Page 5 of Hounded

I was at the back of the property near the communal bathhouse when my phone rang. It buzzed against my thigh until I fished it out of my pocket. Tilting the device away from the sun’s glare, I saw the letter M above the green handset icon. No number. No need. And, of course, it was a video call.

My hound yipped, and I stifled my own growl as I swiped to answer. Moira’s face crowded onto the screen. Inky black locks curtained her pale countenance, and her eyes shone ruby rich as she smiled.

“Lorenzo,” she crooned. “Where are you, my sweet?”

“Out for a walk, Miss,” I replied.

Her mouth puckered, and her brows drew a flat line. “The question was where, not what,” she said. “Because where is nothere, and that is a problem, don’t you think?”

I veered off the road to stand in the patch of scrubby grass that served as the front yard for a singlewide on cinderblocks. My attention traveled to the home’s dented beige siding and open window. Inside, a telenovela played on a console TV.

“What problem, Miss?” I asked, only half-interested in the answer.

“You are expected to attend me today,” Moira replied. “Did you forget?”

More likely she never told me. If she had known about my scheduled pickup, I would have assumed she planned something out of spite. But my demonic mistress, and no one else in Hell, knew about Indy. He was my best kept secret, the one thing that remained solely mine after I’dsigned my life and liberty away.

A check of my visage in the front-facing camera found my expression more honest than I meant to be. I unclenched my jaw and reset to neutral before replying.

“I’m working. Can’t Whitney do it?”

My fellow hellhound would jump at the chance to hang off Moira’s arm or beg at her feet for scraps of affection. And she was always happy to let him “attend” to her needs in the bedroom. Surely, he could escort her to whatever event was going on today.

Moira’s scowl returned, more dangerous than before. Despite the scorn in her expression, her voice remained saccharine sweet. “You said you were out for a walk. That sounds leisurely for your line of ‘work.’”

It looked leisurely, too, despite me doing what I could to keep the camera angle from betraying my whereabouts. For the past century, I’d kept this corner of the world to myself. Endless assignments of running down wayward souls filled my time, and Moira largely left me to my tasks. She didn’t ask why I lingered on Earth longer than necessary or who kept my company when I wasn’t at her heel. I didn’t want her to start wondering now.

“I’m waiting.” The verbal equivalent of a toe-tap called my focus to the phone again.

I glanced at the clock at the top of the screen. 10:25 AM. That left me an hour and a half to venture to Hell, hold Moira’s arm while she schmoozed with the demonic elite, and get to Hopeful Horizons on time. It would be close.

“Yes, Miss,” I said and ended the call.

The community bathhouse was usually vacant thistime of day. It was also the only semi-private place in the trailer park, which made it the ideal spot for me to literally disappear. Abandoning my view of the telenovela, I ventured up the road.

Entering the squat cement building, I was greeted by the smell of mildew and a waft of wet air. Dead bugs dotted the fluorescent fixtures overhead, and my boots stomped through puddles that never seemed to dry. Wandering past the trough-style sink and a row of toilets stalls with warped wooden doors, I reached the bay of showers.

One was in use, occupied by a man warbling an off-key country song while the water sent up plumes of steam. I entered the neighboring bay and pulled the plastic curtain closed behind me. A clump of wet hair blanketed the drain at my feet, and I set my stance wide to avoid stepping on it. I placed my palms flat on the scummy wall, then spread them, causing a shimmering portal to yawn open. Beyond it lay the black and red interior of Moira’s private dressing room.

As soon as the opening stretched tall enough to accommodate my height, I threaded my body through the gap. It zipped shut behind me with a crackling hiss.

The swirl in my stomach felt like my hound was spinning circles, chasing his tail and burning boundless energy. His joy sent a rush of warmth through me. It tingled at first, then turned scorching hot, singeing my fingers and toes.

I clenched my hands as smoke wisped off them. The room I now inhabited was small and stuffed with plush upholstered furniture. Clothing racks lined every wall,crowded with slinky, shimmering dresses and crowned with piles of designer purses. High-heeled shoes filled a tower in the corner beside a dressing table with a large vanity mirror. A square of bare bulbs cast light across the tabletop littered with pots of makeup and eyeshadow palettes that would have made Indy jealous.

In front of that, Moira sat on a low stool with her back to me.

The demoness swiveled and stood, swathed in a gown as dark as a starless night. The neckline plunged down her chest, creating a space her ample cleavage filled. Her eyes glowed in the absent light, so warmly red it seemed she could burn me with her glare alone.

“Chop, chop.” She clapped her hands, then motioned to a tufted chaise lounge with a suit draped across it. “We are on a deadline.”

I turned toward the outfit and gave it an appraising once-over. It was a burgundy velvet tailcoat and slacks with a black satin kerchief tucked in the coat’s breast pocket. The shirt and tie were notably absent. Apparently, my mistress would not be the only one showing a bit of skin today.

Moira watched with unmasked interest while I stripped down to my boxers and donned the formal attire. With little space to maneuver in the cramped room, I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror’s reflection. The suit fit snugly, baring my chest and the silver choke chain permanently fastened around my neck. My dark hair hung past my collarbones in loose waves, and my tan skin looked even more so in the muted light.

Moira entered the frame and pressed her lithe body against mine.

Even in spiked heels, she barely crested my shoulder. She leaned past my arm to reach around with a wide piece of leather in her hands. She raised the muzzle to my face, where it snugged across my nose and mouth. The oppressive sensation was startling at first, and I resisted the urge to jerk back as she pulled the material together at the nape of my neck, reducing my airflow to the minimum.

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