Free American Ghosts & Old World Wonders by Angela Carter

the pentacle; Aztec and Toltec gods appear in giant forms. The church seems to have disappeared.
                When the ritual is done, all clears; the interior of the church is a shambles, however, the Christ over the altar cast down on its face. Johnny and the Count pick themselves up from the floor, where the wind has left them. The Count is coughing horribly, his face is livid; the rite has nearly killed him.
                Outside, all is calm now, a clear, bright night. The moon is back in the heavens again. Johnny, a man in the grip of a mania, stern, firm, helps the shaking Count to his feet.
                "Where is the weapon?"
                "He has come. He's waiting. He'll give it to us."
                Outside, against the wall, so still he's almost part of the landscape, an Indian sits in the dark, poncho, slouch hat, waiting, impassive.
                The Count, leaning heavily on Johnny, greets the Indian with some courtly ceremony. But Johnny barks: "Got the gun?"
                "I got it."
                The gun changes hands. Johnny grabs it.
                "How much?"
                "On account," says the Indian and grins. "On account."
                He tips his hat. His pony, in the graveyard, grazes on a grave. The two Europeans watch him walk towards his pony, mount, ride. In the immense stillness of the night, his hoofbeats diminish.
                Johnny inspects the Winchester repeater in his hands; it looks perfectly normal. Not used to guns, he handles it clumsily. His disappointment is obvious.
                "What's so special about it? Could have bought one in the store."
                "It will fire seven bullets," says the Count, impassive as any Indian. "And the seventh bullet is the one that he put in it, it belongs to him."
                "But --"
                "The seventh bullet is the devil's own. He will fire the seventh shot for you, even though you pull the trigger. But the other six can't miss their targets. Though you've never used a gun before."
                Incredulous, Johnny takes aim, fires at a movement in the darkness. He rushes towards the scream. His target, Teresa's kitten, dead.
                "Five left now, for your own use," says the Count. "Use them sparingly. They come at a high price."
                Teresa wants her kitten. "Kitty! Kitty!" But the kitten doesn't come. "The dogs have eaten it," says Teresa's mother. "And hold still, Teresa, you're wriggling like an eel; how can I fit your wedding-dress. . . ?"
                It's a store-bought wedding-dress, come on the stagecoach from Mexico City. All white lace. And a veil! In front of the clouded mirror in Teresa's bedroom, Maria pops the veil on her daughter's head; what a picture. But Teresa sulks.
                "I don't want to get married."
                Too bad, Teresa! Tomorrow you must and will get married.
                I won't. I won't!
                You won't wheedle your father out of this one, not this time.
                Teresa, in her wedding finery, picks out a few notes of the "Wedding March" on her piano; furious, she slams the lid shut.
                Johnny, at the piano in the whorehouse, plays a few bars of the "Wedding March"; a wedding guest, drunk, flings his glass at the mirror behind the bar, smashing it. The whores superstitiously huddle and mutter. The place is packed out with wedding guests, all notable villains. But there is too much tension to be any joy. Roxana, unsmiling, rings up the price of a replacement mirror on her cash register. The Count, morose, stoops over his drink at the bar. The wedding guests treat him with genial contempt.
     
                Teresa creeps out of her bedroom window, steals along the street, conceals