But where to go? There was nowhere that they wouldn't find her eventually. Even a waypoint was no escape; her power signature would be obvious to even the dullest angel. The Consortium would reopen the portal and find her. No, the only thing that could save her was Bluot.
A snaky whisper echoed in the back of her mind. You forgot about Rico.
She felt the floor fall away, and her world began to spin. Did they know about his murder? How could they have found out so soon?
Maybe, hissed the voice, Rico was more important than you thought.
She gnashed her teeth together absentmindedly. She needed Bluot.
Do you really think that's enough to protect you?
It has to be.
Then you're in trouble. De la Roca doesn't have the gun.
Of course she does! She felt foolish for fighting with herself so desperately, but her sense of logic had dissolved into a simple need for control. She would win.
Then why didn't she use it?
Stumped, the Mademoiselle sucked in her cheeks. Inwardly, she was starting to recoil from the voice in her mind, the voice that somehow both was and wasn't her own. She's hiding it.
The voice laughed, a breathy hiss that made her skin crawl. Hiding it? You think that such a powerful artifact could be hidden from the likes of angels?
Maybe … A suspicion was growing in her stomach about the voice's origin, and she pushed back from it violently. I don't want-
The gun sings, little one. It sang to you. The gravelly echo continued without consideration for the Mademoiselle's internal struggle. It sang to me. And it surely would have sung to them, as bright and loud as Gabriel's horn.
She still had the Eye of Muninn in her hand. Speechless, she rolled it around once in her palm, too lost in thought to see her distorted reflection in its glassy depths. She knew now whose voice she guarded against.
Thyrsus. It … he … is in my head.
She shuddered as she remembered the mad demon De la Roca had last killed. Its black desires had bored a hole into her skull, and she had the scars still, blank spots where thought wouldn't come, irrational fears that didn't make sense.
And my voice …
How can you still be there? De la Roca had taken the stone, hadn't she? I saw her swallow it. You are dead! You are dead!
The stone! Her mind shifted paths, the new stream of thoughts passing the old. Was that how she hid the gun? What powers would Thyrsus's kevra bestow upon its wielder? It was a stone of madness, and the demon held the power of hallucination …
She exhaled once, sharply. It made sense. If De la Roca used the stone to hide Bluot, they might sense her power as emanating from another source. It would explain why they had not yet found the gun.
For a brief moment, the voice squirmed its way back into her consciousness and whispered of the other possibility, that the gun had been taken already. She pushed it away with the vigor of a murderer stabbing his victim. It could not be allowed to take over, not now.
Her path was obvious.
And how will you get to her? You think you can just walk in and announce yourself? The voice laughed, a keening that sounded like wild dogs on the hunt. Wherever you enter, you will be caught.
I'm dead anyways, she thought back. And there is one place where they won't find the waypoint.
TWENTY-FIVE
Laufeyson had long ceased paddling. Instead, he let his boat drift through the dark water, his mind a weightless void. The light from the stone had blinked off some time ago. When the occasional thought drifted in, he met it with a curious sense of detachment, uncomprehending, uncaring, until it floated back out. He was this moment, and only this moment. It was his first taste of true freedom.
A sudden spark appeared, its rays needling into his now-sensitive retinas. His hands flashed up in front of his face, but it still shined through the barrier of his pinkened fingers.
As soon as his eyes adjusted, though, he let his hand drop. It was an orb, brighter than the moon at its fullest. Something about it was familiar, and it tickled at his brain with a song of urgency.
As if to acknowledge his movement, the light began to bob up and down. He waved at it, wonder flooding through him. It bobbed again in response.
"What … are you?" His creaks were rusty, the words half-formed. Whether the light understood or not was hard to ascertain; it swept around in a giant circle before bobbing up and down again.
He batted at it, irritated by its closeness to his face. It managed to evade through a quick combination of flutters and bobs. Evidently, it was faster than he was.
"Fine, what do you want?" he snapped, aggravation melting into the first notes of anger.
The light danced to each side of the boat, pausing briefly over the oars.
"You … you want me to row?"
Me, he thought. Who is "me"?
The light responded to his question with a rapid flickering. Laufeyson was unsure of what the answer meant, until he felt a wave of agreement wash over him.
"Okay, row." He hefted the oars and pulled three strokes. The light dove at his face, and he threw his arms up and ducked. When he brought them back down, it had returned to its normal post above his head.
"I don’t get it. Row, right?" The light flicker-danced. "Was I going the wrong way?" Another flicker-dance.
He picked up the oars and began to row in the opposite direction, pushing the tiny craft backwards.
He nearly dropped the oar in the water when the light attacked him again.
"In the name of My Lord," he roared, "which way do you want to go?" His state of mindlessness was dissipating, and as it left, his sense of urgency bloomed.
The light shot upwards, a bright arrow that paused at the top before descending again. He watched, openmouthed, as it repeated the maneuver twice more.
"Up?" he asked, incredulously. "You want me to row up? That's impossible."
(Try.)
With an exaggerated sigh, he closed his eyes and dug in his oars, giving the craft brisk, long strokes.
(Open your eyes, Son of Laufey. Look down.)
He opened his eyes and almost dropped an oar. The craft was floating in the air. Laufeyson could see little rivulets of water running off of the sides of the boat, dribbling onto the surface of the dark water with eager spatters.
How?
Even to his addled mind, this was clearly an unnatural state, suspended against the laws of gravity.
(We were never meant to be separated. We have heard the call, and we will answer.)
What call? He didn't remember hearing anything in the void below.
(We are twin. Row, Son of Laufey. There may yet be time.)
#
To Golden, everything happened at once.
Although they had taken different paths, he had arrived at the cell only seconds after the new prisoner. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he could feel the fingers of the blocking field massage into him inquisitively, seeking out the nature of his powers.
He nodded at the twins, and they dropped the mercenary. Her hands were bound behind her. Unable to break her own fall, her face hit the stone floor with a satisfying slap. She groaned and tilted her head up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her eyes.
Recognition surged through him. Cleopia.
Before he had a chance to react, a blazing orb appeared in the center of the room. Squinting, he drew his sword. In the center of the glowing corona was the Mademoiselle, her ethereal form lit up with the resplendent halo of one blessed by God. He gasped and cried out, and the light flared, the rays so intense that he clapped his hands over his eyes.
Before he could reach the Mademoiselle, the light blinked once again and went out completely, taking her with it.
Laufeyson lay in the middle of the cell, looking as if he had never left.
A spherical object fell, bouncing upon the stone with a series of pings. Its energy finally spent, it rolled slowly, stopping before his feet.
He picked i
t up, the power in the orb tickling his fingers. When he held it up to his eye, he could see misty shapes dancing in the glass. Then the surface went dark, as if snuffed out.
He stood still, the orb in his hand, his mind working furiously to rationalize what had just happened. And then, he remembered that which had so traumatized him before the appearance of the Mademoiselle. He turned slowly, almost afraid of what he would see.
Oh Lord of Mine, have I not suffered enough?
Cleopia lay there, her hands bound, her jet hair a wild mess around her face. She stared at him, and as he returned the stare, a conflicting jumble of emotions and sensations surged over him - need, hope, despair, hurt. Almost hesitant, he searched her face, waiting for a sign of recognition, but it was as impassive as the unconscious Laufeyson's.
Lips parted, he slid closer, as carefully as a hunter approaches a deer. A tendril of hope was blooming in the fern-frost of his heart, one that had incubated for three long centuries, waiting patiently for its chance to see light. "Cleopia," he began, and he closed his eyes and lifted his face towards the ceiling. He bit his lip and sighed, before dropping his eyes down to meet hers. "I have learned the forgiveness of my Maker." Finally, he stood before her, close enough to reach out and touch her.
"Have you come," he whispered, his lips forming each word with precise care, "to repent?" He leaned over her. "Are you here to give yourself to me?"
She was still prone on the ground, her hands bound behind her. She lifted her head off of the floor, her top half curving like the bow of a ship. Another moment passed while she stared into his eyes.
And then, she spit into his face.
He blinked for several long seconds, the clear strands trailing down his cheek, and then wiped off the offending fluids with a steady hand.
"You are going to regret that." The earnest expression had washed out of his face. "You should have never come back here."
De la Roca did not answer.
He turned swiftly and whistled once, a sharp, piercing squeal like metal tearing, and then the air erupted with a long wail. A large jackal bounded into view and eagerly rammed its pointed snout against the bars of the cage.
"This is Garmyr." Golden's smile was tight and bloodless. "He's going to be watching you for me while I attend to some things. Do not worry, Cleopia, for we will talk soon. We have some catching up to do."
TWENTY-SIX
Golden stalked to his chambers, his calm face belying the emotions that raged beneath.
Watch them carefully.
Even with their telepathic link, the jackal was unable to comprehend true language, but the Pentarchian's command was sent as a combination of sensations, images, and desires. He knew Garmyr would understand his meaning. Seconds later, he received a flurry of impressions - stone under paws, resolute determination, a need to please - and he knew his command had been confirmed.
Unlike the many angels that eschewed fixed dwellings, preferring the "Glory of God's Creation", Golden kept private quarters in the Fortress. There were several reasons, not the least of which was security. Its central location in the Valley of the Winged made it nearly impenetrable to members of the Damned.
More importantly, he needed a space apart, one of complete solitude, because he was unique. Not in body - just like every other angel, he became mortal during the Abdication, his skin no longer impervious to pain or injury. No, it was his destiny that set him apart - and his destiny required sacrifice.
If only I had known before the gears were set in motion, before the suffering and the bloodshed. Instead, it had taken centuries of watching his peers slay each other and defile everything they once held dear before the realization came to him.
He was to be the new God.
In that moment, he had conceived of the Pentarch. With the fearlessness of one chosen, he had labored to bring it to fruition, sacrificing the lives of so many on the altar of justice - including his own Cleopia, for he could not afford to let his own humanity jeopardize the good of the masses. He had drawn the Angels into the net of his kevra, and it was not long before each of them saw the light and recognized the legitimacy of the Pentarch to rule - or died.
Even fear has a place.
He was ascending, but his new godhood came at a price - isolation. Although he had eradicated most of the opposition, pockets of the Damned still attempted to destroy the new order he had created; he had no doubt they labored after his own death.
They would push us back into a bloody, endless war. What madness.
Even his strongest supporters watched their words and kept their distance. Is that not as it should be? There can be no familiarity with a God.
He reached his chambers. The doors were giant wooden slabs, the paint dark carmine and covered with strange circular smudges. He had no guards, for to depend on another was to exchange security for hope and trust - a trade he refused to make. Instead, he relied on the doors and their impenetrable magic.
He pulled his sword out of its scabbard, until the sharp blade protruded almost an inch. Expressionless, he ran his finger along the edge and dropped his hand. A single bead of blood bloomed, swelling until gravity overcame it. It trickled down to his fingertip. Swiftly, he pressed it onto the red door, and it opened.
He dropped the strange crystal upon a side table, his mind wrapped up in the matters he had to attend to now. How did Laufeyson disappear? What was the involvement of this stone? There was also the matter of planning a public sentencing - although the death of the Enforcer had been pushed back in his own mind, he doubted the other angels would be so forgetful. So great and many were the issues demanding his attention in that moment that he cradled his head in his hands.
Over the many voices screamed one louder than the rest, one that would not be denied its place. Cleopia, it wailed, she is here. After hundreds of years, she is here.
Could you have not found some other way? One better than her banishment? He rejected the thought, shaking his head. He was a God rising; now was not the time to examine his past and wonder if he had been in error. Gods didn't make mistakes.
And yet, he could not control what happened next. Safely hidden from the eyes of his subjects, his head still in his hands, he leaned against a wall. The tears began, a torrent that flooded from his eyes with a vengeance.
Cleopia, my love, why did you deny me?
#
"You are … here?" He was unbinding her hands, one eye on the jackal that keened by the door.
The idiocy of the question riled her. Yes, she was here - betrayed by Laufeyson, the Mademoiselle, the Oracle, and Alsvior. In short, she was here because every major actor in her life had conspired for her to be here. She'd not soon forget that.
His task finished, he circled around until he faced her, the rope trailing from his hands. "And … Bluot?"
It was as if he saw through her mask to the pain that losing her gun brought her. He sighed. "I am sorry."
His brow wrinkled. "And what of Alsvior?"
It was too much. She had spent hundreds of years as a mercenary, serving a sentence for a crime she couldn't remember. She had been led into Hell by dreams and haunted visions of her lost past, but no matter how many configurations she tried, the scenes just didn't make sense. She had been tricked, bound, beaten, sold - but nothing was worse than the object of her most concentrated hatred asking stupid questions.
"You!" she screamed, launching herself in the air. She slammed into Laufeyson, her hands eagerly seeking his throat. "Damn you! It all goes back to you! It's all your fault, whatever you are!" She squeezed hard, feeling his muscles stiffen as he strained against her.
She had not expected him to fall. They went down together, him turning just enough to slip out of her grasp. She regained her footing and launched herself at him again, but he was prepared and managed to sidestep. They circled each other, the dance repeating - her attack, his evasion.
"Why won't you fight back? Fight me, coward, for I have waited long for this moment!"
His outburst had startled her, but it was his surrender that unseated her. She paused, her hands still reaching for his throat. "What is lost?"
Outside of their cell, Garmyr followed the scene with great interest. Momentarily, De la Roca wondered how they looked to the jackal, to any observer. Was their hate obvious?
"With your kevra, you are our only hope. We need you, both for what you are, and for what you can do. And if you are in here with me, then we are all doomed."
Her eyes narrowed, untrusting. "We both know what I can do. But who, exactly, do you think I am?"
"I know who you are. I was the one that saved you. I was the one that set you free."
"What?" She realized she was no longer poised for attack. Instead, she was backing up, protecting herself from what he would say next.
"I loved you." His voice had dropped further, the flush of anger long forgotten. "You were my whole world."
She could feel her face drawing in on itself, the eyes squinting as the lips puckered and the brows came together. "You thought I would believe that?" She had expected something else, something better, something that would rescue her from her own Hell.
And maybe, something that would have given her hope.
"Think of the kiss, De la Roca. Didn't it feel - well - too real? Didn't the idea of us together - didn't it feel like a memory to you?"
The mercenary stiffened. She had, in fact, experienced a sense of déjà vu, although she would not admit it - not here, not now, and not to him.
"We were lovers long before. Your name was Kalima."
"Kalima?" she said, her voice shaking. She hated herself for not recognizing the name, and wondered if he was lying again. She needed to hate Laufeyson, to stonewall him, yet she wanted to find out about her past just as badly. The two desires were suddenly tearing her apart, although she dared not show it.
Hunting in Hell Page 20
