Hunting in Hell (30 page)

Slowly, over the course of the hours, the drips grew louder, more definite, until she could hear them directly in front of her.
 
She reached out, feeling for the thread between the Eyes.

#

De la Roca's head buzzed, most likely from the acid tang of the snake's venom in the air.

The darkness was absolute, the silence broken only by the deep, low pulse that reverberated through the walls around her.
 

It must be the creature's heartbeat.

Hearing the pulse, she remembered the Thyrsus stone in her belly.
 
Her eyes closed, she sent a strand of herself out towards it, and it thrummed back lazily with a wave of power.

Then, she heard another sound, a heavy sigh that emanated from directly in front of her, and she knew what it had to be.
 
She reached out her hands, searching for Alsvior's body.
 
His flesh was warm and slightly moist, and she remembered yet again that he was no longer a horse, but a man.
 

The thought pained her.
 

"Are you alright?"
 

He didn't answer, and her pulse quickened.
 
Yet she could still hear his breathing, slow and regular.
 
That would change if he was in danger, wouldn't it?

She stood, supporting herself with his form, feeling her way up his body and to his face.
 
Her fingers lingered there, over his features, before brushing up to the concavity above his cheekbones.
 
Quickly, she whipped her hand away.

His cheeks were wet.
 

He was crying.

In the life that she could remember, De la Roca knew the thrill of the hunt, the glorious cry of victory, and even the chilling twin blades of fear and defeat.
 
But this awkwardness that stole through her and burned her cheeks was still frustratingly new, and it rendered her speechless.
 
She
wanted
to ask him what brought the tears to his eyes, but the gap that lay between them engulfed any overture she could muster.

Instead, she did the only thing she knew how to do.
 
She moved on.

Using her hands and her exceptional hearing as a guide, she navigated her way around the serpent's mouth.
 
In one spot, the timbre of the heartbeat changed, and she could feel the rush of a gentle draft that she attributed to the creature's own breathing.

That must be the throat.

After circumnavigating the cavern twice, she again found the throat and then walked halfway around, to where she thought the front would be, being careful to avoid the fang-points she pictured in her mind.
  

At first, she attempted to open the mouth with just her hands.
 
When that failed and she was covered with sweat, she switched to wedging her boot between the rough edges of the teeth.
 
She pushed as hard as she could, gathering the strength of all of her powers, until she slipped in what she could only hope was a pool of sweat.
 
Her momentum brought her crashing down, the teeth delivering her a glancing blow upon the forehead.

"Damn it!"
 
She brought both guns up.
 
Reconsidering, she dropped
Bluot
to her side.
 
The pistol would be enough.
 

The bullet exited the gun with a deafening roar.
 
She heard the
zing
as it bounced off of one of the teeth and had time for one thought -
ricochet -
before hitting the ground and balling herself up.
 
Then she remembered Alsvior, and she flung herself in the direction from which his voice had come last.
 
There was a cracking noise, the sound of a bullet hitting the serpent's stone-hard flesh, and she felt herself slam into something warm and soft.
 
Quickly, she brought Alsvior to the ground.
 
She heard two more cracks, and then she
screamed
as fire tore through her left arm.

The next time she heard the bullet, it seemed to echo from some distance.

"I think it's gone down the throat," she said.

They waited as the bullet's cracks grew quieter and more muffled, the initial energy from the shot bleeding out with each successive ricochet.
 
Finally, there was a last pinging thump, and she knew it was safe.

"I am sorry," is all she could think of to say.

"Were you hit?
 
I heard you scream."

She flexed her left arm and squeezed the hand into a fist.
 
The pain was fading, and she couldn't discern any loss of mobility or strength.
 

"I think it's okay.
 
It's probably already started to mend."
 
She meditated on her
akra
until a thought occurred to her.
 
"This bullet was headed right for you.
 
And then outside, you were almost engulfed by venom.
 
So when you think about it, I've saved your life -
twice
."
 
Although she knew he couldn't see her, she winked into the darkness.

She had expected him to laugh, but instead, she heard only a strangled noise that repeated over and over, gradually establishing a rhythm.
 
She realized that he was crying again.

"Alsvior."
 
Had they not just crossed this bridge?
 
In her frustration, she debated the merits of punching him and leaving him behind.

The Mademoiselle had talked to her once about the difference between humans and demons.
 
One thing she had mentioned was the emotional depth of the human experience, the various states that overwhelmed a being, regardless of purpose or usefulness.
 
How much of Alsvior was of man, and not beast or angel?

"Alsvior?"
 
She listened to the serpent's heartbeat, a slow, deep bass that marked the passing time.

"Al?"

She heard him snort.
 
Her heart suddenly soared at the familiar gesture, and she reached out again to touch him.

His terse reply, though, shot through her sudden nostalgia.
  
"You can't go out through the mouth.
 
There's only one way from here on out, and that's down."

EIGHTEEN

T
he angel known only as Golden was headed for Laufeyson's cell, intent on speaking with Nemain and finding out what ties the prisoner had to the Damned.
 
The chance for confession had arrived and passed, and he had already given his torturer permission to use more convincing measures.

So many,
he thought, as he considered the numerous members of the rebel movement.
 
It's one of the great tragedies of our time, that so many still cannot see the truth.

Golden understood how his legions could become confused - especially the youngest among them, those that had only known life under Consortium rule.
 
They hadn't been present for the chaos of the Abdication.
 
Freshly uprooted and feeling betrayed by their Maker, how many of Hell's new residents had thrown all caution to the wind, violating the eternal mandates of Heaven and His word, and bringing unspeakable shame upon all of them?
 

A single crystalline memory pinged icily through his brain.
 

Cleopia.
 
Love of my life.

Traitor.

Wench.

Although not a murderer, in the end, the totality of her crimes was just as terrible - including her decision to join the cause for the Damned.

Laufeyson -
and his thought froze then, suspended as the memory gained color and clarity -
Laufeyson took care of her punishment.
 
What if she still wanders the forests of Hell-

No!
 
Even he isn't that cruel.
 
She got her due.
 
She and her lover.
 

The last thought brought a smirk to his face.
 
I should have killed him.
 
He shrugged off the thought with a grim smile and shook his head, his champagne hair falling in a halo around him.
 
No, better that he suffer.
 
Better that he bear the weight of another upon his back for all time.
 

A morsel of smug satisfaction warmed in his mouth.
 
When it melted away, it left the bitter tang of regret.

No wonder He left,
thought Golden.
 
We were not worthy.
 

I
am not worthy.

The thought sent a pang through his chest, and he took a breath to steady himself.

#

They had figured it out, somehow.
 
There had been a lull in the chaos just long enough for five enterprising angels to snag power and put forth a unified front.
 
They were trying to end the bloodshed.

They had not predicted that so many would oppose them - or that their enemies would be such creative subversives.
 
The Damned resembled a den of rats; alone, each animal was weak, but together, as a force, the infestation was nearly impossible to exterminate.
 

It's their lack of organization
, thought Golden.
 
All of them operating in splinter cells, none of them knowing about the other, and all of them seemingly bent on mayhem.
 
Did they even have a directive - a real goal?

Strangely, he hadn't been able to figure out what endgame might motivate their actions - save cause the Consortium grief.
 
Didn't they know that their interruptions were no more than minor inconveniences?
Necessary supplies occasionally got routed to the wrong destination.
 
Operatives disappeared.
 
And now, there was this business with Laufeyson and a minor mercenary -
their
minor mercenary - that had somehow resulted in the death of one of their best Enforcers.
 
And of course, the mercenary
and
the Mademoiselle were now missing.
 

How convenient.

The death of Muninn troubled him greatly.
 
By what crazy bent of luck could -
what was her name?
 
De la Rosa?
- the mercenary accomplish such a thing?
 
She would need a weapon and powers far beyond those she was bestowed with.

Unless, of course, she had help.
 

Golden had doubted that the Mademoiselle was stupid enough to interfere with Muninn or in any way contribute to his death.
 
But,
he thought, the gears in his mind suddenly spinning -
Thyrsus has disappeared as well.
 
The Mademoiselle's hatred for the pair of brothers was no secret, and Thyrsus resided in his own dark plane - one he created during the Great Rift.
 
Such a plane was inaccessible to anyone that couldn't either create a waypoint or travel out of body.

Perhaps I should speak with the advisor that tipped off Veles?
 
He might be able to make some sort of identification.

Probably not.
 
That demon's face is always changing.

There were so many players here - the Mademoiselle, Laufeyson, the mercenary, the Enforcer and his brother … Golden had the feeling if he could just connect any two of them together somehow, the grand picture would emerge, and he would figure out what the Damned had in store.
 
No matter how he tried, though, he couldn't.
 
Frustrated, he slammed his hand into the wall, the great power in his blow driving pain down through his knuckles and into his wrists.

Chest heaving, he swallowed and smoothed back his fair hair.
 
They are just rats,
he soothed,
and you will root them out as such.
 
He made a mental note to locate and have a
discussion
with the Mademoiselle at his earliest convenience.

#

As he rounded the corner, he wondered if Nemain had gotten the infidel speaking yet.
 
Hell's foremost torturer was a very convincing negotiator.

When the hall came into view though, he didn't see anybody standing outside of the door.

Curious,
he thought.
 
She is inside.
 
Laufeyson must have had tight jaws indeed
.
 
Nemain was gifted with unique powers, able to extract information with the force of her will, but when that failed ... Golden shuddered.
 
Her physical touch could inflict unimaginable agony.
 
He did not envy the prisoner, not in the slightest.