Hunting in Hell (35 page)

Macha whirled to face him, an eyebrow already cocked.
 
"And what, exactly, do you mean?"

"Watch."
 
He pointed at a particularly large bone fragment, a rounded joint that was most likely the curved head of a femur.

Lipan gasped, his trained eyes picking out the movement before Macha's own.
 

"What?"
 
Macha bit back her frustration.
 
Lipan was a gentle soul, too easily crushed by her natural bellicosity.
 
She had not yet figured out how to put her irritation in gentler words before the twitching caught her eye.
 
"What is that?"

Henai smiled.
 
"It's starting."

Before their eyes, bits of flesh and bone began to quiver, as if to herald an approaching herd of buffalo.
 
They danced across the earth, jittering towards the femur-head, speeding up as they got closer.
 
Before the trio's eyes, the pieces knit themselves together, bone binding and flesh gluing with sickening squishes and crunches, until finally, before them lay Capra's form.

His chest inflated as he took a wet, ragged breath.
 
Macha gasped.
 
Blinking his eyes, Capra shrieked, and she couldn't tell if it was terror, or pain, or both.
 
He lurched to his knees and then staggered to his feet.
 
Macha noted with a gasp that his figure was incomplete; part of his shin and one of his fingers were missing, the wounds open and red.

What happened next still haunted her dreams.
 
Capra turned to the party, his eyes finding their exact spot.
 
Before they could move, he winked at them once, and staggered off towards the other side of the clearing.

"Allow me," said Henai.
 
The demon had almost reached the tree-line when there was a blast, like a thunderclap.
 
Capra fell to his knees, his body a column of flame.

Lipan screamed and turned away, wrapping his wings around him, but Macha could not help but stare.
 
The demon reached into his short robes, pulled out the Amulet, and tossed it into the air.
 
It landed a man's length from his body, and he pitched forward upon the ground, a writhing mass of fire and flesh.
 

"Do not grieve for that abomination," said Henai.
 
"No matter how many times it manages to reassemble, it died long ago.
 
Diaspar brings nothing but endless suffering.
 
Its death is a kindness."

When the final death-throes had ceased, Macha went to retrieve the Amulet.
 
It glittered in her hand, a useless trinket.
 
She slipped it into her robes and walked around to the front of the body, a suspicion tingling down her spine.

Through the curtain of flames, she could see the smile on Capra's face.

* * *

Macha's impassive visage and clear eyes artfully hid the lump that was forming in her throat.
 
Minoa was still kneeling in front of her, a curtain of hair obscuring her face.
 
In the corner of her mind, Macha could suddenly see Golden's form.
 

I kept the secret, Minoa.
 
I never could refuse you anything.

How did he find out about our love?
 

Minoa shifted her face skyward, the hair parting and falling back like water from a prow.
 
With aching clarity, Macha could taste the sweetness of the previous morning.
 
The firm grip of her sword was a bleak contrast to the warm sand they had passed through linked fingers as they sat by the water.

"Forever," they had said.
 
Each had meant it, truly.
 
Who could have known they would find themselves here, in this moment?

Macha could see the plea in Minoa's stare.
 
She could feel her lover begging, imploring her - but for
what
, she didn't know.
 
To save her life?
 
To save her honor?
 
Either one seemed likely.
 

If only it were possible to do both.
 

At the same time, Minoa's wishes mattered not, for Macha had already made her choice.
 
She could not condemn Minoa to the curse of Diaspar.
 

I give you your own death, so that you may never seek it with Capra's need.
 

She felt again the stares of the Consortium, yet they were upstaged by the piercing burn of Golden's eyes upon her as he waited to see her choice.

She took the chains from Minoa and encircled her own neck, trying not to think of the way Minoa's arms had traced the same path upon her skin.
 

Forgive me,
she mouthed, raising her sword high.
 
She smiled - whether to soothe herself, or her lover, she would never know.
 
She brought the blade down.

She had not expected the crowd to cheer.

TWENTY-FOUR

H
ad I really doubted her fealty?

Golden had slain Nemain, a similar gesture, but one that only emphasized his true failure -
Cleopia.
 
He had sent her into the world as a demon.
 
Even now, he did not know her fate; too much of a coward to involve himself, he had merely issued the proclamation and stepped away, letting the Executioner take care of the rest.

She could be out there somewhere right now.
 
If only Laufeyson had not disappeared - then, then I might have answers!

But would you really have asked, knowing you had neither the strength of hand nor heart to free her from her shame?

She could be out there right now.

God, but in that light, the mercenary really had looked like her.

And then Macha and Anann stood, and the crowd interrupted his thoughts with their cheers.
 
They were ready to be crowned the newest members of the Pentarch.

#

The dirt walls threatened to cave in on her, but the Mademoiselle pressed on.
 
She was in no real peril - as long as she focused and kept her wits about her.
 
This was her only avenue to find the mercenary, and she would take it.

For a moment, she paused in the tunnel, her sudden doubt causing its walls to flicker dangerously.
 

The tunnel was a visualization of her own design.
 
She had used the device before to find difficult locations during astral travel, and so far, it had helped her follow the Eye's thread.
 
Indeed, the walls had been growing stronger, more concrete - a hint, perhaps, that she was getting closer to the other Eye of Muninn.
 
She had the sensation that she was climbing
up
, edging towards a dim pinpoint on the horizon.
 
It grew brighter and larger as she got closer, until finally, she broke through the surface.
 

Blinded, she blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
 

A stone floor and walls, bars across the door - it was a prison cell.

Has Laufeyson been caught, then?

Instantly, the images began to swim around her, the world woven by the projection shaking and losing solidity.
 
The scene distorted, curving as if she looked through a fish-eye lens.
 
She could feel something ancient, powerful,
pushing
at her, cutting her away from her astral body and trying to force her out of the room.
 
That same force was draining the energy out of her
kevra
at a horrific pace.
 

Is it the cell?

Already, there was no sound, no smell - nothing save the blurry parade of ghost images that danced in front of her.
 
Given the speed at which it siphoned off her energy, it would not be long before she lost the scene completely.
  

Calm yourself, and find a point of reference.
 
From within her trance, she breathed hard, and the images slowed.

She saw a door swing towards her, the great golden bars fairly exploding as they reached the center of her view.
 
The Mademoiselle flinched instinctively at their trajectory, but they passed through her spirit form without resistance.
 
She cast her vision about, looking for something to anchor herself to.

Then two angels stepped into view, and the distraction, as well as her sudden excitement, caused her vision to distort and blur further.
 
She could feel her vampire more clearly now, and she was sure it was the cell itself.

She growled.
 
Focus, damn you, focus!
 

She poured in a mammoth burst of energy, and her vision restabilized.
 
The angels solidified into two males, obviously twins, their aspects somehow familiar.
 
They were working together to drag a mass of shadows, one whose form evoked a body being pulled off the battlefield.
 
And then, their burden bucked wildly, a churning seizure of clothes and flesh, and she realized it was a prisoner.

The captive thrashed harder, whipping back a waterfall of inky hair.
 
The Mademoiselle's breath froze.

De la Roca.

She watched as they dragged the mercenary in, her struggles nearly tearing her out of their arms.
 
Another angel followed, one whose beautiful visage left no doubt as to his identity.

Golden.

De la Roca!
 
Shoot them!
 

She screamed, but in the vacuum of the cell, there was no sound.
  
She felt the power of the stone take over, pushing through the vessel of her body with a wild surge that burned like fire.
 

Golden turned.
 
His eyes were tight and his mouth grim, and even in the in the projection's shaky distortions, his sanguine cheeks twitched with the tension of his jaw.

He stared straight at her, his mouth flying open in a soundless yell.
 
Startled, she retreated just far enough for the cell to overpower her and sever the link.

#

Sweat ran down the sides of her face and plastered her hair to her head.
 
She pulled her arms into herself and shivered, her damp body not quite trusting in the safety her mind guaranteed.
 
Minutes passed.
 
Gradually, her breathing grew calmer.

He saw me.
 
As impossible as the statement was, it would not be denied its claim to truth.
 

Laufeyson last held the other Eye of Muninn.
 
There was no reason for her to think that he would allow it to change hands.
 
If he was not already dead, then he was in a Consortium prison - the same prison that she just saw De la Roca thrown into.
 
Whatever the Consortium was looking for, with the links that they shared - they had just made her situation that much more dangerous.

But where to go?
 
There was nowhere that they wouldn't find her eventually.
 
Even a waypoint was no escape; her power signature would be obvious to even the dullest angel.
 
The Consortium would reopen the portal and find her.
 
No, the only thing that could save her was
Bluot.

A snaky whisper echoed in the back of her mind.
 
You forgot about Rico
.

She felt the floor fall away, and her world began to spin.
 
Did they know about his murder?
 
How could they have found out so soon?
 

Maybe
,
hissed the voice,
Rico was more important than you thought
.

She gnashed her teeth together absentmindedly.
 
She needed
Bluot.
 

Do you really think that's enough to protect you?

It has to be.

Then you're in trouble.
 
De la Roca doesn't have the gun.

Of course she does!
 
She felt foolish for fighting with herself so desperately, but her sense of logic had dissolved into a simple need for control.
 
She
would
win.