The wind stung Hettie’s eyes as she clung to Blackie’s saddle. His muscles bunched and rippled beneath her as he flowed over the earth like a fast-running river. Her exhilaration was only dampened by the urgency and danger of their errand.

The moon lit the trail of dust kicked up by the riders before her. She could see for leagues around, but that was no guarantee of her safety—she remembered how quickly the chupacabra had overtaken them. Though Diablo hadn’t worked on the beast, she’d since thought of other ways to use it. She didn’t relish facing the monster again, but she would be ready next time.

Blackie’s unrelenting pace didn’t falter once. Before she knew it she’d caught up with the posse, the thunder of their hooves rolling across the desert.

Walker rode at the head with Raúl, looking like death himself with his black duster flapping behind him, his face set in a grimace. Raúl’s vestments flashed white beneath his serape—not the most inconspicuous of clothing. He looked like a phantom chasing after his brother.

Blackie overtook the herd of ponies effortlessly. Men shouted as he and Hettie hurtled to the head of the posse.

Walker turned his head. The look of surprise turned to anger as Hettie smirked.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.

“I had to come. I have to help.”

“I thought I told you—”

“Too late to scold me now. Are we there yet?”

“I can’t believe you left Abby on her own.”

“She was the one who told me to come. She said if I didn’t—” Hettie cut off her words abruptly. She didn’t want Walker to think she’d come just for him. “She’ll be fine, anyhow.”

His face darkened. “I should tie you up and drag you back.”

“Save your frustrations for the enemy, brother.” Raúl signaled the men, and their progress slowed to a canter. A wave of the sorcerer’s hand and the dust trail flattened out. “We need to be cautious from here on in. The federales will have lookouts.”

They slowed to a trot as the land rose slightly. In the distance, a faint light from the army encampment burnished the sky.

The scout Raúl sent ahead returned and met them in the shadow of a hill. He reminded Hettie of her friend Will Samson in Newhaven, a soft-skinned youth trying desperately to look older with a thin moustache and a silky tuft of hair on his chin. His expression was grim as he gave his report, the slightest tremor in his soft voice. He drew a detailed map in the dirt and marked Xes on it where soldiers stood guard. The scout said something else, and Raúl hissed an oath. “Juan says there is a general of some kind visiting with the garrison. A powerful sorcerer.”

“Who?” Walker asked.

Juan shook his head, and Raúl translated, “He doesn’t know. He only recognized the increased military presence and heard some of the soldiers talking.”

Walker growled. “Dammit.”

“What’s wrong?” Hettie asked.

“Any spell we cast will be detected by a sorcerer with good training. We were relying on sneaking in under a hide spell and getting our people out.”

“Guess we’ll need to take a less direct route.” Hettie studied the map and thought hard. “Walker, do you think your fire illusion will work?”

“On this group? Not for long. The general will see through the spell quickly. I can actually set the tents on fire, of course, but without knowing where our people are, I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Besides which, I imagine the tents are magicked against such spells,” Raúl added.

Hettie pointed at the map. “What is this?” She indicated a block drawn in the sand.

Juan replied, “It is a pen where they keep livestock.”

“How many of the men here have magic?”

Raúl gestured. “Five of us, Walker and I included. But they are not as powerful as either of us.”

“Where do the officers sleep?” she asked. Juan showed her. “And the horses?” He pointed.

“Hettie, what are you getting at?” Walker asked.

She stared long and hard at the map, thinking of all the ways this could end, most of them in bloodshed unless she did something about that. There were too few of them to do any real damage, but too many of them to all go in together for a proper raid and rescue. There was only one thing she could think to do. “I have an idea.”

“I don’t like this plan,” Walker said as he tightened the ropes around Hettie’s wrists.

“I didn’t hear any other ideas.” Hettie grimaced over her shoulder. “You saw the way Juan was shaking. The others are scared witless, and the last thing you want to do is let them stew in fear while we come up with too many plans that’ll all fail.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Look at it this way: if we all get killed, they can blame it on me.”

“Small comfort,” he grumbled. He adjusted the ropes as the others got into position. Walker clutched her fingers and drew closer. “Are you sure about this?”

She closed her eyes and breathed deep. If something happened to either of them, Abby would be alone and without a protector. “Just stick to the plan and we’ll be fine.”

“Are you two ready?” Raúl asked, his amplified whisper close to their ears. He was observing from a high vantage point, relaying all the movement within the camp and staying connected to the other men who’d been ordered to take out the guards stationed around the perimeter.

“Just about. What do you see?”

A pause. “The officers are drinking in the command tent. They seem to be in a good mood.”

“They won’t be for long.” Walker draped her over Blackie’s rump behind the saddle, then mounted. The stallion shifted uneasily.

“Easy, Blackie. It’ll be okay. Don’t kick him,” she told Walker. “He doesn’t like that.”

“He doesn’t like much in the way of handling, does he?” Walker wrestled with the obstinate stallion. The horse shook his head and chuffed, shuffling and prancing as he resisted Walker’s control.

“Stop fighting, you two. You’re going to make me sick back here. Walker, just let go of the reins. Blackie knows where to go.”

Gradually the horse relaxed. Walker placed a steadying hand on her back as they started forward. Blackie walked slowly, careful not to jounce her.

“We’re going ahead,” the bounty hunter said softly. “Once we enter the camp, keep chatter to a minimum.” His directive was aimed at Raúl and the others.

They made their way toward the garrison. Walker murmured the glamor spell that would shield his identity from the mundanes and less-talented sorcerers they might encounter. It was risky: if they met the general, the higher-caliber sorcerer would likely see through his abilities. But they didn’t have many options.

At the perimeter of the army encampment, two soldiers emerged from the darkness, shouting in Spanish, weapons raised and pointed at the intruder. Walker calmly raised his hands. The men dragged Hettie off Blackie, and she landed in the dirt with a thump.

One of the men grabbed her chin roughly and inspected her face. He said something to the other man, and they prodded their firearms into Walker’s back. He smiled obligingly and said something snide. Hettie hadn’t learned much more of the language since her arrival, but she knew a crude joke when she heard one.

The men exchanged looks and snickered. They didn’t push him again. Walker gradually put his hands down as they escorted them deeper into the camp.

The garrison was nothing like the border guard’s camp. The rows of canvas tents were neat and straight, the thoroughfares kept clear of debris. It was late, and most of the camp was asleep, but those on duty were alert, their uniforms pristine. Perhaps the visiting general’s presence had everyone on their toes.

Walker was led away while Hettie was steered in the opposite direction. The soldier stopped at the fourth tent from the aisle, batted the flap aside, and shoved her forward. “You stay here,” the soldier said gruffly. He left her with the ropes still tied around her wrists.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lamplight. An older white woman with silvery-blond hair and lines radiating across a sun-darkened but otherwise young-looking face rose from the lone pallet on the ground. Her hard, ice-blue eyes widened in surprise.

Hettie looked around the otherwise empty tent and bit her lip. The plan had hinged upon her being placed with the other prisoners from Villa del Punta. Where were they?

“Who are you?” The woman had the barest accent, southern, maybe, though the inflection sounded almost English.

“My name’s Hettie Alabama.” She glanced around. “Are you a prisoner here?”

“I’d ask you the same thing.”

“I’m assuming so if this tent is guarded.” She didn’t want to play guessing games with the stranger. Whoever she was, Hettie needed to find the captured villagers.

The older woman crossed her arms. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but we’re in the middle of an army camp. There’s no need for guards—we’re totally surrounded. Besides, where would we go?”

Hettie wriggled her wrists, trying to slip the ropes off. “Help me out here?”

The woman hesitated, and Hettie said impatiently, “Listen, I have no reason to harm you. I’m not a plant with the army, if that’s what you’re worried about. And if you’re a sorcerer, you’ll know I don’t have any magic on me.” She’d left Diablo with Raúl under a rock in case she was searched.

“I’m not gifted. I’m a healer.”

Healer? Hettie studied her ice-blue eyes and strong chin and realized who she was speaking to. “You’re Beatrice Woodroffe.”

“How did you—?”

“I’m here with Walker and some of the other villagers from Villa del Punta. We’re here to rescue you.”

“Walker’s here?” Tears rushed into the woman’s all-too-familiar eyes.

“Where are the other villagers?” she asked as Beatrice quickly untied the ropes.

“I don’t know. They split us up when they brought us here.”

Hettie swore. She hadn’t counted on that. “Raúl, did you hear that?” She waited but received no response. “Raúl?”

“The tent is magicked,” Beatrice explained. “Spells won’t penetrate it, and no one can go in or out without one of the amulets that give the soldiers access.”

Hettie reached for the tent flap, and an invisible wall like the one around the village buffeted her backward. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the power barrier, feeling the bubble of magic crackle across her skin.

She summoned Diablo without issue. Beatrice flinched when she brandished the weapon, and her face paled. “Is that…?”

“It’s a long story. I need you to tell me all you can about the camp and where you think they’re keeping the others.”

“I didn’t see much. They separated me from the others early on. I thought maybe they wanted me for my healing abilities, but it’s possible they know I’m Javier Punta’s wife. They haven’t … done anything to me yet.”

Hettie’s fingers tightened over Diablo, and the revolver rumbled in her grip. “Why’d they take you?”

“The government thinks my husband is some kind of antigovernment religious zealot. They spout nonsense and say they want to free us from his tyranny, make us leave the village. All they really want is the land Villa del Punta sits on.” She crossed her arms. “I thought maybe they’d put you in here to try to convince me.”

As she spoke Hettie found a stick and dug a hole in the dirt floor. A few inches down she hit the edge of the barrier spell. The bubble of power completely surrounded them.

“My son…” Beatrice hugged her elbows. “How is he?”

“You can ask him yourself as soon as we get out of here.” Hettie searched the tent, breathing deep to suppress her growing fear. “Walker’s hiding under a glamor spell, but that won’t keep him safe for long. Apparently there’s a general here who’s a powerful sorcerer—”

“El Toro,” she uttered. “You won’t get far with him around. He’s using a blanket influence spell on everyone in the camp.”

“Blanket influence spell?” Uncle had planted talismans on people, including her, to make them compliant and do whatever he asked. He was plenty talented, but it’d taken considerable energy to twist people’s mind like that. From what she’d read, blanket spells covered large groups of people over large areas. Not many sorcerers used them, though, because of the toll it took on the caster, and influence spells were particularly complicated and required a high level of maintenance. Hettie could only imagine what it took to maintain over a camp of several hundred men.

Beatrice warned, “Everyone’s on high alert because he wills it so. Whatever plan you have cooked up, it may not work.”

“Well, we have to try. Everyone’s waiting for a signal from me, including Walker.”

Beatrice’s jaw tightened, and she snapped into action. “All right.” She drew a short paring knife from the bottom of her boot, the kind of thing an herbalist might carry around the garden to cut tough stems. “Put your gun out of sight. They wear their talismans around their necks, so you’ll have to act quickly.”

Before Hettie could ask what she had planned, Beatrice shouted something in Spanish in a high, shrill voice. Two guards marched in, looking less than pleased by the summons. The healer waved the knife around wildly and with amateur menace. The soldiers gawped, taken aback.

Hettie had her opening.

Diablo in hand, she dropped into her syrup world. As she reached for their talismans, a shock sent her reeling backward and dropped her from her time bubble. The soldiers turned to her fully, shouting and aiming their weapons as they spotted the mage gun.

In a fraction of the time it took to think about it, her arm whipped up, and Diablo’s thorn pierced her finger. Hettie only had enough time to think, Please don’t kill them.

The gun knew better. She gleaned in Diablo’s mind’s eye that there was no way to save her without taking lives or else drawing more attention from the rest of the camp. The green glow burst from the muzzle, and in slow motion Hettie watched the men’s heads disappear in a puff of red mist.

The definition of agony was carved into her flesh as the headless corpses thudded to the ground. Her spine snapped back, and her pores oozed fire as two years were subtracted from her life.

It was over sooner than she thought it would be. Respite, she thought blearily, because she was in mortal danger and the Devil’s Revolver didn’t have time to exact its full price on her. She climbed shakily to her feet. Beatrice stared, pale and shaken.

“You’ve bonded,” she said hollowly, then straightened, her face a mask of calm. “I understand now.”

Hettie grimaced at the bodies. The lines where Diablo had parted heads from necks were perfectly straight, reminding Hettie of unfinished fleshy tapestries on looms. She gingerly collected the amulets, wiping her blood-slicked hands on one of the soldiers’ jackets.

Talismans acquired, they slipped out of the tent.