of his dreams, I'd hazard a fair guess that the idea of 'rock' has something to do with your real name. So how about it? You're going to need a name to get anywhere in this world, so how does 'De la Roca' strike you?"
* * *
The name suited her. She had known that instinctively. What she didn't know was if she was the demon the man had dreamed of, or if his dreams meant anything, but the name fit her as if made for her. So De la Roca it was, and had been ever since.
The Mademoiselle rose up from the bar, seemingly oblivious to her reverie. She walked around the room, straightening tables and tucking in chairs.
"You know, the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go."
De la Roca found her feet. "I thought you wanted to do it yourself. You usually do."
"Yes, but this 'Phoenix Well' thing has got me all a-twitter . I'm ready to get cracking on it."
They set about straightening the rest of the bar, until a thought occurred to De la Roca.
"One question." The quiet had been so perfect, so comfortable, that breaking it put an odd thickness in her throat.
"Yes honey?"
"What happened to him?"
"To whom?" The Mademoiselle gave the last word a slight lilt.
"To the Mexican, the one that named me."
Her smile was grim, the closest thing to evil that De la Roca had ever seen depicted on her face.
"Why, honey, after that night, he stopped having the dreams. He eventually wound up running that bar across town. That is, until a certain mercenary strung him up on a fence." She continued without slackening her pace, her hands sorting bottles and straightening napkin holders with a polished flair. "Really, De la Roca, you've got to remember that men are men. They can't help how dirty their minds are. It's in their biology."
De la Roca had other questions, but they finished the work in silence.
Eight
L aufeyson wanted a cigarette— badly —but he was fairly certain that either the glow or the odor would give him away.
Damn .
He'd been skulking right outside of the window for hours, listening to the conversations of the two female demons and evaluating their progress. Honestly, it didn't have any bearing on his objective, but he was curious.
He was unsure about De la Roca, although he wouldn't admit that to anyone—at least, not anymore. She had made mistakes with the lamprey, major mistakes that could have easily ended everything. She had depended a lot on luck, although she was luckier than most, luckier perhaps than she knew. Few understood that luck was a skill in and of itself.
He doubted she knew much about herself though, even after all these years.
Who does? He reflexively manifested another cigarette. The craving was so great, he thought it might kill him. He could feel the soft texture of the paper in his fingers, the gentle rustle as he slid them down its length, and the faintest odor of tobacco wafted to his nose. Calling on his deepest reserves of self-control, he manifested it back away. There was a lot riding on this, a lot, and if De la Roca caught him skulking around outside of the Cantina in Pico, she wasn't going to be open to listening to his explanations. Not that he had any to give. He doubted she'd really appreciate the fine intricacies of the truth.
Or of his lies.
No, best to leave her alone with the Mademoiselle, and wait and see how this whole thing plays out.
He heard their approach only seconds before they passed into his line of sight. By then, though, he had leapt up onto the roof and laid himself flat against the tile. Tapping his kevra , he sought the cave inside, a dead hollow devoid of thought or breath, and let it pull him in. Within moments, he fell into himself, and his form vanished from the outside world.
It was dangerous, using his kevra . There was always the possibility that when he submerged himself in the placid waters of his inner oasis, he would go too
* * *
The name suited her. She had known that instinctively. What she didn't know was if she was the demon the man had dreamed of, or if his dreams meant anything, but the name fit her as if made for her. So De la Roca it was, and had been ever since.
The Mademoiselle rose up from the bar, seemingly oblivious to her reverie. She walked around the room, straightening tables and tucking in chairs.
"You know, the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go."
De la Roca found her feet. "I thought you wanted to do it yourself. You usually do."
"Yes, but this 'Phoenix Well' thing has got me all a-twitter . I'm ready to get cracking on it."
They set about straightening the rest of the bar, until a thought occurred to De la Roca.
"One question." The quiet had been so perfect, so comfortable, that breaking it put an odd thickness in her throat.
"Yes honey?"
"What happened to him?"
"To whom?" The Mademoiselle gave the last word a slight lilt.
"To the Mexican, the one that named me."
Her smile was grim, the closest thing to evil that De la Roca had ever seen depicted on her face.
"Why, honey, after that night, he stopped having the dreams. He eventually wound up running that bar across town. That is, until a certain mercenary strung him up on a fence." She continued without slackening her pace, her hands sorting bottles and straightening napkin holders with a polished flair. "Really, De la Roca, you've got to remember that men are men. They can't help how dirty their minds are. It's in their biology."
De la Roca had other questions, but they finished the work in silence.
Eight
L aufeyson wanted a cigarette— badly —but he was fairly certain that either the glow or the odor would give him away.
Damn .
He'd been skulking right outside of the window for hours, listening to the conversations of the two female demons and evaluating their progress. Honestly, it didn't have any bearing on his objective, but he was curious.
He was unsure about De la Roca, although he wouldn't admit that to anyone—at least, not anymore. She had made mistakes with the lamprey, major mistakes that could have easily ended everything. She had depended a lot on luck, although she was luckier than most, luckier perhaps than she knew. Few understood that luck was a skill in and of itself.
He doubted she knew much about herself though, even after all these years.
Who does? He reflexively manifested another cigarette. The craving was so great, he thought it might kill him. He could feel the soft texture of the paper in his fingers, the gentle rustle as he slid them down its length, and the faintest odor of tobacco wafted to his nose. Calling on his deepest reserves of self-control, he manifested it back away. There was a lot riding on this, a lot, and if De la Roca caught him skulking around outside of the Cantina in Pico, she wasn't going to be open to listening to his explanations. Not that he had any to give. He doubted she'd really appreciate the fine intricacies of the truth.
Or of his lies.
No, best to leave her alone with the Mademoiselle, and wait and see how this whole thing plays out.
He heard their approach only seconds before they passed into his line of sight. By then, though, he had leapt up onto the roof and laid himself flat against the tile. Tapping his kevra , he sought the cave inside, a dead hollow devoid of thought or breath, and let it pull him in. Within moments, he fell into himself, and his form vanished from the outside world.
It was dangerous, using his kevra . There was always the possibility that when he submerged himself in the placid waters of his inner oasis, he would go too
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