Borderlands

Caliche doesn’t observe boundaries. Neither does trouble.

I thought freeing DJ would be the end of it—three wishes, one impossible act of mercy, roll credits. Instead, emancipating a djinni put a target on my back. Every magical authority from the bum‑fudgers at BMFR down to W.A.R.D. suddenly wanted to know why their wish‑granting asset had gone off the ledger and who the ol’ coot in West Texas thought he was.

So we went off‑grid. Casa Río Espíritu started as a half‑built shell on a caliche ridge by the Rio Grande. One twitch of DJ’s phenomenal powers, and it turned into a hidden ranch mansion with more square footage than sense. That should’ve been our quiet retirement. Instead, it became a beacon.

My oni Anya flipped sides and works as our mole in the bureaucracy. We adopted Nugget, a mixed‑up water spirit who thinks she’s a succubus sprite. Catalina, a jaguar‑shifting nagual from across the river, walked in like she owned the place and stayed—because she’s seen what happens when institutions treat magic like property.

That’s when I started noticing the flow. Mana moves like weather—pressure, humidity, static in your bones. The more time I spent on that ridge, the more I felt places where something living had been pulled out of the land. Wounds where the magic used to be.

A pattern that goes back further than the Alamo: natural magic found, separated, contained, renamed, repurposed, then scrubbed from the record.

So this is my stand. When they come to reclaim their “assets”—my djinni, my oni, my nagual, my river spirit—I’ve got one answer for ‘em, in the most Texan way possible: Come and take ’em. If you think you can.

Caliche doesn’t respect borders. And now, neither do we.