Hunting in Hell

by Maria Violante

  And even if - even if De la Roca somehow was Cleopia, what did it matter? Cleopia before may have been a decent mercenary, but she wasn't near the artist of death that De la Roca had shown herself to be. Cleopia fought out of necessity and a sense of duty, a need to follow orders. Later, when she had joined the Movement, the feelings were no different - just the master had changed.

  And De la Roca? De la Roca killed because she wanted to, she needed to. Even now, the Mademoiselle could see the way her forefingers trembled, the way she itched for the chance to shoot Golden. Maybe not just Golden. The Mademoiselle had a feeling that given the leeway, De la Roca would probably kill everyone in sight.

  Sobering thought.

  Still, Golden seemed to be falling for it. The Mademoiselle could see the way his lip barely trembled, the tension and pain hidden in the frozen corners of his eyes. De la Roca approached him slowly, her arms open embracingly, and although the Mademoiselle knew she should be working on a way out of here, at least half of her mind was on the scene in front of her, teasing her with the possibilities of this interaction. Could it really be this simple? Would a bit of empathy work?

  De la Roca was close enough now that she could reach out and touch Golden on the face, and still, the angel had given no sign of moving. And then the Mademoiselle noticed it, a slight twitch in the mercenary's back leg.

  She's going to jump for it!

  Faster, faster then her eyes could follow, Golden's arm whipped out with a terrifying violence. It smashed into De la Roca's torso, sending her flying backwards in the cell. Laufeyson caught her, and the Mademoiselle flinched. While that was probably best for the mercenary, it was probably the worst for them all. Laufeyson had just risked Golden's anger to save De la Roca, and she doubted the angel wouldn't connect the dots.

  "Traitorous wench!" Golden bellowed, his chest heaving. His eyes burned with hatred, and the Mademoiselle almost thought she could see a reflection in them, like the sparks of a fire. For some reason, it reminded her of the pyre they had burnt Kalima's body on, and she shuddered.

  And then the other angels poured into the room, filling it shoulder to shoulder, with Golden blocking the door.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Damn, thought De la Roca.

  She wasn't sure how Golden knew she was about to leap. His blow could have been a coincidence, even. But her heart was falling in her chest.

  I missed my only chance to clear the door so we could get out of-

  -we?

  The word rang oddly in her mind; it had been a long time since she had been concerned for any "we", except of course, for Alsvior.

  The thought of her mount stung, and she forced the issue out of her mind, concentrating instead on Golden's perfect, gleaming teeth.

  "Now that everybody is here," he laughed, "I think it's time for the festivities to begin."

  He waved his hand once in a line between the door of the cell and the door to the room. The army of angels drew swords, the noise loud enough to drown out any thoughts of escape.

  We are stuck.

  And then, from nowhere, came the wind. It was scented like cinnamon and pine, a strong, Earthy smell that that overwhelmed the nostrils and reminded her of … Alsvior? She saw the angels react with mild confusion, their heads tracking for the source of the scent. She saw a man appear in the door, face to face with Golden.

  Before the angel could react, the newcomer slammed it shut. "Waypoint!" he screamed at the Mademoiselle.

  Alsvior!

  "I can't in here, the cell is insulated!"

  Golden had finally seemed to recover from his surprise. He unsheathed his sword and stuck it through the bars; Alsvior whipped aside in the nick of time, flashing from one place to the next so fast he flickered.

  So fast, thought De la Roca. It didn’t make sense to her, and then she caught sight of the string around his neck, a golden thread like the one she had seen looped around the end of the dagger that the Oracle had traded him.

  Traded him for my freedom, she reminded herself.

  Golden, evidently figuring that speed was not his strong point here, started to push, and while the door didn't fly open, it was definitely moving. On both sides, their muscles stood out like cords, but the door slowly crawled towards Alsvior.

  "Use the stone!" Laufeyson's outburst made no sense to De la Roca. He whipped by her, smashing into the door just as it began to crack wide enough for an arm. It flew closed again, the combined force of Alsvior and Laufeyson stronger than Golden alone. De la Roca sprang into action, running to assist the other two.

  Yet the three of them against a thousand?

  "And what? Find the other stone? Remember something?" screamed the Mademoiselle.

  Golden whistled, and the angels suddenly ran to assist him, unsheathing their swords. While it might be fairly impossible to hit Alsvior, both Laufeyson and De la Roca were only as fast as their captors, and they would be decent targets.

  "Yes! You have to remember making a waypoint!"

  De la Roca felt an odd vibration in the cell, and for a moment, her hopes soared. Yet it faded as quickly as an echo.

  "I can't!" screamed the Mademoiselle. "I'm not strong enough!"

  As the angels bore down on the door, the words rang in De la Roca's head.

  "Get ready to rush the door!" called out Golden. "One!"

  Power.

  If nothing else, she had power. She had been pushing power around since the death of Thyrsus, power that while she couldn't use … maybe the Mademoiselle could. She focused it into a ball, feeling the stone hum awake and create the familiar pool of warmth.

  "Try it again!" she screamed to the Mademoiselle. "Do what Laufeyson says!"

  "Two!" yelled Golden, his voice ringing with triumph.

  Now or never. The world was becoming clearer, more focused. She could feel the Mademoiselle straining to open the waypoint around her, sense the energy of the cell blocking her. She concentrated on the stone in her gut, and it blazed with an angry roar of power.

  And then, she pushed.

  It was like leaping, the feeling of her muscles compressing and releasing as her body sprang forward. She threw the power towards the Mademoiselle, her body crying in want and emptiness as it left her. The Mademoiselle screamed once, and then they heard the crackling whir of a waypoint springing into existence.

  "Three!" yelled Golden, and the angelic horde smashed into the door. It swung in, moving faster than the eye could track, and all three of them went flying backward through the air. She saw the Mademoiselle spread her arms wide, and the waypoint expanded suddenly, catching all three of them in the membrane. The Mademoiselle jumped, the angels hot on her heels, and then with a wave, the whole thing closed, plunging them into darkness.

  THIRTY-SIX

  His quarry suddenly gone, Golden screamed, his hands plunging into his perfect hair, tearing out handfuls.

  "What should we do now?" asked Anann. She had moved through the crowd to stand next to him, her gentle calm a stark contrast to the conflagration of his anger.

  Overcome with wrath and frustration, he whirled on her and plunged his sword into her side. She screamed, and for the first time, he saw ugliness and anger supplant the normal expressions of her face.

  She will live, he thought, his anger fading, although not without a scar.

  "We find them."

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  After the chaos of their escape, De la Roca found the silence and darkness of the waypoint's destination unnerving.

  "Where are we?"

  The Mademoiselle waved her hand, and a tiny globe winked into view. As her eyes adjusted, De la Roca could make out the wisps of fog that materialized with each breath, a ghostly testament to the cold.

  She gasped, though, when she saw the Mademoiselle. Great streaks of grey were running through her hair in wide shocks, and there were new wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  "Doesn't look so great, does it?" cackled the Mademoiselle. "I can feel th
e energy draining out of me, even the giant burst you sent. We need to find out where we are going, and fast; I won't be able to hold us in this bubble for long."

  "Bubble?" asked Alsvior.

  "It's a world between worlds. I have brought us halfway to a destination - Pico, on Earth. It's an easy one for me."

  "I didn't even know you could do that," said Laufeyson. De la Roca glanced over at his eyes, and what she saw was … wonder?

  "Yes. The journey between two worlds is a linear thing. I can stop along the path, but I won't be able to hold it for long. I can feel myself growing weaker by the second, and pretty soon, I'm going to need to drop us. Unless, you can give me more?"

  De la Roca searched inside of herself, but the Thyrsus stone pulsed lazily in her gut. She knew it would not give her any more power, not yet. "No."

  "Damn. Okay, the question is, drop us where?"

  "What does it matter?" asked Laufeyson. "We could choose Earth, Hell, or any one of a thousand such worlds. They will find us, and quickly. The only one who could stand up against that onslaught is God himself, and who knows where he is?"

  "Actually, I do," said the Mademoiselle.

  The faces of the other members turned towards her. In the dim light of the globe, De la Roca could see astonishment etched upon each one, astonishment that mirrored her own.

  "He is … on an off-world."

  Laufeyson's eyes widened in understanding. "You mean-"

  "Yes," she interrupted. "He is somewhere else, somewhere he did not create."

  The words buzzed in De la Roca's head. There are worlds God did not create? Then … are there other gods?

  "How could you? Anything could happen! He could die!" Laufeyson's exclamation only made the buzzing louder.

  "I didn't send Him there! It was His own doing!" De la Roca felt a lurching as the mademoiselle yelled, as if she was riding a horse that had suddenly changed directions.

  The Mademoiselle looked at them all at once, her lip curled and her eyes spitting fire. "He ordered me to leave, and I was still an angel. I had no choice."

  "Take us to him." De la Roca's voice was unexpected. Laufeyson and the Mademoiselle turned to stare at her with incredulity, while Alsvior pointedly stared at his feet.

  "To an off-world?" Laufeyson's jaw had dropped. "Do you know how dangerous that is?"

  "Why not? Is it any more dangerous than an on world, now? We have every single angel of Hell after us, bent on our deaths." She wasn't sure what dangers an off-world presented, but she doubted there was a place on Earth or Hell that Golden and the other angels wouldn't find them.

  The silence that followed was broken by Alsvior. "But what do you expect us to do when we get there, De la Roca?"

  "We talk to God."

  "It's crazy," said the Mademoiselle. "Besides, I can't. I was ordered not to return."

  "As an angel," agreed Laufeyson.

  The Mademoiselle nodded, stopping dead as her eyes widened. "Golden … he took my wings. As a gift to Nemain, for her part in Cleopia."

  At the mention of the name, De la Roca saw the lift of Alsvior's head.

  What pain he must have felt, seeing her face every day. De la Roca felt the first unsettled pangs of guilt. Now is not the time. She squared her shoulders and pursed her lips. "So you can take us now?"

  The Mademoiselle nodded.

  "Then do it." De la Roca patted her right side and blew out heavily. "I just wish I had Bluot."

  Alsvior cleared his throat. He pulled a sack from his sash, a little bag that he threw at De la Roca. She caught it, surprised at the heft. She opened the cinched mouth, and a familiar thrum reverberated through her body.

  Her breath and hands shaking, she thrust her hand into the bag and shook it off, revealing Bluot in the dim light. Instantly, her body was filled with the hot pulse of her gun, and the Thrysus stone in her belly thrummed in return.

  "How … how did you get this?"

  "I stole it."

  "I don't understand."

  "From the altar. If I am interacting with the environment - picking something up, fighting, even putting food into my mouth - then I am no faster than one of you. But if I am running, merely running-"

  "You are uncatchable," answered Laufeyson.

  Alsvior nodded.

  "I stole it from the altar, as soon as I had the dagger. It was but the work of a moment, and then I was running, running-" and his voice faded off with a smile. De la Roca understood that smile. It was the smile of true and pure bliss.

  "Time's up," said the Mademoiselle, abruptly. As if to give credence to her words, the world lurched again. I can't hold us much longer." She smiled, a grin that chilled De la Roca to her bones. "Since I'm the only one who can move us anyway, I've decided for us."

  Before any of them could protest, the world faded away.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The world was no longer shrouded in darkness; instead, De la Roca could make out wide swatches of texture and color. Yet the environment was misty, ethereal, somehow lacking full solidity.

  De la Roca wiggled her fingers. She could see through her palm to her leg, and through that even, to the purplish gray of some sort of plant matter below her.

  For a moment, she wondered if she had died. Was this what a ghost saw?

  Did she even believe in ghosts?

  Lending a disconcerting credence to that idea was the fact that she couldn't feel anything. After a lifetime of being so intimately linked to the world around her, the lack of sensation made her heart beat harder. Where was the ground, the wind? She pressed her hands to her cheeks, but her skin didn't register the contact. Whatever was broken here, it was in her, and not in the world.

  Laufeyson and Alsvior stood in front of her, expressions of surprise on their faces as well. She stared again at her palm, before registering its emptiness.

  Bluot, she thought. It was in my hand, wasn't it?

  The world around her bulged suddenly, and a tiny bubble popped into view. It was like a viewfinder into how the world should have been, solid and real, and through it, she could see the clear image of a field of waving purple grass.

  "Neat, isn't it?" It was the Mademoiselle's voice, and De la Roca turned to look at her. Yet the picture that she saw shocked her. The Mademoiselle looked haggard, more dead than alive. Her skin hung off of her bones and the dark circles under her eyes had deteriorated into holes.

  And she was holding Bluot in her hands.

  Jealousy suddenly leaped up through De la Roca. She tried to lunge, but it felt like moving through molasses.

  "I am sorry, you know. You've been betrayed a lot and I've always wondered how much one can take before losing it completely. But the thing is, my survival depends on this gun. I have a pretty good feeling, too, that you're not going to let me have it, so I really do apologize for what's next.

  "Bluot," she said, "I call you." She aimed the gun right at De la Roca.

  Even from a distance, De la Roca felt the gun humming to life. She leapt, the stickiness of the molasses world slowing her impossibly. She saw Alsvior pass her. He shifted, becoming visible, then invisible again, then visible, and right before he reached the Mademoiselle, De la Roca had a final thought.

  Too late.

  The muscles in the Mademoiselle's wrist flexed beautifully as she pulled the trigger. There was a flash and an awful, extended roar, and De la Roca saw the bullet streak toward her, slow enough that she had time to feel a final acceptance enter her bones.

  It was, after all, how the gun changed masters. She had always known it would kill her someday.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the end.

  #

  He had tackled the Mademoiselle, but it was already too late.

  Alsvior, of course, had always known that trading De la Roca in meant that he might never get her back, but there were more important matters than the life or death of a single being - even a being he loved. And his foremost motivation for the last three hundred years had been to fin
d a way to kill Golden.

  There were moments, lying together on the beach, where he was closest to turning it around, to changing his mind.

  But he didn't. His cowardice had held him back.

  And then, the Mademoiselle had appeared. Hard to believe he had been grateful.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The bullet flew towards De la Roca in slow motion. Seconds before it slammed into her forehead, it arced its trajectory ever so slightly, whipping instead by her ear. Had she been able to feel, she would have sensed the wind of its passing. Instead, it was the sound, the barest of hums that made her eyes flick open to see a few stray hairs.

  And then she saw the bullet again, only it was facing the wrong way, going the wrong way, and she understood.

  Bluot chooses its own targets. And today, it had not chosen her.

  #

  In the sticky-time of their bubble, the turn of the bullet was long, long enough for the Mademoiselle's expression of triumphant glee to turn to shock and then fear. She rotated, her body turning in space, her leg stretching to start her run, and then the bullet slammed her in the back of the head.

  The bubble popped.

  FORTY

  The Mademoiselle's burning corpse lay a short distance behind them, her forehead blown out by Bluot's bullet. The fire had started swiftly, before they had a chance to examine the body. De la Roca blew out, her breath fogging in the air. She stretched her hands over the Mademoiselle's body and took a moment to warm them.