Hunting in Hell by Maria Violante Page A

her skin crawl.   Worse, his voice sounded fuzzy, interlaced with static and somehow underwater.  
    Is my hearing always this bad?   And what did he call me?   Della?   Is that my name?   She tried to search through her memories, but her mind was a whitewashed room.  
    "I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are.    I like your horse, though."
    "I am sorry, De la Roca," he mumbled, as if to himself.   "You must have touched the stone."
    Her response was interrupted by the crunch of approaching footsteps and the lilting notes of a woman's voice. "Hello, darling."
    Should I know you, too?  
    "She can't remember anything."   Laufeyson shook his head.   "It's like the day she arrived."
    The woman narrowed her green eyes.   "Nothing?   Nothing at all?"
    Laufeyson shook his head and flicked his fingers, and another cigarette appeared between his thumb and forefinger.   "Not a thing."
    "Interesting.   I shall have to think about that."
    * * *
     
    The Mademoiselle sank into a cross-legged position and stretched her head back.   There was a slight pop, and she rolled her shoulders and sighed in relief.   Getting too old to keep sitting like that.
    She remembered how old she really was, and she had to chuckle.   She gave another sigh, this one a bit lighter than the last, and switched gears.   "I'm sure that this amnesia is related to a kevra stone.   Do you think De la Roca was victorious?"
    "Maybe."   Laufeyson shrugged his shoulders.   "There's no demon in the Phoenix Well anymore, if that's what you mean."
    "Well, can I see the stone?"
    The movement was so fast that she almost didn't register it—almost.   The way his eyes flicked to one side, it was almost as if . . . as if he was afraid of something.
    "It's gone."   Every trace of nervousness was gone from his face, but she knew what she had seen.
    "What do you mean, gone?"
    "I mean, I can't find it."
    What?   Gears turned in the Mademoiselle's head.   Something about this fiasco was not adding up— and after all that work?
    She shuddered when she thought of the risks she had taken in the last few days.   I reported this to Golden . . . to the Pentarch.   That alone could come back to send her to a grizzly death.
    If she could just get her hands on it— her fingers tightened, almost involuntarily, as if around the grip of a gun, and she had to concentrate to loosen them.
    I should jump you, torture you until you tell me what I need to know.   "I see."   She guarded her expression carefully, and took care that her eyes did not meet his.
    You know as well as I do, Wolf-Man, that that doesn't make any damn sense.   Stones don't juts disappear.   Gone?   How about taken?
    And what are you planning to do with it, anyways?   She grit her teeth together, savoring the tension in her jaw.   Well, I've got some tricks up my sleeve too, cowboy.
    * * *
     
    I do not like him.   He is hiding something.     De la Roca tallied her reasons for her distrust.  
    First, the woman known as the Mademoiselle was uncomfortable in his presence.   Their conversation had been terse, and it had not escaped De la Roca that she never turned her back to him.   In fact, this is the first time she's left me alone with him, and I don't think she had a choice.     The Mademoiselle had seemed preoccupied before she left, mumbling something about going back to the Well to look for clues.
    Secondly, and more importantly, his own horse seemed to dislike him.   It avoided his presence, shirked away from physical contact, and refused to let him mount.   It had even bitten him twice.   If my horse don't like you, I don't either . . . She paused.   The thought had come from the other side of the blank slate in her mind, she was sure of it.   What did that mean?   Am I a horsewoman, too?
    Her stomach twisted with sudden pain, and she wondered how long it had been since she had eaten.   "Do we have any food?"
    "Perhaps, but why?" Laufeyson's eyebrows knit together in a