“This God of yours,” this awful thing — “the Enemy,” Missus Kloves and her savages had called it — mused, examining one claw-nailed hand, as though admiring the way the sunset painted it red. “Quetzalcoatl-Love spoke of him too, and frequently. What he said sometimes reminded me of the Duality Above All, first of our kind, who made this world — perhaps as a joke, or for some sort of wager with each other — and then retreated to the sky’s palace, to let it work out its own damnation. But I have yet to hear one word thus far, for yea or nay, from that particular direction.”
“Might be you’re not fit to. I have.”
“Ah. But then, your man ‘knew’ the same — did he not? And was mistaken, for what he heard was me. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Faith, monster. Faith.”
Sophy folded her hands before her, a gesture this thing would be foolish indeed to read as demure. Fear she had, in plenty; she wouldn’t bother to deny it, even if she could. But reverence, respect, or even the appearance of such? Not for something like this, ever, no matter how deeply it might cost her.
“You used my husband’s pain against him,” she told it, steadily. “Tempted him sure as any devil with what he most wanted, at the moment of his worst weakness. But know this: though you may have secured torment for him through lies and trickery, you nevertheless betrayed your own true nature, in the doing so. Which means, having already shown me what you are, you have nothing to offer . . .
nothing I would accept, anyhow.”
“Do not be so sure of that, salt-widow.”
Though the Enemy took barely a step, it abruptly stood face to face with her, as if the space between them had briefly ceased to exist altogether. Sophy recoiled, tripped over her dress’s fraying hem, and sat down hard. Before she could move further away, however, the Enemy had already dropped to one knee, other equal-taloned hand palm-spread over her breastbone; not gripping, so much, as simply holding her down, its strength effortless.
Then leaned in to murmur: “So I cannot bargain, then . . . not even with your life?”
Though the ground drew heat out straight through Sophy’s back, quick as draining blood, her only answer was a weary sigh. To which the creature merely snorted, and took the prisoning hand away once more. “Yes, of course — you care nothing for that, expecting this Heaven of yours, no matter the way you may die in order to get there. A foolish question.” It sat, hunkered low on its calves, offering no help as Sophy pushed herself back up. “Still, if you will take nothing for yourself, you may at least wish news of interest to your colleagues here,” it nodded at the butte, “and at home. News of the War.”
Sophy sat still, examining it closely, for — whether pagan god or demonic visitor — the single thing she knew for sure about it by now was that (like so many things in a man’s shapes) it truly did love to hear itself talk.
Just as she’d suspected, she did not have long to wait.
“After much study, and my sister’s example as my guide,” the Enemy announced, “I decided it was past due time for me to take a hand in fate’s design; really, I flatter myself to think I can do no worse. And so, on the night your son removed you from the battle, I chose to protect Bewelcome-town from Ixchel’s wrath, raising walls of Weed to break her flood. Later, I told Allan Pinkerton that three nights hence — nightfall tomorrow, as you reckon time — I will challenge her to open battle, a test she can neither refuse nor accept, without vulnerability. If there is still any desire left in you to see justice done on what you call ‘Hex City,’ therefore, tomorrow night may be the best — and last — opportunity for that to be accomplished.”
Sophy stared. “Why . . . would you care?”
The Enemy’s grin widened. “Why not? It will be a great jest on someone, no matter who. Perhaps that is enough, for me.”
Inside her head, meanwhile, its voice vised down yet further: resonant, bone-deep. Adding, Or then again, perhaps you should consider it simply — providence.
Above, the sun squeezed out, a shaken coal. And a second later, without noise or light, Sophy stood alone; the Enemy was gone, leaving not even mist behind. Night fell with desert speed to show the stars ablaze, diamond-hard and cold, in the sky above.
Sophy sat a few minutes more, lips moving. Praying, she hoped. Cursing, she suspected.
But the blood-din in her ears was far too l
oud for her to hear either way, and that, in itself, was occasion enough to give thanks, however hollow. So she waited until it dimmed, then regained her feet, and began trudging back northeast toward the butte.
On the chill night air, sound carried well, and far. Which was how Sophy came to hear the argument already in progress long before she crested the last sloping turn in the path ’round the butte that hid the war party’s cave. The brave standing guard didn’t make any sort of stab at greeting her at all, merely turning a pair of expressionless black eyes her way, a sight which might’ve unnerved her, once. But not just now, seeing her last conversation had been with something far more terrifying than either of them was ever likely to be, to the other.
So she simply nodded at him and passed by, skirts in hand. Kept on climbing, ’til at last she found her way to the small, smokeless fire ’round which the others sat gathered.
That ill-cobbled rock-creature — “Grandma,” Yancey Kloves called her, a Hell-bound ghost recalled only momentarily from God’s judgement by her feud with Lady Rainbow — squatted motionless at the cave’s back like some ancient idol. Across from her, the heathen Chinee witch-girl sat blanket-wrapped and shivering, with only one slant eye peeping out from under a snowy fall of hair; an exhausted-looking Missus Kloves sat between with Gabe, trying unsuccessfully to soothe him, while he fussed and wriggled.
Doesn’t know a thing about babies, Sophy found herself thinking, scornfully. And before she could reconsider, her arms were already out, fingers on one hand snapping impatiently. “Give him me,” she heard herself tell Missus Kloves. “You change him already?”
“Half-hour back.”
“Then he’s hungry, so pass him over.” At the other woman’s look: “Really, ma’am, just what is it you think I’m likely to do to him, exactly? He’s still my son, no matter his — state, and unless there’s something going on here I’m not privy to, you won’t be able to feed him. He can’t even take mash, as yet.”
Still, Missus Kloves hesitated. In the end, it was that Apache man-woman, The Night Has Passed — half-clad and rude in her breeches and shirtless vest, yet whose restless energy reminded Sophy, in a strange way, of Mesach himself — who leaned in and plucked Gabe from her, to plop him down into Sophy’s grasp. “She talks sense, dead-speaker — for the first time in a full day and night, as well. I would listen, if only so we may return to what we speak of.”
“Grandma” nodded, the move itself one dusty grunt, like the puff from a smallish rockslide, then shot a question in that shirr-clicking tongue of hers Missus Kloves’ way. Who answered, in English, “Sure as I can be, given the limits of this particular method. And speaking of limits . . .” Here she gave another quick, furtive glance Sophy’s way, before continuing: “. . . since not all of us have the — knack — I do for understanding you, Spinner, if Missus Love’s going to sit in, then I’m sure she’d take it as a courtesy if you tried your best to use our own tongue.”
“We would have no need for courtesy at all,” Songbird muttered, “could she simply surpass her own blind fear of the ch’i’s effects, and allow us one simple translation spell.”