“I need to rebuild my strength. If I can put up a new barrier, we will not need to abandon the village.”
“No, Raúl, wait!” But he’d already run off. The stubborn idiot. He was in complete denial if he thought he could save his home.
If Raúl wasn’t going to do what needed to be done, she’d have to find someone the villagers would listen to. She scanned the roofs and highest vantage points in search of Walker. If she knew the sharpshooting bounty hunter at all, he would pick a place to snipe from, but she didn’t see him.
Two men hurried past, carrying an injured man on a makeshift pallet. She followed them to where she knew she’d find at least one Woodroffe.
The infirmary was packed with villagers, screaming and crying, covered in blood and dust and bruises. Beatrice Woodroffe shouted instructions at her helpers as she stitched closed a man’s bullet wound. Her blood-soaked apron and arms told Hettie it had already been a long night. “Beatrice!”
Her eyes widened. “You! What are you—?”
There wasn’t time to explain herself or apologize. “We have to get everyone out of the village.”
“And go where? If you haven’t noticed—”
A thunderous boom shook the ground, and everyone cowered.
“Listen to me. Julia was the one who summoned the chupacabra. She’s been borrowing Raúl’s magic and controlling the creatures. She’s awoken a whole nest of them—hundreds of those things are on their way here to destroy the army, and they’ll kill everyone in the village once they’re done with them. Julia’s long gone. If we’re going to survive this, we need to get everyone to the cornfields right now.”
Blood spurted from the man’s bullet wound, splashing across Beatrice’s chest. She jammed her thumb into the hole despite his screams. “Why should I trust you? You killed my husband.” Her grief bore the crackled glaze of righteous fury, but her tone was cold and sharp, excoriating Hettie as readily as a scalpel.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but you have to believe me. Abby and I were miles away, safe and in the clear. We could have left. But we came back here to help.” She didn’t have time to be nice about it. “You can do whatever you want. Either way, the army’s on your doorstep and the chupacabra are coming. If you don’t believe me, that’s on you.”
Beatrice clenched her jaw, the chill in her eyes changing to fire. She shouted instructions, and people jumped to obey her orders, collecting the patients and all the supplies they could. The tension inside Hettie’s chest eased fractionally. “Where’s Walker?” she asked. It’d been too much to hope he’d be here.
“Leading the men on the gantry.”
Hettie ran outside, ducking against the percussive rain of explosions and El Toro’s earsplitting amplified taunts. She climbed the stair to the gantry, searching for Walker. Fire tinted the sky burnt orange, and the greasy black smoke took on the scent of charred flesh. Men young and old unloaded their weapons into the darkness between volleys from the enemy. Chips of brick and stone rained from the walls the villagers used for cover. Their faces were set like stone, but she could see their courage was eroding as quickly as the wall.
The ground shuddered, and the main gates rocked. Men shouted as they barricaded the doors, placing large beams and rolling carts into place, piling whatever they could in front to brace the gate.
Suddenly the planks splintered as the hornlike nose of the Mechanikal behemoth bulged through. The creak and groan of metal on wood sang a chorus with the roar of an engine. Then the gates burst from their hinges and toppled to the ground. The behemoth rolled slowly but steadily through, its metal treads chewing up the barricade like it was tinder.
Hettie had to slow the machine and stop the army from rushing the gate. She conjured Diablo, its appetite for death and destruction making the bones in her wrist creak.
She shut her eyes. Listen. I can’t afford any extra years right now. I can’t be out of commission for even a second. I need you to do this without hurting me.
Slowly the Devil’s Revolver lightened. She was almost surprised that it had relented.
Hettie unleashed molten green fire beneath the behemoth’s treads. The ground glowed green-white, cooling to yellow, then orange as the earth melted into a pool of fire. The machine pitched over and sank with a great metallic groan, blocking the entryway.
The men on the gantry cheered. But their victory was short-lived; an artillery shell exploded against the wall, hurling three men off. Hettie checked them quickly—all dead. None of them were Walker.
She could stay up on the wall and fight with the men, maybe slow the army’s progress. But she also knew there were high-level sorcerers among the army, and it seemed they hadn’t been deployed yet. There was no telling what they would do. Her first priority had to be evacuating as many people as possible, and that meant finding Walker.
Hettie ran for the stable, where many of the horses paced and whinnied in alarm. Horace had one of the meanest stallions by the bridle. He said something close to the horse’s ear, and the great beast headed straight for the gate at a brisk trot.
He grimaced as she approached. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“I couldn’t leave you all to die.”
He didn’t know all the facts, but he seemed to understand right away. “You didn’t take Las Furias,” he noted.
“There was no time.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry, Hettie. I should’ve done more to stop the mob, but … I was a coward.”
“No time for apologies. Get as many horses and saddles as you can gather and bring them—”
“To the corn.” He nodded. “I heard from Marco. I put his family on Las Furias and stuck around to get the rest out.”
An explosion rocked the air. Hettie’s heart sank as the upper compartment of the behemoth detached from the lower, treaded wheels and rolled off the platform. The machine churned into the square. The turret atop the vehicle pivoted, aiming at its abandoned lower shell wedged in the gateway. A resounding blast, and the smaller machine blew apart the blockage in a shower of metal and dirt.
The smoke cleared. And the army rushed in.
“They’re still in there. You feel it?”
Ling set his jaw as another fireball whooshed up from the village. If Abigail Alabama was hurt or killed in this attack, his mission would be an utter failure. “Do they have to use mortars?”
“They’re strategic.” El Toro’s amplified voice fairly shouted in his ear. The general himself was watching from behind the front lines. “Targeted explosions to drive the vermin from their nest.”
Stubbs shifted in the saddle. “Either way, fortune’s with us. Javier Punta must’ve finally bought the farm. With the barrier spell down, all the extra sorcerers Cabello’s brought aren’t going to have much to do now.”
It also meant Ling and Stubbs wouldn’t be of any use to the general, either, making them entirely expendable.
“We still have to deal with the sorcerers in the village,” Cabello promised. “And Punta’s sons. My sorcerers are working on a blanket sleep spell to quash the rebellion, but it takes time to prepare.”
Ling didn’t see why they hadn’t done that in the first place rather than waste men and bullets on a full-frontal assault. But Cabello seemed to be more interested in total annihilation than a bloodless campaign.
Cymon whimpered as another mortar shell smashed into the walled village, sending up a plume of dirt and smoke.
Ling closed his eyes against the screams carrying on the wind. As a Paladin healer, he could sense when people were hurt. There were a lot of gunshot wounds, internal bleeds, a few missing limbs. He had to shut off his senses to avoid being overwhelmed.
He opened his third eye, seeking out Abby. The purplish tint of her magic was strong in the central square. It drifted toward the west gate, but from there it disappeared entirely.
>
Why the army wasn’t attacking from both fronts confused Ling, but he said nothing. This whole campaign was already bloodier than necessary, and it jeopardized everything he and Stubbs had worked toward. Besides, they could hardly conspire with General Cabello and their “escort” listening in. The four soldiers were there for their “protection,” but Ling was certain they’d shoot them as soon as the fighting was done and Cabello had what he wanted.
Cymon tugged on his chain and whined. He’d been doing so since they’d arrived, his nose firmly pointed toward the western side of the village. Ling cast Stubbs another sidelong look, and the Pinkerton agent notched up his chin in understanding. None of the soldiers seemed to think an agitated dog on the battlefield was out of the ordinary, but the American agents knew of the mutt’s devotion to the Alabamas.
“If I may, general,” Stubbs said to the air, “I think I can lend your men on the western flank a hand with a shielding spell. They’re getting hammered by cover fire.”
“Very generous of you, Mr. Stubbs. But I would not want you to get hurt in the skirmish. My men will escort you, for your protection.”
The four hard-jawed escorts surrounded them, and together they spurred their mounts forward. Cymon followed, tongue lolling as they picked up speed, and he loped down the hill. Stubbs cast Ling the barest look before he extracted a charm from his saddlebag and began uttering an incantation.
The shimmer of power rippled outward. Ling had no offensive magic he could use—his oath prevented him from doing harm—so he drew his pistol and checked the load. He was not keen on shooting anyone if he didn’t have to, though.
“Get in close, fellas,” Stubbs said, and kicked his horse to a gallop. “I don’t want any of you getting caught in the spell’s backwash and knocking you off your horses.”
Ling drew back slightly, feeling the magic gather to a focal point in Stubbs’s hand. He let his horse lag and crouched low right before the Pinkerton agent unleashed the spell.
The four guards toppled from their horses. Cymon stumbled with a yelp, but in moments he shook his giant head and trotted after the agents. Ling caught up with Stubbs.
“Don’t worry, they ain’t dead,” he reassured him, catching the healer’s frown. “Unless someone decides to pick ’em off, that is.”
They steered their horses toward the western gate. Cabello hadn’t even sent a scout this way, which seemed odd for a battle sorcerer of his caliber. Surely he could detect the enchantment on the land.
Then again, maybe he couldn’t. He was juiced and had his powers stretched thin and in all different directions. That was the problem with the kind of control El Toro sought over his men: he couldn’t sustain all his spells and be aware of the more subtle magics around him.
Ling opened his senses. Something shimmered on the edge of his peripheral vision, but before he could discern what it was the horses were veering away and back toward the command post.
Stubbs reined in his mount and stared at the empty space around the gate. “The barrier spell is down. But there’s something else here.”
“Old magic.” Ling closed his eyes, sifting through the tiny vibrations around them. “Older than the barrier spell. Old as the land.”
“Natural magic?”
He nodded. He reached out, touching the air. There was power there. It buffeted him back like a barest of breezes, turning his attention away as if to inform him something much more interesting lurked to the right. “The people who lived here before the Spanish came must have enchanted the land to protect them from invaders.”
“Didn’t work out too well for them, apparently.”
Ling grimaced. “There are always loopholes in such magics, always weaknesses we cannot see. Such protection spells do not account for the changeable intentions of a friendly expedition of foreigners.” He took a deep breath. “I hope your intentions are as pure as mine, Stubbs. You have to vow in your heart to do no harm to the inhabitants. Otherwise this will not work.”
“Far as I’m concerned, I only have one mission,” the agent grumbled. It didn’t reassure Ling as he’d hoped, but if Thomas Stubbs believed it enough for them to counter the spell, that was all that mattered.
Ling sized up the empty space before him. “We’re not a danger to the population. We’re only here for two foreigners.” He willed his intention into his words.
There was a rustle and a sigh. As if they’d been transported to another world, they were suddenly surrounded on all sides by cornstalks that towered high above them.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Stubbs brushed a leaf, hissed as the blade scraped along his skin. “Ooh, nasty. This stuff will make you do more than itch.”
The leaves of the cornstalks were soft on Ling’s skin. It meant Stubbs’s intentions weren’t to be trusted. Ling would have to keep an eye on him.
Tail wagging hard, Cymon shot off into the corn, leaping through the lush greenery as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Of course, the mutt’s intentions were pure, so he wouldn’t be affected. Ling and Stubbs spurred their mounts on, following a path that revealed itself before them foot by foot.
Suddenly the trail opened into a clearing full of frightened, wide-eyed villagers.
The shock of his appearance had Ling reacting a second too late. The barrels of half a dozen guns met his eye.
Gunfire zipped around Hettie, and she scrambled for cover. The sting of a bullet across her forearm made her drop into her syrup world on instinct. She took a moment to stanch the graze, then continued her search for Walker, worry growing the longer it took to find him.
A horizontal rainfall of bullets streaked the air, and she swatted them away to clear a path. The scorching-hot slugs smarted like beestings. Picking up a wooden club, she batted a few away from one villager’s head. The club chipped into splinters. She couldn’t keep this up—every bullet she touched loosened her grip on the time bubble.
Finally she spotted the bounty hunter atop the gantry, rifle in one hand, revolver in the other. A nearly empty bandolier of bullets crossed his chest. When she reached the top of the steps, she was breathless. The resolve hardening his eyes told her he was willing to die tonight.
She wouldn’t let that happen. She placed her hands over his. The syrup pulled away from him as he entered her time bubble with a sharp inhale.
“Hettie.” His arms flexed, and she pushed his weapons away gently. Even in as desperate a situation as theirs, Diablo wouldn’t allow her to handle any other firearm, and she didn’t want to burn her hands on Walker’s guns.
Confusion and then wonder contorted his face. He stared at a bullet swimming leisurely through the air. “How are you doing this?” Then he spotted her bleeding arm. “You’re hurt.”
“Listen, we don’t have forever.” She explained the plan to him and started to lead him down the steps. “I’ve already sent your mother ahead. Word’s spreading. Get to the farm quick. Escape’s the only option now.”
“I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about the army.” He grimaced at the wavering flames dancing across the village rooftops. “But I have to buy time to get everyone out.”
Hettie glared at the bounty hunter. “Don’t be a martyr. Your mother’s waiting for you. You need to go right now.”
He smiled sadly. “This is my home, and these are my people. In my father’s absence”—he swallowed thickly and looked away—“I’m responsible for protecting them.”
“Then protect them. Go to the farm. Lead them out of this mess.” She didn’t understand why the idiot was suddenly being noble and self-sacrificing.
He shook his head. “My brother is the rightful leader. My place is here.”
“Forget Raúl. He’s the one who’s responsible for all this.” But that wasn’t true. Her throat burned. “The only reason this is happening is because I killed your father. It’s my fault.” Tears welled in
her eyes. Her cheeks heated—she did not want Walker to see her cry.
His lips twisted, and his brows drew together. He looked away. “I don’t blame you for it, Hettie. You … you had to have your reasons, and my father … I think I understand why he wanted to die. I’ve been away too long to know him anymore, but I had his magic for thirteen years. I understand the burden he carried. It’s not fair, but it is what it is. None of this is your fault.”
“Of course it is!” Her gut burned. “You’re supposed to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said softly. “It’s why I have to stay.”
She pushed him hard, sobs climbing up her throat to strangle her. “You have to go. I can’t be responsible for your death, too.”
“Hettie…”
“Go!” she screamed. Her fist bounced against his chest harmlessly. “You have to leave!”
Walker grabbed her wrist, drew her against him, and pressed his lips to hers.
Fire raced through her blood and over her skin. She curled her arms over Walker’s broad shoulders, felt the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, so alive and vital and there. He deepened the kiss as if they had all the time in the world.
And maybe they did. Maybe she could stretch this moment out forever.
It was tempting.
She pulled back and slapped him. “How could you?”
“Easily.” He rubbed his cheek but was smirking nonetheless. “Been meaning to do that since I first saw you fire that Winchester in Newhaven.” His gaze lingered on her, and she flushed hot. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
She wasn’t angry at him for kissing her—not exactly. But now she knew what she’d miss if he was killed. She pointed. “Get to the farm!”
“No.” He smiled slyly, gaze flicking up and down her body as if he knew some secret about her now. Heat suffused her head to toe.
She clenched her fists. “Fine.” She brandished Diablo and turned to face their foes. “I guess we’re dying here together.”
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