Hunting in Hell (13 page)

She spun her hand in a circle once, the hand signal for "turn around." Even in the low light, Alsvior caught her meaning.
 
He rotated himself slowly, deliberately, taking care in the narrow space.
 
She got the feeling that her mount was uneasy.

She didn't blame him.
 
It was hard enough keeping her own claustrophobia at bay.
 

After a final glance above, she oriented herself toward the darkened hole and peered into it.
 
The walls were barely wide enough to accommodate her form without touching either side.
 
For Alsvior, even as a miniature horse, it was impossible to proceed without grazing his sides on the stone.
 

Trusting his senses more than her own, she tapped him once on the back, and he entered the darkness.
 
She followed him, one armed hand on his saddle-horn, facing behind to guard the rear.
 
After a few more steps, the walls abruptly fell away.
 
They had entered a much wider room.

He whickered once, but she had already spun around to face their new companion.

It was suspended in the air, its wings flapping noiselessly.
 
Alsvior brightened his flames, and the rays bounced off of the shimmering feathers, diffracting onto the cave walls in a kaleidoscopic mesh of golds, greens, and reds.
 
The bejeweled peacock was massive.
 
A single feather, longer than her leg, floated from its tail to the ground and turned to ash.
 

Welcome
.
 

The voice, distinctly male, had spoken directly into her mind.
 
With his words, the stone in her belly pulsed hard, and she felt
Bluot
tremble in response.

His eyes sparkled in the light, their facets as clearly cut as a jeweler's stone.
 
With a languid flourish, he raised his tail, opening it into a giant fan.
 
De la Roca was riveted; she tried to raise her guns further, but her arms, suddenly heavy, refused to respond.
 

The feathers blinked once with an eerie light, the iridescent eyes glowing like burning coals.
 
Each one was a tiny, circular dream, an image from her life.
 
Many were of her kills, but there also scenes she couldn't remember, from Hell—and before.

Go ahead, kill me.
 

Her arms jerked up, somehow free from the spell that had overtaken the rest of her body, but her interest held her fingers back from squeezing the triggers.

But then you will never find answers, not from me, not from my brother.

De la Roca glanced at Alsvior.
 
He stared into the feathers, entranced, and she wondered what memories he saw depicted there.
 

"Perhaps I don't want answers," she growled, facing the demon again.
 
"Perhaps I just want freedom."

Are you sure about that?
 

The demon flapped closer, and in the tail-feather's eyes, she could see herself holding an infant, their faces wreathed in bliss.
 
She knew the truth of it then, that this nameless, fatherless daughter was once hers.
 

A wave of grief overtook her, and she felt her knees buckle.
 
Deep strands of love and loss ripped through her like a maternal tide.
 
The stone pulsed as she hit the ground, and a hideous wail bubbled from deep within.
 
She recognized the laughing scream of madness from her dreams.
 

You can see it now, can't you?
 
You were doomed from the start.
 

Doomed once, forgotten once, doomed again.

The peacock opened his mouth, exposing a longue, pink tongue.

Burn.

His eyes fell out of his skull, leaving behind gaping sockets that the light did not penetrate.
 
Perfect isohedrons, they bounced lightly before rolling to a stop at her feet.
 

Without warning, the great fan of his tail burst into white flames.
 
Alsvior whickered as the blaze spread through the giant feathers, but De la Roca couldn't move.
  
Within seconds, the peacock's body burned with the intensity of a funeral pyre.

Her grief overtook her, and she curled into a ball on the floor.
 
She moaned and rubbed her guns against her face.

 
Alsvior whinnied shrilly and grabbed her by the collar, tugging violently with his teeth.
 
She struggled in response, flailing wildly, unwilling to leave the scene.
 
A shot rang out from the pistol in her left, pinging as it ricocheted off of the walls of the cave. It tore through the flaming fan of tail feathers and they turned to ash.

Muscles trembling, Alsvior dragged her backwards through the giant room and into the tunnel.
 
The heat continued to build.
 

As soon as he reached the spot where they had begun, a terrific explosion sounded from the direction of the room, followed by a wall of scalding pressure.
 
Alsvior shielded De la Roca with his body as the wave hit them both.

Thirteen

"
D
o you have the stone?"

Laufeyson's hazel eyes suddenly appeared in her realm of vision, the black edges fading away in spots.
 

"De la Roca," he said, his voice sharp with urgency, "do you have the stone?"

"Eyes," she mumbled, before she lost consciousness again.

* * *

She awoke to a vague wetness on her face, an insistent moist pressure that traveled down her cheek and to her neck.
 
 
Her eyelids, sticky and caked, refused to open.
 
She shifted groggily, amazed at the sensations of screaming muscles and the gritty textures upon her skin.

She was uneasy, but her addled mind would not allow her the comfort of understanding why.
 
She took a deep breath, and her nervousness subsided, assuaged by the smell of the air—thick, vaguely warm, pleasant and somehow familiar.
   

When she had finally eased herself into a sitting position, she turned her head and stared right into the eyes of a brown American Paint with a white streak on the muzzle.
 
They both held the stare and blinked.
 

"Hey buddy."
 
She reached out gently, so as not to spook him, "Hey partner."

The horse tossed its head once, the dark mane flying about wildly.
 
He neighed softly and nuzzled her again.

"Well, aren’t you a beauty."

"Glad to see you're awake."
 

The man had slipped behind her unnoticed.
 
She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, a primitive instinct that set off alarm bells in her head.
 
Her rational brain fought to overpower the sudden quickening in her chest and the rush of blood through her face.
 
The man seemed friendly enough.

Be careful
, warned a gravely voice she couldn't identify.
 
It's not always possible to identify a viper by sight.

"Do I know you?"

His mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide.
 
"De la Roca?"

Her forehead crinkled once in confusion, pondering the name.
 
Was that Spanish?
 
And who is this man?
 
Do I know him?
 
Perhaps she had met him in on the street, or in a bar somewhere.
 
She tried to remember a bar that she might frequent, but nothing came to mind.
 

"It's me, Laufeyson."
 
He stared at her with a pointed fixation that made her skin crawl.
 
Worse, his voice sounded fuzzy, interlaced with static and somehow underwater.
 

Is my hearing always this bad?
 
And what did he call me?
 
Della?
 
Is that my name?
 
She tried to search through her memories, but her mind was a whitewashed room.
 

"I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are.
  
I like your horse, though."

"I am sorry, De la Roca," he mumbled, as if to himself.
 
"You must have touched the stone."

Her response was interrupted by the crunch of approaching footsteps and the lilting notes of a woman's voice. "Hello, darling."

Should I know you, too?
 

"She can't remember anything."
 
Laufeyson shook his head.
 
"It's like the day she arrived."

The woman narrowed her green eyes.
 
"Nothing?
 
Nothing at all?"

Laufeyson shook his head and flicked his fingers, and another cigarette appeared between his thumb and forefinger.
 
"Not a thing."

"Interesting.
 
I shall have to think about that."

* * *

The Mademoiselle sank into a cross-legged position and stretched her head back.
 
There was a slight pop, and she rolled her shoulders and sighed in relief.
 
Getting too old to keep sitting like that.

She remembered how old she really was, and she had to chuckle.
 
She gave another sigh, this one a bit lighter than the last, and switched gears.
 
"I'm sure that this amnesia is related to a
kevra
stone.
 
Do you think De la Roca was victorious?"

"Maybe."
 
Laufeyson shrugged his shoulders.
 
"There's no demon in the Phoenix Well anymore, if that's what you mean."

"Well, can I see the stone?"

The movement was so fast that she almost didn't register it—almost.
 
The way his eyes flicked to one side, it was almost as if . . .
as if he was afraid of something.

"It's gone."
 
Every trace of nervousness was gone from his face, but she knew what she had seen.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean, I can't find it."

What?
 
Gears turned in the Mademoiselle's head.
 
Something about this fiasco was not adding up—
and after all that work?

She shuddered when she thought of the risks she had taken in the last few days.
 
I reported this to Golden . . . to the Pentarch.
 
That alone could come back to send her to a grizzly death.

If she could just get her hands on it—
her fingers tightened, almost involuntarily, as if around the grip of a gun, and she had to concentrate to loosen them.

I should jump you, torture you until you tell me what I need to know.
 
"I see."
 
She guarded her expression carefully, and took care that her eyes did not meet his.