Hunting in Hell

by Maria Violante

She smiled and addressed the only being she considered a friend. "Lonely, are you?"

  The horse clopped in gently, taking care not to bump any of the furniture.

  “I like this one. Good choice.” Today, he was a dappled-gray Quarter Horse with a tiny peach muzzle. Tomorrow, he might be an Arabian. “It’s better than last week’s Percheron.” She grinned as she remembered him in that form, seventeen hands and two thousand pounds of solid draft horse, ready to kick down a door at a moment's notice.

  De la Roca didn't mind. Subtlety never was her strong point.

  "Go ahead," she said. "Take your true form."

  The horse shook quickly, like a dog throwing off water. His legs stretched and his head filled out. Taller and taller he grew, his color darkening while he shook, until he was a burnished red.

  He let out a piercing scream, and his coat erupted into flames. She waited while they danced along his skin, scorching it until it was burnt black. His body now as dark as coal, the flames snuffed themselves out, with only the ones on his mane and tail remaining.

  He shivered.

  "Show off." She stroked her hand through the fiery mane until the trembling abated. "There you are, my darling. I like you this way."

  Alsvior whickered softly and stamped a hoof against the ground.

  "Be quiet, you old codger. You like the baby talk, even if you won't show it."

  Her stallion rolled his eyes, vibrant icebergs and ebony pools that danced with the reflections of his flaming mane.

  "You know, you really should get some sleep." She stroked his nose gently. She had a tenderness for animals that was never given to "higher beings"—be they human or otherwise. "We have a big day tomorrow. Are you ready?"

  The horse backed away from her touch, before pawing the ground with a series of angry scratches.

  She felt her brows lift. “Really? Your hooves are as bloody as my hands.” She reached out again to caress his muzzle. “Although you never enjoy it like I do, do you? The bloodlust doesn’t get you, not the way it does me.”

  He snorted, and she laughed again. "Quit your silliness! I already told you what the Angel said. Five kills and then I—no, we—are free to do as we please. No more mercenary work. No more hunting. Doesn't that sound like paradise?"

  Alsvior rolled his eyes again and blew out hard.

  "Yeah, you're probably right. I'm a murderer through and through. But at least I'll be able to pick and choose who receives the end of my gun."

  Alsvior seemed content with the answer, so she didn't correct herself.

  Truthfully, she had no idea what would happen after these five kills, or if she'd even be able to accomplish them. There was something to this land, the American southwest, that gave the demons power. Something about the heat and the dryness attracted them and nourished them the way a sudden rain would cause a barren land to flow into bloom. And if, after centuries of servitude, these last kills are to finally earn my freedom, they are probably tough ones. She didn't exactly know, though, because although she had a vague idea of tomorrow's target, the rest had not yet been explained to her. And that made her uneasy.

  Secretly, she wondered if this was how the Angel ended all of his contracts—wait until they were past their prime, and then give them a job that would get them killed. The idea teased a flame of anger into her heart, but as soon as she was aware of it, she squelched it ruthlessly. She was fighting demons, and passion had no place here. They would use her anger or her pain against her as easily as a child uses a pouty lip.

  You are a demon yourself, whispered the voice in her head. Today, it had a peculiar quality, like a rattlesnake sliding over gravel.

  Her stomach rolled. In truth, she couldn't remember her life before this. She had no clues other than her dreams and the short speech the Angel gave her when she began her servitude. Of course, the voice already knew that.

  Yes.

  And a human once.

  Maybe, she countered, but if so, then that was long ago.

  Not so long ago. Not so long, for one that lives forever.

  You don't know that. Even I don't know that.

  The voice didn't answer, and for a moment, she saw a vision, a brilliant series of flames in bold reds, greens, and golds. It disappeared, leaving more questions than answers.

  She growled. Would she ever know of her life before? What kind of payment, really, was a name?

  And why had the angel chosen now to return to her in a dream? Would it keep its promise? Could she do five more kills and then be freed?

  Let me show you again.

  No. I won’t torture myself.

  You are close to the end, but what if there is a clue you missed—in the beginning?

  For a moment, she almost refused, but the pull for answers was too strong. Once more, then. But this is the last time.

  Back to the beginning. She could sense the creature in her mind smile.

  * * *

  The Angel had six wings, each one ending in a tip of fire, and his body was covered with so many eyes that they hung together like bunches of grapes.

  Disoriented and dizzy with panic, De la Roca fell to her knees. “Who am I? Can you at least tell me my name?”

  At once, the eyes all blinked. A deep voice came from all sides, as if it danced between the particles of the air around them.

  "YOUR NAME IS PART OF THE PRICE.

  "YOUR KEVRA IS PART OF THE PRICE."

  The eyes all blinked at once again.

  "YOU ARE THE PRICE."

  She tried to stand, but her knees were rooted to the soil. “The price of what?”

  "YOU HAVE BEEN FREED FROM HELL.

  "YOU ARE THE MERCENARY OF GOD.

  “YOU WILL KILL THOSE THAT DARE ATTEMPT ESCAPE INTO THE MORTAL WORLDS."

  Her head spinning, she closed her eyes and tried to swallow, but it was as if her throat was stuck. “Hell? But I don’t—why can’t I remember anything?”

  "YOU WILL REPORT TO ME AFTER EACH ASSIGNMENT.

  "I WILL GIVE YOU THE NEXT."

  Anger flared through her like a roaring tide. Her knees broke away from the sand, and she sprang to her feet, her muscles humming with strength and fire.

  “And you? Who are you? Answer me, damn it—I deserve to know the truth—’’

  The Angel blinked again, and pain flared in her throat. She clawed at her neck and tried to force air through the sudden steel in her windpipe.

  After several slow, agonizing seconds, the world around her darkened around the edges.

  “I BESTOW UPON YOU THIS AKRA OF LESSER BEINGS AND ANIMALS.

  “I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF DOORS.

  “I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF SEXUAL CONFUSION.

  “I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF HEALING.

  “I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF GUNS AND BULLETS.

  “THESE ARE THE GIFTS OF GOD, TO DO YOUR HOLY WORK.”

  The Angel blinked again, and she fell to the sand, her head swimming as sweet air rushed into her lungs.

  Three

  De La Roca started out in the early morning. The air was still moist, although the sky was no longer pink. She leaned back a little in the saddle, stretching her back. “You know, the tracking is always the hardest part.”

  Alsvior chuffed.

  “I’m a woman of action and bullets, not of trailing around with my ear to the ground.” She waved at the golden, eyeless body that hung over the front of her saddle. “Tengu here makes a good case in point.”

  Alsvior whickered and flicked an ear, and she shook her head. “No, there is some kind of enchantment on his body. That’s why he doesn’t burn. I wouldn’t want his kevra stone, anyways.”

  Are you sure about that?

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Keep your eyes and ears open, eh? We’re going in the direction that the Angel demanded, but I get the feeling this target is a strange one.”

  And how. Most of those that escaped from Hell tried desperately to remain out of the way, in rural locations where the lack
of congestion lowered the chance of being discovered. De La Roca chuckled. It might take me a little longer, but permanent evasion is impossible.

  This one had holed itself up in Jal, New Mexico. She didn’t know why it would pick such a densely populated location, but she had a few guesses.

  She'd have to go talk to some people.

  De La Roca smiled. She didn't know what kind of demon she had been before Hell, but in her current form, she was an expert interrogator.

  * * *

  "Now that you mention it, I did notice a few customers acting oddly. They were all pale, like third-shifters that hadn't seen sunlight in a while. I generally get a few of those, but in the recent weeks, it's been more and more. I'm wondering if the factory is changing its shifts around." The bartender grunted and rubbed his chin. "Last night, the entire flock looked like a mob of zombies."

  Starched white shirt, black slacks, red stripe running down either side. His outfit reminded De la Roca of her early days as a mercenary. Once, she had stopped for information at a bar in Pico and met another bartender that was attired in the exact same outfit. The two even cleaned glasses in the same way, with a wide, sweeping rub that suggested the need to burn off some energy.

  She ground her teeth gently, trying not to betray her worry. Usually, when demons took up shop, humans felt their influence and acted strangely. But zombies? Everybody knows there is no such thing as zombies. Well, not exactly.

  Maybe it’s a feeder.

  She groaned inwardly at the serpent-voice’s suggestion. It makes sense. A feeder needed the energy of the humans around it to manifest its powers. Of course, they aren’t exactly offering. Most likely, they wouldn't be able to remember it.

  If it is a feeder, and these people are in that bad of shape, it’s got to be close by.

  "Thank you, partner." She tipped her hat at him. He returned it with a leer, the kind that men with wedding rings don’t usually give single women.

  Well now. She smiled widely. She knew the way it looked, dazzling at first. A second glance, though, would reveal canines sharp enough to be disconcerting.

  The bartender cast his gaze downwards, cleared his throat, and resumed polishing his glass.

  De La Roca smiled. Smart. Often, it seemed to her that some men—or even some women—had a death wish, poking about where they shouldn't.

  She grinned and her mind went back to the bartender in Pico. Only three centuries ago. Sometimes, she still heard talk about his gruesome death in bars on stormy nights, or from grizzled old policemen that never quite remembered her afterwards. Who knew how many generations they had passed it down as local legend, fathers impressing the story's lessons upon their naïve sons? Though many details didn't match the reality of what had transpired, she was always flattered. When it came to imaginative murder, she was one of the best.

  "Can you tell me anything else about these zombies?"

  “I don't really know, except that most of them work at the Stoker Firearms plant.” He glanced nervously at the door, and she imagined he was eager for her to be on her way. Fine by me. I got what I needed.

  Without any sort of goodbye, she walked outside, expecting him to remain behind the bar. Instead, he followed her out, glass still in hand.

  *

  The Spanish-looking cowgirl stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew hard. The whistle sounded out, a flat blast that shot through the terrain, bouncing on concrete faces and echoing off of buildings. The bartender held his breath, afraid to speak. He could barely hear the drumming, a low heartbeat that grew louder with each passing second.

  Hooves.

  There was a moment for the man to doubt the wisdom and perhaps legality of riding a horse through downtown Jal, and then the stallion broke into view.

  And what a stallion! The bartender’s mouth fell open at its size and strength. It was a Shire, an enormous draft horse with a head the size of a microwave oven. As it ran closer, pounding the asphalt of the road, the bartender estimated it to be at least a good nineteen hands tall and over two thousand pounds, maybe even two thousand five hundred.

  The horse bore down on the barkeep without slowing.

  Oh god, it’s going to run me over.

  Paralyzed, he closed his eyes and held his breath. At the last possible second, the horse veered off to the left, passing by so closely that he was whipped by the silky tail.

  "Alsvior," said the cowgirl. She didn’t shout, but somehow, he could hear her over the din of hooves and wind and the snorting of the horse. "Alsvior, stop showing off."

  The stallion circled around once at a dead sprint, and the cowgirl raised a hand. As soon as the horse saw her motion, it pulled up short and whinnied indignantly.

  "Alsvior, relax. I wouldn't have actually done it," she said, although in reference to what, he didn't know. She’s too far from it to abuse it in any way that I can see.

  Her stallion refused to come any nearer, though, and she was forced to walk over to him to mount. Once she was on, it kicked a few times and shot forward before rearing menacingly, almost smacking the bartender in the face with its front hooves.

  “Damn you!” She jammed a spur into the horse's ribs, and it settled immediately. Finally, she coaxed it into turning away and urged it into a gallop.

  Filled with the feeling he had just witnessed something otherworldly, the bartender watched them shrink to small specks on the horizon. Once they had disappeared, he blinked rapidly and shook his head a few times, as if to clear it.

  He looked down at the glass at his hand. Why had he brought it outside? Was there something out here? And why was it so damn dusty? After a few moments, his concern faded as easily as his memory had, and he went back inside to get ready for the night shift.

  FOUR

  It had to be a firearms factory. De la Roca scowled. Not a cheese factory, or a refrigerator factory, or even a fluffy pillow factory—no, it had to be guns. The square edifice loomed ahead, bleak and desolate, overshadowing the other buildings on the street. There was not a soul in sight.

  Briefly, she debated some of the akras and even the kevra this demon might have. Object levitation? She imagined the guns floating through the air, firing off bullets haphazardly, and her mouth became a grim line.

  Teleportation? Both? Or maybe it was something she had never seen before, although she doubted it. De La Roca was getting to the point where she had seen pretty much everything. Why pick a gun factory, unless you could use the guns?

  Maybe I should go back and find the Mademoiselle. She might be able to tell me something about what to expect in there.

  She had already reached for the reins when the rattlesnake voice popped into her ear.

  What was your kevra, do you think?

  She had often asked herself the same question. Each time she made a kill and took the stone, she wondered how close its powers were to the power she once had, but couldn't remember. And every time, she looked within herself, searching for a stirring of familiarity, but it never came.

  No! Go away!

  She shoved the rattlesnake voice back into the part of her mind where it couldn't bother her—at least for a while. Now was the time to focus or die, and she preferred to avoid the latter.

  Alsvior slowed, his ears twitching. Attuned to her mount, she froze. Like his, her ears searched the surrounding terrain for noise, but there weren't any signs of life.

  Even so, her heart accelerated. A human artifact, it should have been taken when she was reborn as a demon, yet it still beat in her chest, announcing her awareness.

  Silently, she crossed her arms and slid them down her sides. With a circular flourish, she drew out the pistol and the revolver and settled them into the ready position.

  She didn't hear the click—she sensed it. An image appeared in her mind—the hesitant slide of a safety switch, the red dot warning that the gun was ready to fire.

  "Down!"

  Alsvior dropped to his front knees as she buried her face in his mane. The area above him
exploded in a shower of drywall and stone, the shot missing them by the smallest fraction of a second.

  "Circle!"

  In a single motion, he jumped up and took off running. She vaulted off of his back, firing the pistol from midair and toward the bullet's origin. Before she hit the ground, she was rewarded with a scream.

  Got you.

  Alsvior was completing the circle. Her hands clamped around the gun-grips, she jumped into the saddle with a gigantic springing leap. More snake-like than human, the vault would have shocked any bystander. "Left, sharp," she shouted, and he spun into a low-leaning turn without losing speed.

  They made a lap without further engagement, and then another. If there were other shooters, they’re either gone, or biding their time.

  Her heart still racing, she decided they should take their chances. I want to see this man’s body. She nudged Alsvior with her knees, and he obediently approached the corpse.

  It had landed facedown. Thin, small-statured, long hair. De la Roca sucked on her teeth. She could see the exit wound, a burnt hole with shreds of shirt trailing around it like an open flower. But no blood. That’s not a good sign. She kicked the body with her boot, pushing hard enough to turn it over.

  Small breasts and delicate cheekbones—it was a woman. De la Roca could see the entrance hole, smaller and finer than the exit wound. From its placement, it’s gone straight through her heart.

  No blood on this side, either. Her stomach turned, and there was a tension in her head that made her think of the serpent-voice’s laugh.

  Demons had many ways of entrapping and controlling humans, from brainwashing to bribery, but true mind-control? That wasn’t an akra—a small power.

  She resumed sucking on her teeth again, the squiggly feeling in her gut getting worse. It’s got to be a kevra. Few things were as hazardous as a demon's one pure power, no matter what form it took.

  Unless—what if she was a hired gun? It wouldn't have to be a feeder then.

  That doesn't explain the lack of blood.

  De la Roca took another frustrated look at the body, but save for its odd pallor, there were no clues to be had.