Hunting in Hell (8 page)

He shook his head and sighed, remembering the way he had smoked it once with each pass, blowing rings that glowed and danced with a rainbow of shimmering colors.
 
How I preened in their awe.
 
I thought I wasn't vulnerable to the addictions of man.
 

He knew better now, of course.
 
He told himself each day that he would quit.
 
It was hard to believe that he had been smoking since before cars had driven on roads, since before humanity had figured out how to communicate via wires and electronic pulses, since before people had given up lives of adventure and struggle for office jobs and a career ladder.
 

Damn
.
 
That was his second already, and he could still feel tendrils of need lacing through him, pulling at his skin.
 
His addiction was unfettered by cancer or the normal lifespan of man, and it had grown stronger in the last few centuries.
  

Maybe I should fight it, hold off for a while.
 
He grit his teeth.
 
No, he would need some steady nerves for what was coming.
 
So instead, he flicked his fingers and manifested another cigarette into existence.

That was one of his
akras
, the manifestation of small things, although he still didn't understand some of its intricacies.
 
The power, like he, was fickle; it categorized some things as small, only to later repeal its decision and refuse to manifest them.
 

That wouldn't be a problem, except that if he attempted something that was outside the scope of his
akra,
flicking his fingers brought him nothing the feeling of a void and a coldness that seemed to travel through his fingertips and wrist.
 
I fucking hate that, hate it more than anything else.
 
He didn't try his luck too often.

Not to mention that here, in this world, too large of a manifestation might attract attention from the wrong individuals, and his whole mission depended on him staying under the radar.
 
So a cigarette was one of the two indulgences he allowed himself to create.

And the other?
 
He flicked his fingers again, and a bullet appeared next to the cigarette.
 
And then, with another quick motion, the bullet was gone.

He put the cigarette between his lips and sucked on the filter.
 
The cherry bloomed on the other end, a spontaneous fleck of something
real
that burned an anchor to his floating thoughts.
 

He had been planning this for hundreds of years.
 
The knowledge that the waiting was almost over made his hands shake and made his scalp tingle.
 

Briefly, he wondered if he had grown too old and rusty to survive something like this, too familiar with the weak senses and dull reflexes of men.
 

Only one way to find out, though.
 
Let's give it a shot.

* * *

"Damn," said De La Roca.
 
"That was a hell of a kill, wasn't it?"

Alsvior snorted his disagreement.

"Alright, you show off.
 
It was easy for you, huh."

She stopped walking and turned to examine his leg, gently running her fingers over the new scars.
 
In time, those, too, would disappear.
 
Alsvior healed almost as well and as quickly as she did.

"Not being shot, healing—any other
akras
?"
 
She grinned at her own joke.
 

With an indignant whinny, he burst into a mass of tall flames.

"Yeah, yeah.
 
You're a real badass.
 
I know."
 
She stroked his nose affectionately and they resumed walking.
 

The Angel had told them to head southwest and seek out the "Phoenix Well."
 
He didn't elaborate further.
 

Stupid fucking riddles!
 
The "Well" could be anything—a rock formation, the name of a bar, a meteorological phenomenon.
   
She hated the feeling of being a mercenary without a clear target.
 
It was rather like being on a scavenger hunt.
 
Were other Angels this elusive?
 
Maybe I could get reassigned or something.
 
That thought cheered her slightly.

They had been walking for almost three full days and nights, and weariness was setting in.
 
Unlike most other demons, she still needed sleep, but it performed a different function than it did for the living.
 
Without it, she could repeat basic tasks almost indefinitely; she could walk endlessly, talk lucidly, and use most of her
akras
on at least an elementary level.
 
Gradually though, the keen edge of her reflexes would grow dull, her instincts addled.
 
Already, she wouldn't risk fighting in her current condition—unless, of course, it was absolutely necessary.

The factory had been slightly south of Jal, and as they came to Pico, she almost laughed, remembering it in their shared infancy.

It had been a tiny settlement then, and it was still one now.
 
Pico would never change, if for no other reason than the powers that be wanted it to stay that way.
 
Close to the Mexican border, it was the last town before the Chihuahuan Desert started to get nasty, and a waypoint for mercenaries and traders of all types.
 

As the smattering of buildings grew larger, the hair on the back of De la Roca's neck prickled.
 
Is somebody watching me?
 
She slowed to a stop and glanced over her shoulder.
 
The light fluttering sensation on her neck and back intensified, and she scanned her surroundings carefully.
 
The dusk was throwing long shadows across the dry streets, but aside from a few drunks that were walking away from the only other bar in town, there was nobody.

Must've gotten thrown out of the Cantina.
 
She pursed her lips.
 
The Mademoiselle is probably not going to be too happy tonight.

She tried to scan her surroundings again, but Alsvior whickered forcefully.
 
"Okay, okay.
 
I get it."
 
She tapped him once on the nose for his eagerness and led him in through the double doors.

Seven

"
W
ell, it's about damn time!"
 
The mademoiselle took a lavish bow, her long hair trailing out with a flourish.
 

If she had a name, De la Roca didn't know it.
 
The Mademoiselle had used her title in its place for hundreds of years.
 
To Pico's locals, she had a smattering of unique handles and aliases.
 
She also had the trick of appearing differently to everyone, instinctively picking their brains for the combination of physical traits that would set them best at ease.
 
If your best friend from childhood was a slim brunette named Barbara, then so would be the Mademoiselle.
 
If your ex-wife was a curvy blonde named Vicky, the Mademoiselle would still be a slim brunette named Barbara.
 
And how is it that they never catch on?
 
Maybe that is one of the Mademoiselle's akras, as well?

Either way, the Mademoiselle was a tricky character, if for no other reason than her vagueness of position.
 
De la Roca was a mercenary, Rico a supplier—but the Mademoiselle?
 
She was a jack of all trades, her title as the only indicator of her rank and function.
  
One day, she might work as an odd sort of intelligence officer, using an illusion of beauty and a free hand with drinks to divine the innermost secrets and fears of specific men.
 
The next, she would sell guns and supplies to a mercenary.
 
Still a day later, she would be tapped by an unknown power to carry messages and warnings to a demon that had gone out of line.
 

Most interestingly, she was a fountain of knowledge on the arcane and the ancient.
 
She never truly forgot an interesting piece of gossip, lore or myth, storing it all in a mental vault she referred to as the Archives
.
 
She picked up rumors from odd sources—ancient dusty texts, weary travelers—and somehow knew instinctively how much of each story was a lie.

De la Roca had even heard that she guarded a waypoint, a door between Hell and the realm of men.
 
She didn't know how true that last one was, though.
 
And since I have no desire to return to Hell, I don't particularly care to find out
.

That's sad.
 
Hell might be a nice place.

"I've been busy, Mademoiselle."
 
De la Roca flashed the Mademoiselle a smile, before glancing at a side booth.
 
She had noticed the three elderly men drinking there upon entering, and didn't care much for the look of them.
 
Might be harmless, but you keep your cards close and your enemies closer.

Alsvior, on his own accord, clopped up to the Mademoiselle and butted his head against her chest, demanding her attention.

"Quit it, you old silly fool."
 
She giggled and returned De la Roca's smile.
 
"And you," she admonished, pointing at the mercenary, "need to pick a
name
.
 
People are going to get suspicious if you keep calling me the
Mademoiselle
.
 
They might even think I'm running a whorehouse up in here."
 
She laughed, uproarious at her own joke, and shoved Alsvior's head aside.
 
"Quit being a pervert, you old bag."

He tossed his head, indignant, but when he returned it to her chest, it was far more gently.
 
I can't believe how good she is with him.
 
Given that before Alsvior met the Mademoiselle, the mercenary was the only entity, demon or otherwise, the horse had ever warmed up to, one might even say she was slightly jealous.
 
Might.

"So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"
 
She snorted again.
 
Pico's greatest arboreal achievement was a lone strand of cacti, and she seemed to enjoy telling the joke every time they met.

"I think that matter is best left for another, more private time and place."

The Mademoiselle nodded once, her face growing serious.
 
"How unpleasant."
 
She gestured at the bar.
 
"I won't be able to get away until I shut this place down, so how about joining me for a drink?"
 
She gave the mercenary a garish, sloppy wink, and the three patrons laughed.
 
Apparently, they had been following the conversation.

De la Roca leaned in and cast her voice lower.
 
"How is it that they don't mention him?
 
Can they not see him?"

"See who?"
 
She followed De la Roca's gaze toward Alsvior.
 
"Oh, the horse?
 
They see him just fine, don't you boys?"

"What horse?" asked one of the men, his voice elevated enough to ring off of the walls of the saloon.
 
The other two immediately erupted into laughter.

"Those boys, they've seen a lot of things over the years.
 
As long as they keep their mouths shut, I keep their drinks free.
 
Ain't that right, boys?"

The three men hooted and hollered, raising their glasses before throwing them back and draining them.