Junesfield was a small, industrious lumber town in Kansas. The place was tidy, the roads magically reinforced to keep them from getting muddy—an expensive spell for a lumber town—and the buildings were brightly painted and well-kept. The railroad had been a blessing for the economy and was probably the reason why the Division had chosen Junesfield as a central hub for the Fielding canisters—the town was central to many of the smaller hamlets and villages in the county.

Just outside town, beyond the decorative timber archway, piles of discarded scraps and beams nailed together in rough rows of crosses lay along the path. Inside the time bubble, Hettie and Walker dismounted and walked their horses around them.

“Barricades,” Walker observed. “They used them during the war to stop cavalry charges. Look.” He pointed toward a row of men. “They’re digging a trench, too.”

“They expecting a fight?”

“Anything worth protecting gets proportional defenses. We must be on the right track.”

They navigated around the stock-still tableau of people loading and unloading carts, children running through the streets, neighbors waving at each other. It reminded Hettie of Newhaven. She wondered about the townspeople back in that place she’d once called home. Wondered about her friend Will Samson, the sorcerer Henry Bale, the healer Miss Yellowhawk who’d helped save her life…

She clamped down on the homesickness welling up inside her.

“Go check the warehouses,” Hettie directed Walker. “I’ll search the rest of the buildings.”

Walker frowned. “I thought we couldn’t be too far apart in the bubble.”

“The juice helps. Just go.”

She made her way through every shop and saloon, picking up a few essential supplies along the way. The canisters were too big to hide. That strange sucking feeling they radiated couldn’t be easily concealed from a gifted populace, and they wouldn’t keep a lot of the canisters together where they might affect other spells.

She checked every building and found nothing. Absently, she fingered the little bag of raven bones in her pocket. Rok’s smoky form flapped down to rest on her shoulder.

“You called?” the demon familiar rasped.

“Do you sense any Fielding canisters in town?”

The raven snipped his beak in the air. “No canisters here.”

Hettie’s spirits dropped. “But,” Rok interjected, “there are traces of magic everywhere.”

“From what?”

“Don’t know.”

“The canisters?”

“Don’t know.”

Odd. The raven familiar knew everything. And he wasn’t prone to lying. “Maybe the sorcerers in town are juiced. Show me the gifted.”

Rok took off and circled the town overhead, his ashy wings raining down a fine shower of soot. As the particles landed on the gifted, they lit up like sunlight glowing through a new spring leaf.

Hettie noted the faces, inspected the men for any signs they were with the Division. They usually displayed their badges prominently when they were on official business, but that she couldn’t spot their shields meant little.

She counted seventeen gifted, most of them older folks. Not many for a Division town. Of course, any children with the gift would’ve been sent to the Academy…or else they had run away. So the ambient magic Rok was detecting wasn’t likely from juicing.

Two men in particular caught her attention. They stood close together, heads bent, one man’s eyes locked on the building across the way, every taut line of their bodies telegraphing anxiety.

She could drop out of time, maybe try to listen in on their conversation, but she didn’t know where Walker was, and she couldn’t leave him exposed.

She found him just as he was exiting one of the warehouses near the train station. “No canisters or engines here. But I found something else.” He beckoned her inside and pointed toward one corner where several men were unloading crates from a wagon. One had been cracked open, and she peered in with a frown.

“Guns?”

“And ammunition. Enough to equip an army.” He pointed. “There’s more in there.”

“Army’s not stationed around these parts. So what are they stockpiling for?”

“Maybe us. After No Hope, could be they’re loading the Fielding expeditions for bear. Seems excessive, even for the Division.”

“Nothing’s excessive for them.” There had to be at least ten crates of guns in here. She supposed she could destroy them, but then they’d know something was wrong, and she could lose her only lead to Abby. “Maybe they planted the idea of Junesfield in that Uxbridge fella in No Hope. Maybe they’re laying another trap for us.”

“Nothing about our outfit’s told them we’re that stupid or reckless,” Walker countered. “We’re as successful as we are because we’re careful.”

“So let’s pretend this isn’t for us. What would they arm themselves against?”

“The League? The Mundane Movement?”

“The Division hasn’t fired on their own citizens…yet. Or if they have, they wouldn’t be making quite this much of a show of it.” She gestured around. “This might be a Division town, but look at these people. Look at their faces. They’re not living in fear, even with this many guns passing through and all those barricades going up. Either they don’t know what’s coming, or they think they’re invincible.”

“Or they’re under some kind of influence spell.” Walker folded his arms. “We can’t be certain unless we check it out in real time. You have the anti-influence charm Lena made?”

She pulled out the talisman from around her neck. “Never go anywhere without it.”

They found a spot where no one would notice two rough-looking types popping up out of thin air, and Hettie dropped the time bubble. The town roared to life, the hustle and bustle an assault on her ears after hours of silence. Carts clattered through the street, men shouted, and everyone moved with purpose.

Hettie nodded toward the two anxious-looking men. “I wanna follow those two.”

Walker nodded. “All right. I’ll hit the saloon, see what I can find out. Meet back here in an hour.”

Hettie tugged the brim of her hat down and surreptitiously made her way to a stall close to the men, who continued their low conversation in the middle of the thoroughfare. She caught a snippet as she passed.

“…not enough. We need more men to dig trenches. We’re totally exposed out here, and when they bring in the next canisters…”

Hettie forced herself to keep moving. So the Fielding canisters were coming through here. She and Walker must have just missed a shipment.

She pretended to browse the stall’s wares, straining to eavesdrop. The man at the stall held out a bottle. “Best garlic ale in the county,” he said with a smile. “Drink this, rub it on your skin, and it’ll keep the vamps away.”

“Vamps?” Hettie startled. “You mean vampires?”

“Among other creatures.” His smile brightened as he hooked a potential customer. “Vampires, Weres… even those things I hear are roaming all over the country south of the Wall. Choopookaburra.”

“Chupacabra,” she corrected, opening the bottle and taking a whiff. Not so much medicinal as cheap gin mixed with garlic, herbs, and some other green things he’d probably pulled off the side of the road.

The two Division men came closer, still engrossed in their heated conversation. Wanting to keep up the pretense of being a casual shopper, Hettie rubbed some of the ale on her skin and sniffed it. It reminded her of Uncle after a week without a bath.

“Why not have a sip?” The man poured a thimbleful into a shot glass and pushed it toward her. “It’ll warm you through. All natural, no magic spells or potions, I guarantee.”

“Guarantee! Guarantee!” Rok squawked from the top of the stall’s sign. “Thief and liar guaranteed!”

Hettie set her teeth and sipped the stuff. It burned on contact, the powerful funk reeking of months-old unwashed laundry. “That’ll keep something away all right,” she coughed.

“Don’t you know it. It’s a recipe from my grandmammy’s days, back before the last vamps were staked and burned. Seems like we need it more and more, what with all the attacks.”

“What attacks?”

“You haven’t heard?” He gave a bleak and incredulous chuckle. “Word is, the vamps have returned. There were a couple of attacks on those Fielding expeditions. They come here, you know, to unload, get those canisters shipped off.” He nodded toward the train station. “’Course, no one’s supposed to talk about it. But I’ve been chatting up the men who ride security with the engines—boys, really. They’re graduating them earlier and earlier from the Academy these days.”

“Do you know where they take the canisters?” she asked, trying hard not to sound too eager.

He chuckled. “Ain’t nobody who knows that, except maybe the officers. But you know the Division. They play their cards close to their chest.” He lowered his voice. “Hell, ain’t nobody in Junesfield’s supposed to even know the canisters are coming through here. Kind of obvious, what with all the agents and security and those barricades like we’re expecting General Lee to come charging in. You can never have too much protection, though.” He shook the bottle in a prompt.

Hettie bought one, keeping an eye on the Division men as they paced toward the building they’d been nodding at. Of course, he might be telling tall tales to sell his snake oil, but there was often a grain of truth to be found among such stories. “Tell me about these attacks. Where’d they take place?”

“Been all over, from what the papers are saying. First couple were in New Mexico, near where Swedenborg used to be.” He lowered his voice. “They say that’s where the vamps crawled out of hell. Straight out of the ground, like maggots through a corpse.”

Hettie’s skin lifted with goose bumps. “Where else?”

“Somewhere in Louisiana, near New Orleans, some small town a few hours away… What was it called? It had a funny name… Pigeonhole?”

“Quail’s Hollow?” she croaked.

He snapped his fingers. “That’d be the one.” He shook his head. “Heard that whole town was torn apart. Division had to go down there and raze the place, make sure the ‘blood hunger’ didn’t spread.” He snorted. “That’s the problem with these scientist types. They think vampires were just sick folks that needed medicine, but my grandmammy knew better. Infernal demons need exorcising…”

Hettie barely heard him through the rush of blood in her ears. She started toward the saloon.

“Wait up!” The man grabbed her wrist. Diablo jumped into her palm, and she pushed the muzzle into the man’s face. “Whoa there, partner! Didn’t mean anything by it.” He held up the bottle of garlic ale she’d left behind and laughed nervously. “Helluva quick draw you got there.” He eyed the Devil’s Revolver charily. “Nice piece, too.”

Hettie snatched her hand out of his grip and hastily stuffed the mage gun back into her holster. She swiped the bottle from him, then whirled away.

She found Walker chatting up a woman at the bar. She was a willowy thing, golden-haired and fair. The rouge on her cheeks and tint on her lips glinted as she laughed and stroked Walker’s arm.

Hettie ignored the flare of heat in her chest and marched up to him. The woman glanced up curiously, her smile broadening. “This your friend? Y’know, I have a friend who could join us. Or maybe you’d like it to be the three of us together?”

Hettie pushed her hat up to look the woman in the eye. “I don’t share.”

The woman went pale, the words stopping in her slender throat. She left them stiffly, crossing the room with rapid, stumbling steps.

“You didn’t need to scare her off.” Walker tossed back his drink. “She was just warming up to me, getting ready to tell me about the Division presence in town.”

“Never mind that. I got what we need. Let’s go.”

Across the room, the saloon girl anxiously relayed something to a large man, glancing at Hettie and Walker fearfully. The man looked their way, eyes narrowed, and Hettie knew she’d been made. “Dammit.” She grabbed Walker’s wrist.

“Hold it right there!” The big man drew his sidearm. “You with the scar!”

Walker slipped in front of Hettie, hiding her behind his bulk. “Easy there, hoss. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to show any disrespect for your employee.” He tossed a few bills onto the counter. “I’ll be on my way. No need for trouble.” He backed toward the door, and Hettie inched along behind him.

The big man whistled. Four men drew on them, including the bartender, who pulled a shotgun out. Walker and Hettie stopped dead in their tracks.

“You’re her.” The big man sidled around Walker, eyeing Hettie up and down. “You’re the heathen witch Hettie Alabama.”

She sighed. “Why does everyone keep calling me that?” A cold weight settled in her stomach, and she pushed it down deeper so that she was rooted, boots to earth.

“Reward for her’s over three thousand dollars by now,” one of the armed men said, licking his lips. Around them, saloon patrons edged out of the crossfire, ducking low behind their stools. “Dead or alive.”

“Actually, it’s five thousand.” Hettie stepped out around Walker. She met the eyes of every man there. “This ain’t gonna end well for you boys.” She glanced around the room. “And it’d be a pity to shoot this place up. I like the chandelier.”

“I can buy ten more when I turn you in.” The big boss lumbered toward her. “Now get on your knees like a good girl.”

She sucked in air between her teeth and exhaled. “Walker, d’you fancy any of the whiskeys on the shelves?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Got my eye on a couple, yeah.”

“All right. I’ll do my best to save them.”

They walked out less than a minute later—about ten in Hettie’s bubble time—with all the saloon’s cash, three bottles of top-shelf whiskey in Walker’s bag, and some new bloodstains on the cuffs of her shirt. The bounty hunter dumped an armload of guns into the nearest water-filled trough while Hettie checked the blade of her curved dagger, making sure it was spotless before sheathing it. The syrup world engulfed them in thick silence once more, except for the screaming men she’d left behind. Their weight in her bubble would be released once they were outside of Junesfield, and then she’d reform the time bubble so it was just her and Walker.

The bounty hunter ground his jaw as they mounted up.

“Now what’s got your goat?” she asked when his stilted silence dragged on.

“If you don’t know, I don’t want to say.”

“You sulking that you didn’t get a go at that saloon girl?”

“Is that what you think?” His disbelief morphed into anger.

She barely lifted her shoulder, the numbness inside spreading icy fingers through her core. She’d made it clear he had no obligation to her—what more did he want?

Walker cut his mount in front of hers, eyes flashing. “I just watched you cut the ankles of five men without batting an eyelash.”

“I could’ve killed them outright, you know.” Which she might have done to keep them quiet, except that Walker had been there, and she hadn’t wanted him to witness that.

“And I’m supposed to be grateful you didn’t?”

“I don’t need you to be anything. You’re a gunslinger, Walker. How many men have you killed?”

He ground his jaw. “We’re not talking about me.”

“Exactly my point. You keep holding me to some impossible standard when I have just as much to lose as you do. Maybe even more. I have to do what I have to do to find Abby and to keep everyone I care about safe.” Even if it was from her own monstrosity. She drew herself up. “You were the one who wanted to come along. I wouldn’t even have had to do all that if you hadn’t followed me.”

He scoffed. “Not killing people shouldn’t be a burden.”

Everything inside Hettie flexed, like a taffy being pulled in every direction, thinning to the point of snapping. She wanted to apologize and ask for his forgiveness. Another part of her wanted him to just go away and leave her alone. Still another quietly whispered that he’d be better off without her…and she’d be better off without him.

She could drop him out of the time bubble, get back to Blackthorn’s Hell, and move the gang before he returned. But she knew he’d find her. He always did.

“What did you learn?” he asked sullenly after a time.

She told him haltingly about the so-called “vampire” attacks on the Fielding expedition, and about Swedenborg and Quail’s Hollow.

“Quail’s Hollow? That town where you bamboozled the folks out of their magic?”

“It was Horace’s idea.” She’d gone along with it, though, so she could hardly blame the hostler. “We need to go there. I can’t trust the word of some snake oil peddler. I need to see what kind of damage was done. What that engine of Fielding’s did.”

“If the Division burned the town to the ground, there won’t be anything to see.” He rode alongside her. “What’re you really worrying about?”

She was silent for a long moment. “We need to go see Sophie.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We used that engine on her. We should check on her, see if there’s anything we need to do for her.”

“We’re putting her at risk every time we go to her.”

“If you wanna head back to the hideout, take a train. I’ll pay your way.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he bit out, tugging his hat lower over his eyes and glaring hard down the road. “You wanna go see Sophie? Let’s go see Sophie.”