Alsvior screamed.
No! De la Roca felt his suffering with every cell of her body. I can't . . . I have to—
The lamprey's hold broken over her mind, she held up the gun of many names. In a swift motion, she spun the cylinder and the bullets fell to the ground, clinking like tiny bells. She reloaded it with a single bullet from her belt and spun the chamber shut. Although the ritual was of her own devising, she could feel the blessing of luck upon her.
"Bluot, I call you." The gun hummed in response as the red mist descended over her vision.
It was the Death-Bringer, the Death-Seeker. It was Kali and the Morrigan.
It was Bluot.
She looked through the sight, an unnecessary step that she couldn’t let go of, and fired the bullet.
It spiraled toward the lamprey.
Come on, come on.
Bluot had a mind of its own. When called, it took out targets in the order of its own choosing, one for every bullet fired. In this room, there was only the demon, her horse, and herself.
Not me. Not Alsvior. Not this time.
Why not? It's only a matter of time. Eventually, the gun is going to choose you as the best target in sight, and you know it never misses.
After all, how else would the gun change hands?
Not this time. Just not this time.
To De la Roca's demon eyes, the bullet's spirals grew tighter, slower. Distracted by torturing Alsvior, there wasn't time for the lamprey to notice that something was amiss. Still, as if psychic, two of its heads rose in the air to check the surroundings the moment before the bullet hit.
Too late.
Demon flesh was as tough as stone, but to Bluot, it mattered not. The bullet bored in, swift and true, straight to the center of the lamprey. Its screams crashed against her mind, and she shivered with their force.
The heads fell as one and bounced on the concrete as they hit the floor. The mouths spasmed and went still.
De la Roca didn't move. She was waiting for what she knew came next.
The creature burst into green flames. On her first kill, she had rushed the body to find the stone, almost burning herself to death in the process. How stupid that was.
Alsvior hobbled to her side, and she rubbed his leg carefully.
"This is going to hurt."
He snorted once and nodded, his giant head bouncing up and down.
Lightning fast, she snapped the bones back into place. He screamed and shuddered, until she stroked his head and spoke to him in soothing tones. "It's alright, my darling. Good as new." Not exactly true, but it will heal fast enough. While she couldn't ride him tomorrow, he would be able to walk.
The flames were subsiding, and she could see that the body was mostly ash. She waited still, until the last flicker had died down, and then with a look at Alsvior, she walked over to the ashes. She sifted through with her fingers. The pile was insurmountably large, and it took her almost an hour to find what she was looking for. Finally, she located it—a perfect stone the size and shape of a marble.
It was the demon's kevra stone, and as she no longer had a kevra, she could use it.
Not like the lamprey had, of course. It would take her years to develop the power to a point where she could manipulate it that well, and she wasn't interested in making mental zombies. Still, she lost her last stone when Tengu escaped. As such, she had an empty spot, and any kevra was better than no kevra.
Plus, she never knew what the stone would do until she actually tried it.
She placed it in her mouth and swallowed.
Instantly, she was caught in a stream of thoughts. She turned her head as if sniffing the air, and followed it back to the source.
It was Alsvior.
She had never once doubted the intelligence of her mount, but this? His mind is so elegant, so complex!
She felt through the web of his thoughts, until she came to an image that was both flattering and humbling, familiar and strange.
It was her, but through his eyes. Her skin crawled. Somehow, she knew she was violating his privacy. Quickly, she looked away and pushed the thought-stream out of her mind. Some things are better left unknown.
Stranger still was the way the stone affected her own mind. It was filled with doors she had never seen before, and she threw them open with the abandon of a child. She sprinted through the rooms, overturning boxes in her haste. The lamprey had rummaged through her thoughts, filling her with terror and anger at her mental captivity. Now that she was in control, she could feel her own power.
It was then that she noticed the gossamer thread in front of her. "Al, do you see that?"
The horse whickered and shook his head. She reached out and tentatively touched two fingers to the thread. It shivered as a spider web might. Suddenly emboldened, she grabbed it.
She could feel the mind at each end, the emotions bubbling like colored rivers. With shock, she realized the strand was some kind of connection between two individuals. She paused and listened to the traffic between them. As the strand dissolved in her hand the link faded away like static, until it was silent again.
Squinting, she spotted several more threads. Some of them she did not see in time, and they broke and clung to her clothes as she walked through them. She felt each of the ones she could in turn, and was rewarded with streams of thoughts. Pets, dates, sex, drugs—it's all of the trivial and mundane preoccupations of humankind.
When she was passing by the dead-center of the room, she stopped short. Her gaze fell on a single strand, glowing in the flickers of Alsvior's fire. This one was blue instead of white, and she could feel her new kevra stone humming within her stomach, responding to its influence.
She grabbed it, and the information flooded into her mind, startling her with its velocity.
"De La Roca." The voice roared through the thought wire, filling her with shock. This creature, whoever it was, knew she was listening. "Are you ready for your next assignment?"
It was the Angel.
She listened carefully, and when the Angel was done, the strand melted in her hand like cotton candy. She checked her holsters and grabbed her hat. "Here." She sat it upon her horse's head, and he whickered indignantly.
"Come on Alsvior, it's time to get some rest." He followed her without complaint. It would take them some time to get outside of the city, but she knew he would be more comfortable there.
He looked at her and cocked his head to one side, and she marveled again that she had never truly recognized the intelligence in his eyes. He never needs a lead or bridle . . . He follows every command perfectly—is there more here than I realize?
Uncomfortable with the path her thoughts were taking, she shook her head. "There are four more targets." She pointed the way out, and they began to walk.
Six
Laufeyson flicked out the cigarette and flipped open the gun to check his bullets.
He could barely remember the first time he smoked tobacco, left with only a vague impression of an ancient Indian tribe that called it "stinkweed." He had taken advantage of their hallucinatory sweat-lodge rituals and appeared to them during an information gathering mission. Fringed buckskin leathers, the head of a giant wolf as a helmet over my own—how I miss that outfit. As the Indian peoples either died off or modernized, the clothes had become less useful, although he still occasionally wore them for fun. Like when I scared that old drunk.
He had not originally planned on partaking of the ritual pipe, but they had been insistent, and he had needed them to trust him enough to confide their secrets.
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 t
o 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
"Well, 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 t
o 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.
"Damn drunkards," muttered the Mademoiselle, low enough that there was no risk of being overheard. "Alright, Alsvior, go find yourself someplace open to stand or sit, and don't you dare break any of my chairs on the way over! And can't you pick a smaller form, for Pete's sake?"
Immediately, he shifted into a more appropriate size.
"Hey," said one of the men, "That's a neat trick! Can he do a donkey? Or a unicorn?"
He hadn't finished laughing before Alsvior bit him.
* * *
"So, what's all of the fuss?" The Mademoiselle was cleaning the bar, mopping up wet spots with a damp rag. De la Roca marveled at that. It's like she enjoys the exertion. She was sure the demon could have flicked a finger and accomplished the same task—if not by herself, then by proxy.
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