Sophie’s modest cottage was tucked away in a remote corner of Texas, not so far from civilization that she couldn’t reach help if she needed it, but not so close that she was constantly visited by nosy neighbors. It was a pretty stone cabin with a large vegetable plot to one side and a chicken coop on the other. A couple of goats roamed the grounds, keeping well away from the garden, probably because it had been spelled with some common protection charms. They bleated balefully at Hettie and Walker’s approach, and Hettie got the impression they were there as guardians more than for the milk they provided.

The Favreaus owned properties all over the country, but this safe house was Sophie’s alone, bought anonymously through a third party. Hettie had learned that the heiress had been making investments and buying real estate long before her fallout with her father. A good thing, too—Atherton Favreau had publicly disowned his only child after she’d escaped from Swedenborg and become a wanted fugitive working with the League of Sorcerers.

Hettie had often wondered if this was the kind of life she would like to live—a quiet place to grow things and be alone, but not too alone. She imagined Sophie must hate it.

“Don’t trip on the barrier spell this time,” Walker warned her. “I don’t want to be riding around looking for where you got punted to.”

She curled her lip. “You’d think she’d know the difference between friends and threats by now.”

“Considering it’s you, I’m not sure anyone knows the difference,” he deadpanned.

Hettie stopped at the gate. If she knew Jemma, Sophie’s bodyguard would already be stationed somewhere with a rifle pointed at her chest. “How flies the raven?” she shouted.

There was a long pause before the response came from a source unseen: “Toward the moonrise, never ceasing.”

“It should walk, then.” She waited. The barrier crackled, the power of it relaxing enough for Hettie and Walker to pass. Magic shimmered over her skin, as if they’d walked through a bubble and the film of soap had swept them clean.

The door opened. “You’re still alive,” Jemma observed. She wore her knives on the outside now, bristling like the spines on a porcupine. She was otherwise unchanged, despite the three years of running and hiding from the law. The bodyguard’s constant state of alertness had always been a part of her, Hettie supposed.

“I’m hearty stock.” They clasped forearms and hugged cursorily—the embrace of soldiers at war. Walker doffed his hat and greeted her with a respectful half bow, and Jemma gave him a crooked smile.

“You’re still running with this outlaw, Mr. Woodroffe?”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Shame. Just remember, if you’re ever looking to be a man of leisure, Miss Sophie will set you up.”

Hettie repressed a scowl; she knew it was only a half-joke. Sophie had made it clear that Walker would be welcome to replace Marcus as her head of security, though since her standing had been greatly diminished, the invitation implied a much different position in her household. One that Jemma was apparently all right with.

Hettie presented Jemma with one of the bottles of fine whiskey they’d pilfered from the saloon in Junesfield. “A gift.”

Jemma accepted it and notched her chin toward the cottage. “She’s inside. Wipe your feet—she just swept.”

The cottage was neat and sparsely appointed, nothing like the lavishly decorated Favreau mansion in New Orleans where Sophie’s grandmother, Patrice Favreau, the Soothsayer of the South, had resided. Sophie sat in a chair by the window, staring through the lace curtains.

Unlike Jemma, Sophie had not fared well. Three years of constantly looking over her shoulder, all while maintaining her glamor to keep them hidden, had taken its toll. She was still beautiful, but tired, her golden curls limp, her complexion pale, her eyes lacking luster. She looked too thin, but aside from that, if anything were wrong with her because of the Fielding engine, Hettie couldn’t tell.

Of course, it had been three years ago, and all of Sophie’s magic had been restored to her at once. Hettie would never forget how the engine had changed Sophie when her powers had been siphoned off. The madness had settled in quickly, and she’d pulled a gun on her friends. How much of that was the engine or her stress at the time, Hettie couldn’t say. Sophie could be dramatic. But she wasn’t attacking Hettie for Diablo’s magic now, so that was something.

Hettie removed her hat. “Sophie.”

The sorcerer didn’t say anything at first. She was eyeing them as if they might be a writhing mass of snakes stuffed into human-shaped sacks. Jemma went to her quickly. “It’s all right. It’s Miss Hettie and Mr. Woodroffe.”

Sophie’s white-knuckled grip on the Derringer loosened beneath the folds of her skirts. She slipped the gun into a pocket and stood slowly. “Forgive me. It’s been a difficult week.”

“Trouble?” Walker asked.

“The League staged a protest in front of town hall near Houston on Tuesday. The Division and the Pinkertons were there, and they beat and locked up many of my friends.” She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid of what might be happening to them now. I haven’t been able to make any connections via interpolation.”

“I tried to discourage her,” Jemma murmured to them. “But she won’t listen to me.”

“You can’t risk the Division finding you here,” Walker said. “I know how helpless you feel, but the best thing you can do for them is stay away. If the Division gets you, they’ll get the leaders of the League.”

“I’ve been careful,” Sophie said with a sniff. “I’m not naive.”

Hettie studied her carefully. “You been juicing?”

She shook her head fervently. “No. I’ve been clean for months now.” She bit her lip. “The League frowns on it. And I…I can’t risk it anymore.” She glanced toward her bodyguard, friend, and lover. Worry and a tiny smile of pride lit Jemma’s face.

“That’s mighty brave of you, Miss Sophie,” Walker said, though Hettie felt his words arrowing through her. “I know how hard it is to get off the stuff.”

“You didn’t come all this way to pay a social visit.” Sophie gestured them to sit as she poured tea.

“What? You don’t think I enjoy small talk? I can gossip.” Hettie sat and picked up the tea and saucer daintily. “I’ve all manner of tales about my men’s flatulence and nighttime habits…”

Jemma barked out a laugh, and Sophie shook her head, smiling. “Your civilized conversation could use some work, Hettie.”

“Ain’t nothin’ civilized about what we do. It’s what happens when you hang around a bunch of stinking men too long. I’ve got Lena and a few others, but I miss being around more women. I even miss the dresses sometimes.” She sobered. “Any word about your grandmother?” Or Abby? That last thought was a given, but Hettie didn’t want to sound too insensitive.

Sophie didn’t meet her eye. “No. But I won’t stop looking.”

Hettie’s and Jemma’s gazes connected. They’d lost hope that Patrice was still alive. It had been nearly a year since Hettie had stopped feeling the driving impulse to search out the cause of the soothsayer’s blackout. And yet Sophie’s quest continued.

They had dinner together—Jemma had roasted a chicken, and Sophie plucked vegetables from the garden and made a dish all by herself!—because these rare visits to old friends demanded such social niceties, but also because Hettie really had missed Sophie and Jemma. Catching up, comparing silly tales about the goats and the men, made it almost feel like they lived a normal life. A happy one. Pretending like this was just a friendly visit made Hettie forget the scab Abby’s absence had left, one which she’d picked at nonstop for three years. She imagined it was the same for Sophie and her grandmother.

But then they had to get back to business.

“Here.” Hettie handed over the list of Fielding expeditions she’d been compiling from the past few jobs. “Looks like the Division has been stepping up their campaign.”

They cleared the dining table, and Sophie unrolled a large map of the country. A series of X’s had been marked upon the map, and she started noting the new information, writing down the names and dates and anything else of use in tiny, neat print.

“We were just in Junesfield,” Hettie said. “Supposedly the expeditions offload there, and the canisters get shipped out on trains. But when we arrived there wasn’t any sign of them, and no one knows where they go.”

“The town had a whole lot of guns, though,” Walker put in. “And they’re set up like they’re getting ready for war.”

“Perhaps they’re preparing for you.” Sophie sent Hettie a narrow look. “You’re something of a mythic gunslinger among the League.”

“A little legend never hurt my reputation,” she countered with a half smile. “Thing is, I don’t think all this to-do’s for us. There’ve been a bunch of attacks on Fielding expeditions. It’s been in the papers. People are saying it’s vampires, but I think it might be man-things.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sophie said. “I’ve read those stories, too. At most, they’re Division propaganda to keep travelers off the roads so they can move the engines more swiftly.”

Hettie turned to Jemma. “Remember Quail’s Hollow? That’s where some of the earliest attacks were. There, and in New Mexico, near Swedenborg.”

Jemma paled. “You saying we made some of those man-things?”

“If we did, they’re gone now. We took a detour before coming here. The town’s been burned to nothing. No one in the area knows what happened, though they’re saying it was a wildfire that swept the area. Not a single survivor left. We couldn’t even find a mass grave.”

“And we looked,” Walker said grimly.

“But…you used Fielding’s engine on me,” Sophie said faintly.

“I don’t know anything for certain. Maybe the Fielding expeditions went through Quail’s Hollow after we were there. Maybe the engine we used on you was different somehow; Horace took it apart enough times that something could’ve changed. Plus, we put all your magic back in you right away. We don’t know anything about longer-term effects. But it’s been three years—if you haven’t turned man-thing by now, I don’t think you will.”

Sophie’s shoulders relaxed some. “So what about Quail’s Hollow?”

“Maybe there really was a fire. Maybe it’s all tall tales. But after Swedenborg…after seeing those Level Zero prisoners, and hearing about these attacks now, I can’t ignore what might be out there.”

“Magic-starved madmen on a rampage,” Walker murmured to himself. “I can believe it. Getting off the juice is…” He trailed off, glancing mournfully at Hettie. “I’d be preparing the town for battle, too, if I knew a mindless magic-hungry mob was coming.”

Sophie exhaled. “I’ll talk to the League. Chances are they’re aware of this already; they have people tracking magic anomalies. Either way, there’s little we can do about this. Frankly, whatever’s attacking the Division, it’s to our advantage. They’re slowing the expeditions.” She lifted her chin. “Those troops deserve what they get for the crimes they’ve committed.”

Hettie grimaced at Sophie’s bloodlust, though she was hardly one to judge. Since their escape from Swedenborg, they’d each been fighting their own private wars for the ones they loved. She nodded toward the dozens of X’s on the map. “So what’s it looking like?”

“The expeditions are still avoiding the larger cities, but they’re starting to hit the big towns now.” She pointed at a line connecting a bunch of X’s through Nebraska. “That’s a train of engines hitting all the same stops over and over again. They’re draining them dry.”

“Division’s getting bolder,” Walker growled.

“Well, with the president supporting the Fielding campaign, sorcerers have no one to turn to for protection or help, despite the egregious abuse of their constitutional rights.” Sophie gripped the edge of the table. “Our people have done all they can to spread the word to the gifted to keep away from the expeditions.”

“The League is sheltering anyone fleeing from the Division,” Jemma added. “They’re being hunted and rounded up like animals.”

“Still no sign of where the canisters are heading?” Hettie asked.

Sophie shook her head. “My guess is they’re remote Zooming them away, though I can’t imagine how they’re stabilizing the Zoom tunnels with those engines passing through.”

“Abby could do it,” Hettie said quietly.

“Or a group of juiced sorcerers could,” Walker said, though not unkindly. “We don’t have proof either way.”

Hettie scrunched up her face, willing the X’s sprinkled like so much confetti across the map to resolve into an arrow pointing the way to Abby. She knew Sophie was hoping for the same for her grandmother.

“What’s your next move?” Jemma asked.

“We need to keep an eye on Junesfield, see when the next canisters arrive. If a Fielding expedition comes in, then we’ll know we’re in the right place.”

“The League would certainly be interested in what’s happening there,” Sophie said. “I could send word out—”

“It’s too dangerous. Junesfield’s a Division town; it’s chock-full of agents looking for rogue sorcerers.”

“Well you can’t go there yourself, and that motley crew of yours isn’t exactly inconspicuous. What are you proposing?”

Hettie grinned. “That we call up some old friends.”