Hunting in Hell (22 page)

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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.

Her hands stole up to his.
 
"Be careful."

"Of course," he said, and gave her his best smile, ignoring the ripping in his chest.
 
Her hands fell away and slipped into her lap.
 

Without looking back, he crossed to the door and braced himself for the hardest part.

"Come say goodbye to me, little one."

The girl turned her head and pointed with a chubby finger at the window, her eyes and mouth round.
 
"Look!"

Even in his sadness, he laughed.
 
"You are blocking it completely, and I can't see anything.
 
You need to back up."

She did so reluctantly, and as the black backdrop of the sky came into view, he could see the glistening of flakes in the moonlight.
 

"That!" she said exuberantly, pointing still.

"It's snow," he answered, and she giggled.

"It's beautiful," breathed Kalima.
 
"Surely it is a blessing."

His heart the tiniest bit lighter, he opened the door.

The dreamscape swirled a final time, and he felt his stomach drop.
 
He had repeated this dream many nights, and what came next made the blood burn cold, but he had long ago stopped trying to break free.

This dream was part of his punishment.

The mist parted to reveal Kalima bowed over the dais, her hands chained behind her back.
 
Already, he could feel the pulse of Golden's
kevra
, the crowd feeding the angel's power.

He strained to look away, but instead, his eyes continued on their paths, following the lines behind her until they came to rest on his daughter.
 
Tears ran freely down her white face and her hands were jammed in her mouth, yet her cries were silent.
 
He felt his heart brim with pride for his brave progeny.
 

"Death," said Golden, from his perch above in the Arc of the Pentarch.
 
He stood in the middle, two advisors flanking him on each side.
 
No matter how many times the dream repeated itself, the anger on his face still shocked Laufeyson.
 
Golden so rarely revealed his emotions, and Laufeyson always wondered if there had been more upsetting the angel than the crime of an unauthorized child.

Kalima's eyes flashed up briefly, and Laufeyson knew she was looking for him in the amphitheater's crowd.
 
They re-cemented themselves to the floor, and he wondered if he would have the same self-control in her position.
 
She would never give him away.
 
They had long ago agreed, when her belly was still full, that they would not try to follow each other in death.
 
Their child deserved a parent.
 

He had always thought, with her so well hidden in the mountains, it would be him to die, him in battle against the Damned.

He had returned to the cabin in the mountains to find the fire out and the door ajar.
 
The chaos inside forced him to his knees, but it was the splatters of blood on the walls and the ceiling that had driven him to weep openly.
 

Then he had learned of the Consortium's new prisoner, an angel that had the audacity to conceive a child without permission, and he knew what had befallen his love.

"Take the child," said Golden.

"No!" Laufeyson cried, but his voice was lost among the sudden roar of the spectators.
 
He tried to leap down, but the crowd moved to stand as one, applause breaking out and drowning his screams further.
 

He kicked his legs hard, driving his knees into the faceless bodies around him.
 
Finally, there was an opening, and he crawled through the mass of people to the top.

He could see Kalima, fighting like the warrior goddess of her name.
 
Three angels were working in concert to hold her down, and still, she writhed and snaked like the victim of a possession.
 
Then another angel grabbed him by the leg and pulled him back, and she disappeared from view.

Golden held his hands up, and the crowd fell silent.
 
With one sweep of his arms, the entire group sat as one.
 
Only Laufeyson remained standing, his desperation fighting back against Golden's kevra.
 
Within seconds, though, he too succumbed, his knees buckling.

Golden gestured once at two angels, female warriors with great swords across their backs.
 
"Take the child!" he repeated, his voice almost a scream.
 
They moved quickly to comply.
 
Laufeyson's daughter still made no sound, not even when the two angels grabbed each of her arms and dragged her limp weight across the floor.
 
When they had oriented her close enough to Golden, the child stood, staring the angel directly in the face.

Golden kneeled, bringing them to the same height.
 
Laufeyson struggled against Golden's kevra, trying to fight the pulse with a wall of his own fabrication.
 
Yet the massive number of spectators in the amphitheatre fed the angel's influence, and Laufeyson was powerless but to watch.
 

But why did Kalima struggle so?
 
Wasn't she under the same spell?
 
Did Golden release her?

Golden placed his hands on either side of the child's head.
 
"I did not ask you your name," he said.
 
"Do you know why?"

His daughter did not answer, and Laufeyson felt a stab of grim happiness.
 
Yes
, he thought.
 
Don't give him the satisfaction.
 
Be brave, my little one, be brave.

"I did not ask you, because you are not an angel, not even a demon or a human.
 
You are a nothing, because you were never allowed to exist, and soon, you will cease to be.

"Do not be afraid."

And then he twisted his hands, and Laufeyson heard the sharp snap.
 
He felt Golden's influence roll back away from him, like a fog, and once again his screams were lost in the roar of the crowd.

Golden's next words were impossibly loud.
 
They boomed across the auditorium with an authority that only his kevra could provide.

"And as for you," he said, gesturing at his second-in-command, "call the Executioner."

Laufeyson heard his title, and just like that, he knew what he would do.

SEVEN

H
e had planned her escape, from conception, to execution, to completion.
 
In a way, she had been his prisoner.

And if he had been aware of the cost, would he have done it in the first place?
 
Was it worth a life of madness and isolation, the pain of losing his wings?
 
Was it worth the sacrifice of Cleopia, of turning both Alsvior and Golden into shells of their former selves?

Yes
.
 

Of that, he was shamelessly, unequivocally sure.
 
He had never doubted his plan - not until he and De la Roca had locked eyes outside of the Mademoiselle's house.
 
She had pierced him with a killer's stare, completely devoid of recognition.
 
Yet, in the end, it was the kiss that had broken what metaphorical heart he had left and filled him with doubt and regret.
 

What's done is done.
 
The question is - what to do?

Someone had betrayed him; that much was obvious.
 
After examining the situation countless times, his bet was on the Mademoiselle.
 
After all, she was the one that had named De la Roca's conquest as the demon Muninn.
 
It was her complete lack of surprise that gave her away, but he had not been quick enough to pick up on it then.
 
He had not pieced it together until he had followed them into the cantina, only to find himself on a crude facsimile in an alternate plane.
 

And now?
 
Now there is no time left at all.

He knew he should think of something else, anything else.
 
His existence had been long, and somewhat fruitful; he felt that the end of it should be spent in meditation and acceptance.
 
Yet he could not stop re-examining the issue, picking at it as if it were a scab.
 

What did she stand to gain?
 
And more important, what did she want with De la Roca?
 
The Mademoiselle had played a dangerous game, risking her life and the ire of the Consortium - and to what end?

Unless … what if she wasn't in danger?
 
What if she was acting on orders the whole time?
 
Could the Consortium have known about his plans all along?
 
Nemain had accused him of being a part of the Damned - a stupid name for the Movement if there ever was one - but they had no proof … did they?

Did they know about his plans?
 
Did they know about De la Roca?
 

The weight of the lump in his throat suddenly rivaled that of the stone in his mouth.
 
If the Consortium knew of De la Roca's true identity, then all was lost, and all of his efforts, every last one of them, had been in vain.
 
The Movement needed her, needed her weapon and her ability to take
kevras.

And more importantly,
he
needed her.

For a moment, he considered adding his own blood to the now-dried crust that caked the bars, but his knowledge as a once-angel reminded him that suicide was futile here.
 
The Curse of Diaspar made death a poor barrier to keeping one's secrets.
 

He longed for the comfort of his
kevra,
for the freedom to go inside of his cave and disappear from the world, or at the very least - the freedom to manifest a cigarette.

But the powers that worked within these bars would block his
kevra
as easily as they had blocked his
akra
.

Unless …

His eyes widened in shock.
 
What if the answer had, quite literally, been on the tip of his tongue?
 
He had the Eye of Muninn in his mouth - if he could somehow draw on its power, would it be enough to overcome the block on his magic?

Maybe
.
 
But it's risky, all the same.
 
Even if he somehow managed it, he doubted he'd have any control over the energy the stone contributed.
 

Then again, condemned as he was, he didn't have a whole lot to lose.