He turned down a branching corridor and opened a large, heavy door. “Come. Your sister’s in here.”
She expected a dank, putrid dungeon like the one from her vision. But this room, despite being cut from stone, was brightly lit and warm and dry. The ceilings were surprisingly high, and a big brazier hung in the middle. Fragrant smoke vented through a hole in the ceiling. The walls had been whitewashed so that the light seemed even brighter. Against one wall stood a washstand with a pitcher. A privacy screen hid a commode. Thick woven rugs covered the floor. And on the simple bed, sleeping soundly beneath a pile of blankets, lay Abby.
Hettie’s eyes welled with tears. She forgot everything—the danger they were in, the man who held her sister hostage here—and rushed to kneel by the bed. As she reached out with a trembling hand, the amber world melted away. Hettie held her breath, waiting for her sister to stir. Her chest rose and fell, but she didn’t awaken.
“Things have been difficult for her. She was quite ill when she first arrived.” Zavi said it as though he were genuinely regretful and concerned—a doting parent rather than her captor. “It took a lot of nursing her back to health. But she’s doing better now, and getting stronger every day with her training.”
“Training?” Hettie snapped back to the moment. “What do you mean? What are you doing to her?”
“I’m simply showing her how to use her abilities. You knew she was special, didn’t you?”
She set her teeth. “She hasn’t been tested yet.”
“But you knew,” he insisted quietly. “She reached out to me years ago. I heard her pleas, listened to her when everyone around her dismissed her and rejected her. I found out she could see things no one else could, do things few could even dream of achieving. Abigail is going to be one of the most powerful sorcerers of her generation.” He raised his chin, his eyes growing flinty. “And you had her on a leash.”
Gut-churning heat burned through her chest. She pushed aside her shame as she remembered where she was, who she was dealing with. “Enough of this. What do you want from me?”
He paced to the other side of the room, folding his hands behind him. “Diablo would be a good start.”
“Why do you want Diablo?”
“For the same reason you’ve come all this way for your sister. Diablo is kin to me just as Abby is kin to you. And now it’s time for my family to be reunited.”
He had to be insane, Hettie thought. But she’d seen how ineffective the weapon had been on him. “Diablo ain’t kin. It was forged by Javier Punta.”
“Punta.” Malice contorted Zavi’s face into an ugly gargoyle mask. “That fool should have known better than to tamper—” He cut himself off ruthlessly, taking a moment to compose himself. He turned back to her, frigid serenity replaced. “There are consequences to magic, Hettie Alabama. You’ve seen them for yourself.” He turned away briskly. “I will leave you now to be with your sister.”
He didn’t close the door behind him.
She turned back to Abby and smoothed a gold lock away from her soft, pale cheeks. Deep shadows hung under her eyes. Hettie wondered if they’d been feeding her right, and regretted for an instant that Zavi wasn’t there to tell her.
Her sister’s lashes fluttered. Hettie leaned forward. “Abby?”
The little girl’s eyes slitted open, just barely, the lids heavy. Her lips moved, but no sound came.
“It’s okay. I heard you. I came.” She swiped a fresh track of tears from her face. “You have to wake up now. I have to take you out of here. You understand?” Where they would go or how they would get out she had no idea. But she was growing too desperate to think that far ahead.
Abby closed her eyes once more, snugging the blanket under her chin.
“No, Abby, don’t go back to sleep.” She yanked the blankets off, and the little girl pulled her knees up and gave a plaintive whimper. All she had on was a thin shift with a smock on top. Hettie took one of the lighter blankets and wrapped it around her sister, then gathered her up in her arms.
She was heavier and lankier than Hettie remembered—had she grown in the weeks she’d been missing? Her bare, callused feet were black with grime. Hettie shifted her around to carry her piggyback style, scanned the corridor, then headed out the door.
She followed the tunnel for a long time. If this was Sonora station, it stood to reason that all of these man-made pathways would lead to either the surface or the Zoom platform. The gentle upward slope suggested she was pointed in the right direction.
Her back and ribs ached, her shoulder smarted awfully, and she felt completely drained, but Abby’s whimpers spurred her on. Soon, she promised silently, soon we’ll be out of here and on our way back to the ranch. Back home.
She tripped and landed on her knees, scraping them and tearing the hem of her skirt. What she wouldn’t give for trousers. “Abby, you have to wake up. I can’t carry you all the way out.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“Abby.” She tried to force some of Ma’s severity into her tone, but she was so tired it came out a sob. “Get to your feet. We have to get out of here.”
“Don’t wanna go.” Her lids fluttered open, and Hettie gasped.
Her sister’s eyes were completely black.
Hettie stared, horrified. It was as if Abby’s eyes had been replaced by smooth spheres of pure black oil. They gave her a slightly reptilian look, and Hettie fought against the urge to recoil.
“I wanna stay,” her sister said petulantly. “I like it here.”
Hettie pushed down the sick feeling bunching in her stomach and summoned her courage. “These people are bad, Abby. You can’t stay with them.”
“Zavi’s my friend,” she protested, rubbing those liquid black eyes. For a sickening moment, Hettie thought she might shed inky tears. “He helps me hear them all. He teaches me magic, and he takes care of me.”
“He’s not your friend, Abby.” Hettie squeezed her hands. “He made those men kill Ma and Pa, and he hurt me. He’s hurting you, too.”
“You’re lying!” Abby yanked her hands away. “Mr. Butch is just grumpy. He wants his gun back is all.”
They couldn’t stand there and argue. “Abby, listen to me. We have to leave right now.”
“No!” Abby twisted out of her hold and fled down the corridor.
Hettie sprinted after her. Abby was faster than she’d thought, but then, Hettie was banged up badly. Every jouncing step sent jolts of pain singing through her bones.
The path narrowed, twisting and heading down into the bowels of the cave. The lanterns grew farther apart until Hettie was feeling her way through the dark for long intervals. The walls here were wet and sticky. A fetid, stale smell hit her as she sensed the corridor widen, and then the tang of blood and urine burned her eyes.
Hettie pressed her sleeve to her nose and tried not to gag. When her vision adjusted to the darkness, she ventured forward. “Abby?” she called softly. A shuffling noise and a distant whisper echoed around her. She pushed on, her grip on Diablo slick with sweat.
At first she thought the room she’d entered was filled with rows and rows of shelves, none of them much taller than her. Upon closer inspection, she saw they weren’t shelves, but narrow beds. And in each bed lay the body of a child.
Hettie covered her mouth to stifle her half scream, half gasp. Nearly a hundred beds filled the room. On the nearest bunk lay two towheaded boys, about eight years old, fast asleep—or possibly dead. The boys were thin and pale; their lips were gray-blue, and their chests barely moved, their breathing shallow and slow.
Hettie crept along the rows, afraid to touch anything or anyone. The oldest children were in their early teens, but she saw no one older than that. They came from all backgrounds—many of them were Indian, though, and she remembered the tribe who’d been massacred in the canyon. These couldn’t be their children, thoug
h—that had happened a long time ago.
And it’s still happening now. Her skin grew cold.
She caught the flutter of something in her peripheral vision and spun just as the hem of Abby’s dress slipped around the corner. She raced between the aisles and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Abby standing over one prone form, head tilted to one side as she surveyed the boy. Hettie approached cautiously. The youngster on the bed wore stained, tattered pajamas, the sleeves and pant legs of which were about two inches too short. His wide-open eyes stared blankly up.
“This is Jonah,” Abby said cheerfully without looking at her. Whatever had driven Abby to flee from her own sister was gone now. “He’s been here the longest. He has two sisters who used to be here, but they’re not now.” She patted his forehead. “Zavi says he’s very strong.”
“Strong how?” Hettie asked in a whisper, trembling.
“He’s lived and lived. Zavi says most of them die very quickly. That’s why Mr. Butch has to keep bringing more kids here. They’re all my friends.”
Hettie swallowed drily. All the pieces were starting to snap together, forming a breathlessly hideous picture.
“You’re not as bright as I’d hoped.” Zavi’s voice slipped down her spine like treacle. She whipped around to find him standing barely ten feet away. He held a small, curved knife, and he reached across to the boy closest to him, nicking his neck and licking the blood off the knife as if he’d just sampled a bit of cheese. “But then, your sister does worship you.” His gaze flickered over her shoulder, and he smiled. “Abigail, dear, you should be resting.”
“Hettie says you’re a bad man.” She glanced at her toes, restless hands drifting from the edge of the table to her sides. “She wants to take me away.”
Zavi heaved a sigh. “Well, she’s your sister, Abigail. Your blood kin. You remember I told you how important blood is, don’t you?” Abby gave a hesitant nod, and Zavi went on, “I told her I’d let you go home if she gave me Diablo. I intend to keep that promise.” His gaze slid back to Hettie, his smile cold.
“I’m hungry. Can I have something to eat?” Abby asked in a quiet voice.
“Of course. You must be starving after opening that Zoom tunnel. You were so brave and so wonderful!” He clapped and spread his arms.
Abby raced past Hettie, knocking her elbow in her rush. Zavi scooped her up, leaned over the boy, and punctured a hole near the base of his neck with the curved knife. Abby climbed onto the table and lay across the boy’s body. Hettie watched in horror as Abby began suckling from the wound, her thin curtain of pale hair concealing the gruesome meal.
“What have you done to her?” Hettie fought her rising gorge, but it was no good. She turned away from the awful sight, trying to shut out the slurping noises Abby made.
“Done to her?” Zavi’s brow wrinkled in genuine upset. “Done for her, you mean. I’ve fed her, clothed her, educated her. I’ve provided her succor and protection. I’ve freed her from society’s expectations. I’ve given her a chance to become more than the burden you all saw her as. I’ve done what any parent ought to do.” He placed a protective hand over Abby’s shoulder. Real love shone in his foul eyes. It was a demented sight.
Hettie struggled against the genuine feeling behind his words. This … monster couldn’t feel love. “You killed my parents. You killed me!”
His voice softened, but his features remained hard and cold as ice. “That was Butch’s doing, not mine. I have no personal vendetta against you. I truly am sorry he killed your parents—I didn’t order that. Maybe if they were still alive, you wouldn’t be here now. You’d all be back on your ranch grieving for your lost sister and moving on with your lives.”
“No.” Hettie shook her head, tears of rage burning the backs of her eyes. “Never. As long as I have breath, I’ll never leave Abby behind.”
He sighed. “Well, I promised I’d relinquish your sister to you if you gave me Diablo, and so I will. Abigail”—he squeezed her shoulder—“after you’re done eating, we have to pack your things so you can go home.”
Abby’s head popped up from the boy’s neck. Her eyes were even blacker than before, if that were possible. A trail of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “I don’t wanna go!” Her snarl of conviction made Hettie flinch.
“You have to,” Zavi said firmly. “Diablo is my family, and Hettie is yours.”
“I don’t wanna be her family. I wanna stay here with you.”
Hettie’s chest caved, the space where her heart should have been echoing hollowly. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was not her sister. This was not the little girl who’d called to her in dreams, hated the dark, hated the smells and the bugs, was terrified of everything—
“You’ve put her under some kind of spell.” Then it came to her. It was the blood. Drinking it made her stronger … made her bold and terrifying and not Abby. To all outsiders, she was simply behaving like a belligerent ten-year-old, throwing a tantrum because she wasn’t getting what she wanted. But this version of Abby was like some macabre marionette. A shell possessed by something more sinister than a demon.
“I can’t change Abigail’s wishes any more than you can.” Zavi sounded so calm and reasonable that Hettie wanted to blow his face off.
She raised Diablo. Maybe he wouldn’t be affected by it, but pulling that trigger sure would make her feel better.
“Don’t you hurt him!” Abby inserted herself in front of the Kukulos warlock. “If you hurt him, I’ll never ever speak to you again. Never!”
Zavi gave another laborious sigh. “Abigail, please. Let me talk with your sister alone.”
“If you make me go with her, I’ll run away! I’ll open a tunnel and find my way back here, you’ll see.” Abby crossed her arms and stuck her chin out.
Zavi brushed his flaxen hair out of his face and sent Hettie a halfhearted smile. “She’s got quite a stubborn streak. Not unlike her sister, I suppose.”
Everything inside Hettie recoiled. How could this … this creature have any hold over her pure, sweet sister? Her emotions crashed inside her, and panic started to take hold.
“Come here, Abby,” she ordered, mouth dry.
“No!”
Hettie ground her teeth, frustration, desperation, and anguish fighting for dominance. “Don’t be difficult. You think Ma would take this sass from you?”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” Abby pleaded with the warlock. “Why do you even need it? You have me now. I can open the portal!”
Instead of replying, Zavi took a step back, folding his hands behind him. He invited Hettie to proceed with the barest nod of his chin. She started toward her sister. She’d drag her out kicking and screaming if she had to. She reached her and grabbed her wrist. Abby flinched and snarled a word.
An invisible force slammed into Hettie, knocking her backward, and she landed on her bottom, dazed.
Abby’s black eyes blazed, hands extended in a shoving motion. “Don’t touch me. I won’t go with you.”
The finality of her words struck Hettie harder than the blow had. She sat stunned as her sister marched away, leaving her alone with the Kukulos warlock.
“I can’t make her go to you,” Zavi said matter-of-factly, and for the first time she detected the note of triumph in his voice.
She got to her feet. “We had a deal.”
“Deals change. I can’t control the circumstances. Funny thing about … life”—the words slid from his tongue wryly—“you think you have control, but then…” He lifted a shoulder and waved his hand airily.
“I don’t get Abby, you don’t get Diablo.”
He tipped his chin to one side, regarding her. “Oh, but you’ve already given it to me. The moment you arrived and swore to get Abby away from here, Diablo heard it, and so did I. You said you would do
whatever it took, including give up the Devil’s Revolver. It’s been mine all this time.”
She stared, even as her stomach bottomed out. “But … why? Why put on the charade if you had everything you wanted?”
“Why, to break you, of course. You’d only keep coming back if I kept her. But now you see. She wants to stay. She loves me.”
Something inside her crumbled. “No.” She pointed Diablo at his head and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The faintest of smiles curved Zavi’s red lips. “As I said, Diablo is mine now. And I won’t have its power wasted on your petty revenge.” His eyes canted to the side. Seemingly out of nowhere, three hairy men—Weres who’d partially transformed to embody the most grotesque features of their wolf forms—appeared and tackled her to the ground. Hettie screamed and scratched and bit, but they pinned her arms and kicked the revolver out of her hand. One of the men punched her in the side of the head, and she reeled. The world spun and darkened.
“The only thing I need now,” Zavi said as he picked up the gun, “is for you to die.”
When the door to her pitch-black prison slammed shut, the first thing Hettie did was try to summon Diablo. She felt the tug of it in her mind, but it was as if it had snagged on a thorn. She reached and pulled, but it was no use. Somehow, Zavi had a firm handle on the Devil’s Revolver. The only comfort she took was the fact that he couldn’t seem to conjure it the way she could. If he’d been able to, she reasoned, he would’ve done so from the start.
Alone with her thoughts, she brooded. He had Diablo. He had Abby. But if obtaining the mage gun was his only goal, why hadn’t he locked her up the moment she’d arrived? Why play out this charade with Abby? What was Zavi waiting for?
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