“I didn’t make any kind of deal.” She put the book down onto a table. “I would never do anything like that. I don’t even know how to.”
Patrice held her gaze. “Perhaps it wasn’t you … but a proxy.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that at some point, someone took you to the brink of death and traded a piece of you off without you knowing it.”
Her stomach squirmed. The roast beef wasn’t sitting so well now. “That’s insane.” You’re insane. Hettie spun away from her, went to the window. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” But even as she spoke the words, she knew it wasn’t true. Something had been missing—she’d known since she’d woken up from death that the void in her was unnatural; that thoughts of her parents rendered her numb. She simply hadn’t understood why, nor had she wanted to acknowledge it.
“I know it sounds like the ramblings of an old woman, but it makes sense to me. I can’t explain how else you might be having these visions if you weren’t gifted before. You can’t borrow magic unwillingly, so it’s not as though someone juiced you without your knowledge. Necromancy, soothsaying, and telepathy aren’t like other magics. They’re not talents that can be passed on person to person. Which leads me to believe Diablo’s powers are leaking into the hole in your soul.”
Hettie squeezed the flesh between her eyes where a headache was forming. “It’s just a gun. Why would it need the power to see the future? How is that even possible?”
“If the legends about Diablo are true, that mage gun has a demon bound to it. It’s an instrument of the devil. Its purpose is to destroy. What better defense does it have than knowing who its enemies are ahead of time?”
“That still doesn’t explain who would want me to have visions, or why.”
“Perhaps this was an unanticipated side effect.”
“You mean, my soul wasn’t traded for power?”
Patrice’s eyes gleamed, her expression inscrutable.
But if that were true, then what would her soul be traded for? What was so vital that someone needed her alive to…
The answer smacked her between the eyes. She reeled. Patrice’s expression sobered as Hettie shot to her feet and bolted for the exit, flinging the double doors open.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Marcus Ginger Beard unstuck himself from his post and followed.
She didn’t answer, nor did he try to stop her as she wound her way through the mansion.
She wasn’t sure how, but when she saw a pair of doors guarded by two men, she knew she’d found the right room.
She faced them full on and brandished Diablo. “Stop me and you’ll regret it.”
The men stepped away from the double doors quickly. She flung them open.
The salon sported cheery yellow wallpaper and fancy gilded chairs. Walker, Ling, and Uncle sat rigidly facing each other, arranged around a low rectangular filigreed coffee table, their feet flat on the ground, palms resting on their knees.
“Miss Hettie!” Ling cried as she entered.
“Good gods, we thought you were being tortured.” Walker’s head tilted back in relief.
She barely heard them. She headed straight toward Jeremiah, her vision hazy as pieces of a great big puzzle started snapping together in her mind. “You did something to me.”
“Excuse me?” He remained seated, his expression stony.
“There’s a piece of me missing. A piece of my soul. What did you do?”
Uncle paled briefly and looked away. Hettie’s hands clenched and unclenched, jaw grinding. “Tell me.”
“What’s going on, Bassett?” Walker asked. “What’s she talking about?”
“I’ll tell you what’s happening. This is the home of the Soothsayer of the South. Patrice Favreau told me part of me is missing. It’s why I’m having visions of Abby when I never could before. You left a hole in me. You took a piece of me out and gave it to the devil!” She slammed her hands on the armrests. “What did you take?” Deep down, she knew the answer. But she had to hear it from Uncle.
When he didn’t answer, Diablo leaped into her hand. She pointed it at Jeremiah’s head, trigger finger twitching. “You’ve been lying to me since the day I was born.” She’d felt as though a hole were expanding in her chest. She’d tried to ignore it, tried to focus on finding Abby and staying alive. But that emptiness had consumed her, slowly but surely. “You took my soul. Now I’m half a woman, and not even that. You think this is what Pa wanted for me?”
“I did this for John,” he barked, hurt shining in his eyes. “He made me promise to take care of you, so I did. I pulled you out of death’s clutches. But there had to be a trade-off. Life for a piece of you.”
Blood rushed through her ears. “What piece?” she asked again, just above a whisper.
Jeremiah’s gaze didn’t waver. “Love … for your parents.”
Her vision blurred. Her arms lost all strength and flopped to her sides, and she dropped the gun.
“You traded love for life?” Ling whispered, horrified.
“A soul’s no good to a dead girl.” Uncle’s coldly detached voice was like a razor-sharp blade slicing through her—it took a moment to feel the bite. “It was the only way. The only piece you could afford. I was doing you a favor. You wouldn’t have survived if I didn’t cut that piece out anyhow. You’d have died of a broken heart.”
“A hole in your soul … So that’s what I couldn’t heal,” Ling murmured.
“It’s why Diablo likes her so much, isn’t it? The Devil’s Revolver doesn’t bind itself to just anyone and allow them to conjure it.” Walker strained in the chair, his body flexing though he still didn’t stand. “Was that your plan all along? Attach her to it like a ball and chain until you knew how to better control it yourself?”
“You don’t know anything, you swaggering, juiced-up pretender,” the old man snapped. “I’ve done my best by her and her pa. Always have, always will.”
“Which is why you’d shoot her sooner than let Diablo fall into another’s hands.”
“There are things you don’t understand about that gun.” Shadows deepened his eyes, and he heaved a long, frustrated sigh. “I didn’t think she’d open the damn box. I didn’t think she’d be dumb enough to steal the thing from me, much less touch the box with her blood on her hands.”
“The box…” Hettie spoke the words distantly. “It could only be opened by my blood.”
“Your father’s blood. Alabama blood.”
“Is that why you kept me alive? So you’d have a way to open the box?” She leaned heavily against a side table.
He stared down at his lap.
Pa had told Uncle to leave with that box. He’d planned to take his family away in the opposite direction. He’d known there would be no way to open that box unless his blood—or his children’s—was used. And if Butch had killed them all…
But he hadn’t. He’d kept Abby in reserve. And then Uncle had come back and found Hettie, salvaging what he could…
Her wrist strained as she raised the gun once more. “This is all about Diablo. You just wanted the revolver.” Her pulse pounded in her throat.
The old man hissed through his teeth. “I don’t want or need that blasted—”
“Stop lying. I should be dead. I should be with them.” She tried to summon a feeling of warmth for her mother and father, but when she thought of them, she felt … nothing. It was like digging her hands into the sand and expecting to find diamonds. She remembered the life they’d shared, yet none of those moments elicited more than mild apathy, as if all she’d done was read a boring textbook about her parents. The harder she tried to feel something for them, the more alien they seemed. “They killed Ma and Pa and me for this. But you … you took my parents away from me.” That violation, more than anything, made her cock the gun.
Jeremiah Bassett gazed down the barrel of the Devil’s Revolver, his eyes going flat. “You’re not going to pull that trigger, Hettie.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re not the one in control. Diablo’s got a mind of its own. It was built to do one thing—kill. And it’s not going to let a little girl stop it.” His eyes flickered to her tenuous grip. “The longer you keep it from achieving its purpose, the harder it’ll be to master. When you pull that trigger, I know it won’t be you. It’ll never be you.”
Her rage flickered like a wildfire in a rainstorm, and yet she was cold. So cold. “I’m the one pointing Diablo at you. I’m the one who’s bonded to it. I am in control.”
“So pull the trigger. I’ve stared down that muzzle before, and down the barrels of a hundred other guns before that. An angry little girl doesn’t scare me as much as the thought of Diablo landing in the wrong hands. If I thought it’d bring me peace to go quietly, I’d draw and make you shoot me now. But it won’t. So I’ll say my peace now and let you get it over with.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “For all of your stubborn, ill-conceived impetuousness … I forgive you, Hettie.”
She set her teeth. She could pull the trigger. Blow his brains out and remove one more problem from her already messed-up life. What did she have to lose? She’d already killed six men—what was one more Judas?
Seven, a voice in the back of her head prompted. The first man she’d ever killed had been the one she’d shot in Newhaven, back when all this had begun with Ling, with Walker, with her pa killing Shadow Frank. She looked down at the stained ivory grip, blood oozing from her trigger finger stigmata. Her hands would never be clean.
“That’s enough, Miss Alabama.” Patrice’s wheelchair glided to her side. She placed a withered hand over her arm.
The pressure inside her eased, the heat of her anger dissipating. With effort, she stepped away, pocketing the Devil’s Revolver. Marcus entered the room and took a post by the door, feet apart, arms folded as he studied her intently. Hettie wheeled away and faced the large bay window, her emotions in a tumult. Her eyes unfocused as she traced the gaps of darkness around the silhouette of city lights in the distance.
“Patrice Favreau, I assume.” Walker nodded toward the older woman.
“Precisely, Mr. Woodroffe.” She preened. “I see why my granddaughter was so taken with you.”
“If you’re expecting a gentlemanly bow, you’re gonna be waiting awhile,” Uncle harrumphed.
“It’s for your own good,” Marcus said sharply.
“Marcus, Miss Alabama and her friends are our guests. I think we should allow them this courtesy at least.” Patrice waved a hand and gave a dismissive word. The three men sagged as their invisible bonds released. “My apologies for the precautions, gentlemen. My head of security can be somewhat … enthusiastic when it comes to neutralizing threats to me and mine.”
Hettie sensed Walker at her side. “Are you all right?”
She took a moment to gather her voice. “I keep thinking about my parents.” She stared out into nothing, clutching the window frame. “I remember all the things they did for me, but I don’t know who they are anymore. They’re like strangers I lived with. I don’t feel for them like I should. And I feel bad because I don’t feel anything.”
“I think it’s about as close as you can feel to love for them right now.” He settled a warm, strong hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, imagining it was her father trying to offer comfort. Nothing.
She shrugged off his hand and took a stiff step back. “How are the rest of you doing?”
“Just a little bruised pride, I think. There’s some pretty strong suppression magic here, but it seems to be just on us.” He eyed Marcus. “Ling busted a few noses when they took those bags off our heads. He might have taken a few hits to his ribs, but he won’t admit he’s in pain.”
“Please accept my humblest apologies for this treatment,” Patrice said. Evidently, she’d overheard them. “I didn’t mean you any harm.”
“Could’ve fooled us,” Jeremiah muttered. Hettie glowered at him, irked by his rudeness, but also cross with him in general. She wasn’t sure she could ever forgive him.
“To be fair, you did hold my daughter and her companion at knifepoint.” Patrice smiled tightly. “I’d like you all to stay here as long as you need. I know you’ll want to continue your search for Abigail Alabama. I will provide whatever assistance I can.”
“Why?” Ling asked, suspicious. “What’s in it for you?”
The old woman favored him with a cool look. “There is more going on than we think. For the past several months, my visions have been growing fainter, as if they’re being obscured by a thick, deep shadow. Other soothsayers have told me the same thing has been happening to them. It’s been difficult for those of us who make a living from telling people’s fortunes.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “I would ask that you keep this in strictest confidence.”
Of course Patrice would want that information kept private. If word got out that the soothsaying community could no longer scry the future, people might turn to alternative fortune tellers, who claimed to see the future through tea leaves and crystals. Soothsayers’ rates were absurdly high, after all—no one needed the extra push away from their services.
“From what I know, not even iron or null spells can stop visions from happening. What could obscure soothsaying magic?” Walker asked.
“Old magics. Forbidden magics. But for what purpose they might be used, none of us know.”
“But … Hettie’s had visions of Abby,” Ling pointed out.
“My guess is that Hettie’s unique circumstances, and the fact that Abigail Alabama is something of a magical anomaly, allowed for this to happen.” She explained her theory about Diablo’s magic filling the hole in Hettie’s soul. “Abby used her abilities to reach out to her sister and to me. Perhaps a few other soothsayers have heard her but did not realize who she was.”
“So someone is deliberately obscuring soothsaying magic, and Abby has been the only person who’s broken through this … blackout?”
She tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves. “Blackout … an apt description. Yes, I fear that whoever is responsible may even know Abby has done so.”
“What reason would anyone have to black out soothsayers’ powers?” Walker asked.
“To hide something they don’t want anyone else to see,” Marcus chimed in, stepping farther into the room. “And to preserve the element of surprise. A few sorcerers did it during your Civil War to keep the soothsayers on opposing sides from knowing the others’ plans.”
“Didn’t work well for anyone,” Uncle muttered, and Marcus nodded.
“But what does Abby have to do with all this?”
“I don’t know for sure. But it’s no coincidence that Abby is connected somehow. Someone took her from the ranch. They would not have bothered with a remote Zoom tunnel if they didn’t mean to get her away quickly.” Patrice rubbed her temples and sighed. “My proposal is this: in exchange for your help discovering the cause of this blackout, I will help you find your sister. I will provide transport, weapons, resources, provisions … whatever you need. I have a feeling that wherever Abby is, you’ll also find the answers to our mystery.” She nodded. “Do we have a deal?”
Her gaze was fixed on Hettie. She wasn’t asking Walker, an experienced bounty hunter, or Uncle, a former division man, or Ling. She was asking Hettie. This was her choice to make.
The Favreaus’ resources were more than she could ever dream of. But what was the catch? Patrice was wealthy beyond imagination, yet she hadn’t employed anyone else to take on this quest. Hettie couldn’t help her suspicious nature, so she didn’t respond.
“You need time to think about it,” the soothsayer reasoned, nodding. “I understand. Sleep on it, and we can discuss things in the morning.”
Patrice’s wheelchair glided toward the door. “Rooms and meals have been prepared for you all. You are free to roam the grounds, but I suggest you not venture beyond the perimeter. There are a great many dangers beyond the gate.”
Was that a warning or a threat? Hettie wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
A servant led them to rooms on the second floor of the three-story mansion. Hettie’s was located at the end of the long, carpeted hall. It was so finely furnished she was afraid to step in and dirty the floors.
A mostly silent but extremely efficient maid directed her to the bath, hastily taking her soiled clothing away to be laundered. At first Hettie wasn’t sure she wanted to bathe—it felt wrong to be luxuriating while Abby was still missing—but she was sore and needed to drown out Uncle’s betrayal. The moment she stepped into the clawfoot tub, all her reservations fled, and she sank into the hot, scented bathwater.
She soaked her head and shampooed her oily, matted hair, combing the short length until it felt like silk. The water turned brown-gray with old blood and dirt. She scrubbed every inch and rubbed her skin with scented oils from a basket the maid had left. Hettie had never felt so decadent or spoiled. All her injuries and the aches of weeks of riding leached out of her muscles. She closed her eyes with a sigh, letting her head dip back until her ears were submerged underwater.
Hettie … Hettie, please…
Her eyes snapped open, and she bolted upright. No one was in the room with her.
She stared at the murky bathwater. Carefully, she lay back, pinching her nose shut as she slid under.
It’s dark here, Hettie. There are rats and big bugs I don’t like. I miss the sun, and Ma and Pa and you and Uncle and Cymon. I miss the farm. Why won’t you come, Hettie?
I’m coming, Hettie called back, practically shouting. I’m coming and I’m bringing help. Tell me where you are!
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