"Frankly," she snarled, "I hope you die. I don't know what Golden ever saw in you."
The angel stalked away, the chains around her neck clinking as she picked up speed.
Her name is Nemain, he finally remembered, but she had already disappeared from view.
THREE
"Alsvior?"
His eyes ignored the two guns that she had leveled at his head. Instead, they sought her own, piercing into them with an intensity that gave her pause. She returned the gaze fully, guarding her eyes from wandering towards his still naked frame. They were both searching, she for something she could recognize, and he for a sign of that recognition.
She knew those eyes intimately, black pools with sparkling white corners and a fan of captivatingly dark lashes. Her mind echoed back to the warehouse in the moments after she had swallowed the lamprey's kevra stone, Alsvior's thoughts floating through the air like a scent on the wind. She had been privy to the complex, structured web of her own horse's consciousness, only to push it out of her mind, embarrassed by the human nature of his thoughts.
You knew, didn't you? You knew.
Alsvior opened his mouth, as if to speak. He closed it again wordlessly, sighing as his lips met. Clearly, it was up to her to somehow open this conversation.
So why was it so hard?
"Alsvior?"
He grinned, the flash of his teeth venting some of the tension. "The one and only."
She could feel her face contorting as she tried to find more words, but again, nothing seemed appropriate. It was as if all of her emotions - the guilt, the shock, the relief, the fear - were working together to choke off her vocal chords.
He sighed. "Maybe I should just … start somewhere." A finger stole up to absently play with a lock of hair, and he turned his head to stare at it. He flexed the finger twice, a smile spreading upon his face. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. "Once, De la Roca, I was a messenger that tended animals in the gardens of Hell." She could feel her brows furrowing together as she considered his words.
"The … gardens? Of Hell?"
Alsvior squinted. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped in pitch. "De la Roca, I have the feeling that you have many things to learn - about the nature of Heaven, of Hell, of many other things and places. This entire world is at war, and although I don't know your part of it, you'll die without a clear idea of what you are getting into. Actually, you will probably die either way.
"Look around you. In all of your travels, have you ever seen a beach as beautiful as this one?"
She glanced behind her, away from the oasis and back towards the crystalline water, redrawing the pristine mixture of sands, surf and sky in her memory. "No, I haven't seen its equal. But then … where are we?"
He spread his hands wide and let his head tilt to one side. "We are in Hell."
Her nightmare floated back to her, the same one that had stalked her for centuries. She could smell the acrid cocktail of burning flesh, feel the heat of fire and the lash of a whip. Her ears rang with screams - her screams. There was no way to reconcile the salty warm scents of beach and cinnamon or the idyllic oasis that lay before her with the burning Hell of her dreams.
"De la Roca," said Alsvior, his voice fading as he cleared his throat. "I understand that this a lot to grasp, and I promise to explain everything I can, answer any questions I can, do everything I can to help. But soon, the sun will set, and then this beach will be very cold. We need to gather all of the fuel we can and light a fire before nightfall."
"Light a fire?" Her question was faint, distant.
"Yes. I do not have the same powers I did before, and we will have to light it the same way that everybody else does. So we need to get started."
She turned, intent on complying, when she heard him clear his throat.
"De la Roca?"
Her head came around just enough for him to pass back into her line of sight. "Yes? What is it?"
"I'm still naked."
Sighing, she shrugged off her coat and threw it at him. "See if you can do something with this."
FOUR
Rico could tell from the uneven curls of her fingers that the Mademoiselle's hand was not empty. In his greed, he found it difficult to maintain her gaze, his eyes flicking back and forth like a guttering flame.
"I know that coming to me was a risk," she said. Her voice was mellifluous, stretching with a warm viscosity that belied her predatory grin. She cocked her head sideways, and the smile grew gentler, friendlier, until it finally reached her honey-colored eyes. "But in trusting me, you have done well."
He nodded, taking advantage of the opportunity to track her hand out of the corner of his eye.
"It is so hard to find good help." She folded her left hand up and then placed both fists on her jaw-line. With her elbows and her wrists touching, she looked like a flirtatious adolescent, and he couldn't help but feel a strange tickle in his abdomen. "In a world where everyone has their own interests at heart, you've been my loyal, selfless servant for centuries."
There was something in her inflection on the word "selfless" that made him wonder if she was somehow mocking him. She smiled sweetly and continued, "I just have one question. How did you know the gun would interest me so?"
He brightened at the chance to highlight his brilliance. "I could see from the moment it appeared that it was ancient, and it had an air of magic about it. Of course, it was not until the mercenary came to claim it … and the gun lit up in flames … that I knew it for what it really was." He shuddered at the image of Bluot coming alive in De la Roca's hand, magic fire searing through the rust, the metal surfaces once again pristine.
"I see. Well, you have done well, my friend, and you deserve a reward." He held his breath while she extended her right fist, the fingers curled away from him. Greed coursed through him; she seemed very pleased, and he could only imagine what sort of reward she had in mind.
When her fingers unfurled, they revealed a clear, diamond-like jewel the size of a peach pit.
His hopes rapidly deflated. A jewel might be valuable in the world of men, but to Rico, it was useless. His lips were already fighting to hold back his bitterness, when the stone blazed with a green glow. Elated, he almost reached for it, remembering his manners at the last second.
When the Mademoiselle nodded, signaling her acquiescence, he snatched it out of her hand with a cackle and held it to the light of the nearest candle. Iridescent green sparkles traveled through its clear body like static, and he wondered what kind of magic it held. "What do you call this thing?"
Blinded by his new toy, he didn't see the hard line her mouth formed. "You are a smart man, and well-versed in many languages. Perhaps you can figure it out." She waved her fingers airily, and the candles in the room flared up higher. Through the clear material of the stone, he saw a small piece of something white, like an insect trapped in amber. The green sparkles flickered over it and obscured the text, but he was finally able to make out a set of brushstrokes.
"I think this is Arabic," he muttered.
"Correct. But can you read it?"
He shifted the stone in the light again a few times, muttering syllables as he did. "I think … I think it says 'Stone of Haman'. But … who is Haman?" He looked up at her for an answer.
"In our language, we would say Mammon."
At the word, the jewel flared higher, the sparkles growing brighter. The name tingled in the back of his mind, and he felt his scalp prickle with warning.
"Mammon?"
"Yes. It is a Mammon-Stone. A stone of greed."
His eyes flicked up at the change in her tone, the surprise of her sudden closeness dissipating as realization dawned on him. He moved, as if to return it, but before he could drop the jewel, she blew on it once, as if putting out a candle.
Instantly, the stone flared, an ember newly stoked. He screamed at the scorching pain and flicked his hand desperately, but the stone had already melted into the surface of his skin. A milky g
reen smoke streamed out of the jewel like a snake, encircling his hand and stealing up his arm. Every inch that it covered was instantly overcome with the same burning as his palm, and his nostrils filled with the stench of roasting flesh.
"Why?" he wailed. "I don’t understand? I have been loyal! I have been loyal!"
The smoke rose, climbing up his chest and neck, filling them with the same burning sensation. She waited until it began to cover his face before she replied, timing it so that her words were sure to be the last things he would hear.
"Loyal, Rico? To yourself, surely, and to me, quite possibly. But the fact of the matter is, you know too much. And a little information is a dangerous thing."
FIVE
She waited until the smoke had picked the flesh from his bones.
His skeleton lay prone, a result of the way the knees had buckled. The arm with the stone was extended above the head, palm up, as if in a last pleading gesture. She unceremoniously plucked the once clear diamond out and gave it a cursory examination. It was now a milky grayish-green. She blew upon it, the same as she had done to activate it, and it crumbled into ash between her fingers.
One time use, and it was the last of its kind. The thought filled her with a peculiar melancholy.
It was difficult to flip the body over, but she managed the awkward task before grabbing it by the now-bare femurs. As delicately as the weight would allow, she dragged it out to the back of her small house, stopping only once when she miscalculated the clearance available and bumped Rico's skull on a doorframe.
The grave had already been dug. A gaping, empty maw, it lay in wait for its intended occupant. She shoved the skeleton in and then jumped in herself, taking the time to arrange the legs and fold the arms across the chest. She shut the mouth, still open as if in a scream, and climbed out.
It took her several hours to bury the body. She knew time was of the essence; Golden had probably already connected the dots and sent some scouts after her for questioning, and she wouldn't be able to explain herself. Even so, she worked slowly and rested frequently. If ambushed, she would need to fight or flee, and neither was possible when exhausted.
When she was finished, she sat upon the mound of dirt and ordered her thoughts.
#
She had never intended to hide out in a Southwest American dirt hole, but one catty comment to Nemain, and she was relegated to a goddamn outpost on Earth. The long years since had well convinced her that the Consortium had no intention of reassigning her. They were content to leave her indefinitely to her fate as a forgotten nobody whose major functions included gossiping with drunks and fetching bits of information for mercenaries from the multitudes of dusty volumes in the Archives.
She yearned to escape, but she knew that any extended absence would eventually be noticed by a minor demon, and suddenly, the Consortium would remember who she was and what she was capable of, and they'd dispatch somebody to find her. And she had no way of defending herself - unless she had the gun. With Bluot, she could have a whole new life.
She sighed once and rubbed at her temples. She had hatched her plan the moment Rico had first told her about De la Roca and Bluot. It seemed simple enough, although now she wondered if the freedom the revolver offered had tempted her away from her usual cautiousness.
You shouldn't have sent De la Roca to Hell, she mused. Better some other plane where she would be trapped until you could figure out how to get Bluot. Unfortunately, the door had been opened in haste. She had also been afraid that if the mercenary somehow escaped a trap, gun-in-hand, she would most certainly come looking for the one who had double-crossed her. And that wasn't a risk the Mademoiselle had been willing to take.
That didn't mean that she didn't realize her own luck, though. If she hadn't seen God's abandonment and Abdication for herself - in fact, she was the only one that had actually seen what happened - she would have thought he was smiling upon her.
She had heard the conversation between Laufeyson and De la Roca, her ears working even while her spirit combed the Archives, and she knew the value of the information. While her body hovered in its trance, she had roamed, until she finally found another arrival.
* * *
His body was opaque and its edges were well-defined, so she knew that all of him - not just his spirit - was present.
As their eyes met, she was delighted to see that his chains were silver. He was an advisor to the Pentarch, but not a member, which explained his presence in the Archives. He was researching something for their use.
The Mademoiselle was not worried about being recognized; hers was the akra of a changing appearance, and he would not be able to identify her signature from just her spirit form.
"I have a message for the Pentarch." She had put as much regality into her voice as she could, but it still sounded thin to her own ears. She wondered how much of that was from the risk of her task and how much was from the energy drain of astral movement.
"You should be killed for even saying such." The angel's words were cold, but she could tell he was interested. Astral projection was a rare enough skill, and for a demon to demand audience with the Pentarch, even by proxy, was unheard of.
"Perhaps, but it would be to their advantage to listen. There is a party of demons headed to the Phoenix Well, intent on an unauthorized slaying. It would be to the benefit of the Pentarch to replace the Guardian there with someone more powerful, a warrior that would be able to defend it properly."
Her spirit - self was flickering, and she knew that it would not be long before she didn't have enough energy to further sustain her apparition.
"Are you sure of what you say? Do you realize how serious these charges are?"
But by that point, she was gone.
* * *
She had already known the angels would swap the guardian with Muninn; the birdlike creature was an Enforcer, a warrior, and a perfect symbolic complement to the location.
No matter who triumphed in the battle between Muninn and De la Roca, the Mademoiselle would ultimately win. Either Muninn died, giving her eventual escape one less pursuer, or she'd have the chance to lay her hands on the gun and bolt.
It was even luckier to have found the Eye of Muninn while De la Roca slumbered, recovering from her fight with the beautiful peacock-demon of memory. She had drawn upon its power to comb through the mercenary's mind and fashion and plant a believable angel into her dreams.
She had even had the presence of mind to recover the Eye after the fight with Thyrsus, although hiding that action from Alsvior took some sleight of hand.
The coup de grace, though, was Laufeyson and his betrayal of De la Roca's emotions. He made certain that De la Roca would cooperate with her plan to trick him onto a sham plane. The second De la Roca stepped through the waypoint into Hell, the Mademoiselle had thrown herself back into her spirit form and re-entered the Archives.
* * *
The advisor was there, and given his expression, obviously waiting for her. She had been worried that the Pentarch would kill her messenger, and it was good to see that he had not been blamed for the death of Muninn or Thyrsus.
"How did you-"
She cut him off quickly.
"I have found the culprit. He fled to another plane to hide, but I have used my kevra to seal the door and trap him there. You must contact the Consortium, and you must hurry!"
* * *
And just like that, Laufeyson was out of the game.
Without his interference, things were easier, but she didn't have time to waste. As soon as the Pentarch sniffed out her involvement, she was a dead woman, unless she found De la Roca and figured out a way to take the gun.
She knew where she would start.
SIX
Laufeyson had no way to tell time in his cell. Still, he thought his respite was almost up.
Damn.
He had known he would waste his last day, that his mind would not stop circling long enough for him to come up with a viable plan. Instead of p
lots, he was fixated on origins, on beginnings, on what had already happened.
Besides, only one person has ever escaped from a Consortium prison.
Mid-breath, he froze at the thought until his lungs and throat were burning with the need for oxygen.
This isn't the same.
The admission released him from his stasis, and he wearily shook his head and sunk it into his hands.
#
Kalima.
She smiled at him, as if she could hear Laufeyson call her name in his own head, and he felt his heart overflow with joy and love.
He knew he was dreaming. The cross he bore would never grow lighter, not even in sleep. Even so, he did not waste this moment; instead, he reached out and caressed her belly. Brimming with a new life, it had barely started to bulge.
"You won't feel any kicking yet," she said, tilting her head gently to one side.
"I know it, and yet I can't stop myself. Does that make me a fool?"
Kalima smiled wider and laughed, a ringing sound that reminded him of a hot spring's effervescent waters. "What made you think you weren't one?"
And then the dreamscape swirled, the mist clearing to reveal the shack in the mountains.
He had laughed when she suggested building it. What use did an angel, even an expectant one, have for such a dwelling? Yet, he had been unable to tell her no.
Their daughter was stuck to the window, her tiny hands tracing designs in the frost.
He cleared his throat. "I have to go back. I've already stayed too long."
Kalima was seated in a rocker by the fire. She nodded, her mouth a tight line. "Yes, I know."
He crossed the room and bowed his head to hers, touching his forehead against her own. The gesture was far more loving and intimate than any kiss.
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