Hunting in Hell by Maria Violante Read Free Book Online

traders of all types.  
    As the smattering of buildings grew larger, the hair on the back of De la Roca's neck prickled.   Is somebody watching me?   She slowed to a stop and glanced over her shoulder.   The light fluttering sensation on her neck and back intensified, and she scanned her surroundings carefully.   The dusk was throwing long shadows across the dry streets, but aside from a few drunks that were walking away from the only other bar in town, there was nobody.
    Must've gotten thrown out of the Cantina.   She pursed her lips.   The Mademoiselle is probably not going to be too happy tonight.
    She tried to scan her surroundings again, but Alsvior whickered forcefully.   "Okay, okay.   I get it."   She tapped him once on the nose for his eagerness and led him in through the double doors.

 
    Seven
     

     
    " W ell, it's about damn time!"   The mademoiselle took a lavish bow, her long hair trailing out with a flourish.  
    If she had a name, De la Roca didn't know it.   The Mademoiselle had used her title in its place for hundreds of years.   To Pico's locals, she had a smattering of unique handles and aliases.   She also had the trick of appearing differently to everyone, instinctively picking their brains for the combination of physical traits that would set them best at ease.   If your best friend from childhood was a slim brunette named Barbara, then so would be the Mademoiselle.   If your ex-wife was a curvy blonde named Vicky, the Mademoiselle would still be a slim brunette named Barbara.   And how is it that they never catch on?   Maybe that is one of the Mademoiselle's akras, as well?
    Either way, the Mademoiselle was a tricky character, if for no other reason than her vagueness of position.   De la Roca was a mercenary, Rico a supplier—but the Mademoiselle?   She was a jack of all trades, her title as the only indicator of her rank and function.    One day, she might work as an odd sort of intelligence officer, using an illusion of beauty and a free hand with drinks to divine the innermost secrets and fears of specific men.   The next, she would sell guns and supplies to a mercenary.   Still a day later, she would be tapped by an unknown power to carry messages and warnings to a demon that had gone out of line.  
    Most interestingly, she was a fountain of knowledge on the arcane and the ancient.   She never truly forgot an interesting piece of gossip, lore or myth, storing it all in a mental vault she referred to as the Archives .   She picked up rumors from odd sources—ancient dusty texts, weary travelers—and somehow knew instinctively how much of each story was a lie.
    De la Roca had even heard that she guarded a waypoint, a door between Hell and the realm of men.   She didn't know how true that last one was, though.   And since I have no desire to return to Hell, I don't particularly care to find out .
    That's sad.   Hell might be a nice place.
    "I've been busy, Mademoiselle."   De la Roca flashed the Mademoiselle a smile, before glancing at a side booth.   She had noticed the three elderly men drinking there upon entering, and didn't care much for the look of them.   Might be harmless, but you keep your cards close and your enemies closer.
    Alsvior, on his own accord, clopped up to the Mademoiselle and butted his head against her chest, demanding her attention.
    "Quit it, you old silly fool."   She giggled and returned De la Roca's smile.   "And you," she admonished, pointing at the mercenary, "need to pick a name .   People are going to get suspicious if you keep calling me the Mademoiselle .   They might even think I'm running a whorehouse up in here."   She laughed, uproarious at her own joke, and shoved Alsvior's head aside.   "Quit being a pervert, you old bag."
    He tossed his head, indignant, but when he returned it to her chest, it was far more gently.   I can't believe how good she is with him.   Given that before Alsvior met the Mademoiselle, the