The Hunter and the Hunted: Two Stories of the Otherworld (7 page)

They wandered off. Two hours of Vikings followed by a visit with friends just a few blocks away. Perfect. That gave me time to check out that dimensional pocket.

•  •  •

I found the room easily this time. There was a certain spot you needed to step on. I did that and was teleported to the pocket, which was . . . still an empty room.

I set about methodically searching the pocket. I walked over each bit of floor and peered through the wall, but it was like looking out into a black hole. Same with the floor. Yet whenever I passed one section of wall, I felt a buzz, like a low-grade shock. A magical,
Hey, there’s something here.

It took some work, but I found the source. A hand-sized section of wall just above the floor. I put my hand against it and—voila!—a dimensional door popped me into . . . another room.

For a moment, I thought it was the same one. Except when I paced it off, I realized that this room was a couple of feet smaller. Some searching located the door back to where I’d come in. I also found a door into yet another, slightly smaller room.

“Seriously?” I muttered as I paced the new one, bending slightly to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling. “What is this? The Russian nesting doll of dimensional pockets?”

I found another door, into a smaller room, then another, this last one taking me into a long crawlspace, so narrow I’m sure my heart would have been pounding—if it still beat. I crept along on all fours, ignoring the jabs of panic, reminding myself that I knew the way out. Then the crawlspace ended. I crouched there, hitting the walls, then . . .

The floor gave way and I tumbled down into darkness.

•  •  •

As soon as my feet hit the floor, I leaped up, casting a light-ball spell.

“What is it?” a voice whispered in the darkness.

“A shade,” another hissed. “A mortal shade.”

“No, it is more. Much more.”

I conjured my sword then. Yes, technically against the rules when I’m not on angel duty, but those whispers weren’t in any human language. They were demonic.

A four-foot glowing blue blade materialized in my hand. The Sword of Judgment. I swung it up, and all around me tiny forms skittered back, hissing and growling. I strode to the nearest one and impaled it on the end of my sword as the others shrieked curses. They didn’t interfere, though—they were just happy I’d skewered someone else.

I lifted the squirming demon. It was an imp, actually, a type known as an oni. Ugly little beggar. In Japanese folklore, oni are big, hulking, ogre-like beasts. Personally, I think they just got themselves some good PR. They’re actually about two feet tall, humanoid, with blue skin, red hair, three eyes and long claws on their feet and hands, which I could hear as they scurried about, gibbering amongst themselves.

Oni are usually thought of as a form of ghost, because the name is derived from the Japanese word for “hidden” or “conceal.” Another misunderstanding. They don’t hide themselves—they hide things. Items of value. Usually behind a secret demon gate, which they guard.

I lifted the oni on my sword and peered at it, and when I did, it let out an ear-piercing shriek.

“Balaam!” it cried. “Lord Balaam!”

The imp tried to prostrate itself, which is really hard to do while dangling from a blade. Around it, the others began to whisper, their voices swirling through the darkness.

“Yes, yes! So I said. More than a shade. Much more!”

“Balaam’s daughter.”

“The angel.”

“Yet not an angel . . .”

They moved forward now, sniffing and peering at me. I held my ground and listened.

“Not an angel now. Balaam’s now.”

“She comes for him. Her lord father.”

“It is said that she works for him.”

“Balaam is clever. Balaam is wise.”

Actually, Balaam is neither. He’s a conniving bully who threatens and schemes and fights to get what he wants. Which explains a few things about his daughter, I guess.

I stay as far from Balaam as I can, but I do understand him. I also understand that a whole lot of demons—and angels—think I’m a double agent for him. Pisses me off—I’m many things, but I’m not a traitor. Still, the rumor can be useful.

So I didn’t argue. Just kept listening as they chattered.

“He wants the book.”

“Yes, he does. He’s heard of it. Someone has spoken.”

“Someone will pay for his betrayal.”

“But Balaam . . .”

“Yes, Balaam . . .”

Their voices came faster now, panicking and thinking as fast as their little brains could think, struggling for a way to get out of this without offending a very powerful demon.

“Yes,” I said finally. “I’ve come for the book. It’s a very important one because it has been . . .” I took a guess. “Hidden for so long.”

“Yes, yes. Hidden. Lost. But we found it. Yes, we did.”

“Of course you did. The oni themselves are very wise, very clever. I’m not surprised they found this lost book of . . .”

“Moses,” one helpfully supplied.

“Right. The lost Book of Moses.” Seriously?
Moses?
What the hell?

Yet it did twinge some buried memory. One about spells, which made absolutely no sense in the context of the dude who led the Israelites out of Egypt. I suppose I should know more about that—with a last name like Levine, I probably had ancestors making that trek with old Mo—but I wasn’t raised in the faith. Or any faith really.

Still, if my brain wasn’t misfiring . . .

A long-lost spell book? Hell and damn, now
those
were words to get my dead heart pumping.

I tossed the oni off my sword tip and swung the blade, blue light crackling through the dark.

“I want that book.”

Silence. Then manic gibbering. Finally, one voice, as the others fell still.

“We respect Lord Balaam. We respect the daughter of Lord Balaam. But the book is ours.”

I skewered the speaker and tossed him up, and he shrieked as the others scampered back again.

“Mmm, try again.”

“We—we are willing to speak to Balaam on this matter.” The oni struggled to keep his shrill voice calm. “Negotiate. Yes, yes. We know Balaam is fair. Balaam is powerful but fair. We will negotiate and let him see the book.”

I considered. I could push the matter, but there were a lot of oni. And mass slaughter didn’t seem to be the way to handle this. At least, not until I knew more.

“I’ll be back,” I said. “Have the book ready.”

•  •  •

Human lore tells us that hell is guarded by a three-headed dog. Not true. It’s three giant dogs, the Cerberi. But they do guard hell. Or my own personal version of it: the Great Library.

The Great Library exists only in the afterlife dimensions, the real one having been set aflame when Caesar torched the Egyptian fleets. Yes, further proof that war and historic buildings are not compatible. Or that those running wars don’t give a shit about historic buildings.

I said hello to the girls—Cerberus One, Two and Three. Boring names. Also, insulting, I think. I call them Polly, Molly and Rue. I think they like it. They also appreciate that I stop to pet them, where most hurry past, spurred on by the sight of those foot-long fangs. But the girls really are very sweet and they’re good to me, letting me by even when I’m not on angel duty. As the massive guard dogs may suggest, the Great Library isn’t open to the afterlife public.

I passed the dogs and headed in to find Trsiel. I joke about the Great Library being my version of hell. It’s more of a love/hate relationship. If I’m looking for lost spells or rituals, it’s like a giant candy store where everything is free. If I’ve been sent here to do research, it really is a living nightmare. Chasing people with answers is my kind of research.

I wandered through the collections. I could say I was looking for Trsiel, but really I was just waiting. Sure enough, it took about ten minutes before a gray-haired scholar spotted me and raced off to find my far-more-angelic partner before I got myself into trouble.

I slouched into a chair and waited. Two minutes later, a figure rounded the shelves. He looked as much like an angel as I did—just a regular guy, about thirty, dark haired and olive skinned, dressed in jeans and a pullover. Trsiel is the real deal, though. A full-blood. Or close enough. There are rumors of full-bloods with a shot of human DNA, to help them better understand the people they’re sworn to help. Other full-bloods say that explains Trsiel’s “lowbrow” tastes. I say they can go to hell. Maybe it does, or maybe his more human tastes started the rumors. Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it
does
make him a better angel than most of the ineffective snobs who populate the angel dimensions.

Despite his very human appearance, there’s a faint glow to Trsiel’s skin that gives him away to those who know angels. And for those who don’t, his cover is blown once he opens his mouth—his voice is so richly compelling that every shade in hearing distance will stop to listen.

“Eve,” he said, striding to meet me. “What do you need?”

“Good to see you, too. Been a few months. How are things?”

He fixed me with a look. He knew I’d come for something and he knew I wouldn’t want to endure twenty minutes of chit-chat to get to it. We’d been partners for six years. I spent about as much time with him as I did with Kristof, and we knew each other as well as most couples. It
was
good to see him after almost three months apart. I wouldn’t say that, but he knew it.

“Lost book of Moses,” I said.

“Hmmm.” He turned and peered down the hall. “Room twelve, shelf three, right beside—”

“Unless you’re going to tell me the actual book is there, you can save it.”

“If the book was there, it wouldn’t be lost.”

I snorted. “I bet half the lost books of the world are in here somewhere. Just mis-shelved.”

“Probably. So if you start looking for that one now—”

“I’d rather fight through a legion of oni. Tell me about the book.” I paused. “Please.”

He waved me into an alcove with more comfortable chairs. Also, soundproof walls.

“You’re talking about the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. Purportedly a lost text following the Five Books of Moses, also known as the Pentateuch—the first five books in the Hebrew bible. As often happens with sacred texts, a rumor started that parts were removed because they contained so-called dangerous knowledge.”

“Like spells.”

He nodded. “The Sixth and Seventh Books are believed to be a grimoire, containing incantations to replicate the miracles in the bible.”

“Seriously?”

He made a face, lounging back. “Depends on your definition of
serious
. Yes, the book is supposed to exist. Yes, it contains spells that roughly duplicate some of the miracles. Was it actually part of the Books of Moses? Probably not. It just makes a good story, one that has influenced several religious movements. Spiritualism, Hoodooism, Rastafarianism . . .”

“Influenced by a
lost
book? How does that work?”

“The original text is lost, but there have been copies for several centuries. Of course, the problem with reproduced grimoires—”

“Is that someone always screws up—a typo, a bad translation—and the spells don’t work.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I may have found the originals. Through a secret passage in the British Museum, guarded by oni.”

A
Huh?
passed over his face, then a blink of comprehension, quickly dowsed, as he got comfortable again, saying as casually as he could manage, “And what led you there?”

“A job for Kristof. I was tracking a shaman who is apparently up to no good. Something to do with a Fury and these texts. I have no idea how the two connect, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Sounds like challenge.”

“It is.”

A flicker of a smile. “Good.”

I pulled my legs up, pretending to get comfortable myself as I studied his face.
What are you up to, Trsiel?

My angelic partner is not well versed in the art of deception. It might seem that’s just part of the angel package, but I’ve met full-bloods who rival arch-demons for duplicity. Trsiel is just good by nature. That’s why the Fates paired him with me, hoping he’d rub off. Any transfer, much to their chagrin, has gone in the other direction.

Trsiel is genuinely good, not sanctimoniously or self-righteously good. That means that he’s willing to accept the need to get his hands dirty in the pursuit of justice. Under my tutelage, he’s become an adequate liar, but he’ll never be good enough to fool me. Even when he’s merely “up to something,” he shows his hand. Today he was waving it wildly.

“So,” I said. “Should I bother trying to trick these oni into giving me the book? Or should I just tell them the game’s up and Kristof wants it back?”

“W-what?”

“Oh, wait. No. If this is a setup, there is no book.” I sighed. “Damn. It would have been better with a book.” A pause, during which Trsiel couldn’t seem to get a word out. I looked at him. “Or did Kris actually find the book? Because that would be kind of awesome.”

Trsiel’s mouth worked. He leaned forward. “I don’t know what . . .” One look in my eyes and he slumped. “Shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, it’s not his fault. It was my idea.”

“Right.”

“No, it was. I went to see him a few days ago. I needed advice on a complex demon contract, and he’s the expert. We were talking about you—his case running into overtime, you getting bored—and I suggested he give you a mission. A mystery to solve.”

I stared at him. “
You
suggested he send me on a wild goose chase?
Lie
about a mission?”

“It’s not a wild goose chase. It’s practice. A challenge, like you said. He balked at first, but I said it was like other guys giving their wives a weekend in a spa. You’re just a little different from most wives. But it was my idea, so if you’re angry, blame me.”

Was I angry? I felt as if I should be, but Trsiel was right. I’d had fun. I’d been challenged. For me, this was the equivalent of a weekend at the spa. A break from the everyday to calm my restlessness. A mental puzzle with a physical chase. And it was, admittedly, a good puzzle.