The Mademoiselle nodded, her eyes wide. "How did you know that?"
De la Roca continued. "The demon was not always that way. His disease is a parasite that ate him from the inside."
"Yes. He was once called Huginn." The Mademoiselle's lip was trembling, and her eyes were red. Had she been crying?
Before the Mademoiselle could say anything else, De la Roca put the stone in her mouth and swallowed.
The Mademoiselle leaped up from her chair, her hands white-knuckled fists against her sides. "Are you crazy?"
De la Roca's mind, once blank, once mad, suddenly overflowed with the memories of the last three centuries. "No, I think I am finally sane."
She sat up with considerable effort and reached out to pet Alsvior, her hand running over his nose with considerable tenderness. "I am sorry that I forgot you, my friend. It will not happen again. Thank you for saving my life—yet again." He chuffed once and bowed his head to hers, embracing her forehead with his own.
Bracing herself on his massive body, she stood and faced the Mademoiselle.
"And you … why did you have the Eye of Muninn?"
The Mademoiselle could not fully meet her stare. Her knees trembled as she addressed De la Roca.
"It was the only way—"
"And Laufeyson?"
"My plane is empty." Her eyes darted to one side. "His friends have released him and taken him."
"Taken him?"
"Nothing is free. You know that better than most, I believe. The last being to enter my plane opened a waypoint into Hell."
De la Roca thought of the hallucination she had experienced before she awoke. It was the Angel again, his hand outstretched, his body a mass of eyes and peacock feathers that glittered in the light. It is time, he had said, and as he spoke, the tendrils of madness around his head died, dissipating like smoke. You must hunt the wolf-man.
She had awoken with a clear head.
"Then you'd better open me one too."
The Mademoiselle started to speak, but De la Roca raised the hand that had held the stone. In its place was Bluot.
"I'm going after that bastard. I want some answers and his head on a stake. Now, my arm is steady." She let her eyes slide down to the gun and back. "Open the door, and make it nice and big."
Her eyes wide, the Mademoiselle complied.
"No tricks," said De la Roca. "If I get through that door, and I'm not where I want to be, I'm coming back for you."
She rubbed the horse's head. "You ready, Al?"
He whickered softly. Without putting her gun down, she mounted Alsvior and backed him through the waypoint.
PART TWO:
HONOR IN HELL
BOOK TWO OF THE DE LA ROCA CHRONICLES
ONE
De la Roca awoke, her eyes still closed.
Her mind was blank, the absence of thought voluntary. Time was infinite. For now, she just wanted to lay in the warm comfort of the sun, bathing in the scents of wet salt and silica and -
What is that?
She grasped at the scent, her focus growing. It was tantalizing, spicy, but when a zephyr took it away, she let any thoughts follow in its wake.
Her attention flicked to her right hand. It - no, something underneath it - was thrumming, an odd vibration that elicited an equal stirring within her. This time, the word came more easily, floating in like a bubble and popping with a sudden cluster of images and sensations.
Bluot.
Her mind creaked open, dissipating her lazy contentment. Slowly, she tightened her fingers around the familiar grip of the death-bringer, growing more alert by the second.
Her sharp ears were like a fisherman's net, catching everything that stirred in the environment. There was the lulling rumble of an ocean tide, the light laughter of wind on rocks, the quiet tinkle of sand dancing in the breeze.
Nothing to fear.
Assured of her solitude, she opened her eyes, throwing aside the deep pink of her eyelids for a bright, expansive vista of cyan. Disoriented, she blinked rapidly and turned away, and the world tilted, shifting from blue sky to white sands, the grains sparkling like stars.
Another memory bubble drifted to the surface.
Alsvior.
He came through with me. Where did he go?
Without moving her right hand from her gun, she sat up in a smooth, cautious motion.
A brief search revealed no signs of her horse on the horizon, in any of his forms.
Another bubble - larger, darker, with a thick, oily skin - floated in and popped.
The Mademoiselle!
The wave of anger grew stronger as more bubbles flowed in, blowing so quickly that her attention could only track each one for a moment before another flicked into its place.
Laufeyson - Angel - Hell - Waypoint -
As each one popped, her head filled with conflicting emotions and sensations - heady triumph, grueling failure, the copper-tang odor of blood and the rich, familiar scent of a horse. With each pop, each returned memory, she grew angrier. She barely noticed her vision blurring, and in her hand, Bluot was humming hungrily.
By the time she gritted her teeth and threw her strength into pushing back against the need, it was almost too late. The red tide had so nearly taken hold of her. She still ached with the desire to kill, even though it meant suicide. Once fired, Bluot always took a life, and she was alone on this beach.
The pulse slackened but did not fall silent. For a moment, she wondered if she'd have to fight the gun again, but Bluot was dead and cool against her hand.
This thrum was different. It was quieter, less wild and more rhythmic, like the steady lapping of a gentle tide.
What is this?
Her question was rewarded with a new bubble, an opalescent globe. When it popped, it momentarily refracted the light through its surface, flooding the inner walls of her mind with a complement of off-color rainbows.
Power. Madness. Thyrsus stone.
Excellent, she thought. A kevra stone. But what does it do? She reached down towards it, feeling the energy wrap around her like the coils of a snake. Tentatively, she ran a tendril of her mind towards the stone in her gut and tried to tap into it.
Against her inquiry, the kevra stone guarded its secrets easily. She knew that she would have to figure out another way to divine its function.
Ten minutes of further experiments revealed that with concentration, she could nudge the warmth with her mind, pushing it until it slithered to her hands, to her feet, and then back to her stomach again. It seemed a useless skill, though, and she still didn't know what it did.
She filed the curious stone away for later. It was time to plan.
Her first objective seemed easy enough; she needed to figure out where she was. While Earth had beaches this deserted, they were few and far between. She saw no pollution, no structures, and no signs of civilization. Instead, the water was so clear and blue, the sand so white, that it felt like she was looking at an idealized illustration - but there was no faking the sun that beat down upon her face, or the smell of … cinnamon? … that wafted through the air, before another breeze took it away.
So, unlikely to be Earth, then.
But clearly not Hell, either.
She growled, beating back her anger. Her fingers flexed again, itching to find their way to the trigger. The Mademoiselle had tricked her, by opening a waypoint up into a third place. De la Roca would punish the woman dearly for that, but first, she needed to find her way into Hell to track Laufeyson as the Angel had commanded.
The Angel. She tried to picture him and failed. A mist was passing through her mind, obfuscating her recall with a fuzzy static. Bands of tension stood out on her neck and forearms. Although she couldn't remember life before her release from Hell, her recall of the last three centuries had always been perfect.
Has it become unreliable? She couldn't help but feel that something was wrong with the Angel's appearance - something different … or maybe her instincts were failing her, too?
This is all Laufeyson's fault.
That memory was clear enough, and it sent pangs of anger through her chest.
What if it's the stone?
The Thyrsus stone was resting inside of her, sharing an energy with hers that was both powerful and tainted with madness. What if it was confusing her memories, erasing the Angel's message and form? It pulsed once in her entrails, as if in response.
What is the stone capable of, really?
After a brief moment of consideration, she decided it didn't matter. Angel or no, she now had her own reasons for hunting Laufeyson down.
She dug her boots into the sand and stood, brushing grains of it off of her limbs. It was then that she noticed the tracks, barefoot prints with clearly articulated toes. She shivered when she realized that they started right behind her.
How was that possible? Had their maker fallen from the sky, only to leave before she arrived?
Maybe the track-maker had even been watching her while she lay unconscious on the beach.
Or what if it was an angel? Wings would easily explain the odd beginning to the prints.
She traced the tracks with her eyes; they led off into the horizon towards a dark squiggle. She unholstered both guns and followed the impressions, her steps quick and easy. Within minutes, the squiggle had morphed into a small grove of trees, the prints leading right to it. It was not until she drew close that she realized that she could taste fresh water on the wind.
She assessed the situation with the briefest of pauses and then stepped into the grove. The trees seemed impossibly thick, their branches woven together in a roof that provided ample shelter from the elements. Had it not been for the path, a clear route covered with sand, she probably would not have been able to proceed further.
Paths, of course, made one's movement's predictable, and she didn't like that at all. Especially not since her neck was prickling in a way that said - You are being watched.
The smell of moisture grew stronger until she rounded a blind curve, and an oasis sprang into view. The tang of cinnamon was stronger here, and she wondered if it was coming from the trees. Holstering Bluot, she knelt down to the crystalline water, the pistol still in her left hand. She didn't need to drink, not now, not ever, but she wanted to wash the sand off of her face.
Her ears and eyes scanning the area around her, she was not surprised when she saw something stir in the rippling reflection.
With lightning speed, she whipped up the pistol. A second later, Bluot was out of the holster on the opposite side, both guns pointing at her observer.
It was a swarthy man of light build and average height. More interestingly, he was naked.
"Hel-lo." He did not move while speaking.
At first, she was unsure if fear or embarrassment had caused the stutter in his voice. Then his cheeks flushed a violent crimson, the color looking out of place with the olive skin and dark eyes. She could feel the tension in her fingers, the bloodlust begging her to squeeze the trigger.
Yet her finger did not move.
What is it? Have I suddenly grown a new heart? She doubted that his clear lack of arms presented her with a moral quandary; she was still a ruthless killer. Yet this situation was unfamiliar to her; she had never shot a naked, unarmed man.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't come through with any clothes."
Come through?
When she didn't respond, he tilted his head, his eyes opening wider and his voice rising in alarm. "De la Roca, it's me."
She stopped at the shock of hearing her own name. "How do you know me? And who exactly are you?"
"It's me!" he repeated, louder, his arms flying open. "Alsvior."
TWO
At least, thought Laufeyson, I'm not dead.
Yet.
Absently, he fingered one of the golden bars of his cell, pulling away when he brushed against something sticky. He held his finger up to the dim light and rolled it with this thumb, before sniffing it with his teeth bared. Judging by the consistency and dark color, it was blood, and recent.
Torture?
It was a definite possibility. Then again, the injury may have been self-inflicted. Many of the Consortium's prisoners, aware of what waited in store for them, chose to end their own lives. He knew it, because he had seen it firsthand.
* * *
Laufeyson stood outside of the open doorway, his arms crossed in front of him. Above his head, his wings spanned the opening, the tips brushing the bars on either side.
He was still far enough outside of the cell that he was unaffected by its enchantment. He took advantage of his position to manifest a cigarette. The habit was still new, and his head buzzed as he took deep drags, the smoke burning his throat.
He flicked his fingers and created another one, smiling at his own cleverness as he offered it to the prisoner like the commander of a firing squad. The angel did not acknowledge his presence. His wings were only half the size of Laufeyson's own.
"I am the executioner," he said. His voice glittered with a triumphant sparkle as he announced his position. He was rewarded with the distorted reflection of his grin in the prisoner's dark eyes. "First, though, I take them from you."
The angel stiffened as if electrified. "No!" he cried. Laufeyson leaped for him, but he was already running, his wings folded behind him protectively. Before Laufeyson had a chance to grab him, the angel smashed his head upon the hard surface of the wall with such force that Laufeyson could hear the crack and squish of his skull imploding.
The angel slumped over in a heap, the light in his eyes forever extinguished.
* * *
His memory was dizzyingly clear, every detail from the great spray of the crimson blood to the glisten on the corpse's eyes rendered in perfect color.
He couldn't recall why the Pentarch had sentenced the angel to die. The thought unsettled him, but it was the reflection of his own smile that shamed him the most. He had been so sure of his right to create suffering, to take the wings from a fellow being.
He wondered if his captors even remembered that he had once served on the other side of the bars. A lump swelled in his throat, and the Eye hummed with sympathy.
The kevra stone was leaden in his mouth, heavy and warm. It had been hard to endure the beating, even more so the insults - but he had, stoic and wordless, his jaws clamped tight around the Eye of Muninn. He had faith that the magic of his body would block its presence from his captors, angel or not, yet somehow, he was still surprised that they had not searched him more thoroughly.
He had almost fallen asleep when his cell caught the faintest echo of an odd mixture of sounds. There was the rustle of feathered wings, the thump of footsteps, and the gentle clinking of metal. He waited as they all grew louder, stopping only when the angel halted in front of the bloody bars.
She was female, her eyes an iridescent, icy blue. The chains around her neck marked her as a member of the Consortium. They were gold, denoting her status as one of the Pentarch. Laufeyson struggled, trying to recall her name, but his memory held it captive from his tongue.
"This is your last chance, Son of Laufey." Her voice was even colder than her eyes. "As a lunatic, we were content to let you live, so long as you remained an out-of-the-way nuisance. Yet that wasn't enough for you, was it?" The sneer in her voice was unmatched on her face. Instead, the slightest of innocent smiles curled around the corners of her lips. She was clearly enjoying her work.
So they do remember, he thought.
"You have been charged with the following crimes: four counts of Angelic Impersonation, appearing to the demon mercenary known as De la Roca; two counts of Murder by Unauthorized Assignment of a Holy Quest, the victims the Enforcers Muninn and Thyrsus; One Count of the Creation of an Unauthorized Plane, on which the death of Thyrsus took place." Like all angels, she didn't need to blink. After years of watching humans and demons, her constant stare was unnerving.
Laufeyson was slightly confused at the last charge, until he re
membered the extra plane that the Mademoiselle had created. They must have thought he was somehow involved in that. And four counts of impersonation? He had only appeared to the mercenary twice, once when he had sent her on the quest to kill five targets, and then again after the death of the lamprey.
Had someone else appeared to her? Who? Could it have been an actual angel? What a strange coincidence that would be.
The quest to kill the five … was it really so long ago that he had made his list of targets, selecting five that would strike the Consortium where it would hurt them the most? What had happened there? How had everything become so sidetracked?
"You are also suspected of being a member of the Damned." It was clear from her weighty pause that the last charge was the gravest, and the one to which she expected an answer. When none was forthcoming, she shifted her face closer to the bars, so close that Laufeyson could feel her breath upon his face. He was tempted to punch her in the eye.
I would be dead before I knew it.
He knew from the curl of her lip that the next words would come out in a growl. "The sentence for any one of these crimes is death. The other members of the Pentarch are very interested to understand your … motivations. They have offered partial clemency in exchange for a full confession and information on the Damned. I do not think such wingless scum as yourself deserves it, but you have been offered one day in which to consider the terms. Do you have anything to say?"
Laufeyson flicked his fingers, trying to manifest a cigarette. Of course, none appeared. He had forgotten that when inside the cell, neither his akras nor his kevra would be of any use. Indeed, now that he was searching for it, he could feel the gentle pulse of the walls pushing in on him and his magic.
He had intended to blow the smoke in her face, but as that option had been taken away from him, he did the next best thing. He gathered as much saliva as he could around the stone in his mouth, pursed his lips, and spit full in the angel's eye.
Her wings quivering with rage, the angel reached through the bars and knocked Laufeyson in the chest. He flew through the air, until he slammed into the back wall of the cell. Supine on the floor, he made no move to get up. Instead, he flashed the angel an "O.K." sign with his thumb and forefinger, knowing that the human gesture would most certainly irritate her further.
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