Hunting in Hell (14 page)

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.

Fourteen

H
er 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.
 
Love, 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.

"WELCOME, DE LA ROCA."
 
The Angel waved an arm at her, and the ground shifted in acquiescence.
 
A grove of trees sprang up around them, and the air was suddenly heavy with the scents of flowers and citrus fruit.

She neighed in response, the long tongue and thick vocal chords unable to form the soft crispness of human speech.

The Angel reached toward her, his fingers a flickering bonfire.
 
She flinched as he neared her skin, before realizing that he radiated no warmth.
 
At first, she thought he would caress her, but when he pulled his hand back, she could see a massive tick in his fingers, the size of a fist and jet black.
 
He squeezed it with distaste, the fire overtaking it.
 
Minutes passed, until the tick's body was only a glowing ember.
 
He blew upon it, extinguishing the flame.
 
In his hand remained a lump of faceted crystal.

"THIS IS ONE.
 
YOUR ENEMY HAS THE OTHER.
 
THERE IS NO TIME FOR REST.

"AWAKEN, AND SEEK OUT THYRSUS."

Her eyes opened.
 
She could see the first strands of dawn stretching across the horizon.
 
As she moved to sit up, she placed a hand upon her side.
 

Her gun was warm.

Fifteen

D
e la Roca took a breath and felt the warmth of her gun, and just like that, she knew who she was, where she was, and who these people were.
 

It was the Angel.
 
Through the dream, he had given her back some of her memories—but not all of them.
 
She could feel empty spots, dead burn marks like the brown circles left behind by uprooted trees.