Authors: Maria Violante
The angel slumped over in a heap, the light in his eyes forever extinguished.
* * *
His memory was dizzyingly clear, every detail from the great spray of the crimson blood to the glisten on the corpse's eyes rendered in perfect color.
He couldn't recall
why
the Pentarch had sentenced the angel to die.
The thought unsettled him, but it was the reflection of his own smile that shamed him the most.
He had been so sure of his right to create suffering, to take the wings from a fellow being.
He wondered if his captors even remembered that he had once served on the other side of the bars.
A lump swelled in his throat, and the Eye hummed with sympathy.
The
kevra
stone was leaden in his mouth, heavy and warm.
It had been hard to endure the beating, even more so the
insults
- but he had, stoic and wordless, his jaws clamped tight around the Eye of Muninn.
He had faith that the magic of his body would block its presence from his captors, angel or not, yet somehow, he was still surprised that they had not searched him more thoroughly.
He had almost fallen asleep when his cell caught the faintest echo of an odd mixture of sounds.
There was the rustle of feathered wings, the thump of footsteps, and the gentle clinking of metal.
He waited as they all grew louder, stopping only when the angel halted in front of the bloody bars.
She was female, her eyes an iridescent, icy blue.
The chains around her neck marked her as a member of the Consortium.
They were gold, denoting her status as one of the Pentarch.
Laufeyson struggled, trying to recall her name, but his memory held it captive from his tongue.
"This is your last chance, Son of Laufey."
Her voice was even colder than her eyes.
"As a lunatic, we were content to let you live, so long as you remained an out-of-the-way nuisance.
Yet that wasn't enough for you, was it?"
The sneer in her voice was unmatched on her face.
Instead, the slightest of innocent smiles curled around the corners of her lips.
She was clearly enjoying her work.
So they do remember,
he thought.
"You have been charged with the following crimes: four counts of Angelic Impersonation, appearing to the demon mercenary known as De la Roca; two counts of Murder by Unauthorized Assignment of a Holy Quest, the victims the Enforcers Muninn and Thyrsus; One Count of the Creation of an Unauthorized Plane, on which the death of Thyrsus took place." Like all angels, she didn't need to blink.
After years of watching humans and demons, her constant stare was unnerving.
Laufeyson was slightly confused at the last charge, until he remembered the extra plane that the Mademoiselle had created.
They must have thought he was somehow involved in that.
And
four
counts of impersonation?
He had only appeared to the mercenary twice, once when he had sent her on the quest to kill five targets, and then again after the death of the lamprey.
Had someone else appeared to her?
Who?
Could it have been an actual angel?
What a strange coincidence that would be.
The quest to kill the five
… was it really so long ago that he had made his list of targets, selecting five that would strike the Consortium where it would hurt them the most?
What
had happened there?
How had everything become so sidetracked?
"You are also suspected of being a member of the
Damned
."
It was clear from her weighty pause that the last charge was the gravest, and the one to which she expected an answer.
When none was forthcoming, she shifted her face closer to the bars, so close that Laufeyson could feel her breath upon his face.
He was tempted to punch her in the eye.
I would be dead before I knew it.
He knew from the curl of her lip that the next words would come out in a growl.
"The sentence for any one of these crimes is death.
The other members of the Pentarch are
very
interested to understand your …
motivations
.
They have offered partial clemency in exchange for a full confession and information on the
Damned
.
I do not think such wingless scum as yourself deserves it, but you have been offered one day in which to consider the terms.
Do you have anything to say?"
Laufeyson flicked his fingers, trying to manifest a cigarette.
Of course, none appeared.
He had forgotten that when inside the cell, neither his
akras
nor his
kevra
would be of any use.
Indeed, now that he was searching for it, he could feel the gentle pulse of the walls pushing in on him and his magic.
He had intended to blow the smoke in her face, but as that option had been taken away from him, he did the next best thing.
He gathered as much saliva as he could around the stone in his mouth, pursed his lips, and spit full in the angel's eye.
Her wings quivering with rage, the angel reached through the bars and knocked Laufeyson in the chest.
He flew through the air, until he slammed into the back wall of the cell.
Supine on the floor, he made no move to get up.
Instead, he flashed the angel an "O.K." sign with his thumb and forefinger, knowing that the human gesture would most certainly irritate her further.
"Frankly," she snarled, "I hope you die.
I don't know what Golden ever saw in you."
The angel stalked away, the chains around her neck clinking as she picked up speed.
Her name is Nemain
, he finally remembered, but she had already disappeared from view.
THREE
"
A
lsvior?"
His eyes ignored the two guns that she had leveled at his head.
Instead, they sought her own, piercing into them with an intensity that gave her pause.
She returned the gaze fully, guarding her eyes from wandering towards his still naked frame.
They were both searching, she for something she could recognize, and he for a sign of that recognition.
She knew those eyes intimately, black pools with sparkling white corners and a fan of captivatingly dark lashes.
Her mind echoed back to the warehouse in the moments after she had swallowed the lamprey's
kevra
stone, Alsvior's thoughts floating through the air like a scent on the wind.
She had been privy to the complex, structured web of her own horse's consciousness, only to push it out of her mind, embarrassed by the
human
nature of his thoughts.
You knew, didn't you?
You knew.
Alsvior opened his mouth, as if to speak.
He closed it again wordlessly, sighing as his lips met.
Clearly, it was up to her to somehow open this conversation.
So why was it so hard?
"Alsvior?"
He grinned, the flash of his teeth venting some of the tension.
"The one and only."
She could feel her face contorting as she tried to find more words, but again, nothing seemed appropriate.
It was as if all of her emotions - the guilt, the shock, the relief, the fear - were working together to choke off her vocal chords.
He sighed.
"Maybe I should just … start somewhere."
A finger stole up to absently play with a lock of hair, and he turned his head to stare at it.
He flexed the finger twice, a smile spreading upon his face.
When he spoke again, his voice was stronger.
"Once, De la Roca, I was a messenger that tended animals in the gardens of Hell."
She could feel her brows furrowing together as she considered his words.
"The …
gardens
?
Of
Hell
?"
Alsvior squinted.
When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped in pitch.
"De la Roca, I have the feeling that you have many things to learn - about the nature of Heaven, of Hell, of many other things and places.
This entire world is at war, and although I don't know your part of it, you'll die without a clear idea of what you are getting into.
Actually, you will probably die either way.
"Look around you.
In all of your travels, have you ever seen a beach as beautiful as this one?"
She glanced behind her, away from the oasis and back towards the crystalline water, redrawing the pristine mixture of sands, surf and sky in her memory.
"No, I haven't seen its equal.
But then … where are we?"
He spread his hands wide and let his head tilt to one side.
"We are
in
Hell."
Her nightmare floated back to her, the same one that had stalked her for centuries.
She could smell the acrid cocktail of burning flesh, feel the heat of fire and the lash of a whip.
Her ears rang with screams -
her
screams.
There was no way to reconcile the salty warm scents of beach and cinnamon or the idyllic oasis that lay before her with the burning Hell of her dreams.
"De la Roca," said Alsvior, his voice fading as he cleared his throat.
"I understand that this a lot to grasp, and I promise to explain everything I can, answer any questions I can,
do
everything I can to help.
But soon, the sun will set, and then this beach will be
very
cold.
We need to gather all of the fuel we can and light a fire before nightfall."
"Light a fire?"
Her question was faint, distant.
"Yes.
I do not have the same
powers
I did before, and we will have to light it the same way that everybody else does.
So we need to get started."
She turned, intent on complying, when she heard him clear his throat.
"De la Roca?"
Her head came around just enough for him to pass back into her line of sight.
"Yes?
What is it?"
"I'm still naked."
Sighing, she shrugged off her coat and threw it at him.
"See if you can do something with this."
FOUR
R
ico could tell from the uneven curls of her fingers that the Mademoiselle's hand was not empty.
In his greed, he found it difficult to maintain her gaze, his eyes flicking back and forth like a guttering flame.
"I know that coming to me was a risk," she said.
Her voice was mellifluous, stretching with a warm viscosity that belied her predatory grin.
She cocked her head sideways, and the smile grew gentler, friendlier, until it finally reached her honey-colored eyes.
"But in trusting me, you have done well."
He nodded, taking advantage of the opportunity to track her hand out of the corner of his eye.
"It is
so
hard to find good help." She folded her left hand up and then placed both fists on her jaw-line.
With her elbows and her wrists touching, she looked like a flirtatious adolescent, and he couldn't help but feel a strange tickle in his abdomen.
"In a world where everyone has their own interests at heart, you've been my loyal,
selfless
servant for centuries."
There was something in her inflection on the word "selfless" that made him wonder if she was somehow mocking him.
She smiled sweetly and continued, "I just have one question.
How
did you know the gun would interest me so?"
He brightened at the chance to highlight his brilliance.
"I could see from the moment it appeared that it was ancient, and it had an air of magic about it.
Of course, it was not until the mercenary came to claim it … and the gun lit up in flames … that I knew it for what it really was."
He shuddered at the image of
Bluot
coming alive in De la Roca's hand, magic fire searing through the rust, the metal surfaces once again pristine.