Charlaine Harris - Must Love Hellhounds

“Listen, Amelia, Clovache,” Batanya said. She didn’t like that Narcissus could overhear, but she had no option. She had no writing materials, and she wasn’t telepathic, and she didn’t know sign language. When I get back, she thought, I’ll ask the teachers to put sign language on the curriculum. She smiled. It was extremely unlikely they’d live to do that, but she could tell her survival sense had decreed that she should plan on it.

Amelia and Clovache both came to the front of their cages.

“How long do we have before they feed us?” Batanya asked Amelia.

Amelia pondered. “They should be by with something pretty soon,” she said. “The feeding’s not exactly regular, but we do get three meals a day. It’s pretty much the same food no matter what the time of day is: not really breakfast, dinner, supper.”

Batanya said, “We have to get out of here. Sooner or later, Lucifer will get tired of Crick, or he’ll forget he doesn’t want to alienate the Collective-we’ll explain that to you later, Amelia-and he’ll have us killed, or we’ll meet an ‘accident.’ You’ll notice he’s pretty careless with his soldiers.”

“I’m listening,” Amelia said. “What about sissy-boy, here?” She nodded toward Narcissus’s cage. A glance told Batanya that the beautiful youth was busy brushing his chestnut hair.

“He’s all for himself,” Batanya said. “The best we can hope is that he doesn’t get in our way.” Narcissus, still sans clothing, began examining his body, pore by pore, as far as Batanya could tell. He lifted his genitals, gave them a good scan, and then dropped his package as casually as if it’d been a bunch of wilted flowers.

“What’s your plan?” Clovache said.

“Here it is.” It didn’t take long to explain.

In a little while, two guards (the one who’d escaped the hellhounds, and Sha) brought in a cart with four large bowls. The pass-through hatches for the bowls were at the bottom of the bars in the door, and each bowl was shoved through with very little care for whether it slopped over or not. A bucket of water followed it. This must have been intended for both washing and drinking, since there was a dipper hanging from the side of the bucket. Sha, the snakeman, still found Clovache attractive and showed his admiration openly.

“Show me what you’ve got, little one,” he hissed to Clovache, who looked a little anxious. Sha had a spear, and a dagger thrust through his belt. Lucifer had ordered the guards not to go into the cells, but Sha might disobey.

“He can’t let you out, and he can’t go in,” Amelia said. “He doesn’t have the key on his belt.” Batanya could tell by the relaxation in her shoulders that Clovache was relieved, though her face remained stony as he continued to tell her what he’d like to do with her.

“Who does have the key?” Batanya said to Amelia. She didn’t want Clovache to think she was worried. “The other guard doesn’t have it either.”

“I think the commander of the guard has it at all times, at least as far as I’ve been able to see. That would be the wolfy one called Marl.”

Clovache grew tired of Sha’s suggestive remarks and told him to fuck off. Batanya laughed, but she noticed that Amelia looked quite shocked. “I’m sorry,” Batanya called. “We are rough soldiers, and our language is sometimes just as rough.”

Amelia’s face cleared, and she managed to smile back at Batanya.

“Did you notice how that guard couldn’t take his eyes off me?” Narcissus asked, and the three women sighed in unison.

Batanya hunkered down to examine the contents of her supper bowl. She had a very rudimentary Plan A, and she turned it over in her head while she ate.

There was no Plan B.

Like good Britlingens, Batanya and Clovache consumed everything in their bowls. Batanya wasn’t sure what the meal was-some kind of noodle and some meat, though what the creature had originally been was anybody’s guess-but it wasn’t spoiled. She sniffed very carefully for poison, and asked Amelia how she’d felt after the other meals she’d eaten.

“Fine,” Amelia said, astonished.

At last Clovache took a mouthful to see if the food was drugged, since that was the job of a junior. The Britlingens waited for a few minutes.

“I feel fine,” Clovache said, and without further ado they dug in. There was a hunk of bread in the bowl, too, and it was fairly good. No vegetables; she guessed those would have been hard to produce underground. Not a healthy meal, but it would supply the energy they’d need.

“Save a bit of meat,” Batanya said.

After they’d eaten and rested, the two Britlingens exercised. Amelia and Narcissus were interested, Amelia because she was obviously a normally active woman and because she was bored, and Narcissus because he thought exercise might improve his body. Amelia showed them how to do “jumping jacks,” which amused Batanya. They ran in place, lunged, squatted, punched at the air in jabs (Amelia called that “shadow boxing”), and completed a hundred push-ups (at least, Clovache and Batanya completed a hundred). After a few more exercises, they all took a nap, for lack of anything better to do. The guards didn’t reappear for at least four hours, and then when they opened the door at the end of the corridor, it was to push the cart through again, so it was time for lunch… or maybe supper. Possibly breakfast?

Batanya was ashamed that she’d lost track of how many hours they’d moved through the tunnels before they’d been captured. They’d left Spauling in the middle of the afternoon, though that didn’t necessarily mean they’d arrived in Hell at the same time of day. And, really, did it make a difference? Some of the denizens of Hell were sure to be awake around the clock.

When she heard the click of the hounds’ claws on the stone floor, Batanya got ready, though her hands were not steady and sweat was already trickling down her back.

“I fucking hate dogs,” she whispered, but Clovache heard her.

“Have you reached in your pocket?” Clovache asked.

“Your outfits don’t have pockets,” Amelia said.

“We brought our own,” Batanya told her.

After a particularly successful mission, their client had given Clovache and Batanya a sizable bonus. Clovache had wanted to take a trip to Pardua and go to the famous male whorehouse there to see the dancing, but Batanya had persuaded her to visit a special medical technician instead. Batanya had a false wall in one cheek, prepared with careful and expensive surgery. In that secret thin pocket, she’d stowed a small flat blade. It was sharp enough and long enough to open a vein, whether her own or someone else’s, but it was strictly an emergency option.

The time had come to use it.

Clovache had a similar false pouch on the underside of her arm, high up near the pit. A very thorough search would have uncovered her pocket, and possibly Batanya’s, but they hadn’t been searched very thoroughly, proof of the fact that the worst soldiers got prison guard duty in Hell. Clovache stepped to the front of her cell at the moment Batanya did.

“Narcissus,” Clovache said. The young man stopped examining his fingernails and looked at her. “Don’t be upset,” she said steadily. “I promise you they’ll heal.”

“Good luck,” Amelia said, very quietly, as the hounds entered the jail corridor. Their massive black heads swung from side to side, as if they were considering who would taste best. Their red eyes glowed like burning coals.

The Britlingens held out the bits of meat they’d saved, for the hounds’ inspection. They were standing as close together as they could get at the juncture of their cells. Noses twitching, the two beasts approached cautiously. Clovache’s hand was just within the bars, and the hound sniffing at her meat shoved his head closer. It was much too broad to fit between the bars, but his nose extended inside the cell. While Clovache’s left hand fed the hound, her right hand slid between the bars to grip the broad studded collar, and then her tiny blade scored the hound’s skin at the neck. A gush of blood told her she’d struck the best spot, and that blood sprayed on the bars of the cell as the hound reared back, baying and shrieking.