Hunting in Hell (19 page)

She grasped at the scent, her focus growing.
 
It was tantalizing, spicy, but when a zephyr took it away, she let any thoughts follow in its wake.
 

Her attention flicked to her right hand.
 
It - no, something
underneath
it - was thrumming, an odd vibration that elicited an equal stirring within her.
 
This time, the word came more easily, floating in like a bubble and popping with a sudden cluster of images and sensations.

Bluot.

Her mind creaked open, dissipating her lazy contentment.
 
Slowly, she tightened her fingers around the familiar grip of the death-bringer, growing more alert by the second.

Her sharp ears were like a fisherman's net, catching everything that stirred in the environment.
 
There was the lulling rumble of an ocean tide, the light laughter of wind on rocks, the quiet tinkle of sand dancing in the breeze.
 

Nothing to fear
.

Assured of her solitude, she opened her eyes, throwing aside the deep pink of her eyelids for a bright, expansive vista of cyan.
 
Disoriented, she blinked rapidly and turned away, and the world tilted, shifting from blue sky to white sands, the grains sparkling like stars.

Another memory bubble drifted to the surface.
 

Alsvior.

He came through with me.
 
Where did he go?
 

Without moving her right hand from her gun, she sat up in a smooth, cautious motion.
 

A brief search revealed no signs of her horse on the horizon, in any of his forms.
 

Another bubble - larger, darker, with a thick, oily skin - floated in and popped.

The Mademoiselle!

The wave of anger grew stronger as more bubbles flowed in, blowing so quickly that her attention could only track each one for a moment before another flicked into its place.
 

Laufeyson - Angel - Hell - Waypoint
-

As each one popped, her head filled with conflicting emotions and sensations - heady triumph, grueling failure, the copper-tang odor of blood and the rich, familiar scent of a horse.
 
With each pop, each returned memory, she grew angrier.
 
She barely noticed her vision blurring, and in her hand,
Bluot
was humming hungrily.
 

By the time she gritted her teeth and threw her strength into pushing back against the need, it was almost too late.
 
The red tide had so nearly taken hold of her.
 
She still ached with the desire to kill, even though it meant suicide.
 
Once fired,
Bluot
always took a life, and she was alone on this beach.
 

The pulse slackened but did not fall silent.
 
For a moment, she wondered if she'd have to fight the gun again, but
Bluot
was dead and cool against her hand.

This thrum was different.
 
It was quieter, less wild and more rhythmic, like the steady lapping of a gentle tide.
 

What is this?

Her question was rewarded with a new bubble, an opalescent globe.
 
When it popped, it momentarily refracted the light through its surface, flooding the inner walls of her mind with a complement of off-color rainbows.

Power.
 
Madness.
 
Thyrsus stone.

Excellent,
she thought.
 
A kevra stone.
 
But what does it
do?
She reached down towards it, feeling the energy wrap around her like the coils of a snake.
 
Tentatively, she ran a tendril of her mind towards the stone in her gut and tried to tap into it.

Against her inquiry, the
kevra
stone guarded its secrets easily.
 
She knew that she would have to figure out another way to divine its function.

Ten minutes of further experiments revealed that with concentration, she could
nudge
the warmth with her mind, pushing it until it slithered to her hands, to her feet, and then back to her stomach again.
 
It seemed a useless skill, though, and she still didn't know what it
did
.

She filed the curious stone away for later.
 
It was time to plan.

Her first objective seemed easy enough; she needed to figure out where she was.
 
While Earth had beaches this deserted, they were few and far between.
 
She saw no pollution, no structures, and no signs of civilization.
 
Instead, the water was so clear and blue, the sand so white, that it felt like she was looking at an idealized illustration - but there was no faking the sun that beat down upon her face, or the smell of …
cinnamon?
… that wafted through the air, before another breeze took it away.

So, unlikely to be Earth, then.
 

But clearly not Hell, either.
 

She growled, beating back her anger.
 
Her fingers flexed again, itching to find their way to the trigger. The Mademoiselle had tricked her, by opening a waypoint up into a third place.
 
De la Roca would punish the woman
dearly
for that, but first, she needed to find her way into Hell to track Laufeyson as the Angel had commanded.
 

The Angel.
 
She tried to picture him and failed.
 
A mist was passing through her mind, obfuscating her recall with a fuzzy static.
 
Bands of tension stood out on her neck and forearms.
 
Although she couldn't remember life before her release from Hell, her recall of the last three centuries had always been perfect.

Has it become unreliable?
 
She couldn't help but feel that something was wrong with the Angel's appearance - something
different
… or maybe her instincts were failing her, too?
 
 

This is all Laufeyson's fault.
 

That
memory was clear enough, and it sent pangs of anger through her chest.

What if it's the stone?

The Thyrsus stone was resting inside of her, sharing an energy with hers that was both powerful and tainted with madness.
 
What if it was confusing her memories, erasing the Angel's message and form?
 
It pulsed once in her entrails, as if in response.

What is the stone capable of, really?

After a brief moment of consideration, she decided it didn't matter.
 
Angel or no, she now had her own reasons for hunting Laufeyson down.
 

She dug her boots into the sand and stood, brushing grains of it off of her limbs.
 
It was then that she noticed the tracks, barefoot prints with clearly articulated toes.
 
She shivered when she realized that they started right behind her.
 

How was that possible?
 
Had their maker fallen from the sky, only to leave before she arrived?

Maybe the track-maker had even been watching her while she lay unconscious on the beach
.

Or what if it was an angel?
 
Wings would easily explain the odd beginning to the prints.

She traced the tracks with her eyes; they led off into the horizon towards a dark squiggle.
 
She unholstered both guns and followed the impressions, her steps quick and easy.
 
Within minutes, the squiggle had morphed into a small grove of trees, the prints leading right to it.
 
It was not until she drew close that she realized that she could taste fresh water on the wind.

She assessed the situation with the briefest of pauses and then stepped into the grove.
 
The trees seemed impossibly thick, their branches woven together in a roof that provided ample shelter from the elements.
 
Had it not been for the path, a clear route covered with sand, she probably would not have been able to proceed further.

Paths, of course, made one's movement's predictable, and she didn't like that at all.
 
Especially not since her neck was prickling in a way that said -
You are being watched.

The smell of moisture grew stronger until she rounded a blind curve, and an oasis sprang into view.
 
The tang of cinnamon was stronger here, and she wondered if it was coming from the trees.
 
Holstering
Bluot
, she knelt down to the crystalline water, the pistol still in her left hand. She didn't
need
to drink, not now, not ever, but she wanted to wash the sand off of her face.
 

Her ears and eyes scanning the area around her, she was not surprised when she saw something stir in the rippling reflection.
 

With lightning speed, she whipped up the pistol.
 
A second later,
Bluot
was out of the holster on the opposite side, both guns pointing at her observer.

It was a swarthy man of light build and average height.
 
More interestingly, he was naked.

"Hel-lo."
 
He did not move while speaking.

At first, she was unsure if fear or embarrassment had caused the stutter in his voice.
 
Then his cheeks flushed a violent crimson, the color looking out of place with the olive skin and dark eyes.
 
She could feel the tension in her fingers, the bloodlust
begging
her to squeeze the trigger.

Yet her finger did not move.
 

What is it?
 
Have I suddenly grown a new heart?
 
She doubted that his clear lack of arms presented her with a moral quandary; she was still a ruthless killer.
 
Yet this situation was unfamiliar to her; she had never shot a naked, unarmed man.
 

"I'm sorry," he said.
 
"I didn't come through with any clothes."

Come through?
   

When she didn't respond, he tilted his head, his eyes opening wider and his voice rising in alarm.
 
"De la Roca, it's me."

She stopped at the shock of hearing her own name.
 
"How do you know me?
 
And
who
exactly are you?"

"It's me!" he repeated, louder, his arms flying open.
 
"Alsvior."

TWO

A
t least,
thought Laufeyson,
I'm not dead.
 

Yet.

Absently, he fingered one of the golden bars of his cell, pulling away when he brushed against something sticky.
 
He held his finger up to the dim light and rolled it with this thumb, before sniffing it with his teeth bared.
 
Judging by the consistency and dark color, it was blood, and recent.

Torture?

It was a definite possibility.
 
Then again, the injury may have been self-inflicted.
 
Many of the Consortium's prisoners, aware of what waited in store for them, chose to end their own lives.
 
He knew it, because he had seen it firsthand.

* * *

Laufeyson stood outside of the open doorway, his arms crossed in front of him.
 
Above his head, his wings spanned the opening, the tips brushing the bars on either side.

He was still far enough outside of the cell that he was unaffected by its enchantment.
 
He took advantage of his position to manifest a cigarette.
 
The habit was still new, and his head buzzed as he took deep drags, the smoke burning his throat.
 

He flicked his fingers and created another one, smiling at his own cleverness as he offered it to the prisoner like the commander of a firing squad.
 
The angel did not acknowledge his presence.
 
His wings were only half the size of Laufeyson's own.

"I am the executioner," he said.
 
His voice glittered with a triumphant sparkle as he announced his position.
 
He was rewarded with the distorted reflection of his grin in the prisoner's dark eyes.
 
"First, though, I take
them
from you."

The angel stiffened as if electrified.
 
"No!" he cried.
 
Laufeyson leaped for him, but he was already running, his wings folded behind him protectively.
 
Before Laufeyson had a chance to grab him, the angel smashed his head upon the hard surface of the wall with such force that Laufeyson could hear the crack and squish of his skull imploding.