Hunting in Hell Read online

  "De la Roca, I have spent these centuries either looking for you, or thinking of ways to bring the Pentarch down."

  "Well, you found me," she said, but there was no pleasure in her words.

  #

  You will die a coward.

  Alsvior's head drooped to his chest as he fingered his knife.

  He could write off trading De la Roca to the Oracle as a necessary evil in his revenge against Golden, but not what happened later. He had seen her come through the door, a limp body that fell at Golden's feet. He could have been brave, then, taken the opportunity to save her, possibly without alerting Golden of his presence.

  Possibly.

  But possibly had been too thin a chance, and in the end, he had watched from behind the platform, hidden in the shadows as the angels took her away.

  The knife was flickering between his fingers, spinning with the sort of manipulation one might use to impress a child. Lost in his guilt, he almost didn't hear the howl.

  Garmyr!

  Precious seconds passed as he debated running or hiding. Then he heard a laugh - Golden's laugh - and he knew that even if it cost him his life, he had to see. Quickly, he ran to the nearest hiding place - a great tree with drooping branches. He climbed up until the boughs started to thin and covered himself with his jacket, trying to obscure his shape.

  He watched as Golden sent the jackal away, unable to believe his luck.

  You could do it now, he thought, as he fingered the tiny blade. Slit his throat now, while he is alone, and none shall know.

  And then his body was filled with a wave that clouded his will. He fought it frantically, but it grew stronger, and before long, he could hear the tramping of footsteps. The angels were returning.

  He watched from his perch as they crested over the rim of the valley, their crowd a thousand strong. They moved in perfect lockstep, and Alsvior knew that they were also under the influence of Golden's kevra.

  He had missed his chance. He wanted to scream, but then Golden waved, and a door appeared on the platform. It was the Oracle's door.

  Golden ascended the platform and stood, his arms crossed in front of him. To Alsvior, it seemed like he waited an eternity, until finally, all of his angels were standing before him. They stopped.

  Golden smiled and opened the door. The Oracle appeared in the doorway in her most attractive of forms.

  They conversed, and her sour expression changed to one of sweetness and light. Then Golden waved once, airily, and three angels walked to the door.

  And then, in a gruesome sight he would never forget, they drew their swords and cut off their own wings. The crowd had been so silent that, although he could not hear the conversation between Golden and the Oracle, he could hear the screams of the angels as they mutilated themselves. Then, with a nod from Golden, the three gave the Oracle their wings. With a wide smile, the Oracle opened her door wide, and the entire group trudged, single file, through the Oracle's door.

  When the last angel entered, the Oracle reappeared. She leaned out the door slightly and looked directly at Alsvior, her eyes burning with hate. She winked once, a wink that oozed sex and promise, before closing the door.

  THIRTY

  The Mademoiselle balanced on one foot, the toes of the other pointed towards the earth. Her breath held and her body caught in the same rakish lean as the neighboring trees, she waited for the sound to repeat itself. Minutes passed without any sign of company in the woods. Was she finally losing her mind? A shiver passed up her spine, oblivious to the warmth of the night air.

  Calm yourself. You prepared for this.

  And to an extent, that was true. She had passed through this forest many years ago, and she knew it could have changed. Before she opened the waypoint, she had walked this part of her journey in her astral form, absorbing as much as she could of the surroundings and trying to warn herself of possible dangers. She had wanted to visit the Archives, but the risk of being caught, even as a projection, was too great.

  It's a suicide mission, something whispered. She breathed deeply, shook her head once, and continued on, but the voice persisted in snaking around the back of her mind.

  They know you are here.

  Impossible. I cloaked the waypoint.

  There are other ways.

  Like what?

  If I told you … that would be no fun.

  A shape lurched to her left, the shadows of a thousand leaves breaking and flowing together over its form. The Mademoiselle fell into a crouch, alert and ready to open another waypoint out. Adrenaline rushed through her, alleviating the tiredness she had felt only seconds before.

  Please, be anything, anything but -

  A soldier of Diaspar? The voice chuckled, its laugh burbling over like a foul river of pollution. She felt herself flinch and hated herself for it. The rider in her mind knew everything - even her worst fears.

  Worst of all, she was beginning to get the feeling that something had already gone terribly wrong.

  She had dropped herself several miles north of her destination. The forest was the only place close enough that would most likely not be guarded; angels and demons alike avoided it with a remarkable vehemence. Once one was known to carry the curse of Diaspar, he or she was exiled to the forest to wait … for what? …

  As a whole, it was a ghoulish place. While fresh reanimates appeared normal, over the years, they became victims of imperfect re-assemblies, until they resembled a rat's meal - missing pieces, seams that didn't line up. Some were even missing entire limbs, eyes, their flesh torn off and run away with by various entities. Occasionally, those with kevras and akras of magic came through and hunted, using the opportunity to gauge the efficacy of their powers, but they were rare exceptions. As a whole, it was largely avoided.

  And if you manage to get through the grove, what next?

  She took a few deep breaths. She had been away from the Valley of the Winged for so long that she wasn't quite sure what to expect, and that made it impossible to plan her next moves. The first step was to see how close she could reasonably get to the Fortress without being discovered, and figure out how heavily guarded it was.

  Hopefully, not very. After all, what do they have to guard against, save a few rogue members that are probably already dead?

  She heard a rustle in the tree above her, and something moved at the very edge of her peripheral vision. She cursed herself for not paying more attention. Seconds later, a bird flew out of the cover of the branches, its foliage brilliant even in the moonlight.

  She waited again, her breathing returning to normal, and then continued on. It was hours before she finally broke free of the trees, their massive heights dwindling until they were no more than a collection of scrubby bushes that peppered craggy hills. She felt exposed, but there was nothing for it.

  By the time she reached the hill that overlooked the Valley of the Winged, the first streaks of dawn were weaving their way through the sky.

  Safer to try by night, she thought. There was a small clump of bushes just a few minutes back, and she resolved to return to it and take cover before the sun rose any further.

  She had already taken her first steps, when her skin began to prickle. She turned back towards the ridge, and moving swiftly but cautiously, she ascended until she reached the peak. She could see the Valley of the Winged and the Fortress in the impending Dawn, dark smudges in the distance.

  Something's different, isn't it? Have you figured it out yet?

  What is it? she thought, the growing light adding to her sense of urgency. What?

  Darkness, said the voice.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Valley was like a body from which the soul had clearly departed - still and vacant-eyed, deserted and lonely. She could make out the windows of the fortress, smudgy bruises on a grey face. From her spot on the ridge, the entire depression lied within her view, and not a single light burned anywhere. Even at this hour, there should have been something - some flash of movement - but in the gr
owing dawn, she could clearly see the Valley in its abandonment.

  Where … are they?

  What has happened here?

  She had expected the voice in her head to answer, but the embodiment of Thyrsus remained maddeningly silent.

  A dozen scenarios crashed around in her brain, each one vying for dominance and a chance to prove its logic. Had they all fled? If so, from what? What could be fearsome enough to cause the widespread exodus of a thousand angels? A disease? An act of God?

  War? The Movement-

  Her pace quickened as she ascended the ridge, her weariness melting away. She stumbled once, and her breath caught in her throat, her normal dignity abandoned alongside her sense of caution. A fear was bubbling in her, one that she dared not voice, but her mind filled defiantly with images of bloodstained earth and dismembered bodies, of weapons and wings.

  By the time she crested over the top, the light had increased enough to give her the means to make out more details. Her pace was jostling her vision, but what she saw puzzled her. All of it seemed in perfect order. There were no bodies, no dropped burdens. Her eyes couldn't spot a single disturbance.

  It's like they just evaporated, she thought, and her pace fell off, until she was standing motionless at the bottom of the ridge, the rest of the Valley and the Fortress in front of her in plain view.

  Every single angel gone, and no sign as to why. Could this be war with the Movement? She shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. It didn't seem possible, and with every second, the fear that she had previously been able to push back bubbled closer to the surface, until it finally broke through.

  What if … What if God has returned?

  She sighed once and breathed deeply. Her fear finally voiced and confronted, she could pick it apart better, analyze it in ways she couldn't when she denied its existence.

  That can't be right. His presence, his power - it would be felt by all. It would be here now, even still.

  In that case, what if they've found him? What if they've gone to him?

  She shook her head again. There was only one being in the world who knew God's current location. Only one who had been loving enough and clever enough to follow Him unnoticed, to slip through God's waypoint before it closed. And when God had turned and set his eyes upon her - what love they held! What compassion, what intelligence!

  Remembering the last time she saw him, her eyes filled with tears, and the view of the Fortress slipped away to a green land full of strange plants.

  * * *

  MY CHILD, he had said, and his voice had been like the roar of a mighty ocean, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE COME.

  She had lain there, quaking in the greenery, accepting of her end and merely grateful for the chance to hear his voice one final time.

  Offworld, she thought, the word strange and foreign, yet undoubtedly correct. Behind her, she could hear the crackling whirr of the waypoint, a link between the land of her Father's making and this place, this place that was something else. Why do you hold it open?

  She would have preferred death to the pain and loss that came next, to the abandonment she felt as he gave his last command.

  GO BACK, AND DO NOT RETURN.

  Her whole being wanted to cry out against him. For the eternity of her existence, she had known the blessing of the Lord as one of his angels, and as his angel, she had no choice but to obey.

  He turned away from her then, and it was with a broken heart that she turned back.

  * * *

  Hidden safely in one of the Fortress turrets, Alsvior rubbed his eyes with his fists. The tiny figure he had spotted cresting the ridge grew as it descended, its speed increasing with its progress. For a moment, he thought the creature was fleeing - perhaps from the return of Golden and his company of angels - and Alsvior cowered into the stone, making himself as small as he could, hating himself.

  Yet the figure's pace trailed off once it reached the lowest point of the valley, stopping before it began the gradual ascent that led up to the Fortress.

  He gasped. It was the Mademoiselle.

  What was she doing here?

  THIRTY-TWO

  "Hush, I hear footsteps."

  De la Roca pressed her fingers against Laufeyson's mouth. It had been a move of instinct, one that belied her emotional state.

  His lips were soft under her fingers, and she could feel a rush of blood quicken in her cheeks. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and she found herself looking away from his stare.

  Could she really doubt that they had once been lovers?

  They listened together, motionless, soundless, two figurines carved from stone. After a few moments, De la Roca shot Laufeyson a questioning look, and he shrugged in answer.

  Something was wrong with the footsteps - the stride was halting, uneven, quiet, the hard soles barely clacking against the stone floor. Whoever was approaching, they were obviously taking pains to not be heard.

  Not Golden, then, but who?

  Feeling naked without Bluot, De la Roca unsheathed the small pistol that she kept on the other side. It was a joke, a gun against an angel, but if nothing else, it might give her a moment of distraction. Laufeyson shifted until he stood in front of her, his intention to protect her clear. She bristled with irritation.

  When the tension was so great that she thought she might crush her own gun into powder, a face finally appeared from around the corner. Laufeyson and De la Roca gasped in unison.

  Seconds later, De la Roca lunged towards the face on the other side of the bars, only to fly backward again with a sudden jerk. Laufeyson's hand clamped over her mouth, quieting her howls.

  "De la Roca," he said, his voice a fierce whisper, "we need to find out why she is here, and what she wants."

  She felt the pressure slacken momentarily and readied herself to leap again.

  "Promise me," he said, his voice gentle.

  It was as if she had been suddenly plunged back into the ocean of his mind, a deep, swirling mass of freezing riptides. She could do no more than nod wordlessly as he released her.

  It was with surprise she caught his wink.

  #

  "Where is the gun?"

  Several things were happening in the Mademoiselle's head at once, all of them disconcerting, not the least of which was an itchy feeling in the back of her mind, the kind of itch that she would scratch if she could just figure out where it was. But no matter what direction she spun her thoughts in, it was the wrong one, and her need remained unsatisfied. On top of it were so many questions that she was amazed she could see past them at all.

  Where are the other angels?

  How had they captured De la Roca - and where is Bluot? And here she was, in the same cell as Laufeyson - how is he not dead?

  Where is Bluot?

  That last question rattled the strongest; she could feel the mingling forces within the room, amorphous, powerful - but she did not sense the greedy thrum of De la Roca's legendary gun.

  When neither Laufeyson nor De la Roca volunteered an answer, the Mademoiselle stepped towards the door, her teeth clenched so hard that it made her jaw ache. "Where … is … the gun?"

  And then there was the feeling of something cold and hard behind her, digging into her back.

  "Welcome, Mademoiselle." Her eyes grew large and she felt her stomach drop.

  It was Golden.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Golden whistled once, loudly, and Garmyr bounded into view. He rubbed the jackal's head affectionately, before bending over and whispering in its ear. It quickly disappeared, tearing off in the direction from which it had come.

  "I'm sure you're wondering where everybody is," he said. His eyes sparkled with joy and cruelty.

  "It doesn't really matter. They will receive their instructions and return presently. Garmyr is on it, and I trust that dog more than I trust any, save myself."

  He produced a single key and opened the door.

  "March," he said to the Mademoiselle. He pushed his blade
further into her back, just far enough to cut the fabric and gently pierce the very top layer of skin. When he pulled his sword back, a single drop of blood glistened.

  Her heart sinking, the Mademoiselle walked into the cell. She made a last, desperate attempt to catch De la Roca's eye, and mouthed the word, Bluot. De la Roca gave no sign of having understood.

  As the Mademoiselle entered the cell, she was hit by conflicting sensations, and again she felt the push of something powerful, a pulse that lapped over her in warm waves. In her chest, the tiniest of hopes began to grow.

  Golden stood in the doorway, key in hand. Footsteps pattered in the distance. The angels were returning.

  There were so many, thought the Mademoiselle. She considered trying to open a waypoint, even with the cell's barrier, but she caught Golden's eye. His triumphant smile told her everything she needed to know. The cell's shielding would not fail him.

  #

  You were wrong, thought Alsvior. He fingered the dagger around his neck and closed his eyes.

  He only hoped he wasn't too late.

  #

  Golden turned to stare at De la Roca. "It is a raging pity that I need to keep you alive, Cleopia. Yes, that's right, I know exactly who you are. I don't understand. Did you think, perhaps, that I wouldn't recognize you, even after all these years? What do you take me for? How dare you come here?"

  The wheels in her mind were turning furiously, yet she could feel the inklings of a plan. "No, I would never - I just didn't know how - " De la Roca felt Laufeyson's aghast stare upon her.

  She walked towards Golden, slowly, her arms open in a show of being unarmed. "I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to start. At first, I didn't remember, and when I did, I felt so trapped - it was already so late."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Mademoiselle watched the scene with interest. She didn't believe De la Roca was Cleopia, not for a damn second, no matter how alike the two looked. Even if she had not remembered the time when De la Roca appeared on her doorstep, nameless and without a whole mind, she still wouldn't have believed it. They were different, different in the way they stood, the way they brushed the hair from their faces, the way they held a weapon, sighed, yawned - they were different, wholly and completely, and to believe otherwise was folly.