The Devil's Revolver

by V. S. McGrath

  “Oh, I’m here. And so are you.” In the blink of an eye, he was standing toe-to-toe with her. He brushed his fingertips against her scar. “You can feel this, can’t you?”

  Tendrils like spider web tickled her skin. Distant voices shouted for her from down the corridor. She tried to pull away, but he snatched her hands and gripped them until her fingers ached.

  “No, my sweet, you aren’t going anywhere. The only place you’re going to be is here, within the week. Otherwise, I’m going to have to do something drastic.” He glanced over at Abby.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, leaning as far away from him as she could. Her feet felt as though they’d been glued to the ground.

  “Diablo, of course.” His oily smile revealed brilliant white teeth against red gums. “All you have to do is come to me with the Devil’s Revolver, and I will release your sister. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  She balked. “If you want Diablo so bad, why don’t you come and get it yourself?”

  “I have more pressing matters to attend to. Besides, I don’t think Abby’s well enough to travel just now.”

  Something inside of Hettie clawed its way to the surface. She broke out of Zavi’s hold and pointed Diablo at him. “What have you done to her?”

  He grinned. He had an enormous mouth. When he didn’t respond, she waved the gun at his head. “I said, what have you done?”

  “Hettie, no!” Patrice swung her around, and Hettie stared at her. “You’re straying off the path. You’re going to get lost. This isn’t real.”

  “I see you’ve made allies.”

  Patrice slowly turned. She wasn’t confined to a wheelchair, and she didn’t appear as old as she looked in the real world…

  The real world. This was just a dream. A vision. But Patrice was here with her…

  “Madame Patrice Favreau, it is an honor to meet you.” Zavi swept a low bow.

  Patrice gave a primal cry and lunged, her hands outstretched as if she’d strangle him. Hettie watched in horror as the unearthly beautiful man slugged the woman in the chest. She flew backward. Her body smashed into the wall and fell to a crumpled heap.

  “Patrice!”

  Zavi sighed. “I think you should hurry, Hettie. Abby’s dying to see you.” He stroked her cheek, leaving sticky, clinging threads of sensation. “Don’t dawdle.”

  He waved a hand, and the vision exploded in a shower of light. Hettie reeled back as though she’d been kicked in the head by a horse. When she came to, she was blinking up dazedly at the gilded ceiling of Patrice Favreau’s salon.

  Walker and Uncle helped her into a sitting position. Black spots danced in her vision. “What happened? You went white as a sheet and…” The bounty hunter grimaced, looked behind him.

  Sophie knelt by her grandmother’s side, weeping over the old woman’s prone body. Marcus shouted orders at the servants, who rushed in and out with blankets, hot water, medicine, and talismans. Two sorcerers swinging censers chanted above her, weaving purging spells and protection spells. When Patrice didn’t stir, they carried her out on a stretcher, leaving the room empty except for Hettie and her companions.

  Hettie’s hands started to shake. She looked to Ling. “Can you…?”

  “I already tried. There’s nothing wrong with her body—it’s her mind. It’s not there.”

  She slumped into a chair. This was all her fault. The soothsayer had only been trying to help her find her sister. She forked her fingers through her short hair, trying to recall everything she’d seen. “There was a man. He said his name was Zavi. He has Abby. He wants Diablo.” She gripped her pounding head, unable to shake the afterimage of those black eyes against his white face seemingly burned into her vision.

  “He spoke to you? As in, had a conversation?” Uncle asked.

  Hettie nodded.

  Walker rubbed his jaw. “I’ve never heard of anyone communicating through a vision like this.”

  “Maybe he knew Abby could reach out with this ability,” Ling said. “Maybe he gave her this memory. He’s been waiting for you to reach out to her—perhaps he rehearsed some lines with Abby.”

  “I don’t think so. He wasn’t giving a speech. He was talking to me, just like we are now. And then I pulled Diablo on him.” She pressed a fist against her mouth. “It was just a vision—how could I do that?”

  Walker laid a hand on her shoulder. “What happened to Patrice?”

  She described what she’d seen, told them about what Zavi wanted. The men exchanged disturbed looks.

  “I think … I think he’s going to hurt Abby.” She pushed to her feet. “We need to get to Arizona.”

  “Hang on, Hettie. We shouldn’t go rushing into this with this sorcerer in the mix,” Walker cautioned.

  “He’s powerful, no doubt.” Uncle tugged on his beard. “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, thin, curly blond hair down to here. His eyes were really black.” She shuddered, remembering the dark fire burning in his gaze. She’d almost prefer to face Butch Crowe—at least he was human.

  “Hmm. Must be a Kukulos warlock. Using blood magic turns their eyes all black. They say it’s from staring into the bowels of hell.” Uncle scratched his chin. “Fits with the fact that the Crowes are shape-shifting, assuming this Zavi’s the one they’re with.”

  Hettie chewed on her lip. “We need to get going.”

  “Now wait just a minute.” Walker stood. “Our agreement was that I’d help you get Abby out of the hands of the Crowe gang, not away from some hell-soaked Kukulos warlock.”

  “If you’re too afraid, then now’s the time to back out.”

  The bounty hunter glowered. “I’m not leaving you to do this alone. But I’m not charging in guns blazing, either.”

  “Why not? If we know where they are and we know they have Abby, we can gather a posse and have her out of there in minutes.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this fella’s plans.” Uncle paced. “If he can open remote Zoom tunnels, then why hasn’t he sent men after you the way the Pinks have? Why is he holding Abby hostage and making you go to him? If all he wanted was Diablo, there are a hundred ways someone as powerful as he is could get it.”

  “Mr. Bassett is right,” Ling said. “The Crowe gang came for it first. If they’re working with this Zavi, then they could have been sent to find you any other time you fired it off.”

  “That’s only assuming he’s as powerful or has the resources the Pinks have,” Walker pointed out.

  Uncle grimaced. “The man hijacked a vision to communicate with Hettie and nearly killed one of the world’s most powerful soothsayers. I’d say he’s plenty powerful.”

  “But to what end?” Ling closed his eyes and gripped the back of a chair. “Why does he want Diablo?”

  “I don’t care why,” Hettie said. “He has Abby. My sister is alive, and I intend to bring her home. Come with me or don’t, but I’m leaving.”

  “None of you are going anywhere.” Marcus planted himself in front of the doors, pistols drawn. Hettie’s arm whipped up, revolver in hand, finger poised on the trigger. She imagined the security man staring down Diablo’s lone black eye the same way she stared down those twin mage gun barrels, heart beating hard. The air between them crackled.

  “You people take a young girl hostage, take advantage of my lady’s hospitality, render her senseless, and now you think you’re just going to leave?” His aim didn’t waver. His anger was cool—Hettie sensed she’d find a bullet between her eyes before she could do anything to avoid it. Diablo teased her, daring her to test its power against the security man’s mage guns.

  But she couldn’t pull the trigger. For one, Marcus didn’t deserve it—he was only trying to protect his charges. Besides, the Pinkertons were still a threat, and if she pulled the trigger and announced to the world where they were, they would be
trapped in that house. “Marcus,” she said carefully, “I’m sorry about what happened to Patrice. And I’m sorry for what we did to Sophie and Jemma. But we’re not the enemy. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  “Whether your intention was noble or not, it doesn’t justify kidnapping and murder.”

  “It was self-protection,” Hettie said. “I have to save my sister.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? How many more will die for your crusade?”

  “Marcus.” Sophie appeared at the man’s side and placed a hand on his arm, and he startled. No one had seen her come in. “Put the guns down.”

  “Justice must be done, Miss Sophie. We can’t let these criminals escape punishment.”

  “That’s not for us to decide.” Sophie’s voice was soft, but firm and commanding. “Right now, Grandmère needs us. Blame me if the authorities come, but I will not have any bloodshed in my grandmother’s house. Is that clear?”

  Hettie was surprised by the steel in Sophie’s voice. “I’m lowering my weapon.” She eased Diablo back into her pocket. “I have no intention of harming you, Marcus, or anyone else here.”

  His hands betrayed the slightest tremor before he shoved his weapons back into their holsters. With a scathing look, he marched out.

  Later, after the healers had left Patrice’s room, Hettie went to the old soothsayer’s bedside to see how she was doing. She lay in the ornate four-poster, her floral-patterned bedspread tucked up under her chin, white-gray hair spread around her like a halo. Sweet-smelling incense burned on the nightstand, and bundles of sage and talismans hung above from the canopy. Sophie occupied a chair on the opposite side of the bed, watching her grandmother with red-rimmed eyes.

  “They say she’s in a coma,” she said distantly. “A magically induced one. Whatever happened … her body shut down to protect itself. They can’t bring her out of it.”

  “I’m very sorry, Sophie,” Hettie said. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” She leaned by the bed and took Patrice’s cool, papery hand. The old woman had been kind and thoughtful and had believed her when no one else did. A mix of hope and fury burned in her chest. “I promise, Patrice, I’ll get to the bottom of whatever’s causing this blackout.”

  Something rippled through her, a buzz that zipped up her arm and into her chest. Hettie shivered. Sophie stared.

  “You … you just made a contract with her.”

  Hettie let go. “What?”

  “She must still be able to hear you somehow. A contract spell doesn’t work without consent. Talk to her,” Sophie urged.

  Hettie licked her dry lips. “Patrice? Can you hear me? It’s Hettie Alabama.”

  There was no response.

  “Try again,” Sophie said.

  “Patrice?” She called her name over and over, shook her, but clearly whatever had allowed the contract spell to take hold no longer applied. After ten minutes of cajoling, Hettie stood back. “It’s no use, Sophie. I’m sorry.”

  The debutante shook her head despondently and sat back. “Perhaps it is not all lost, then. You’ve given me hope, at least, that she will get through this.” She adjusted the bedspread. “Grandmère takes a great many risks when she scries for others. Most people don’t know what her power costs her.”

  They rejoined the others in the salon and gave them an update on Patrice’s condition. Sophie lifted her chin and straightened her spine, assuming the mantle of her grandmother’s authority as mistress of the household. “I stand in my grandmother’s place while she is indisposed. As promised, I will provide whatever you need to find out what is causing her coma.”

  Technically, Patrice had only asked Hettie to find out the cause of the soothsayers’ blackout, not how to wake her from her fugue. But Hettie didn’t know what to say except, “I’ll do my best.”

  Sophie shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s good enough.” She fixed her with a hard gaze. “Grandmère never does anything without a reason. None of this was coincidence. She didn’t call me all the way out here without a valid reason. I think I finally understand what my purpose here is.” She took a step forward. “I will go to Arizona with you and help you find your sister and the cause of the blackout.”

  Hettie exchanged wary glances with the others. “Begging your pardon, Miss Favreau,” Walker began diplomatically, “but where we’re headed, there’re no fancy hotels to stay in.”

  “You think I’m a pampered, spoiled princess,” she concluded primly. “I’ll have you know my father took me camping plenty. I can rough it just as well as the rest of you.”

  Hettie suppressed a skeptical snort. She got that Sophie was trying to help, but the girl would only slow them down.

  “It’s not safe for a lady,” Uncle insisted. “If you thought we were merciless criminals—”

  “Your lot didn’t scare me one whit.” She planted her fists on her hips. “All that screaming and crying in Barney’s Rock was for show. And anyhow, Hettie’s with you, isn’t she? If she can handle the road, so can I. Besides”—she gave a wave of her hand—“who says we have to camp out under the stars every night? The Favreau name will let you into any establishment, no questions asked.”

  “I don’t think you get it,” Hettie said, impatience growing. “We’ve got the law and the Pinkerton Agency after us, not to mention who or what this sorcerer, Zavi, might throw our way. I’ve nearly been killed more times than I can count. The men we’re going up against won’t hesitate to kill you because you bat your eyelashes at them.”

  “You’d be surprised how far a pretty face and a little charm can get you,” Sophie returned smoothly. “But then, I suppose you wouldn’t know that firsthand.”

  If Hettie had been developing any softer feelings for the girl, they were instantly wiped out. Sophie went on airily, “My grandfather, Georges Favreau, was one of the most successful blockade runners who’d ever lived. He always said the best way to hide something was in plain sight.” She studied them thoughtfully and snapped her fingers. “I could pass you off as my servants and escorts, and we could take the train to Yuma.”

  “No.” Marcus reentered the room, apparently having overheard Sophie’s plans. He planted himself before the young lady. “I won’t let you endanger yourself this way, Miss Sophie. Your grandmother would be furious. Think of what your parents would say.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what my own grandmother thinks,” she reminded him imperiously. “Besides, if Father knew about Grandmère’s condition and found out I could’ve helped but didn’t, he’d string me up by my ears.”

  The Englishman planted his feet as if he faced a gale-force wind. Sophie barely reached his shoulder, but her status towered over his. Hettie could see that the man had no way to stop or dissuade her. “You won’t go alone,” he said. “You’ll take Jemma.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “And me,” he added, eyeing the rest of the group.

  “Excuse me, but I haven’t said any of you can come,” Hettie protested.

  “You would deny my help?” Sophie scoffed. “You don’t even have a proper saddle for your horse, or a holster for that silly gun of yours.”

  “We’ve managed fine.”

  “And when you find your sister, how will you get Abby back? Who will she ride with? Where will you take her? What if she’s injured or sick?”

  Hettie hadn’t thought that far. She realized she’d only thought of this mission as a one-way trip—not exactly optimistic on her part. “I’ll figure it out when it comes up.”

  Uncle hedged. “Hettie…”

  She shook her head. “I can’t be responsible for three more,” she said, almost to herself. Her gaze clashed with Marcus’s then. Understanding lurked in his amber eyes. She was sure he didn’t want Sophie along for this escapade any more than she did. But he was willing to follow her
to hell to keep her safe.

  “I won’t be deterred,” Sophie declared. “You can accept my help and all it entails, or you can leave the premises right now and ride your poor shoeless mustang to Arizona until you both go lame.”

  Hettie’s jaw worked. This was the best chance she had of getting Abby back safe. She had to accept Sophie’s offer—whatever the girl could provide would make things easier. But if she slowed her down, Hettie would have to rethink her plans.

  “You said you wanted a posse,” Walker said wryly, and added under his breath, “I bet you’re wishing now it was just you and me.”

  He wasn’t incorrect.

  They spent the following day preparing for the journey to Yuma. Servants scrambled to pack provisions for the group. The horses were reshod, and Blackie was fitted with a proper saddle from the Favreaus’ vast tack room. Sophie commanded Marcus to take Hettie and the men down to the armory and have them properly equipped. He let them have their pick of weapons and supplies, and helped fit Hettie with an appropriate belt and holster for Diablo.

  “You want this sitting low so you can draw it easily,” the security man said as he adjusted the leather.

  “Quick draw’s not really as issue.” She held her hand up and summoned the gun. It came instantaneously.

  Marcus shook his head. “You shouldn’t count on magic to get you out of a tight spot.”

  “He’s right, Hettie,” Walker said. “You should be practicing.”

  “As if I could.” She shoved the gun in the holster and drew it the way Uncle had shown her. That evening behind the house seemed eons ago.

  “The price and privilege of owning a mage gun,” Marcus said somberly, “is that as much as it can do for you, it can only do so much.”

  She glanced at his weapons. “Are you … bonded?”

  “Not in the same way you are—not by blood. What I have with Luna and Claire has been built over years of working together. It’s a marriage of sorts,” he said with a crooked smile. “They aren’t jealous like your Diablo. They’ll share me with worthy weapons.”