Hunting in Hell Read online

  "Aren't you coming?" De la Roca was stunned. Somehow, she had thought the fool would surely accompany her.

  "I cannot!"

  The Mademoiselle fell backwards, and the frozen whirlpool collapsed.

  De la Roca had just enough time to scream, "Alsvior, light!" before it engulfed them.

  Twelve

  The water was gone.

  The room, if it could properly be called such, was warm. By the flickering glow of Alsvior's mane and tail, she could just make out the narrow walls and a floor of hewn stone. The ceiling directly above glittered with blue reflections, and she realized that this was the water, held back with an unknown force, frozen above her. The stone in her stomach awakened with a slow pulse, responding to a power she could not yet sense.

  The demon must be close, then.

  She drew her weapons cautiously and began her inspection.

  To her side, she noticed a dark spot where the light did not reach. She closed her eyes and could feel the faintest touch of a breeze upon her face.

  An exit.

  She spun her hand in a circle once, the hand signal for "turn around." Even in the low light, Alsvior caught her meaning. He rotated himself slowly, deliberately, taking care in the narrow space. She got the feeling that her mount was uneasy.

  She didn't blame him. It was hard enough keeping her own claustrophobia at bay.

  After a final glance above, she oriented herself toward the darkened hole and peered into it. The walls were barely wide enough to accommodate her form without touching either side. For Alsvior, even as a miniature horse, it was impossible to proceed without grazing his sides on the stone.

  Trusting his senses more than her own, she tapped him once on the back, and he entered the darkness. She followed him, one armed hand on his saddle-horn, facing behind to guard the rear. After a few more steps, the walls abruptly fell away. They had entered a much wider room.

  He whickered once, but she had already spun around to face their new companion.

  It was suspended in the air, its wings flapping noiselessly. Alsvior brightened his flames, and the rays bounced off of the shimmering feathers, diffracting onto the cave walls in a kaleidoscopic mesh of golds, greens, and reds. The bejeweled peacock was massive. A single feather, longer than her leg, floated from its tail to the ground and turned to ash.

  Welcome.

  The voice, distinctly male, had spoken directly into her mind. With his words, the stone in her belly pulsed hard, and she felt Bluot tremble in response.

  His eyes sparkled in the light, their facets as clearly cut as a jeweler's stone. With a languid flourish, he raised his tail, opening it into a giant fan. De la Roca was riveted; she tried to raise her guns further, but her arms, suddenly heavy, refused to respond.

  The feathers blinked once with an eerie light, the iridescent eyes glowing like burning coals. Each one was a tiny, circular dream, an image from her life. Many were of her kills, but there also scenes she couldn't remember, from Hell—and before.

  Go ahead, kill me.

  Her arms jerked up, somehow free from the spell that had overtaken the rest of her body, but her interest held her fingers back from squeezing the triggers.

  But then you will never find answers, not from me, not from my brother.

  De la Roca glanced at Alsvior. He stared into the feathers, entranced, and she wondered what memories he saw depicted there.

  "Perhaps I don't want answers," she growled, facing the demon again. "Perhaps I just want freedom."

  Are you sure about that?

  The demon flapped closer, and in the tail-feather's eyes, she could see herself holding an infant, their faces wreathed in bliss. She knew the truth of it then, that this nameless, fatherless daughter was once hers.

  A wave of grief overtook her, and she felt her knees buckle. Deep strands of love and loss ripped through her like a maternal tide. The stone pulsed as she hit the ground, and a hideous wail bubbled from deep within. She recognized the laughing scream of madness from her dreams.

  You can see it now, can't you? You were doomed from the start.

  Doomed once, forgotten once, doomed again.

  The peacock opened his mouth, exposing a longue, pink tongue.

  Burn.

  His eyes fell out of his skull, leaving behind gaping sockets that the light did not penetrate. Perfect isohedrons, they bounced lightly before rolling to a stop at her feet.

  Without warning, the great fan of his tail burst into white flames. Alsvior whickered as the blaze spread through the giant feathers, but De la Roca couldn't move. Within seconds, the peacock's body burned with the intensity of a funeral pyre.

  Her grief overtook her, and she curled into a ball on the floor. She moaned and rubbed her guns against her face.

  Alsvior whinnied shrilly and grabbed her by the collar, tugging violently with his teeth. She struggled in response, flailing wildly, unwilling to leave the scene. A shot rang out from the pistol in her left, pinging as it ricocheted off of the walls of the cave. It tore through the flaming fan of tail feathers and they turned to ash.

  Muscles trembling, Alsvior dragged her backwards through the giant room and into the tunnel. The heat continued to build.

  As soon as he reached the spot where they had begun, a terrific explosion sounded from the direction of the room, followed by a wall of scalding pressure. Alsvior shielded De la Roca with his body as the wave hit them both.

  Thirteen

  "Do you have the stone?"

  Laufeyson's hazel eyes suddenly appeared in her realm of vision, the black edges fading away in spots.

  "De la Roca," he said, his voice sharp with urgency, "do you have the stone?"

  "Eyes," she mumbled, before she lost consciousness again.

  * * *

  She awoke to a vague wetness on her face, an insistent moist pressure that traveled down her cheek and to her neck. Her eyelids, sticky and caked, refused to open. She shifted groggily, amazed at the sensations of screaming muscles and the gritty textures upon her skin.

  She was uneasy, but her addled mind would not allow her the comfort of understanding why. She took a deep breath, and her nervousness subsided, assuaged by the smell of the air—thick, vaguely warm, pleasant and somehow familiar.

  When she had finally eased herself into a sitting position, she turned her head and stared right into the eyes of a brown American Paint with a white streak on the muzzle. They both held the stare and blinked.

  "Hey buddy." She reached out gently, so as not to spook him, "Hey partner."

  The horse tossed its head once, the dark mane flying about wildly. He neighed softly and nuzzled her again.

  "Well, aren’t you a beauty."

  "Glad to see you're awake."

  The man had slipped behind her unnoticed. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, a primitive instinct that set off alarm bells in her head. Her rational brain fought to overpower the sudden quickening in her chest and the rush of blood through her face. The man seemed friendly enough.

  Be careful, warned a gravely voice she couldn't identify. It's not always possible to identify a viper by sight.

  "Do I know you?"

  His mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide. "De la Roca?"

  Her forehead crinkled once in confusion, pondering the name. Was that Spanish? And who is this man? Do I know him? Perhaps she had met him in on the street, or in a bar somewhere. She tried to remember a bar that she might frequent, but nothing came to mind.

  "It's me, Laufeyson." He stared at her with a pointed fixation that made her skin crawl. Worse, his voice sounded fuzzy, interlaced with static and somehow underwater.

  Is my hearing always this bad? And what did he call me? Della? Is that my name? She tried to search through her memories, but her mind was a whitewashed room.

  "I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are. I like your horse, though."

  "I am sorry, De la Roca," he mumbled, as if to himself. "You must have touched the stone." />
  Her response was interrupted by the crunch of approaching footsteps and the lilting notes of a woman's voice. "Hello, darling."

  Should I know you, too?

  "She can't remember anything." Laufeyson shook his head. "It's like the day she arrived."

  The woman narrowed her green eyes. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

  Laufeyson shook his head and flicked his fingers, and another cigarette appeared between his thumb and forefinger. "Not a thing."

  "Interesting. I shall have to think about that."

  * * *

  The Mademoiselle sank into a cross-legged position and stretched her head back. There was a slight pop, and she rolled her shoulders and sighed in relief. Getting too old to keep sitting like that.

  She remembered how old she really was, and she had to chuckle. She gave another sigh, this one a bit lighter than the last, and switched gears. "I'm sure that this amnesia is related to a kevra stone. Do you think De la Roca was victorious?"

  "Maybe." Laufeyson shrugged his shoulders. "There's no demon in the Phoenix Well anymore, if that's what you mean."

  "Well, can I see the stone?"

  The movement was so fast that she almost didn't register it—almost. The way his eyes flicked to one side, it was almost as if . . . as if he was afraid of something.

  "It's gone." Every trace of nervousness was gone from his face, but she knew what she had seen.

  "What do you mean, gone?"

  "I mean, I can't find it."

  What? Gears turned in the Mademoiselle's head. Something about this fiasco was not adding up—and after all that work?

  She shuddered when she thought of the risks she had taken in the last few days. I reported this to Golden . . . to the Pentarch. That alone could come back to send her to a grizzly death.

  If she could just get her hands on it—her fingers tightened, almost involuntarily, as if around the grip of a gun, and she had to concentrate to loosen them.

  I should jump you, torture you until you tell me what I need to know. "I see." She guarded her expression carefully, and took care that her eyes did not meet his.

  You know as well as I do, Wolf-Man, that that doesn't make any damn sense. Stones don't juts disappear. Gone? How about taken?

  And what are you planning to do with it, anyways? She grit her teeth together, savoring the tension in her jaw. Well, I've got some tricks up my sleeve too, cowboy.

  * * *

  I do not like him. He is hiding something. De la Roca tallied her reasons for her distrust.

  First, the woman known as the Mademoiselle was uncomfortable in his presence. Their conversation had been terse, and it had not escaped De la Roca that she never turned her back to him. In fact, this is the first time she's left me alone with him, and I don't think she had a choice. The Mademoiselle had seemed preoccupied before she left, mumbling something about going back to the Well to look for clues.

  Secondly, and more importantly, his own horse seemed to dislike him. It avoided his presence, shirked away from physical contact, and refused to let him mount. It had even bitten him twice. If my horse don't like you, I don't either . . . She paused. The thought had come from the other side of the blank slate in her mind, she was sure of it. What did that mean? Am I a horsewoman, too?

  Her stomach twisted with sudden pain, and she wondered how long it had been since she had eaten. "Do we have any food?"

  "Perhaps, but why?" Laufeyson's eyebrows knit together in a thick line.

  "Because, I'm hungry." She delivered the reply with no lack of sarcasm, relishing the minor victory.

  He opened his mouth, as if to protest. "What would you like to eat?"

  It was her turn to pause. She tried to call an image of food to her mind, but the pictures were fuzzy, and she couldn't place any dish with a name. "Just make me something." She waved her hand, hoping he wouldn't notice the heat in her cheeks.

  "As you wish." He snapped his fingers, and a bowl appeared in his hands, a steaming mess of smoky beans, with a thick crust of bread on the side. "I believe this is traditional for such an occasion."

  Don't let your face reflect your surprise. She accepted the bowl with both hands and started to eat. Within a few bites, though, she set it aside and stared into her lap.

  "Not to your liking? I can make you something else."

  "My stomach feels so empty, but eating just made the pain worse. I feel like something is missing inside of me."

  "You have not needed to eat, De la Roca, in at least three hundred years. Perhaps much longer than that, for I know not how long you were in Hell."

  Hell? "I don't know what that's supposed to mean. I don't know how much of this to believe."

  He replied quickly and easily, as if he had expected that reaction. "Ask me any questions you want. I will answer them if I can."

  "Well, for starters, how do you know all of this?"

  He smiled. "You told me all of it yourself."

  The horse whinnied shrilly, and she glanced over at it before responding. Something was tickling in her mind, a tiny thought wrapped within others, like a series of nesting dolls. If only she could get them open—

  "De la Roca, I am not your friend."

  The frank admission surprised her and derailed her concentration. "Well then, what are you?"

  "Your lover." Like lightening, he whipped toward her and pulled her close. Within seconds, his mouth was on hers, and she could smell the sickly-sweet scent of cloves and tobacco. She resisted, but a sudden heat raced through her body and squelched her protest. Seconds later, a small light flickered into her mind, the seed of a thought that had yet gone unrecognized.

  When he let her go, she could feel her heart pumping. "I believe you. Now tell me the rest of it."

  Fourteen

  Her glare had been sudden and sharp, and Laufeyson wondered if he had offended her. It would have been better, to re-teach her slowly and let the effects of losing the lamprey's stone—not to mention the possible interaction of the stone from the Phoenix Well—wear off on its own accord, but they could not waste the time. If De la Roca failed in the next quest, she would have to be replaced.

  He wasn't sure, of course, how to do that. Or if he even wanted to—or if it could be done.

  Silently, he cursed the ones who had gone before him. A single mistake along the line could easily doom them all. Even so, the whole situation had been handled so haphazardly as to make the incompetence seem intentional. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a traitor, before remembering that he was a traitor himself, no matter how right he thought his path.

  De la Roca was valuable, her role integral—assuming she could succeed. And even if she couldn't, that was something he needed to know now.

  In a way, perhaps this amnesia was a blessing in disguise. Without her memories, he was free to take shortcuts. With the Mademoiselle gone, he had time to shape her better to his needs.

  And what does she want, I wonder? While he thought that he and the Mademoiselle were technically on the same side, there were things she did not know and would not understand, and he didn't have time for her meddling. Getting the mercenary alone had been hard enough, and the Mademoiselle would return soon.

  He exhaled softly. She had fallen asleep by the fire, the horse standing over her with an angry glare, and still the Mademoiselle had not returned.

  That was risky. If she had thought to raise Bluot—

  He waved away the image. She had not shot him.

  He could not make her love him; that was far beyond his capabilities. In her blank state, though, it was not too hard to plant a thought, a seed of doubt. The kiss helped—her heart would naturally beat faster, and the physical contact gave him easier access to her mind. Even so, he had been very careful—if he had pushed too hard, she would have recognized the intrusion and thrown up her own defenses.

  That we had been lovers, once … The idea explained her nervousness, her distrust, her suspicions, repackaging them in a way she could accept. L
ove, human or demon, was a complex emotion, inherently stained with the sensations of jealousy, self-sacrifice, and vulnerability.

  And it isn't so untrue, is it?

  He wanted to relish the victory, to savor its sweetness, but he knew such a thing was dangerous. If De la Roca failed, or even if she succeeded, the list of powerful entities that wanted to hasten his death would grow longer.

  Including her.

  He couldn't afford to fail—not now. A longing coursed through him for another kiss, one that was not a surprise or a trick, but an honest expression of love.

  There wouldn't be any of those, of course.

  Golden, you will pay for this, for taking this from me.

  * * *

  De la Roca was running.

  Her muscles flexed powerfully as her hooves pounded the earth, a cloud of dust flowing up in their wake. She sucked in the cool air, the moonlight glinting off of the flat land around her, the cacti throwing shadows that danced as she raced by.

  She could hear a gentle staccato that floated over the wind, and she knew there was another horse behind her. Soon, he overtook her, his strong musk filling her nostrils. It was the Paint, his tobiano body shining with sweat.

  She neighed a greeting and he circled around, prancing like a foal in invitation. She pursued him gleefully, the wild need to run flowing through her veins.

  She let him take the lead as they crested the next hill. He stopped as he reached the peak, his massive frame bending as he bowed to the ground.

  Within seconds, she was beside him. From the top, she could make out a flaming mass below. She sniffed the air and shied hesitantly, looking down toward him for guidance. With a whinnying call, he righted himself and took off toward it. She followed, her instinct to trust the alpha taking over.

  The form grew as they approached, the lines becoming clearer and more detailed. By the time they reached the foot, she could see the shining figure in all its glory, its body a chaotic mosaic of wings and eyes.