Hunting in Hell (31 page)

He had not expected that when he reached the bars of the cell, the breath would stop in his throat, or that his mouth would gape open.
 
He had not predicted the carnage he would glimpse through their golden lines.
 

Nemain's limp form lay facedown on the floor in front of him.
 
Her wingless back oozed great rivers of red blood that spilled down and pooled on the floor.
 
When he saw her saturated wings, fairly swimming in a puddle by her feet, his throat clenched as he stifled a sob.

How had this happened?

Laufeyson!

He fought the urge to rush through the door, his calculating mind taking over.
 
Has he fled?
 
Could he still be in the cell?
 
Alert, he unsheathed the sword that always lay at his side.
 
It blazed bright, singing with its defiance, and the chains around his neck hummed in response.

Nemain moved then, turning her head and tilting her face up to see over her shoulder.
 
Her visage was smeared with the garish mask of her own blood. His stomach dropped.
 

"Golden."

At hearing her voice, he opened the door and entered the cell, his sword held at the ready.
 
Yet once he crossed the threshold, he stopped, his eyes locked on the wings by her feet.
 
He couldn't bring himself to come any closer.

Her eyebrows went up, and she tried to follow his gaze.
 
She sighed and nodded slightly, her sudden understanding scrawled clearly across her face.

"Golden, do not worry.
 
I did this to myself."

Astounded, he let the sword fall from his grasp.
 
It crashed to the floor, clanging in protest.
 
"You …
what
?"

"The prisoner, Golden.
 
He is gone."

"Where-"

Her voice was a whisper, yet he fell silent to listen.
 
"I do not know.
 
There are no signs of escape.
 
He just … vanished."

"Magic?"
 
It was an odd word choice.
 
Angels did not fear magic; all of them wielded it to some degree.
 
They had their
kevras
and their
akras
, powers so bonded to their souls, they would retain them, even if they lost their wings.
 
But he knew Nemain would understand.
 
He was speaking of magic beyond their innate abilities - of an artifact of old, another's kevra stone, a curse.

"I don't know.
 
I'm not even sure if it matters."
 
She sighed heavily.

Golden nodded, his mind numb.
 
He couldn't bring his eyes away from the long gashes that she had rent with her own knife.
 
He could not imagine her pain or the horror she must have felt during Separation. Few warriors, regardless of their shame, had the strength and moral fortitude to commit the self-sacrificing ritual of the Wingless.

She noted his gaze, and returned it with her own fierce stare.
 
"I may have failed in my task, Golden, but I will die with honor."

The meaning of her words sank in, and for just a moment, there was the briefest flash of horror across his face.
 
He shook his head once, quickly, as if ridding his hair of an unwanted object, but the magnetism of her stare was unbreakable, and his resolve melted into the pool of blood on the floor.

"You will do this," she said.

When he answered, he knew his heart was breaking in his chest.

"I will do this," he repeated.

She lifted the chains off of her neck.
  
For the first time, their clinking reminded Golden, not of the triumphant ring of bells, but of the cry of shattered glass, something broken that could not be repaired.
 
He met her hands in midair, and then they fell back to her sides, leaving her chains behind.
 

He added them to his own.
 
They felt impossibly heavy.
 
He looked down, as if to reaffirm their mass, and the sudden glimpse of her blood smeared across the metal links made his eyes sting with unwelcome tears.

He would not protest.
 
To do so would dishonor her sacrifice.

"Do it now."
 
Her stare never wavered.

"I, as Head Pentarchian of the Consortium, declare you washed clean of your shame."

His voice dropped to a whisper.
  
"You have been redeemed."

And then he brought up his great, flashing sword, and plunged it through her neck.

NINETEEN

U
sing little more than a keen sense of hearing and the occasional brush with a side wall, Alsvior and De la Roca proceeded to the back of the creature's mouth.
 
They waited, each one searching for a hint from the other, yet the chasm that stretched between them proved impassible.
 
Soon, they no longer attempted to break the silence.
 

She squatted near the entrance to the serpent's throat and ran her hands over the walls.
 
They were smooth, without handholds or footholds.
 
With just a mote of light, she could have estimated the jump; as it was, the only clue she could garner was from the pressure of the warm draft of the creature's breath.

She made her decision.
 
She jumped, the wind whistling by her ears as she plummeted towards the unseen bottom.

As she fell, she could hear Alsvior's voice echo down the serpent's throat.
 
"De la Roca?
 
De la
Roca
?"
 
Perhaps he thought she would never go on without him.
 

The fall was not nearly as long as she had guessed, perhaps seven stories at most, and she landed on a surface that was surprisingly soft - too soft, in fact.
 
It gave so easily under her feet that she struggled to balance, her arms pinwheeling comically in a move that was
most
unlike her.
 
Just as she thought she might regain an upright position, her senses tingled and she realized that something was in the air near her-

-and then Alsvior flattened her completely, his body knocking her over with the inertia of his fall.
 
She fell face-first into a soft, loamy surface that was surprisingly fragrant.
 
The heartbeat was louder here, and its gentle double-thump echoed around her, reflecting off of the walls.
 
Already robbed of her eyes, the effect was quite disorienting, and she fought to regain her footing
.

"You would have left me."
 
The uncharacteristic anger in his voice was arresting.

"You would not have stayed behind."
 
She was unsure if that was true or not, but she guessed it might be.
 
"Besides, you said yourself - there was only one way out of there.
 
You would have come this way eventually."

Without light, she could not see if her response had mollified him or not.
 
Instead, she concentrated on the soft strands beneath her.
 
They were gently
moving,
she realized, like waves of grass in the wind.
 
She could just feel them slowly brush by her hand.

"What do you think this stuff is?" she asked, a tiny current of awe evident in her voice.
 
She raised her hand to her face and sniffed.
 
It smelled lightly of citrus and sand.

"I'm assuming you're referring to the floor."

"Yes.
 
It's so soft, and it smells nice."

Alsvior was silent for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable.
 
"I wouldn't touch it," he said, finally, his voice sounding slightly strained.
 
"It's villi."
 
He pronounced the unfamiliar word with obvious disgust.

"What?"
 

"Villi - like, in your intestines or in your lungs.
 
They are like little fingers … of flesh … that push food and foreign objects in one direction."

She pursed her lips.
 
"And in our case, that destination would be?"

"The stomach, obviously.
 
Although in our case, they
do
indicate where we want to go.
 
So I guess you can go ahead and touch them, because we need to follow them."

She snorted into the dark.
 
"Why can't we just follow the walls?"

His reply was cryptic.
 
"There are parts we wouldn't want to touch."

De la Roca squatted and lowered her hand.
 
She felt the gentle brush of the villi and noted the direction.
 
"This way."

"I can't see you.
 
You need to speak to me, and I'll follow your voice."

The suggestion made her slightly uneasy.
 
Why must he rely on her?
 
Couldn't he just touch the villi himself?

"Please?" he asked, as if he could sense her recalcitrance.

"I'll figure something out," she said.

She started off in the direction the villi had indicated, clapping her hands as she went to give Alsvior something to orient to.
 

"This isn't working."
 
His obvious frustration only made her feel more exasperated.

"Why not?
 
You can hear it, right?"

"Yes, but I can't
follow
it.
 
The claps just bounce and echo around.
 
It feels like I'm playing a child's blind party game."

"I don't feel much like talking."

"Then sing.
 
Or I will go first, and I'll sing."

"I'm not going to sing."

"Suit yourself."

She felt the gentle scrape of his body rubbing past hers, his scent spicy and familiar.
 

"Guess you have to follow me."
 
He cleared his throat, and when he began his song, his voice was surprisingly mellifluous.
 
"
While walking through a valley snow covered, I came upon a bunny alone …"

TWENTY

T
wo of the Pentarch's four remaining members had voted to start off on the search for Laufeyson immediately, but Golden had given a moving speech about the need to respect their dead.
 
Without a crowd, he was unable to subtly pour his influence into the words, but he was confident.

When the final vote came, they stayed and honored Nemain with a ceremony befitting a warrior's death.
 

It had taken half a day to clean Laufeyson's cell.
 
A few of the angels had the
kevra
of converting bits of matter, of rearranging the atoms themselves - he had no doubt that they would be able to make short work of the mess.
 
It mattered not; in deference to Nemain, Golden had opted to do it himself with only his bare hands and a rag.

In the end, he took the rags that he had used to mop up the blood and put them on the pyre with her body, so that she could be made whole again on the fields beyond.
 
All four members lit torches, and the light from the fire turned their faces into something dark and otherworldly.
 
They nodded at Golden, who began his speech.

"Nemain was a warrior among warriors, a master of the blade and of the dance of death."

Some of the Pentarch had already started to nod.
 
The other thousand angels of the Consortium had gathered to see the death-proceedings.
 

No wonder,
thought Golden.
 
It has been so long since we have sent a warrior on the pyre.
 
Since … since Kalima.
 

And she?
 
Well, she was undeserving.

He shook his head once, dispelling the memory, and directed his focus towards his
kevra
.
 
He felt his body warm as the power flowed in from the crowd, wiggling and pricking at his skin like feeding goldfish.

"More than that, she was honest, loyal, and wise.
 
Her death will be felt throughout the fabric of time; even Heaven will be sorrowful for her loss."

Behind him, he heard a swift inhalation.
 
Golden guessed it was Pentarchian Veles.
 
No doubt he thinks it a mistake to mention our lost home
.

Veles was still stuck in the past, and he thought the rest of them were there with him.
 
He had written numerous tirades on the injustice of an empty Heaven.
 
He had even tried to break down the gates shortly after the Abdication.