Hunting in Hell (4 page)

“I BESTOW UPON YOU THIS AKRA OF LESSER BEINGS AND ANIMALS.

“I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF DOORS.

“I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF SEXUAL CONFUSION.

“I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF HEALING.

“I BESTOW UPON YOU THE AKRA OF GUNS AND BULLETS.

“THESE ARE THE GIFTS OF GOD, TO DO YOUR HOLY WORK.”

The Angel blinked again, and she fell to the sand, her head swimming as sweet air rushed into her lungs.

Three

D
e La Roca started out in the early morning.
 
The air was still moist, although the sky was no longer pink.
 
She leaned back a little in the saddle, stretching her back.
 
“You know, the tracking is always the hardest part.”

Alsvior chuffed.
 

“I’m a woman of action and bullets, not of trailing around with my ear to the ground.”
 
She waved at the golden, eyeless body that hung over the front of her saddle.
 
“Tengu here makes a good case in point.”

Alsvior whickered and flicked an ear, and she shook her head.
 
“No, there is some kind of enchantment on his body.
 
That’s why he doesn’t burn.
 
I wouldn’t want his
kevra
stone, anyways.”
 

Are you sure about that?

She shrugged her shoulders.
 
“Keep your eyes and ears open, eh?
 
We’re going in the direction that the Angel demanded, but I get the feeling this target is a strange one.”

And how.
 
Most of those that escaped from Hell tried desperately to remain out of the way, in rural locations where the lack of congestion lowered the chance of being discovered.
 
De La Roca chuckled.
 
It might take me a little longer, but permanent evasion is impossible
.

This one had holed itself up in Jal, New Mexico.
 
She didn’t know why it would pick such a densely populated location, but she had a few guesses.

She'd have to go talk to some people.
 

De La Roca smiled.
 
She didn't know what kind of demon she had been before Hell, but in her current form, she was an
expert
interrogator.

* * *

"Now that you mention it, I
did
notice a few customers acting oddly.
 
They were all pale, like third-shifters that hadn't seen sunlight in a while.
 
I generally get a few of those, but in the recent weeks, it's been more and more.
 
I'm wondering if the factory is changing its shifts around."
 
The bartender grunted and rubbed his chin.
 
"Last night, the entire flock looked like a mob of zombies."
 

Starched white shirt, black slacks, red stripe running down either side.
 
His outfit reminded De la Roca of her early days as a mercenary.
 
Once, she had stopped for information at a bar in Pico and met another bartender that was attired in the exact same outfit.
 
The two even cleaned glasses in the same way, with a wide, sweeping rub that suggested the need to burn off some energy.
 

She ground her teeth gently, trying not to betray her worry.
 
Usually, when demons took up shop, humans felt their influence and acted strangely.
 
But zombies?
 
Everybody knows there is no such thing as zombies
.
 
Well, not exactly.

Maybe it’s a feeder.

She groaned inwardly at the serpent-voice’s suggestion.
 
It makes sense.
 
A feeder needed the energy of the humans around it to manifest its powers.
 
Of course, they aren’t exactly offering.
 
Most likely, they wouldn't be able to remember it.

If it is a feeder, and these people are in that bad of shape, it’s got to be close by.

"Thank you, partner."
 
She tipped her hat at him.
 
He returned it with a leer, the kind that men with wedding rings don’t usually give single women.

Well now.
 
She smiled widely.
 
She knew the way it looked, dazzling at first.
 
A second glance, though, would reveal canines sharp enough to be disconcerting.

The bartender cast his gaze downwards, cleared his throat, and resumed polishing his glass.

De La Roca smiled.
 
Smart
.
 
Often, it seemed to her that some men—or even some women—had a death wish, poking about where they shouldn't.

She grinned and her mind went back to the bartender in Pico.
 
Only three centuries ago.
 
 
Sometimes, she
still
heard talk about his gruesome death in bars on stormy nights, or from grizzled old policemen that never quite remembered her afterwards.
 
Who knew how many generations they had passed it down as local legend, fathers impressing the story's lessons upon their naïve sons?
 
Though many details didn't match the
reality
of what had transpired, she was always flattered.
 
When it came to
imaginative
murder, she was one of the best.

"Can you tell me anything else about these
zombies?
"

“I don't really know, except that most of them work at the Stoker Firearms plant.”
 
He glanced nervously at the door, and she imagined he was eager for her to be on her way.
 
Fine by me.
 
I got what I needed.

Without any sort of goodbye, she walked outside, expecting him to remain behind the bar.
 
Instead, he followed her out, glass still in hand.

 
*

The Spanish-looking cowgirl stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew hard.
 
The whistle sounded out, a flat blast that shot through the terrain, bouncing on concrete faces and echoing off of buildings.
 
The bartender held his breath, afraid to speak.
 
He could barely hear the drumming, a low heartbeat that grew louder with each passing second.
 

Hooves
.
 

There was a moment for the man to doubt the wisdom and perhaps legality of riding a horse through downtown Jal, and then the stallion broke into view.

And what a stallion!
 
The bartender’s mouth fell open at its size and strength.
 
It was a Shire, an enormous draft horse with a head the size of a microwave oven.
 
As it ran closer, pounding the asphalt of the road, the bartender estimated it to be at least a good nineteen hands tall and over two thousand pounds, maybe even two thousand five hundred.

The horse bore down on the barkeep without slowing.

Oh god, it’s going to run me over.

Paralyzed, he closed his eyes and held his breath.
 
At the last possible second, the horse veered off to the left, passing by so closely that he was whipped by the silky tail.

"Alsvior," said the cowgirl.
 
She didn’t shout, but somehow, he could hear her over the din of hooves and wind and the snorting of the horse.
  
"Alsvior, stop showing off."

The stallion circled around once at a dead sprint, and the cowgirl raised a hand.
 
As soon as the horse saw her motion, it pulled up short and whinnied indignantly.

"Alsvior,
relax
.
 
I wouldn't have actually done it," she said, although in reference to what, he didn't know.
 
She’s too far from it to abuse it in any way that I can see.

Her stallion refused to come any nearer, though, and she was forced to walk over to him to mount.
 
Once she was on, it kicked a few times and shot forward before rearing menacingly, almost smacking the bartender in the face with its front hooves.
 

“Damn you!”
 
She jammed a spur into the horse's ribs, and it settled immediately. Finally, she coaxed it into turning away and urged it into a gallop.

Filled with the feeling he had just witnessed something otherworldly, the bartender watched them shrink to small specks on the horizon.
 
Once they had disappeared, he blinked rapidly and shook his head a few times, as if to clear it.
 

He looked down at the glass at his hand
.
 
Why had he brought it outside?
 
Was there something out here?
  
And why was it so damn dusty?
After a few moments, his concern faded as easily as his memory had, and he went back inside to get ready for the night shift.

FOUR

I
t had to be a firearms factory.
 
De la Roca scowled.
 
Not a cheese factory, or a refrigerator factory, or even a fluffy pillow factory—no, it had to be guns.
 
The square edifice loomed ahead, bleak and desolate, overshadowing the other buildings on the street.
 
There was not a soul in sight.
 

Briefly, she debated some of the
akra
s and even the
kevra
this demon might have.
 
Object levitation?
 
She imagined the guns floating through the air, firing off bullets haphazardly, and her mouth became a grim line.
  

Teleportation?
 
Both?
 
Or maybe it was something she had never seen before, although she doubted it.
 
De La Roca was getting to the point where she had seen pretty much everything.
 
Why pick a gun factory, unless you could use the guns?

Maybe I should go back and find the Mademoiselle.
 
She might be able to tell me something about what to expect in there
.

She had already reached for the reins when the rattlesnake voice popped into her ear.

What was your kevra, do you think?

She had often asked herself the same question.
 
Each time she made a kill and took the stone, she wondered how close its powers were to the power she once had, but couldn't remember.
 
And every time, she looked within herself, searching for a stirring of familiarity, but it never came.

No!
 
Go away!

She shoved the rattlesnake voice back into the part of her mind where it couldn't bother her—at least for a while.
 
Now was the time to focus or die, and she preferred to avoid the latter.
 

Alsvior slowed, his ears twitching.
 
Attuned to her mount, she froze.
 
Like his, her ears searched the surrounding terrain for noise, but there weren't any signs of life.