Must Love Hellhounds

Charlaine Harris, Nalini Singh, Ilona Andrews, Meljean Brook Must Love Hellhounds

Collection copyright © 2009

The Britlingens Go to Hell by Charlaine Harris

Batanya and Clovache were cleaning their armor in one of the courtyards of the Britlingen Collective, which sits atop a hill in the ancient city of Spauling. It was a fine summer day, and they sat on benches that they’d positioned to catch the sun.

“I’m as pale as a pooka belly,” Clovache said.

“Not quite,” Batanya said, after looking at Clovache rather seriously. Batanya was the older of the two; she was twenty-eight to Clovache’s twenty-four. Batanya was pale, too, since she spent most of her time in armor of one kind or another, but that didn’t bother Batanya.

“Oh, thank you. Not quite,” Clovache said, imitating Batanya’s husky voice. It was a pretty bad imitation. Batanya smiled. She and Clovache had worked together for five years, and there wasn’t much they didn’t know about each other. They had both done most of their growing up within the Collective walls.

“You are a bit like a pooka, though. Your hair is the same color as the back fur, and you like the night life better than the daylight. But I’m sure you wouldn’t taste as good deep-fried.”

Clovache stretched out a foot to kick Batanya, very lightly. “We’ll go out to eat later,” she said. “How about Pooka Palace?”

Batanya nodded. “Unless Trovis is there. If he’s in the place, I’m leaving.”

The two women worked in a friendly silence for a few minutes. They were polishing what they called their “liquid armor,” the most popular single item of body defense in the Britlingen’s huge collection. Liquid armor wasn’t really liquid. It resembled a wet suit more than anything, but it was considerably easier to don. There was a keypad the size of a credit card on the chest. It allowed for communication with anyone else wearing a similar suit, and it had a personal sequence programmed into it that allowed only one wearer to use the armor. The material would toughen when the sequence was pressed in, to allow the wearer to be almost invulnerable; without this procedure, the armor was ineffective. The protocol had been added to prevent the armor from being stolen. Before the code had been added, a few Britlingens had been murdered for their armor. It was used in cooler weather. The two women had already cleaned their summer-weight gear.

Batanya had turned her suit inside out and was cleaning the inner surface with a pleasant-scented solvent from a large green pot. Clovache was using the all-purpose cleaner on the hardened pieces that could be strapped on over the liquid armor.

Clovache threw a finished piece down on the towel she’d spread on the ground and picked up another one. “Hard drill this morning,” she observed.

“Trovis was not in a good mood,” Batanya said.

“And why would that be?” Clovache asked, trying to sound innocent.

Batanya flushed a little, causing the scar that ran across her right cheek to stand out. Clovache had heard people tease Batanya about the scar, but they only did it once. “He tried to jump me in the bathroom last night. I had to give him an elbow to the gut. Trovis is making a fool of himself.”

Clovache agreed. “If he’s trying to show you who’s boss, he is a fool,” she said. “And if he keeps it up, I shall go to Flechette and put it to her that Trovis should be removed from his command.”

“That would make Trovis crazy, which is a good thing,” Batanya said. “But it would make us look weak.”

Clovache looked startled, but after a moment, she nodded. “I understand. We should be able to eat whatever Trovis puts on the table.” She tested the strength of a strap. “If worse comes to worst, perhaps he’ll have an accident.”

“Hush your mouth,” Batanya said, genuinely shocked. “After all-”

“Britlingens don’t kill Britlingens,” Clovache said dutifully. “We leave that to the rest of the world.”

That was the first lesson a novice learned when he or she came to the fortress.

“There are exceptions,” Clovache said stubbornly as she gathered up her armor. “And his obsession with you provides one.”

“Not for you to say.” Batanya stood, the sheet containing all her paraphernalia draped over one shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the gate in a couple of hours?”

“Surely,” her junior said.

Later that same afternoon, the two bodyguards strolled down to the Pooka Palace. Batanya grumbled about the narrow streets and their ancient cobblestones, which made it very impractical to keep a hovercraft at the castle. This was a source of grief to Batanya, who loved to drive fast.