came from his moving lips. She leaned in closer. “I can’t hear you. Javier, please, wake up.”

  His fingers curled and twitched, the index crooked, almost as if he were pointing …

  No, not pointing. As though he were holding a gun.

  Comprehension dawned slowly. She gently set Diablo on Javier’s chest and moved his hand over it. His grip curled around the weapon, cradling it. Gradually, Javier’s eyes opened, filmy and white, the pupils dilated. He smiled a little sadly. “Yes, it would be you.”

  “Are you all right?” She forgot about her own worries, seeing the pallor on the sorcerer’s face. She noticed Diablo was not searing his palms as it normally would.

  “No.” He sighed and stared at the ceiling blearily. “The army is coming.”

  “You know?”

  “Your friends’ dream interpolation made it through the barrier. I heard them, too.” He shut his eyes. “The army is preparing for a full-on assault. There are at least a dozen high-level sorcerers ready to storm Villa del Punta.”

  Relief and fear flooded Hettie. “You believe me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have to tell Raúl and the others. No one will listen to me.”

  “There’s no point. Raúl is too stubborn, too confident in his abilities, too entrenched in his ways. He clings to this life, as do the others … but that is my fault.”

  Nothing he was saying was making sense. “You’re his father. You’re the leader of this village. The people will listen to you. Order them to evacuate!”

  He smiled sadly at her again. “I am dying, Hettie. I am dying, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

  Her thoughts whirled. Looking into the old sorcerer’s yellowing eyes, she knew he wasn’t simply being maudlin. She swallowed thickly past the cold, inert lump her heart had become. “If you die, the protection spell around the village will be broken.”

  “Yes. Which is why my family has taken to casting spells and drugging me. My son thinks keeping me alive will protect us indefinitely.” He sighed. “But this … this is not life. I cannot hold on to it any more than he can. I will die. The protection barrier will fall.”

  Hettie’s gut burned. All she’d wanted was for someone to believe her, but now she only wanted to be safe. “So … cast a new barrier spell. Raúl can do it, can’t he? He’s been shoring up the spell all this time.”

  “That is not how it works. Abzavine tied that spell to me. The protection barrier is part of what keeps the magic so strong here, like a leather bucket holding water. Once the spell is gone, the magic will seep back into the land. There won’t be enough magic to raise another. The crops will fail, and the fountain will dry up. I do not think anyone will survive here for long, even if they do repel the army.” He closed his eyes.

  “But what is everyone supposed to do without you?”

  “Move on.” He opened his rheumy eyes. “Before the first families settled here, they were fugitives and
refugees, wanderers and seekers escaping oppression, looking for a fresh start. The people are from a long line of survivors, but they have grown too dependent on my magic, and like an overprotective father, I have let them. I have only been keeping myself alive long enough so that I might undo the wrongs I have done. Unmaking Diablo and returning Abzavine to his proper place were to be my final acts.” He sighed heavily. “But I cannot do these things. Whether it is by divine or infernal intention does not matter. It is my time.”

  Hettie fought between fear and anger. “Javier, you can’t just give up. You created this place. You’re responsible for the lives of every man, woman, and child in the village.”

  “I thought I was, once. My hubris made me believe only I could keep my people safe. I even sent my wife’s son away so that I wouldn’t have to leave the village. It should have been me who went to find Diablo, but I was wrapped up in my self-importance. I thought the villagers would be helpless without me. In truth, I am the one who made them helpless.”

  He held out Diablo to her, cradled in both palms like a baby bird. She took it from him, feeling a tug as it left his hands. It hadn’t scalded him. As she placed it back in her pocket, she felt a certain finality. Mourning was the word that came to mind. And she knew then what the mage gun knew: its maker was dying.

  She should call Raúl. Walker. Beatrice. Anyone. Javier needed to have his family here with him. There was no stopping the inevitable.

  “No.” He shook his head, reading the look on her face. “I have said my good-byes, and I am ready. All I need is your help.”

  “My…?” She shook her head, her gorge rising. “No, I can’t. I won’t.”

  “Hettie. I’m in pain. They do not understand the long years I have endured. I am asking you now to help me take the next step.”

  She drew away from him, hot tears burning her eyes. “I … I can’t.”

  “You will. You know that if the village falls, and it will, El Toro and his men will torture me. They will make an example of me. They will keep me just barely alive by the vilest of means so that I may serve as an example, and then they will put me in the Wailing Wall to suffer a slow and agonizing death. I am begging you, do not let this happen.” He pointed with a shaking hand. “There is a phial of amber-colored liquid on that table. Bring it to me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something to help me sleep so I do not … react.” He met her eye. “Raúl never leaves enough here to do me harm, so I will need you to pull Diablo’s trigger.”

  Her skin turned cold. She could not kill Walker’s stepfather.

  Yes, you can.

  Diablo pulsed in her pocket, its weight growing as it sensed a need to fulfill its purpose. Hettie fought it, tried desperately to push it away, but that pulse came again, and it whispered, Everything will be all right.

  She was flooded with a sense of peace. Hettie’s tears stopped abruptly as the grip around her heart eased. An almost unnatural serenity smoothed across her senses, soothing the bone-deep ache in her chest.

  He’s in pain. He lives a half life. Death is not all about punishment. It is also about mercy. You know this.

  She couldn’t deny it. After Uncle had brought her back from the dead, she had wondered if maybe she were being punished. There’d been times when she’d thought death would have been a mercy.

  Limbs leaden, she picked up the phial. She held it for a moment, thinking how easy it would be for her to drink it down herself.

  “Bring it here,” Javier instructed, his voice heavy with relief. “I will need your help to drink it.”

  Hettie slipped an arm around his shoulders and drew him into a half-sitting position propped across her lap. His ribs left clear impressions against her side, and he was frighteningly light. Her hand trembled as she brought the phial to his lips. He licked the rim, tentative as a deer at a stream with the wolves circling. He tipped it back. It took a long time to finish the tiny amount.

  He gave a rumble and settled back into bed.

  “I will sleep now,” he murmured. “And I will be unable to defend myself, not even by instinct. Hettie Alabama”—and here, he took her hand—“I do not wish to wake up again. If I am forced to hold the barrier, I will suffer an unbearable death. The loved ones who went before me are waiting. Promise me I will get to see them.”

  Diablo pulsed a promise in her hand, though Hettie said nothing as her insides turned numb. Javier’s eyes drifted closed, and his chest rose and fell and then went still.

  Hope filled her in the beat of silence that ensued. But she had yet to fulfill her promise.

  She could leave now. Let him sleep. Hope she was wrong about the coming attack, even though she knew she wasn’t. Hope Javier was wrong about the barrier collapsing and him dying a horrible death.

  But she’d made a promise.

  With a sob, Hettie turned her head and pulled Diablo’s trigger.

  All at once the air in the room compressed, and a wave blew through her as Javier’s power bunched, squeezed, then collapsed. Hettie was knocked back as the protection spell surrounding Villa del Punta shattered.

  She wasn’t sure how long she lay on the floor, but she felt a strange wrongness about everything. An oppressive weight drained from her, as if her veins were filled with lead and she were bleeding out.

  Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. The door to the bedroom was flung open. Loud shouts, men, women, wailing and crying.

  And then she was pulled up by her shoulders, and people were shouting at her. Faces—Luis, Rosa, Raúl …

  She couldn’t hear what they were saying. Overlying their angry shouts was a song. Something like a keening dirge, an aria that rang in her ears and sang through her blood. Diablo, she thought with a soft smile to herself. Diablo was mourning its maker.

  Her dreamy interlude faded, and she became aware she was no longer in Javier’s chamber. She was sitting in the dining room, Luis guarding her, his rifle pointed at her knees. The low murmurs of conversation echoed around her. The church bells tolled, and a crowd had gathered outside the great house, their wails rising as news of Javier’s demise spread.

  She snapped out of her daze as Walker cut a swath through the crowd for his mother. The room went silent as the newly widowed Beatrice, red-eyed and pale, made her way up the steps, leaning heavily on Julia’s arm.

  Hettie slowly got to her feet. Walker didn’t look at her as he led his mother upstairs. Julia remained on the landing. She cast a glance toward Hettie, pity, anger, and revulsion telegraphing one single question: Why?

  Hettie was still trying to figure it out for herself. She wanted to say it had been an influence spell—Javier could have hexed her. Or it could have been Diablo’s will that led her to shoot a helpless old man. But the more she thought on it, the more she had to admit it had all been her doing. Her decision. Her convictions hadn’t been firm, but she’d done it anyhow, based on emotion and instinct alone.

  Of course she’d thought about the safety of everyone in the village. Of course she’d factored in the army’s approach and what it meant for her and Abby’s personal well-being. But there’d been something in her that had believed she’d acted correctly. It wasn’t that she thought the villagers deserved annihilation, but deep down, in a tiny dark corner of her spirit, she knew this was somehow the natural law. That she was only facilitating what was supposed to be.

  Not that natural law absolved her in the least.

  The silence from upstairs lasted a long time before Raúl descended, every step ringing with weighty judgment. He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

  “We took you in. We fed and clothed and sheltered you. We welcomed you as one of us.” He didn’t need to speak his accusation out loud, didn’t need to list her transgressions.

  “Your father was in pain. I did only as he asked.” She wasn’t defending herself. There was no righteous fury behin
d her words. Only the truth as she saw it.

  Raúl’s eyes blazed. “How dare you. How dare you make that judgment for us. You know nothing of our way of life. Villa del Punta has endured for nearly two hundred years. It is my father’s legacy.”

  “Javier didn’t want a legacy,” she said. “He wanted to die.”

  “Typical American gringa. You think you know what’s best.” He scowled. “I will deal with you later.”

  Hettie was confined to her room for the day with the ever-vigilant Luis guarding her door. The stifling heat seeped through the shutters, suffocating her, but she refused to open the windows. She could hear the wails and laments of the villagers gathered around the house, and she didn’t want to put faces to them. Even Abby was out with the mourners—Rosa had fetched her at Raúl’s request, barely looking at Hettie as she ushered her sister out. It was clear they intended to separate the sisters permanently, though whether Abby would suffer any repercussions because of what Hettie had done, she couldn’t be sure.

  She contemplated her next move. Taking Abby and leaving Villa del Punta seemed like the best recourse. She wouldn’t be welcome in the village any longer, and there was no way she would leave Abby here, not if there was an army coming.

  But where would they go? Even if she could beg two horses for their departure, they couldn’t return to the States. Ling and Stubbs were too close in her estimation to make a safe escape back across the border. She wasn’t even sure they could cross the Wall again without Coyote.

  At some point she fell asleep. When she woke up it was dark, and her stomach growled. No one had brought her supper, and for some reason that made her tear up more than anything else had in the past twelve hours.