Hunting in Hell Read online

  "Alsvior! Run!"

  But Alsvior did not move. Instead, his body still facing the wave, he looked back at her. The horror had faded from his face, leaving behind a calm that was almost peaceful. He dropped his arms to his sides.

  No.

  Something snapped within her, and she coiled up like a spring. There was a roaring in her ears, either from the rush of her own blood or the approaching flood, she couldn't tell, but she was flying towards him, her muscles and limbs unfurling, reaching.

  The wave had already begun its descent back to earth.

  It's too far! It's just too far!

  And then, time stretched, the same way it had when crossing the giant beach. She crashed into Alsvior with magnificent speed, her brain rendering impressions of solidity, of weight, and of pain. She wrapped her arms around him and jumped backwards at a diagonal. They landed together on the dirt, and De la Roca immediately sprang to her feet.

  "Why didn't you run?" she asked, her voice nearly shaking with rage. The serpent was no longer moving.

  Is it listening?

  Alsvior, his stomach still on the ground, raised his face enough for his eyes to find hers. She held the gaze for a few moments before tersely looking away. "You're lucky. Even I shouldn't have been able to get there that fast."

  He sighed. "Anywhere else, you wouldn’t have. It's Hell's slide to you. If you want to go somewhere badly enough-"

  "-or if the other party wants you to come badly enough," she interjected.

  Which means that you didn't really want to die. You wanted me to save you.

  Instead of completing his thought, he fell silent and fixed her once again with his blank eyes. Would it not have been better to let the wave fall on him, and remove this burden from her? After all, she had already found the fortress. Did she really need him anymore?

  The flow of the golden stream had lessened considerably, although the putrid mess filled the streambed up to the brim. She traced it as far down the mountain as she could with her eyes.

  What is this stuff?

  She bent at the waist and dipped the tip of her pinky into the mess. There was a brilliant flare of pain, and she withdrew it hurriedly. For a moment, it continued to burn, hot and strong. The skin around the wound pulsed a few times before her body's healing akra took effect. Before her eyes, a few golden bubbles blossomed at her fingertip, like the welling of blood from a thorn-prick. She shook her hand, and they fell to the ground, the wound closing seconds later.

  After so much noise, the sudden silence was making her skin crawl. She looked up the mountain, at the serpent's spade-like head - a head that was, without a doubt, large enough to swallow them both whole, and she shivered at the thought of becoming prey, suffocating, digestive juices churning through her skin. If anything, her healing akra would only delay her death.

  The head remained motionless on the peak, eyes closed, forked tongue lolling out of its mouth like a dog's.

  She shivered once, and then, without looking back, she continued up the mountain.

  #

  They were only a few minutes from the top when the serpent's eyes reopened. De la Roca tensed, but the creature did not move. She waited, surprised when Alsvior passed her, his pace even and calm.

  When they were close enough that a large jump would bring her to the apex, the creature opened its mouth, the giant forked tongue flicking back and forth like the tail of a cat. There was a rushing noise, like an ocean tide, and it took her a moment before she realized the serpent was hissing again.

  She was seized with the sudden desire to touch it, to lay her hands between its great, feline eyes. Would the skin be cool, glossy and smooth, like glass? Or would it feel like the rough-hewn stone of a giant carving?

  Why are you even here? To guard a mountain? Do you care about its contents? Are you just doing a job, serving the sentence for a crime you can't remember?

  Are we the same?

  He had told her before that her gun would prove useless against the serpent. She felt a pang that this animal would die for her quest, an aching mixture of loss and pride. When she spoke, her voice was husky. "What now?"

  "We go in," he replied. His face was grave, deathlike. Before, Alsvior had thrilled in the hunt and kill almost as much as she did. She knew, because she had felt it in the way his muscles coiled and flexed underneath her, heard it in his equine cries.

  Who are you? she wanted to scream. Why are you such a coward?

  Perhaps, if she had, it would have saved her.

  Instead, before she could react, Alsvior took off running. It was not until he neared the serpent's giant head that she realized his intent. Within seconds, she was sprinting, her demonic speed closing the distance between them. At the last moment, he jumped, and she saw his body flying through the air, into the mouth of the serpent.

  She jumped too, her arms stretching toward him, fingers open. Her right hand caught the fabric of the jacket that she had loaned him, and for a split second, she saw him, standing naked on the beach, his hands open and outstretched. She dug her fingers into the jacket and pulled hard, but it was too late.

  With a thump, they landed in the mouth of the snake. Instantly, she was overwhelmed with the stench of it, the same tang as the acid river. Her hand closed around something hard. Her eyes traced the stalactite from her hand to the roof of the serpent's mouth.

  It was a fang. From the tip fell a translucent, golden drop. She watched, transfixed, as it landed on her wrist, where its now-familiar sting brought her mind back into focus.

  The river is made of venom.

  It was her last thought before the serpent's jaws slammed shut and plunged them both into darkness.

  SEVENTEEN

  "Traitor, the time of your mercy has passed. How quick of a death have you chosen?"

  When there was no response, the Pentarchian wrapped her muscled fingers around the bars and leaned her head closer, her eyes flicking back and forth as she sought out Laufeyson's form.

  She turned the key in the lock and flung open the door, her mind frantically trying to stave off the dread that was spreading through her solar plexus.

  She circled the cell again and again as she searched, but in the end, her eyes and heart echoed with the same truth.

  Laufeyson was gone.

  I have failed. I have failed in something as simple as watching a child.

  She sank to a kneeling position, her wings drooping in hatred and shame. She could feel the weight of her dishonor, a burden as tangible as a basket of stone, and she knew what she must do.

  She pulled the knife from her sash, a long, curving blade that extended the length of her arm. With a final muttered apology, she thrust it behind her, swinging it in a wide arc.

  Her wings fell to the ground with a wet thud.

  She was a demon now.

  #

  The Mademoiselle rolled the Eye of Muninn around in her hand, marvelling at the way the light bounced off of the crystal facets.

  If she had Bluot, she would no longer be a pawn of the Consortium. If one had told her, centuries ago, that she soon would be willing to risk her life for the chance of autonomy, she would have laughed and killed that person on the spot. Yet she would give anything, anything for freedom from nursing the drunks in Pico and mind-numbing combs of the Archives. She once hated the isolation; now all she wanted was the chance to live without the interference of the Pentarch.

  Bluot was the key. She needed that gun.

  Luckily, the Mademoiselle knew two facts about the mercenary that she had helped name. De la Roca never gave up, and De la Roca never forgave a slight. She chuckled, thinking back on the botched hunt that started this mess - the mercenary had been bested by a minor demon and lost the gun, until it had shown up in Rico's shop.

  Had she let bygones be bygones? Of course not. She had promptly hunted the demon down and torn out its eyes.

  She sighed wistfully. If only Rico had come to her before he gave the mercenary the gun.


  The conclusion was obvious - if De la Roca neither forgave, nor forgot, then Laufeyson was still number one on her list … unless -

  Has she already found him? If so, chances were good that one of them was dead, and neither one was going to hand over the gun.

  It is time, she thought, to find out.

  She knew it was a rare thing for a demon's death to produce two stones - rare enough that there was frustratingly little information in the Archives. The only thing she could find was a snippet from an untitled, dusty volume that seemed to be the personal journal of an archivist and gatekeeper.

  "Two stones are like lovers; they will seek each other even across the stars."

  Someone like me, she thought. If I'm any indicator, not exactly the most trustworthy source. And you don't even know what kind of stone he or she is talking about.

  She shook her head quickly. Muninn and Thyrsus were both dead, and most likely, she would soon be too. Somehow, she accepted the inevitability of her demise, and the knowledge steeled and comforted her. She had nothing left to lose - she could thank the Pentarch for that.

  She clasped the Eye to her chest and focused hard, directing her power and life energy into the stone.

  Are you linked?

  Can you find your mate?

  Then, she heard the echo. It was faint, with an unclear origin, like a drip in a dark cave.

  This way?

  There was no answer. She reached out anyways, in the direction she had indicated, and waited. Just when she began to give up, she heard another echo.

  For hours, she tracked it. She'd start off in one direction and wait. The drip would come, and she'd change direction and proceed a little farther. Often, she'd have to backtrack; the perceived direction changing between echoes. And then worse were the times that, no matter how hard she strained, she heard only silence. She would convince herself that she had taken a wrong turn, that she had lost the source somehow. When another drip finally came, she was ready to cry with relief.

  Slowly, over the course of the hours, the drips grew louder, more definite, until she could hear them directly in front of her. She reached out, feeling for the thread between the Eyes.

  #

  De la Roca's head buzzed, most likely from the acid tang of the snake's venom in the air.

  The darkness was absolute, the silence broken only by the deep, low pulse that reverberated through the walls around her.

  It must be the creature's heartbeat.

  Hearing the pulse, she remembered the Thyrsus stone in her belly. Her eyes closed, she sent a strand of herself out towards it, and it thrummed back lazily with a wave of power.

  Then, she heard another sound, a heavy sigh that emanated from directly in front of her, and she knew what it had to be. She reached out her hands, searching for Alsvior's body. His flesh was warm and slightly moist, and she remembered yet again that he was no longer a horse, but a man.

  The thought pained her.

  "Are you alright?"

  He didn't answer, and her pulse quickened. Yet she could still hear his breathing, slow and regular. That would change if he was in danger, wouldn't it?

  She stood, supporting herself with his form, feeling her way up his body and to his face. Her fingers lingered there, over his features, before brushing up to the concavity above his cheekbones. Quickly, she whipped her hand away.

  His cheeks were wet.

  He was crying.

  In the life that she could remember, De la Roca knew the thrill of the hunt, the glorious cry of victory, and even the chilling twin blades of fear and defeat. But this awkwardness that stole through her and burned her cheeks was still frustratingly new, and it rendered her speechless. She wanted to ask him what brought the tears to his eyes, but the gap that lay between them engulfed any overture she could muster.

  Instead, she did the only thing she knew how to do. She moved on.

  Using her hands and her exceptional hearing as a guide, she navigated her way around the serpent's mouth. In one spot, the timbre of the heartbeat changed, and she could feel the rush of a gentle draft that she attributed to the creature's own breathing.

  That must be the throat.

  After circumnavigating the cavern twice, she again found the throat and then walked halfway around, to where she thought the front would be, being careful to avoid the fang-points she pictured in her mind.

  At first, she attempted to open the mouth with just her hands. When that failed and she was covered with sweat, she switched to wedging her boot between the rough edges of the teeth. She pushed as hard as she could, gathering the strength of all of her powers, until she slipped in what she could only hope was a pool of sweat. Her momentum brought her crashing down, the teeth delivering her a glancing blow upon the forehead.

  "Damn it!" She brought both guns up. Reconsidering, she dropped Bluot to her side. The pistol would be enough.

  The bullet exited the gun with a deafening roar. She heard the zing as it bounced off of one of the teeth and had time for one thought - ricochet - before hitting the ground and balling herself up. Then she remembered Alsvior, and she flung herself in the direction from which his voice had come last. There was a cracking noise, the sound of a bullet hitting the serpent's stone-hard flesh, and she felt herself slam into something warm and soft. Quickly, she brought Alsvior to the ground. She heard two more cracks, and then she screamed as fire tore through her left arm.

  The next time she heard the bullet, it seemed to echo from some distance.

  "I think it's gone down the throat," she said.

  They waited as the bullet's cracks grew quieter and more muffled, the initial energy from the shot bleeding out with each successive ricochet. Finally, there was a last pinging thump, and she knew it was safe.

  "I am sorry," is all she could think of to say.

  "Were you hit? I heard you scream."

  She flexed her left arm and squeezed the hand into a fist. The pain was fading, and she couldn't discern any loss of mobility or strength.

  "I think it's okay. It's probably already started to mend." She meditated on her akra until a thought occurred to her. "This bullet was headed right for you. And then outside, you were almost engulfed by venom. So when you think about it, I've saved your life - twice." Although she knew he couldn't see her, she winked into the darkness.

  She had expected him to laugh, but instead, she heard only a strangled noise that repeated over and over, gradually establishing a rhythm. She realized that he was crying again.

  "Alsvior." Had they not just crossed this bridge? In her frustration, she debated the merits of punching him and leaving him behind.

  The Mademoiselle had talked to her once about the difference between humans and demons. One thing she had mentioned was the emotional depth of the human experience, the various states that overwhelmed a being, regardless of purpose or usefulness. How much of Alsvior was of man, and not beast or angel?

  "Alsvior?" She listened to the serpent's heartbeat, a slow, deep bass that marked the passing time.

  "Al?"

  She heard him snort. Her heart suddenly soared at the familiar gesture, and she reached out again to touch him.

  His terse reply, though, shot through her sudden nostalgia. "You can't go out through the mouth. There's only one way from here on out, and that's down."

  EIGHTEEN

  The angel known only as Golden was headed for Laufeyson's cell, intent on speaking with Nemain and finding out what ties the prisoner had to the Damned. The chance for confession had arrived and passed, and he had already given his torturer permission to use more convincing measures.

  So many, he thought, as he considered the numerous members of the rebel movement. It's one of the great tragedies of our time, that so many still cannot see the truth.

  Golden understood how his legions could become confused - especially the youngest among them, those that had only known life under Consortium rule. They hadn't been present for the chaos of the Abdication. Freshly uproote
d and feeling betrayed by their Maker, how many of Hell's new residents had thrown all caution to the wind, violating the eternal mandates of Heaven and His word, and bringing unspeakable shame upon all of them?

  A single crystalline memory pinged icily through his brain.

  Cleopia. Love of my life.

  Traitor.

  Wench.

  Although not a murderer, in the end, the totality of her crimes was just as terrible - including her decision to join the cause for the Damned.

  Laufeyson - and his thought froze then, suspended as the memory gained color and clarity - Laufeyson took care of her punishment. What if she still wanders the forests of Hell-

  No! Even he isn't that cruel. She got her due. She and her lover.

  The last thought brought a smirk to his face. I should have killed him. He shrugged off the thought with a grim smile and shook his head, his champagne hair falling in a halo around him. No, better that he suffer. Better that he bear the weight of another upon his back for all time.

  A morsel of smug satisfaction warmed in his mouth. When it melted away, it left the bitter tang of regret.

  No wonder He left, thought Golden. We were not worthy.

  I am not worthy.

  The thought sent a pang through his chest, and he took a breath to steady himself.

  #

  They had figured it out, somehow. There had been a lull in the chaos just long enough for five enterprising angels to snag power and put forth a unified front. They were trying to end the bloodshed.

  They had not predicted that so many would oppose them - or that their enemies would be such creative subversives. The Damned resembled a den of rats; alone, each animal was weak, but together, as a force, the infestation was nearly impossible to exterminate.

  It's their lack of organization, thought Golden. All of them operating in splinter cells, none of them knowing about the other, and all of them seemingly bent on mayhem. Did they even have a directive - a real goal?