Page 22 of Hounded

I swung the blade end of my glaive toward the tires. It caught the front one, slitting the rubber and letting loose a whoosh of air. The lieutenant swore through the broken window as the vehicle veered wildly. It smashed into the wall of the alley where metal scraped against masonry with a spray of fiery sparks. The racket invaded my ears, almost as aggressive as a physical assault. I staggered as the car continued backing, then let out a growl before sprinting after it. The pain in my leg subsided to a dull ache while thick, black blood dribbled past my knee.

A rush of adrenaline hit me, and speed kicked in as I leaped toward the retreating vehicle. I landed on the hood hard enough to dent it, then sunk my shadowy claws intothe metal to anchor myself in place.

Smoke curled from my feet where I crouched and glared through the windshield at the stricken cop. I swung my polearm around, cracking the shaft against the glass and splintering it.

The engine roared beneath me as the car sped backward. I slipped, falling onto my knees while digging my claws deeper into the hood. A bestial snarl ripped up my throat.

Traffic was thinning. It was late enough that most people had arrived at their nightly destinations. It left space in the road for the patrol car to maneuver awkwardly, bumping over a curb where it nearly collided with a fire hydrant before shifting into drive.

The windshield cracked again as a bullet rocketed through it. I felt the kiss of its heat as it whizzed past my cheek.

My hound snapped his teeth and snarled, pushing me to forfeit my grip on the hood and wield my polearm with both hands. This was definitely a battle now. I couldn’t kill Abernathy this way, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking shots at me.

I thrust my glaive forward, then threw it like a javelin through the hole in the windshield. It plunged into Abernathy’s chest, pinning him to his seat. He bellowed in pain.

The patrol car screeched to a stop in the middle of the street, perpendicular to oncoming traffic.

Horns honked, and brakes squealed as cars veered around us. I managed to tune them out until one pair of headlights bore down on us with unrelenting speed. Toofast to be driving in busy Brooklyn and approaching far too quickly considering the cop car obstacle blocking three lanes.

A final, lingering horn blast served as a warning I had no time to heed before a boxy white van collided with the front quarter panel of Abernathy’s car. The terrible crunch folded the hood and sent me flying. I hit the pavement, skidding across grit that ripped up both sides of my spine. The impact knocked the air out of me, and I lay gasping, reminding myself that I was a dead thing, and I didn’t need to breathe.

My hound whined shrilly like a siren going off in my ears.

One gunshot may have gone unnoticed, but Abernathy had wasted three bullets on me, and pedestrians couldn’t ignore traffic piling up around the crumpled cars leaking engine oil and fumes.

I shoved myself to sitting, searching for my glaive and realizing belatedly that I’d left it lodged in Abernathy’s chest. The weapon jutted through the squad car’s fractured windshield, drawing the attention of concerned strangers who flocked around the damaged vehicles. I watched with them as my polearm disintegrated into ash, and the lieutenant slumped sideways, lifeless. The crash had done my job for me.

My jostled ribs popped into place as I picked myself up off the ground. Bystanders gawked. When I moved toward them, they parted like a receding wave. I was bloodied but barely bruised by the time I made it through the gaggle of onlookers and down the next block. Another alley lined with smelly dumpsters provided the cover I needed to face a graffitied patch of wall, draw a portal, and step through it.

9

Loren

One downside to myability to travel between planes was that every homecoming brought me directly to Moira’s side. As I emerged in Hell, the usual stinging, burning sensation nipped at my fingers and toes. I shook it off, then surveyed the space in which I’d been deposited.

It was a large, windowless room made of craggy cobblestone. A tray-like inset ran the length of one wall, pooled with a line of fire that provided the only light. Across from that, fifty barred iron cages were stacked floor to ceiling, side to side.

The kennels.

Memories of my time spent here were poignant despite decades of relative freedom. Time had become my enemy in this room; solitude and silence were the things I learned to fear most. I nearly lost my mind in the days and weeks spent thinking I would do anything to be able to stretch my legs or sit up straight. Anything. Even bow at the feet of the demoness who had ordered my confinement.

I was used to the cages being empty,so it unnerved me to see wide eyes and muzzled faces peering between the bars. Pitiful cries pierced the air, grumbles and whines that were a mix of human and canine. Howl for Hope had been a success. Every cage was occupied.

Moira stood in the center of the space, speaking enthusiastically with the demon from the gala, Karst. Whitney held his position at our mistress’s side, off leash for the moment. His head cocked toward me and seemed to direct the attention of the other two.

“Ah, Lorenzo!” Moira spun toward me. A gauzy black gown billowed around her legs as she walked forward.

She took my hands in hers and held them while smiling. “I wondered where you got off to, but then I saw Abernathy’s soul come in, and I thought, that’s my good boy.” Her voice held a sort of croon as she pressed into me. “Doing what he’s told. Making me proud.”

Whitney lurked behind her with his hands clasped behind his back in that rigid, military pose. If he’d told Moira the reason I’d given for my unbidden departure, she wasn’t letting on.

I nodded slowly, dodging her eyes. “Yes, Miss.”

She moved her grip to my elbows, then pushed me backward and looked me over. “My, you look dreadful. He didn’t make it easy on you, hmm?”

She swept my hair to the side, then dusted her hands down my hole-ridden, bloodstained sweater and jeans, replacing them as she went. A white linen shirt hung open halfway down my chest, barely obscuring the smear of black left by the bullet wound.

When pressed slacks took the place of my jeans, Moira unbuttoned them then let the zipper down, tucking myshirt in all the way around before giving the waistband a tug that rocked my hips into hers. A ripple of discomfort swept over me, and I turned my head aside to focus on a spot on the floor as her breath rushed hot across my neck.

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