Perhaps it's like cleaning my gun. Always unnecessary, she still did it faithfully every night. It was a kind of worry stone, a signal that all was well in the world. Perhaps this is the same.
Alsvior had curled up under a tall table, his legs tucked under him.
"Aren't horses supposed to sleep standing up?" The Mademoiselle's question was punctuated with an odd half-smile, and De la Roca couldn't tell if she was kidding or not.
"He's not exactly a normal horse."
"That may be so, but he's pretty cute. You're just a big puppy dog, aren't you?" She pursed her lips in a soppy, ridiculous fashion, pitching her voice up into a whispered squeal.
As if he heard, his ear flicked and he neighed gently.
Not for the first time, De la Roca was astounded by the Mademoiselle's humanity. It was as if she retained feelings that De la Roca had long ago lost, an absence that the mercenary didn't notice until she came to Pico. Maybe it's because you live the life of a killer and not a bartender.
She reached into herself, intent on using the lamprey's kevra stone, but the Mademoiselle laid a firm hand on her arm. "You know my rules. We don't do that sort of thing in here."
De la Roca was about to protest, but the buxom woman continued, "Don't give me a reason to throw you out. I'm far older and far stronger than you could ever imagine, and I get the feeling you didn't drag your ass all the way to Pico for some watered-down, piss-warm beer." She released De la Roca's arm. Incredibly, it felt cold and hot at the same time, and tingled as if it had fallen asleep.
"Actually, it's quite cold," said De la Roca, sending her mind back up, away from the depths of the stone. "And not exactly the swill you make it out to be."
The Mademoiselle preened slightly. "I make it myself." Her face grew serious again. "So what brings you in here?"
"I'm looking for the Phoenix Well." She muttered the last three words, her tones dripping with ominous gravity.
The Mademoiselle nodded solemnly and matched her seriousness. "What … is that?"
Huh?
The woman threw her head back and cracked up with jubilant guffaws.
What makes her so—hey wait, is her hair blonde? I'm sure it was red when I walked in. Flustered, De la Roca cleared her throat. "I have no idea where it is. I'm on an assignment, and that's the clue I got from the Angel."
The Mademoiselle paused to wipe a tear out of the corner of her eye—really? Is it that funny?—and sighed. "Okay, I apologize for that, but I just couldn't resist. Sometimes, you make it too easy, De la Roca."
The mercenary shrugged. Humans and demons the world over feared her, whispered tales of her at night to small children and cursed her name while muttering that she was death on the wind. She wasn't used to being a laughingstock, and she didn't know how to respond.
"So, the Phoenix Well, huh? Hmmm, I'm going to have to think about that one." By "think", De la Roca knew, she meant the curious process of scrolling through the Archives. She'd only personally seen the Mademoiselle do it once, when they first met.
* * *
Shattered by her amnesia and the encounter with the Angel, the nameless De la Roca stumbled her way into Pico by sheer dumb luck. The Mademoiselle took pity on her and volunteered to search through the Archives for any information that would shed light on the newly freed demon's past or identity.
She started by sitting still, her palms held together, and closing her eyes while tilting her head back. Soon, she was in a trance, one so deep that she didn't respond when De la Roca tapped her. Panicking, the young demon even slapped her hard in an attempt to rouse her, but the effort was fruitless. It wasn't until four hours later that the Mademoiselle suddenly blinked, her face becoming animated again. "You're getting a one-time pass on the slap," she said, "mostly because I didn't find anything useful."
De la Roca nodded, both relieved to escape punishment and disappointed by the lack of information. She hadn't really expected any, though. She had somehow known it would end that way.
"Here's an interesting, although somehow unrelated tidbit. It was foretold you were going to show up."
"Excuse me?" De la Roca had been a lot more polite then.
"A young Mexican man collapsed on my doorstep once. He had just run the border through the Chihuahuan Desert. Dehydrated and suffering from heat exhaustion, he made it as far as my Cantina and then just gave out. It took days of nursing him before he came around, and in the heights of his sickness, he often screamed out in his dreams."
"So?" De la Roca didn't see where this was going, although she found it odd that the Mademoiselle would go through the trouble of nursing a human back to health.
"Once he awoke, he was convinced, utterly convinced that he had seen demons in the desert. They haunted him incessantly. He refused to sleep until his body overruled him, often causing him to pass out in a chair or even just standing in line. Once, when I had no customers, I convinced him to take a nap in one of the booths in the Cantina. Not ten minutes had lapsed before I heard him screaming."
She gave De la Roca a hard stare. "When I woke him, he said that a demon would come for him, a gunslinger with, as he put it, 'nervios de piedra'—nerves of stone. He named you 'of the rock', which, although not your true name, probably in some way hints at it."
"I don't understand."
"He didn't know your true name. It's quite possible that nobody does—you don't have to know a demon's name to strip it from them. But given the nature of his dreams, I'd hazard a fair guess that the idea of 'rock' has something to do with your real name. So how about it? You're going to need a name to get anywhere in this world, so how does 'De la Roca' strike you?"
* * *
The name suited her. She had known that instinctively. What she didn't know was if she was the demon the man had dreamed of, or if his dreams meant anything, but the name fit her as if made for her. So De la Roca it was, and had been ever since.
The Mademoiselle rose up from the bar, seemingly oblivious to her reverie. She walked around the room, straightening tables and tucking in chairs.
"You know, the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go."
De la Roca found her feet. "I thought you wanted to do it yourself. You usually do."
"Yes, but this 'Phoenix Well' thing has got me all a-twitter. I'm ready to get cracking on it."
They set about straightening the rest of the bar, until a thought occurred to De la Roca.
"One question." The quiet had been so perfect, so comfortable, that breaking it put an odd thickness in her throat.
"Yes honey?"
"What happened to him?"
"To whom?" The Mademoiselle gave the last word a slight lilt.
"To the Mexican, the one that named me."
Her smile was grim, the closest thing to evil that De la Roca had ever seen depicted on her face.
"Why, honey, after that night, he stopped having the dreams. He eventually wound up running that bar across town. That is, until a certain mercenary strung him up on a fence." She continued without slackening her pace, her hands sorting bottles and straightening napkin holders with a polished flair. "Really, De la Roca, you've got to remember that men are men. They can't help how dirty their minds are. It's in their biology."
De la Roca had other questions, but they finished the work in silence.
Eight
Laufeyson wanted a cigarette—badly—but he was fairly certain that either the glow or the odor would give him away.
Damn.
He'd been skulking right outside of the window for hours, listening to the conversations of the two female demons and evaluating their progress. Honestly, it didn't have any bearing on his objective, but he was curious.
He was unsure about De la Roca, although he wouldn't admit that to anyone—at least, not anymore. She had made mistakes with the lamprey, major mistakes that could have easily ended everything. She had depended a lot on luck, although she was luckier than most, luckier perhaps than she knew. Few understood that luc
k was a skill in and of itself.
He doubted she knew much about herself though, even after all these years.
Who does? He reflexively manifested another cigarette. The craving was so great, he thought it might kill him. He could feel the soft texture of the paper in his fingers, the gentle rustle as he slid them down its length, and the faintest odor of tobacco wafted to his nose. Calling on his deepest reserves of self-control, he manifested it back away. There was a lot riding on this, a lot, and if De la Roca caught him skulking around outside of the Cantina in Pico, she wasn't going to be open to listening to his explanations. Not that he had any to give. He doubted she'd really appreciate the fine intricacies of the truth.
Or of his lies.
No, best to leave her alone with the Mademoiselle, and wait and see how this whole thing plays out.
He heard their approach only seconds before they passed into his line of sight. By then, though, he had leapt up onto the roof and laid himself flat against the tile. Tapping his kevra, he sought the cave inside, a dead hollow devoid of thought or breath, and let it pull him in. Within moments, he fell into himself, and his form vanished from the outside world.
It was dangerous, using his kevra. There was always the possibility that when he submerged himself in the placid waters of his inner oasis, he would go too far. He didn't know what would happen then, but he imagined that finding his way back would be next to impossible.
Not that I would care.
Death had no secrets for him anymore.
* * *
The Mademoiselle did not stay in the Cantina. Instead, she kept a small house within walking distance. Tiny, quaint, and unremarkable, it had struck De la Roca as silly, until she stepped inside and felt the power pulsing through the walls. Older and wiser now, she wondered if this was actually the location of the fabled waypoint to Hell. If so, she didn't want to be crossing the threshold—which, of course, she was.
The Mademoiselle was whistling to herself, completely unaware of (or perhaps merely uncaring of) De la Roca's unease. She whisked through a beaded curtain, a tacky thing that made the mercenary think of a gypsy's trinket shop, and lit a stick of incense.
Really? Wasn't that a bit, well, overly theatrical? De la Roca longed to call Alsvior and gallop away, but she doubted she'd ever find the Phoenix Well without the Mademoiselle's help.
Worse, her hand kept creeping toward her stomach, toward the place the kevra stone inhabited. Already, she knew it had burrowed into her flesh and become a part of her. Nonchalantly, she moved her hand away, before she could attract the attention of the Mademoiselle.
The mademoiselle pursed her lips. "As you may remember from last time, I'm going to be … inaccessible for a while."
Her thoughts guarded, De la Roca nodded once.
"I didn't want to worry you in the Cantina, but strange forces have been afoot lately in these parts. I would feel better with you watching over me. As you may already know, I am particularly vulnerable when searching through the Archives and would not be able to appropriately defend myself."
De la Roca held back any expression of surprise, but her once-human heart quickened. I don't remember her asking for that the first time. And what was this talk of "strange forces?" She pulled her pistol and Bluot out of their holsters.
"You have my guns—both of them."
"Is that Bluot?" The Mademoiselle's eyes suddenly blazed with interest.
De la Roca did not have to answer. Recognizing its own name, the gun started to hum in her hand. "Quiet now." She holstered the pistol and stroked the revolver with the other hand. "Do not awaken, there is nothing for you now. Later, there will be blood." Momentarily appeased, the gun stopped humming, and she placed it back in its holster.
"Would it really have awoken?"
"Perhaps. If so, it may have shot one of us. I would advise against calling its name, for you know as well as I that once the gun is fully … aware, it must take a life.
The Mademoiselle nodded solemnly, but her eyes sparkled with fascination, and her voice was wistful. "Were I but a gunslinger." She shook her head. "Enough talk, though. It is time."
She folded her legs under her and sat on the floor. The air shimmered and hummed with power, and the stone in her flesh responded to it, vibrating with excitement. It sent her tiny images, sensations, and she could feel the Mademoiselle's descent as clearly as she could feel the temperature of the room and the pressure of the chair beneath her.
And then the air seemed to shudder once, and the Mademoiselle went completely still. She had opened the Archives.
De la Roca's skin crawled at the Mademoiselle's lack of life. It was if her soul had departed in haste, leaving behind a cocoon of skin and bones.
She heard a noise—the crunch of a foot on gravel. Whistling for Alsvior, she drew both guns and ran for the door. Already, she could hear his hoofbeats, and the tiny dwelling shook with the force of each heavy blow to the dirt.
As she exited, she cast a glance back, toward the Mademoiselle. Completely unaware of the mayhem, the woman was locked in her trance, her dead face somehow peaceful.
De la Roca leapt out of the door.
Nine
His hat was tipped forward on his head, and the smoke of a cigarette rose from his hand. It was clear from the way he leaned against the wall that he was waiting for someone. Somehow, De la Roca got the feeling he knew she was there.
"Hello." He raised the hat back slightly, his eyebrows darting up when he caught sight of her. She had both guns drawn and pointed square at his head.
"Can I help you?" Her cold voice negated any sincerity in the question.
"Well, I don’t know. I'm here to see the Mademoiselle, but last time I heard, she didn't carry a gun."
De la Roca squinted, and she felt her finger squeeze the trigger ever-so-slightly. "The Mademoiselle is currently indisposed. Perhaps you should come back later."
Alsvior whickered, a cue that she understood and agreed with—shoot now, and ask questions later. Her forefinger squeezed a little more, until a thought whipped into her mind—what if he was a friend of the Mademoiselle? Nobody knew exactly how powerful she was, but you didn’t want to make enemies with anybody that controlled a waypoint to Hell unless you had to.
Damn.
The man seemed to sense her hesitation and relaxed visibly, shooting her a grease-laden smile.
I should blow him away, the cocky prick.
As he tipped his hat up further, she caught sight of his eyes, green—no, hazel—with flecks of gold. Human or demon, it was a rare combination. Worse, their dancing light made it clear that he was laughing at her.
She reconsidered pulling the trigger.
"I see." He drew the words out slightly. "In that case, will you give her my regards?" He turned to leave and began to walk away, only to pause a few steps later, as if in an afterthought. "Hate to be a bother, but you wouldn’t happen to know how to get to the Phoenix Well, would you?"
De la Roca's guns had both sagged slightly as the newcomer turned to leave. Instantly, her arms flashed back up, electrified, one pointed at his forehead and one at his heart. With demons, you could never be sure as to the exact location of any vital organ, but her chosen targets were a good place to start.
"Now where, exactly, did you hear that name?" Her hiss, hard and sibilant, reminded her of the serpent's-voice. Could that voice actually be her own, another part of her?
"I don’t know what you mean, lady. My next assignment is at the Phoenix Well and that's why I need to find it. Unfortunately, I'm not from around here, and there aren't too many safe people in my line of work—our line of work, De la Roca."
Her eyes flashed open with surprise, but only momentarily. He looks like a mercenary, too—of course he knows my name. That didn’t exactly make him a friend. And why didn't she know who he was? "And what, exactly, would you be hunting up there?"
"Oh, the same as you, I suppose. There's only one individual up at the Phoenix Well."
She bristled, a slew of calculating questions stampeding through her mind. He talks about it like it’s a place, a rock formation or a mountain. And if he's hunting the same demon, who sent him? Could it have been the Angel? Does that mean the Angel expects me to fail?
The kevra stone pulsed once, lazily, as if to remind her of an option she hadn't considered.
Of course. She wasn’t sure how well the power would work on a demon, especially as she hadn’t begun to come close to mastering it, but it was worth a shot.
He is a demon, right? The Angel wouldn’t send a human. Then again, who knew how an angel worked and what tools they chose?
Urgently, she burrowed deeper into herself, reaching for the dark part where the stone lay. It thrummed as it stirred, the power coiling lazily in her entrails. With a sudden rush, it pummeled through her body, pushing her toward the abyss of his mind. She sighed, steadying herself, and then she leaned into him and began the fall.
She landed with a splash and was struck with the overwhelming sensation of icy water. Submerged and disoriented, she panicked, until she broke through to the surface.
The newcomer's thoughts were strange, but as she had used the stone so few times, she had little to compare them to. Stupid! I should have tried this thing out earlier. She drifted for a moment, feeling the tow of the powerful waves.
They are speaking. She squinted and tried to decipher the voices of the waves, but the whispers and murmurs were unintelligible. The few words she could make out meant nothing to her, as if in another language.
She could feel his muted emotions pulling at her from all sides, but there were no clear ideas to seize upon, and nothing that would reveal the stranger's intent. Amazing. My mind is locked doors and ordered boxes—and his? It was wild, free, without boundary and untamed. She had never felt anything like it.
Vaguely, she was aware of Alsvior. Not skilled enough yet to fully divide her consciousness, she maintained a slim line to him, an anchor that she trusted to pull her back out of the stone's influence in the event that something went wrong. She knew that if the stranger shifted so much as an inch, Alsvior would find a way to get through to her, even at the cost of his own life.
Hunting in Hell Page 5