Hunting in Hell

by Maria Violante

  #

  He awoke in the desert outside of Pico, De la Roca already upon his back.

  Seeing her face, his hopes soared. For days, he attempted to communicate with her.

  He failed.

  It was not until weeks later that he realized what she truly was - and what she wasn't. He dreamed of trampling her, killing her, punishing her for his mistake and for Golden's cruelty.

  Later, he merely dreamed of running away. He tried it, once, and that is when he discovered that she had the akra of animals. She waved her hand once and squeezed off his windpipe as easily as she waved open a door.

  And then came the loneliness. God forgive him for his weakness, but she was his only companion for so long. Somehow, he learned to love this woman, love her for who he knew her to be, and learned to forgive her for a crime she hadn't committed.

  * * *

  By the time the fire burnt out completely, he had decided.

  I will get what is mine, and then I will have my revenge.

  ELEVEN

  An hour before the first rays of predawn swirled across the rusty sky, Alsvior was already returning to the world of the conscious. His eyelids trembled. When they finally opened, his irises were slow to focus on the object in front of him. He blinked as the blur gained definition.

  It was a hand.

  Who is that? His thoughts were a foggy mist, and he couldn't put the events of the previous day in order.

  Where am I?

  Have I been captured?

  He shut his eyes tight again and held still, hoping that his awakening had not been noticed. He needed time to figure out what was going on, time to think.

  "Alsvior." The whisper was faint, the slightest rustle of two leaves in the wind. Perhaps he had imagined it. It would not be the first time the demons of fear cast echoes in his ear.

  "Alsvior." The voice was louder now. The timbre of it prickled at the back of his mind.

  You know her. It came from a part of the brain that was more instinct than thought.

  "Alsvior, I know you're awake. Join me."

  He opened his eyes again. He thought about moving, and the fingers in front of him wiggled in response.

  The past day slammed into him with barbaric force. He wasn't a horse anymore - he was a man again! Sudden joy coursed through him, his body and mind singing beatitudes to their return to wholeness. I am a man again! I am Alsvior! He sat up, his head rushing-

  And then he caught sight of the beach, shadows playing in the distant waves. He felt an ominous shiver run down his spine.

  Where am I? This is … this is…

  Hell. And with that realization, his heart sank as his memories returned, the clear buoyancy of freedom suddenly replaced with loss and guilt. He was on the shores of Hell with De la Roca. She was hunting Laufeyson, which meant that he would take her -

  Don't think about it. A door slammed shut, trapping his pain and guilt into a part of his mind where they could not derail him. You have no choice in these affairs. Just do what you have to do.

  He realized that De la Roca was staring at him, her eyes glinting dangerously in the low predawn. He wondered how long he had been wrapped up in his own mind - how long had she sat there, silently observing him? Could she even see him in this light? Was she able to read something in the shadows of his face?

  "Good morning," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

  She looked up towards the sky once, as if observing the weather. "Maybe."

  #

  De la Roca was eyeing a smudge on the horizon that Alsvior had pointed out. Squinting, she tried to get a concept of scale or make out fine details, but it refused to solidify past a blurry vagueness.

  By the time the sun was directly overhead, the smudge had grown into a hill with a clump of green spots where it met the ground. "What is that?" she asked, pointing. "Some kind of bush?"

  He squinted slowly, his hand shading his eyes, and then a sudden grin broke out over his face. "That," he said, dropping his hand down to point, "is a Lios tree. If memory serves me, it's a rather young one, too - perhaps as old as your career as a mercenary."

  Her confusion was evident. "So … how tall is it?"

  "Gigantic. At least as tall as twenty men."

  Her eyes flicked to the tree and then to the hill again, popping back and forth at she calculated the height in her head. She did it twice, but the conclusion was the same. "The Oracle lives on a mountain?"

  To her eyes, it appeared as if he shivered slightly at the word "Oracle".

  "Just keep walking - unless … unless you want to turn back?"

  For a moment, she thought he was joking, but his face betrayed no humor.

  Turn back? And let him go?

  Her cheeks flushed, and when she spoke again, her voice crackled with an anger that was matched by the flash of her eyes.

  "Turn back? You want to turn back? We were sent here by the Angel. And what about Laufeyson's betrayal?"

  "De la Roca," he said, gently. Reservations about his chosen path were twisting through his gut like snakes, and for a brief moment, he again saw the possibility to change their fate, to pull them off and away from the sequence of events he had started, but now regretted.

  Her face tilted as her eyes rose to meet his. It was her only response.

  "Do you remember what we were talking about before? Are you so sure that the Angel in your dreams was truly an Angel?"

  She didn't answer.

  He sighed. "Angels are not the only creatures that can walk through dreams. Almost any being of the spirit with sufficient power could accomplish such a thing." His voice grew hollow, as if coming from far away. "Even I have done this thing once."

  Her eyes popped wider. "You've entered another's dream - and in a different form?"

  "Yes. I was a messenger in my last life, but some messages cannot be delivered in person." He sighed. "Are you so sure that your Angel is really an angel?"

  She stifled the shiver that stole over her spine, but could not erase it completely. He did not seem to notice. "Not … exactly."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know." She stemmed off the tide of his questions with a sharp retort. "It doesn't matter, Alsvior. I will not abandon my quest. I am going to find Laufeyson. The man knows something, something important, something about me. And he tried to get me killed. I'll not forget that so hastily."

  She passed him, her destination clear. He watched her stalk away, her boots sliding silently over the ground. He entertained the thought of running away, but she never looked back, and so he followed.

  #

  "We should make camp. The night will be cloudy."

  In the rapidly arriving dark, De la Roca could barely make out the way Alsvior's eyes darted nervously to each side. She had cut her pace over the last mile, relying on her ears and a hyper-developed sense of feel to navigate the uneven terrain.

  "No," she said, her voice firm. "We press on." By her estimation, they were less than an hour from the base of the mountain - although the low light made it hard to tell for sure. Already, she had noticed that the amount of ground they covered seemed to vary wildly. At times, it almost felt that they were teleporting, racing to the Oracle's mountain in fast forward. When she brought it up to Alsvior, though, he merely shook his head with his eyes closed, as if he didn't even want to consider the idea.

  For most of the day, a strange feeling had gnawed in her belly, one that overrode the ever-present thrum of the Thyrsus stone. It was not until seeing Alsvior's eyes shift back and forth that she realized what troubled her.

  As a gunslinger, she had long ago learned to give up her bullets to fate. But she could feel, for the first time, the impossible wall that had come between her and Alsvior. Until now, she had not realized how much she relied on her only companion.

  She had blurry memories of last night, of wrapping her arms around him, but she couldn't figure out if they reflected reality. Those images had segued flawlessly into th
e nightmare that had haunted her since her rebirth. That was followed by stranger things still - hazy impressions of Laufeyson's face accompanied by an odd rush of warmth that she would rather not consider.

  She wished Alsvior was a horse again. Things were much simpler before she realized that he was as human (or demon) as she.

  He stopped, unwilling to go on. She recognized the stance - the stiff shoulders and tilted head, as if his center of gravity had shifted and forced him to lean backwards to stay upright. Perhaps he was not so different from the horse she remembered.

  "Alsvior, don't be an idiot," she snarled. The words spilled from her, cold and logical. "If we stop here to make camp, we are out in the open. There is no protection from the elements or from whoever else might decide to join us. At the very least, we should shoot for that grove of trees."

  He paused, as if mulling the situation over. "Fine, but we stay off the mountain." His voice was cold, but she sensed that it masked an urgency, almost a squeamishness of sorts. "Agreed."

  "Although after we get there, I doubt you'll find joy in your decision."

  TWELVE

  As a former executioner for the Pentarch, Laufeyson had been present when the angel Yesshaud first enchanted the cell, bestowing it with the ability to cancel any magic within.

  They soon found that the vagueness of the incantation made it too hard to control. Within days, the cell's enchantment dissipated completely. Laufeyson had returned from patrol to find the door swung open wide. He tracked the two prisoners through the Valley of the Winged, finally catching them in the neighboring Valley of Ascension.

  They claimed, despite formidable torture, that the door had opened spontaneously. Unbelieving, he continued to interrogate them, until they died upon his table.

  Careful examination of the cell revealed it to be no different than an ordinary room. It had taken its directive to cancel magic seriously and nullified its original spell.

  Yesshaud, after much thought, returned with a new incantation, one that searched out the nature of the being within and blocked the corresponding magical signature. They had known from the beginning that the system was not without flaws; magic that originated from outside of the prisoner's akras and kevras would not be recognized as a threat.

  Laufeyson was surprised by how lax Consortium security had become. When he was executioner, each being was searched thoroughly for any sort of artifact that might aid in escape. He had even cut off a demon's arm on the suspicion that an icon was buried under the skin.

  With a sigh, he realized his discomfort was a reflection of both his age and his estrangement from Hell. Now that the Consortium had culled so many from the Movement's flock, its members had nothing to fear.

  Enough, he thought. Is there a way out of here?

  He tongued the stone in his mouth. He doubted the cell would recognize the Eye's magic as his own, but Muninn's kevra had been one of memories.

  Useless.

  He groaned, an itch starting in his chest. I wish I had a cigarette. He tried to forget about it, but the thought fixed itself in his mind. He could almost taste the tobacco, feel the smoke burning into his lungs.

  And then, for just the briefest moment, he felt the cigarette in his hand and against his lips. Surprised, he opened his eyes, and the sensation vanished.

  Okay, he thought. Maybe there is a way out.

  #

  His skin prickled.

  This was an inherently dangerous business, the risks of which he doubted he fully understood. Even if he managed to somehow cast his kevra via a memory, he wasn't De la Roca. He wouldn't be able to fully experience or control Muninn's kevra. The consequences could be disastrous.

  Was it possible to go too far into himself? He imagined being a vegetable, slowly wasting away, unable to return to the world of the conscious, and shuddered violently.

  He wanted a cigarette - it might be his last - but in his nervousness, he somehow managed to restrain himself.

  #

  An hour had passed, and he still had not decided upon a course of action.

  He wished he had found a way to manage De la Roca's false quest without talking to her in person. Even in his dream appearances as the Angel, he had no trouble separating his emotions from his business.

  But I had to see her.

  She was the cornerstone of his plan. Golden was as mortal as any of them, but his kevra of influence allowed him to rule the Consortium with an iron fist. More importantly, the angels all knew instinctively that the moment he died, his power upon them broken, they would descend back into chaos.

  Unless, of course, De la Roca could take the stone from his body.

  He sighed, his mind weaving dreamy images of De la Roca as the Queen of Hell, he at her side as king. We were always meant for that.

  Her face bloomed in his mind, and he pictured the first time he had seen her in her new body, outside of the home of the Mademoiselle. From the moment he laid eyes on her stony, wolf-like stare - a look that so mirrored his own - his resolve had somehow melted. His great need to confess, to be absolved - to be understood - was mitigated only by the fear that she would be caught by the Consortium. They most certainly would have tortured her, prying into her mind, shattering walls and distorting her thoughts and perceptions until she was truly insane - all to figure out what she knew.

  Not for the first time, Laufeyson contemplated the fact that to be an angel meant to be truly inhuman.

  Even here, his legs falling asleep on the stone floor, his mind on the verge of undertaking a possible suicide mission - he knew it was better this way. The Movement would carry on, and those at "his table" (for he liked to imagine them sitting all equally, as untrue as it might be), would find a way to enact the death of Golden and the usage of his kevra.

  But if they had taken her? If the Pentarch had captured De la Roca - no - Kalima - (and even as he thought the name, his spirit sprang up, singing, and he felt the rush of his mind to quench it, to erase the evidence of its passage) - then really, all was lost. She was the key.

  If Golden has her, then she is probably already dead.

  What was that?

  He listened carefully, but the sound did not repeat itself. After the tension ebbed, his head swirled with the memory of their fleeting kiss. It had burned with the violence of a first embrace before melting into something else - the familiar connection of an old lover, one with whom he had melded many times before.

  And now that he had found her again, the idea of losing himself, of hiding and perhaps not being able to come back - it was terrifying.

  He was still meditating, paralyzed by his fear, when he heard the sound again. This time, he managed to place it - it was the faint clink of a chain.

  They were coming for him.

  THIRTEEN

  Now or never.

  He focused on the stone in his mouth, goading it to react.

  The first sensation was a prickling coolness that fluttered like a live thing. His mind refused to concentrate; instead, his ears scanned for the sounds of a metal chain. Frantic, he pushed harder, urging the stone to go faster. The clinking was louder now, and he knew somehow that it was the angel Nemain.

  He shivered. The coldness had spread to the room, and his breath hung in the air like a mist. Instead of blowing away, it remained suspended in front of him. The mist rapidly saturated the air, until rivulets of moisture were running down his skin and the walls of his cell. The condensation dripped to the floor, forming a circular pool roughly five feet in diameter.

  He stared at his reflection in the pool. The water rippled, shattering the image. It resettled almost as quickly, and instead of his reflection, he saw himself, younger, dressed head to toe in furs, the head of a wolf resting on top of his own. I am the wolf-man, he thought, smoking the pipe by the fire.

  The stone in his mouth pulsed, and he saw a question mark appear in the mist above the pool.

  No.

  He shook his head. The surface of the pool dissolved into
ripples again, and the sensation of coolness spread. He could feel icy fingers probing through his brain, searching for the telltale signs that would guide it to the right memory. Just as he thought he could hear footsteps add themselves to the clinking, the coolness in his head lessened, and the surface of the water stopped rippling.

  He could see a floor, stained red with the slick glossiness of blood. Signs of struggle and chaos were piled around the room, and he knew it was the moment that he realized they had been -

  No! he cried, throwing his arms in front of himself for protection. Lord, please no! Anything but that. The footsteps were louder, and he could make out the rustle of feathers. Time was running out, and for better or worse, this reflection would probably be the last.

  The pond rippled for longer this time, as if thinking, and he felt the coolness course once again through his mind. Finally, the water stilled, and he saw himself standing by the mouth of a cavern, a spray of purple delphiniums by his foot. He knew this image well, it was the day he had first mastered his kevra. He closed his eyes, and the outlines of his body grew fuzzy as his skin turned transparent.

  The mist swirled and settled again into the question mark.

  Yes. That's right. Yes. He nodded violently.

  Then, before he could react, the mist collected itself and exploded over his body, and he felt an incredible weight shove him forwards, into the pool.

  #

  The water closed over his head. The push of the mist had been hard enough that he sliced through, gradually decelerating until his palms touched the bottom. He reoriented himself and stared through the murky water. He could just make out the clear right angles of a set of stairs. He quickly decided to follow them.

  He descended rapidly, but his lungs were starting to burn. As he progressed, the water grew clearer, brighter, until he finally reached the bottom of the staircase.

  There was a door in the floor, a great square with a giant metal ring attached to the center. Quickly, he pulled hard. The door opened easily, as if greased, and he swam in.