The Devil's Standoff: The Devil's Revolver, #2

By V. S. McGrath

Welcome to the birthplace of the Devil's Revolver, where untold danger lurks for Hettie Alabama and her companions…

The second book in the epic, magic-clad Devil's Revolver series follows Hettie and her sister south of the Wall into Mexico, where they must unmake Hettie's infernal mage gun while confronting a magic- and land-hungry army and a monster from hell drawn to the powers of the weapon. Hettie wants nothing more than to break her bond to the cursed Devil's Revolver and find a way to keep her sister safe — but Abby's indigo powers are growing stronger, and in the gated, walled village where they take refuge, nothing is exactly as it seems. Pursued by the Pinkertons, left without allies or guardians, Hettie has to rely on her own grit and determination to do the right thing, no matter the cost.

This second installment of V. S. McGrath's sweeping and high-stakes saga draws its truly unforgettable gunslinger heroine to her limits and ends with a satisfying bang.

Praise for The Devil's Revolver

"The feminist western you've been waiting for: The Devil's Revolver has heart and grit. A terrific genre-crossing tale with a deft touch of the macabre."

—Donna Thorland, author of The Turncoat, writer on the TV series Salem and the upcoming Netflix series Sabrina

"A fantastically readable female-focused story . . . A really terrific riff on the Western, told with huge verve."

—KJ Charles, author of the Charm of Magpies series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brain Mill Press
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948559041

V. S. McGrath

V. S. McGrath is a published romance author (as Vicki Essex) and has six books with Harlequin Superromance: Her Son’s Hero (July 2011); Back to the Good Fortune Diner (January 2013), which was picked for the Smart Bitches Trashy Books Sizzling Book Club; In Her Corner (March 2014); A Recipe for Reunion (March 2015); Red Carpet Arrangement (January 2016); and Matinees with Miriam (November 2016). She has been featured in the Globe and Mail, Metro Toronto, Torontoist, Inside Toronto, and Canada.com. The Devil’s Revolver is her debut young adult fantasy. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, or her websites: vsmcgrath.com and vickiessex.com. She lives in Toronto, Canada.

Book preview

The Devil’s Revolver

Writing as Vicki Essex

Her Son’s Hero

Back to the Good Fortune Diner

In Her Corner

A Recipe for Reunion

Red Carpet Arrangement

Matinees with Miriam

The Devil’s Standoff is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Vicki So.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Brain Mill Press.

Print ISBN 978-1-948559-01-0

EPUB ISBN 978-1-948559-04-1

MOBI ISBN 978-1-948559-02-7

PDF ISBN 978-1-948559-03-4

Cover illustration by Cassandre Bolan.

Cover design by Ranita Haanen.

Print spread by Ampersand Book Design.

Original interior illustrations by Ann O’Connell.

www.devilsrevolver.com

The place I call home and on which I produced this work is the traditional territories of the Haudenosaunee and the Mississaugas of New Credit, and is subject to the Dish with One Spoon wampum. I acknowledge the Indigenous people who have lived and worked this land for over 15,000 years and continue to seek justice today.

Hettie, I’m thirsty."

We all are, Abby.

"I’m really thirsty. And hungry."

I know. Hettie pressed her cracked lips together. Her sister was pale as chalk except for her sunburned, feverish cheeks. The head covering she’d fashioned from one of Walker’s shirts hardly kept the sun off her. Try to think of something else.

Abby slumped in the saddle in front of her. Hot, dry air filled the momentary gap between their bodies, the sun searing the front of her dark, heavy dress. Beside them, their loyal, dust-covered mutt, Cymon, whined.

Don’t talk so much, the man they called Uncle grumbled ahead of them. You’ll dry out your mouths.

It’s been nearly two weeks. We can’t keep up this pace. Walker beat the red dust from his black hat. We could’ve been at the Wall days ago. These detours will be the death of us. D’you hear me, Jeremiah? The bounty hunter kicked his horse, Lilith, and she grudgingly caught up to Uncle. Jezebel, the gray-white mare the old man rode, snapped at Walker’s mount. She was irritable on the best of days, and the heat didn’t help her mood. Even Hettie’s mount, Blackie, who was a good three hands bigger, kept his distance from the old mare.

We have to keep moving. Uncle’s voice was like sand. Between the Pinkertons and the army, anyone could pop a remote Zoom on us.

With all the circles you’ve run us ’round, plus the hide spells you’ve cast, I’d think that if they’d known our whereabouts, we’d be in manacles by now.

I’m thirsty, Abby whimpered again.

Uncle slouched in his saddle. Hettie didn’t know how the old sorcerer could still be riding in his weakened condition. Two weeks ago, he’d been drained of his powers and nearly dead from lack of sleep and food. They’d barely escaped the Division of Sorcery’s army at Sonora station and had been on the run ever since.

Uncle, we have to stop, Hettie said. Abby’s gonna get sick. The horses can’t take this much longer. Surely there’s a town—

No contact with other folks till we cross the border, he snapped.

Walker huffed. We need water and rest, JB. Being dead ain’t better than being caught.

That’s what you think, the old sorcerer grumbled. He shaded his eyes and pointed. There. We’ll ride to those boulders and make camp.

It wasn’t long before Hettie’s relief crumbled to dust. The site was as desolate as the rest of the landscape. She’d hoped the outcropping hid a cool, deep pool surrounded by trees—Uncle had an uncanny ability for finding things. But all they saw was more rocks and dirt and dust, and barely any scrub for the horses. Her heart sank.

Don’t be pulling that face. Uncle dismounted and took several small pouches from his saddlebags. Walker, I’m gonna need your help.

The black-clad bounty hunter swung off Lilith. He helped Abby down off Blackie, lifting the ten-year-old easily from the saddle and setting her on her unsteady feet. He looked up at Hettie. You need a hand down?

She shook her head, though her thighs were raw as hamburger. She’d been wearing a maid’s dress when she’d escaped the army camp. And while she’d managed to sew a rough pair of trousers to make riding easier, the material chafed her skin.

She threw a leg over Blackie’s side and slid down. Her knees gave. Walker caught her against his chest and hoisted her to her feet. Easy there.

I’m fine. She pushed him off, unsettled by the unfamiliar emotions swirling through her as he surveyed her with piercing ice-blue eyes.

"I said, I need your help, Woodroffe," Uncle repeated sharply. The bounty hunter tugged the brim of his hat down and went to attend the old man.

At the foot of the slope, Abby studied the tumble of rocks unblinkingly. Grit whispered over the stones, carried by the hot, dry breath of the wind. Hettie gave her sister a gentle shake. Keep your wits about you, Abby. This place is probably crawling with scorpions and rattlers. Stay close, y’hear?

Her sister blinked her violet eyes and sighed, then shuffled back toward where the men stood. Hettie got to work taking their meager supplies off the horses, bones aching. They needed food and water, but the desert wasn’t exactly a lush hunting ground. They’d have to settle for a good night’s sleep.

There’s nothing to it, Woodroffe. You’ve got all of Javier Punta’s power—no need to be stingy with it.

Ain’t got nothing to do with magical frugality. The younger man rubbed his grizzled jaw. Raising water just ain’t in my repertoire.

Well, you’re the only one who can do it. I’m not strong enough, what with all the hide spells I’m juggling already. He sniffed. "Besides, you were the one who wanted to stop. Unless you fancy catching us some snakes and drinking their blood for sustenance."

Walker set his square jaw. Fine.

He laid his black duster on the ground. He sat cross-legged in the center and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Uncle opened the small pouches he’d gathered and emptied small stones, dirt, and bits of bone and herbs in a circle around Walker. The bounty hunter chanted softly, the indistinct words blending together until it sounded like the shushing of a creek.

The dirt around Walker darkened. A smell like summer rain after a dry spell filled the air. His eyes remained closed as the wetness spread. Muddy water bubbled up around him. The pool widened until it was nearly big enough for two horses to stand in. With a final, definitive word, Walker slapped his hands down. He splashed into the pond, duster and all. He came up sputtering, standing about waist deep, throwing water out of his black hair. His hat floated atop, and he grabbed it, giving a little whoop as he emptied it over his head.

Uncle smirked. Not bad for a beginner. Let that settle a bit before you take a drink. It’s pure and clean, just full of dirt.

Despite his advice, Abby dove for the pool, soaking her arms and face. Hettie went to pull her out but couldn’t help dipping her hands in. The water was ice-cold and deliciously comfortable on her heated skin. She splashed herself and Abby, laughing as they cooled their sun fevers, then rinsed her mouth, uncaring of the grit it left behind.

Why didn’t we do this before? she asked, too relieved to be truly angry.

And leave water holes like breadcrumbs for every Pinkerton agent and Division lackey to follow? Uncle loosened the saddle around Jezebel. They rarely unsaddled the horses in case they needed to make a quick getaway, so he must be taking this break seriously. It’s a risk to even have this one.

At least it’s hidden away. Might even look natural if anyone found it. Walker scanned the horizon, then nodded to Hettie. After we’ve filled our canteens and had a drink, you could take a bath.

Hettie wiped her sleeve across her mouth. His shirt and trousers clung wetly to his skin, outlining a broad, deep chest and the muscles in his legs. His lips tilted up at one corner and he raised an eyebrow as he caught her stare. Heat flooded through her. She tore her eyes away.

Hettie gave a snort. I’m not some highfalutin’ lady. I don’t need a bath.

I beg to differ. He waved a hand in front of his nose and snickered. Hettie’s cheeks flamed. Anyhow, he went on, I’m sure Abby would appreciate a good scrubbing.

They made camp and filled their canteens, and everyone took a turn at a bath. Then the horses got to drink. Attracted by the smell of water, jackrabbits and raccoons appeared. Uncle bull’s-eyed two skinny coneys for dinner, and Walker shot a gray fox, which he skinned for the pretty pelt.

Hettie sighed, wishing she had her old Winchester. She’d once been her pa’s pride and joy with the rifle. She’d brought in plenty of game once upon a time.

At the thought, her hand filled with the heavy, solid weight of Diablo, primed and ready for the hunt. The cursed revolver hadn’t allowed her to handle another firearm since they’d bonded. It was a jealous weapon, and one too eager to prove itself. While it had never missed its target, it wasn’t exactly a precision instrument.

She slipped the gun back into her pocket with an admonishing thought aimed at the weapon. Even if she could use it to hunt, the Devil’s Revolver sent out a powerful magical signature that the Pinkerton Agency could detect. The Pinks wanted Diablo, and the Division of Sorcery wanted Abby for her uncanny indigo abilities. Unless Hettie wanted them swooping in on them via remote Zoom tunnel, she couldn’t use Diablo again.

Time to take care of business, she declared, and beckoned to Abby. Let’s go before it gets dark.

Watch where you piss, Uncle said. And don’t go too far.

It was on the tip of her tongue to reprimand Uncle for using such language around her impressionable sister, but she had other things to worry about.

Hungry, Abby said quietly.

I know. They rounded the base of the hill out of sight of the two men. Not that they would be watching them as they went about their unmentionable business. Still, Hettie couldn’t risk them seeing this.

She took out the boot knife Uncle had given her and flicked it across the tip of her right index finger. The razor-sharp thorn in Diablo’s trigger had left a permanent prick there that never seemed to heal, so it wouldn’t be so noticeable. She squeezed her finger until blood welled up. Abby licked her lips.

Don’t bite me this time. She held her hand out.

Abby latched, sucking at the open wound noisily as if she were slurping summer peas out of their pods. Hettie watched her with a mix of revulsion and fascination as Abby’s violet eyes darkened, the pupils growing until her irises were entirely black. The suction on her finger grew, and Hettie clenched her jaw.

That’s enough, Abby. She pulled her hand away. Abby gave a plaintive whine.

"But I’m still hungry." She sat in the dirt, petulant. Her eyes cleared, returning to their violet color. She looked less haggard now, more alert.

I know, but I’m only a little person. She smoothed the flyaway hairs haloing her sister’s sweet face. Looking at her, no one would have ever expected Abby had been brought back from the dead.

Hettie had bargained with the devil to resurrect her sister, and he’d said there’d be a price to pay. It wasn’t until about four days later that she realized Abby hadn’t come back quite right. Her sister had been wilting beneath the harsh sun, but she’d thought she was simply worn out from hard riding. They’d finally stopped to rest, but in the dead of night Hettie had woken up to find Abby chewing on her own scabbed knee, licking the blood seeping from the abrasion. When Hettie had tried to stop her, Abby had latched onto her trigger finger and started desperately sucking.

She remembered the shock, the fear, and then the calm that came with understanding. Abby had been drinking blood to sustain her powers when she’d been training with the warlock Zavi. Now it was keeping her alive, or at least mostly cognizant. Like a baby suckling, Abby needed this. Her sister got better instantly, so Hettie had let her drink until the color returned to her cheeks.

She hadn’t told Uncle or Walker about the resurrection or the blood drinking. They were already wary of Abby’s mysterious indigo powers, and she didn’t need them throwing the word vampire around. The dark times before the war when the last American coven had been killed was not a period of history people liked talking about.

Abby had not turned, Hettie was certain. She hadn’t displayed any of the other symptoms—sunlight didn’t affect her, and she still had a reflection. No, Abby was something different. What, Hettie didn’t know.

The sun set. Uncle volunteered to take the first watch. Walker had raised a magical barrier around their camp, but Jeremiah didn’t like to take chances. You all rest. He propped himself against a boulder and scanned the horizon. The spell would only alert them to danger once it reached the perimeter of the enchantment area, after all, and Uncle preferred a broader outlook.

Hettie didn’t argue. All this riding had stiffened every muscle, and sleeping out in the open, always alert for danger, had made her tense and ragged. Still, she could never quite reach a state of deep, dreamless sleep. The cloying darkness closed in on her too quickly when she tried to drift off. She lay on her roll and drew Abby closer. Across the low-burning fire, Walker leaned against his saddle, cleaning his gun and watching her from beneath the brim of his hat.

Her thoughts drifted, her eyes heavy.

The nightmare began.

She was back in hell with no escape. First came the suffocating curtain of darkness, then the wringing out of her muscles until they felt as though they’d snap. Next came the burning lashes to her whole body, followed by the icy spears lancing through her flesh.

The physical torment was replaced by thirst and hunger, the emptiness and hopelessness of living. The land spread out before her, a dusty red windblown hellscape. Her parents stood staring into an empty well. Sand poured from their mouths as their faces cracked and crumbled before their heads toppled into the hole. From their ashes, Abby emerged. She looked up at Hettie with pitch-black eyes and stepped off the edge.

No!

She bolted straight up. Jezebel was nudging her, the horse’s eyes so wide the whites showed.

Abby was missing.

Walker! Hettie shouted, and the bounty hunter was instantly on his feet, sidearm drawn. Abby’s gone!

She can’t have gone far. Where’s JB? He scanned the landscape. Night had settled around them, inky-black, with only a pale half moon and the faint orange glow of the campfire to push back the dark. Jeremiah was nowhere to be seen.

She heard a familiar barking. That’s Cymon.

Walker raised a hand and muttered an incantation. A sphere of white light filled his palms. He threw it high into the air, and it hung at the apex of the arc, casting an eerie blue-white light upon the land.

Hettie choked down a scream.

Abby floated in the watering hole, face up, whispering. At the edge of the pool, Cymon snarled and snapped at the blanket of snakes writhing across the ground. Hisses, slithers, and rattles filled the air, punctuated with the plop-plop-splash of those sinuous lengths sliding into the water.

Hettie dashed toward the pond, Diablo in hand. She aimed at the leading edge of the snakes and squeezed the trigger.

Hettie, no!

Her heart expanded as pure, green energy flowed from the barrel and spilled over the ground, cutting a swath through the living carpet of serpents. The stench of burned flesh mixed with sulfur filled her nostrils.

Whimpering, Cymon backed into the water as the snakes closed in. Hettie fired again, slicing through the reptiles with the revolver’s stream of power. The snakes kept coming, wriggling toward her sister.

A rattler lunged for Cymon.

No!

She dropped into her time bubble, the place where Diablo made the world slow like syrup, where the space between heartbeats stretched out like taffy. One look at the situation and she knew she’d never kill all those snakes and get her sister and Cymon out in one go.

Or could she? She’d once walked through a whole cave in this suspended time.

We need to save Abby and Cymon, she told Diablo. She thought she felt an acknowledgment, an almost bored mm-hmm, but maybe it was her own imagination.

Carefully, she pushed against the bubble of space she occupied, her own movements unaffected by the molasses around her. Time for her seemed normal—everything around her, though, was frozen or barely moving, like some kind of tableau.

She went to Cymon first: a small whipsnake had bitten him, not poisonous, but definitely not harmless. She drew her boot knife and sliced its head off with a downward slash. The body dropped to the ground and writhed at normal speed within her bubble.

The surface of the pond rippled with serpents. She waded in through the swath she’d cut with Diablo. The cold slide of scales against her arm had her flinching away just in time. The snake dropped into her time bubble, its momentary confusion enough to allow Hettie to grab it and fling it across the sand.

She reached Abby. Her violet eyes were blank. Her lips moved in a slow, wordless susurration.

Hettie grabbed her arms and pulled, as if she were pulling a newborn calf from its mother. The moment they touched, they splashed down into the pond and normal time. Abby’s moan warped into a scream, and she flailed.

Abby, wake up! Hettie hauled her sister toward the edge of the pool. The snakes rallied, their numbers seemingly doubled, almost as if they were boiling up out of the sand, closing the gap in the ring of serpents contracting around them.

Hettie!

A fat, striped snake had wound its body around her sister’s neck and chest. Abby gasped as she tried to pull the creature off. Hettie grabbed the boa’s head, but as she went for her knife, a small black snake curled around her wrist and sank its teeth into her flesh.

Searing pain burned through her, but the creature slipped off and plopped into the water in a splash of muddy sand. A curious anger, as if this bite were a personal offense, sharpened Hettie’s focus. She ripped the boa off Abby, blasted a new path through the snakes, and pulled her sister to the edge of the pool.

The air vibrated with Walker’s sonorous incantation. She glanced up in time to see him raise his hands, glowing with bright gold light, before he spoke his final word.

A ring of fire appeared on the earth around the pond, engulfing the snakes. The curling, twisting bodies crumbled into sand.

Uncle hurried toward them, gun drawn. He shot several rattlers on his way to them. They’re not real—they’re golems, he shouted as he scooped up Abby and Hettie. He half carried, half dragged them back toward the camp. Walker stayed rooted, hands raised until the three of them were out of range. With another shout, the flames spread into a wide ring, flaring into an inferno that lit the night sky and engulfed the tiny white sphere.

The heat and light and hissing and rattling fizzled out with the suddenness of a dissipating summer storm. Hettie lay on her back, breathing hard as if her lungs were shrinking. She could no longer feel her hand. A violent shaking overtook her, and her brow was hot and slick with sweat.

Walker! Uncle’s shout seemed to come from a great distance. Hettie fought, but her eyelids each weighed a hundred pounds, and they drooped and dragged her down, down, down …

The haze enveloped Hettie like a welcoming embrace, then parted with equal affection as if to study her.

Hello, Hettie. The soft, melodic greeting had her looking about. It was no place she could describe, yet if she had to she would say it was a path between blotted stars, a road through the unknown.

Despite the strangeness, Hettie knew this place. She’d been here before in a vision—this was the place in between life and death, dream and awake.

She also recognized her guide.

Patrice? The old woman came into focus. Only, Patrice Favreau, Soothsayer of the South, was not the gnarled crone in the wheelchair Hettie had first encountered in New Orleans. Instead, she stood tall and erect, looking almost as young as Hettie’s mother had before she was killed. A thick shawl of roses draped over her shoulders and pooled around her bare feet. Her violet-rimmed eyes shone, and she smiled.

Hettie remembered the little black snake, its needle-sharp fangs sinking into her flesh, and she swallowed drily. It was a golem, Uncle had said … or had it been a real serpent hiding among the decoys? Am I … are you dead?

No, dear. I’m simply … well, I’m not sure there’s anything simple about it. Her hands fluttered like a wounded bird trying to escape from the bottom of a well. I seem to be rather lost.

Your body is still in New Orleans. Asleep. She felt it with the kind of certainty one had for simple facts, but couldn’t justify her claim. It’d been weeks since she’d last seen her … or had it? Time didn’t seem to have meaning here. To remind herself as much as Patrice, she said, You were attacked by the warlock Zavi in our shared vision, and you haven’t woken up since.

The woman ran a hand over her hair as if trying to pat her memories back in place. Yes … yes, I recall that. Your sister…?

We saved her. A brief smile flitted over the woman’s features. Sophie’s been waiting for you to get better. Can’t you get back to your body? The guilt that balled within her felt more real than their surroundings. Patrice’s granddaughter, Sophie, had risked a lot to help Hettie and her companions rescue Abby and find out what was causing the soothsayers to lose their future-predicting abilities, but all they’d achieved to date was putting her grandmother in a coma.

Patrice frowned. She seemed to withdraw into herself, sinking into the haze. I … I don’t know.

Is the soothsayers’ blackout causing this?

I’m not sure. From somewhere behind her came the soft hiss of a snake. The mist thickened, and she looked away. Hettie, help me.

How?

The mist closed around her. Hettie spun every which way, but she was alone once more.

The air grew cold and thin. A calm settled over her. Acceptance. Resignation.

Perhaps Patrice was wrong. Perhaps this was death. She closed her eyes, letting the mist twine around her. Real or not, the snake’s poison was slowly working its way to her heart and brain. And then she’d be dead. The burden of Diablo would no longer be hers …

And Abby would be alone.

No. She threw off her despair, and the mist cleared. She could not leave her sister. Patrice and the other soothsayers needed her help. There was still work to be done.

She started walking, the ground soft and wet beneath her feet. The gray gave way to the site of a smoking crater, writhing with creatures wallowing in thick red ichor. Hettie stood high above it, watching the crater slowly fill with blood. In the center, the bodies of her mother and father and Abby floated facedown.

She screamed, but the sound was carried away by the wind. She tried to run toward the site, but it was too far, and getting farther with every step she took toward it.

This isn’t real, she told herself, reining in her racing heart. She shut her eyes and pressed her aching hand against her eyelids. You’re dreaming. You’ve been snakebit and you’re having hallucinations …

Someone grabbed her hand and tugged her around. For a moment, she thought the dark brown hair and sprinkling of freckles were hers in a reflection, only this mirror image had her mother’s kind eyes and her father’s hard frown.

Paul?

Her dead brother squeezed her hand hard, crushing her fingers until her bones snapped. She fell to her knees with a cry.

Let … let go… she gasped. Paul…

He stared down at her silently, his vise grip tightening. The mist closed around them once more. And then there was darkness.

Pain burned through her. All her old injuries, from the gunshot wound in her thigh to the one that had left a feather-shaped scar on the side of her face, seared across her senses.

She’s coming ’round.

Hettie cracked open her swollen eyes. Uncle hovered over her. She sensed Abby nearby, though she had no inkling of her sister’s state. Abby…

Drink, Uncle ordered, holding a small bowl to her lips. The liquid was bitter but blessedly wet, and she gulped it down.

The golem bit you good, put a hex like the devil on you. Walker lifted it, but your hand is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch for a while. The old man looked her over. Soon as you can stand, we gotta get moving. No telling how close the Pinks are now.

At her confused look, he explained, With those golems on us and you firing Diablo willy-nilly, we had to leave before the Pinks or anyone else got a bead on us. We didn’t have time to fix you, so Walker put you under a stasis spell. Rode for half a day before we could stop. You’ll have to thank the man proper later. He saved your life. He slid a dark, rueful look over his shoulder. The bounty hunter stood guard, his rifle slung over one shoulder as he scanned the horizon.

You okay, Hettie? Abby asked in a small voice.

She sat up slowly. Her right hand was heavily bandaged. I’m fine, she lied. How about you? Did those snakes hurt you?

No. Walker made them go away. She couldn’t be sure, but Hettie thought Abby sounded petulant about it.

What happened, Abby? Who were you talking to?

The little girl blinked at her. I … I don’t know.

Hettie pursed her lips. She looked to Uncle. You think the Pinks sent the snakes?

He tugged on his beard. Not sure. Raising golems isn’t their style—too unpredictable and hard to control at a distance. And the Division of Sorcery wouldn’t send something so deadly for us if they wanted Abby alive. His eyes narrowed in deep, disturbed thought. Hettie’s skin lifted in goose bumps. The last time Abby had been submerged and communicating with distant strangers using her abilities, she’d been talking to the warlock who’d kidnapped and nearly killed her. Either way, I don’t want to face whoever dropped that spell on us. We need to go.

They rode south. Hettie ached head to toe, and there was a strange taste in her mouth. Her right hand burned with every minute flex. Blackie tread carefully, seemingly aware of Hettie’s pain. She had a hard time holding the reins in her left hand, but the magicked stallion didn’t need guidance.

As they made their way across the rocky landscape, she mulled over her conversation with Patrice. The whole episode had felt like a dream. Perhaps it had been. She told Uncle about it as they rode.

You and Patrice have shared a connection, and you’ve been to the place in-between, so it’s not impossible that what you saw was real. She might have been trying to warn you. Or you could have been having a fevered delusion. He shook his head. There’s no telling with visions—that’s why soothsayers are so few and far between. It takes years of training to be able to interpret what they see with any precision. And with this soothsayers’ blackout, we can’t know anything for sure. On top of that, there’s no telling how your bond with the Devil’s Revolver might interfere. This is new territory for me.

He sounded troubled by that admission.

By the end of the day, the dark spine of the Wall fringed the horizon. They rode until the moon was a bright chip high above them, then stopped for the night, nearly falling out of their saddles with exhaustion.

There was no campfire or magic well this time. Uncle refused to risk doing anything that would give away their location. As she lay on the ground, Hettie watched the Wall with a growing sense of hope. The Pinkertons wouldn’t be able to open a remote Zoom tunnel on top of them south of the border. The magical barrier had been raised after the Mexican war, providing an impenetrable shield that kept spells—as well as people—from crossing the border. It was one of the many reasons fugitives fled south: the authorities had a much more difficult time tracking them there.

By midafternoon the following day, they were in sight of the Wall’s base. The monolith stretched over the landscape like a great black viper rippling over the sand. Hettie got a strange chill just looking at it.

The shoring crews are farther west, Walker said, scanning the length of the Wall with narrowed eyes. No border patrols in sight.

Why are they shoring up the Wall? Hettie asked.

Magic needs bolstering now and again, Uncle explained. The bigger the spell, the more magic and maintenance it needs. Nothing lasts forever.

"Yes, but why are we fixing it from this side if it was built to keep Americans out of Mexico?"

Walls work both ways. The folks on the losing side of the war don’t like a big old monument reminding them of their failures, so they make up their own story, make it look like we’re the ones in charge. They send out men and crews and make it seem like we’re doing something important, like we’re the ones keeping invaders out. Uncle spat on the red earth. Men in Washington gotta justify their wages somehow.

Politics aside, there’s no way for us to get through, Walker said. The Division and the Pinkertons will probably be looking for us at the gates.

So how do we get through?

With help. He picked up a stick and drew several runes on the ground, whispering an incantation. Then he broke the stick in half and tossed the pieces away.

A sound like a muffled crack of thunder rolled across the land. Walker lifted his nose in the air like a hound scenting its prey. He’s coming.

The wind picked up, whipping dust all around them. Abby cried out and shielded her eyes, and Cymon huddled close