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“Nobody damn well better try,” Uther agreed. And crushed her briefly to him, searing her lips with what was only their second kiss thus far, but might well be their last.

Morrow didn’t know where best to put his eyes—on Love, that awful object? Chess, obviously poised to draw, making Morrow’s fingers itch for the feel of his own shotgun? Or the Marshal and his lady, who seemed to be using this pause to lay a few plans of their own?

When hexes get to wranglin’, plain folks should stick together, he thought, feeling helpless.

Though Sheriff Love’d probably take it as deadly insult to be named a hex, even now—drawing himself up once more, creaking like salt-crusted leather. To say: “God does provide, Mister Pargeter, even to the unbelieving. Why not to me?”

Over the Sheriff’s desiccated shoulder, Morrow watched the Marshal, Haish and Colder Senior fan out through the crowd, tapping shoulders, bending ears; saw folks link arms, scoop up their children, backing away, quick and soft as their liquored-up feet would take ’em. While Missus Kloves worked her own way slowly forward, like she thought there was anything she could do to help. . . .

Go BACK! Morrow tried to mouth, without moving his face far enough to tip Love off. He suspected he must look somewhat like a fish caught in mid-hooking; that alone would’ve warned most folks away.

But not her, Goddamnit.

In front of him, meanwhile, Chess’s smile took on a knowing edge. “Why indeed? But enlighten me, Sheriff: just who did this ‘angel’ of yours say he was, anyhow?”

Love’s gaze dropped, just for a moment. “He said . . . your Enemy. Yours and your Reverend’s, both.”

Chess shot a sidelong look at Morrow, shared knot of memory flaring, a pine-knot cookfire-cracked: ENEMY, by Christ—

A plate-etching behind the eyes, bouncing from Chess to Morrow to poor Missus Kloves in turn—I see him standing behind you, she’d said, voice gone colourless. Huge, black; stone-stiff, knife-toothed, mirror-footed. That bottomless stare and that name, at last . . . the one he’d somehow let slip only to her, without ’em ever having met. . . .

(Tezcatlipoca)

Morrow saw Missus Kloves reel under it, gut-punched, before handing her way back up; damn but that gal had grit, even with her face gone white as her wedding veil. Caught her mouth shaping words in turn, and strained to read them—

Hold him . . . while longer, ’til . . . Pa comes back. Gone . . . get . . .

Was that last one “weapons”?

Morrow risked an “okay” sign with one hand, thumb set to forefinger and shook, hard; Missus Kloves nodded, just the once, but definite.

While Love repeated, harsh mouth a-twist once more—bitter as the salt that filled it—“Your Enemy. Yours. Just like you’re mine, and God’s. So, whatever else, that’s good enough for me.”

“Likewise,” Chess snapped, eyes flaring. And clenched both gunless fists on empty air without fanfare or flourish, causing Love to burst apart suddenly, as though he’d swallowed a m

ortar.

Screams ripped up from the crowd; furniture crashed and fell, glass shattering, as those onlookers still left backed away even further. And the grey-white cloud that had been Sheriff Mesach Love settled slowly to the clapboard floor, pattering like rain.

Chess, meanwhile, simply stood there, admiring his own works, unmoved. As though he’d all of a sudden decided there was no point even pretending he was still pistoleer first, hex after—let alone the damn god that Enemy of everyone’s had so often named him.

No need even to draw, let alone aim, or shoot; I think a thing, it happens, and that’s all. Like it has to. Like it’s got no earthly Goddamn choice. Like I don’t, neither.

Well, that’s one way, Morrow thought, numbly.

“Holy Christ,” whispered Hugo Hoffstedt, so quiet Yancey wasn’t even sure she’d actually heard it. Her eyes stayed locked on Chess Pargeter’s terrible aspect, refusing even to flick away. Had she really so recently felt sorry for such a creature, back when the band’s mockery brought hot blood to his face?

He’d been just a man, then, boy-sized, tough outside and bruised in-, wounded by love, then mocked for caring. Never having seen Reverend Rook, let alone his works, she’d almost envied him for having loved someone so much he was ready to cry—or kill—over it.

Yet love can be terrible, too, the nameless voice told her, sadly. You have far too few words for so many things, granddaughter.

Who is that? Yancey considered her life to have been far easier when she hadn’t had to ask herself such questions.

Most ’specially so when the phantom intelligence in question didn’t even pause, before replying: No matter. Now watch—and be ready.

For what?

Just like that, however, the voice was gone.