Page 71 of Hounded

Indy and I became a tangle of limbs as we squeezed past each other, raking over the gearshift and knocking into the steering wheel in an awkward scramble. With us both in our seats and a bit winded from the scurry, I released the emergency brake and shifted into drive.

We peeled out of the empty lot with the RPM needle hitting the red line. Indy’s mood changed from questioning to delighted while the Pontiac’s motor roared. He cranked down his window, and my hound howled as night air coursed through the car.

The radio blared the Beastie Boys, and Indy belted out song lyrics while I watched in the rearview as Whitney’s silhouette faded from view.

25

Loren

I didn’t tell Indyabout the art exhibition, and we never did get that ice cream. After the near-miss with Whitney, I took him home, then spent the next few days worrying.

Of course, the other hellhound had seen us. There had been nothing else to look at besides the muscle car racing out of the abandoned lot. That was damning enough. And Sully’s scent-blocking wards did nothing to refute what Whitney could confirm with his eyes.

I needed to tell Indy the truth.

Knowledge was power, and he had none. I didn’t have nearly enough, but I owed him what little I had. It was too much to expect him to stay in the trailer, suffering in solitude. I didn’t want to keep him caged.

When I arrived at the Urban Easel Friday night, I had resolved to do exactly that. After I fulfilled my obligation to Sully and took care of Joss Foster, I would go to Trailer Trove and come clean.

Parking around the gallery was scarce. Art aficionados strolled the sidewalks, wearing black tuxedos and colorfulcocktail dresses. I’d scavenged a bit of semi-formal wear from one of the plastic totes in the back of my truck: a gray wool sweater and silver vest with a white Oxford shirt. I went sans tie out of necessity—buttoning anything over my collar made me feel choked—and finished the outfit with gray tweed slacks. Moira would have complained about too many layers, and I was crossing my fingers she didn’t call on me tonight. If she did, I had a legitimate excuse to refuse her: I was working.

Strolling into the gallery, I found the showroom fuller than I’d ever seen it. People crowded shoulder to shoulder to survey the walls and standing displays overtaken by mixed media art pieces. Bottlecaps, antique keys, pieces of sea glass, and scraps of fabric studded canvases smeared with neon paint. I studied them as I wandered through the horde, imagining what Indy would have to say about it.

“Avant-garde.”

“Innovative.”

“Provocative.”

I heard the words as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud, tugging on my arm while pointing out the elements and exhibits he found most exciting. I imagined it so vividly I thought I manifested it when my hound’s ears pricked at a familiar voice coming from across the room. I turned, sifting through the sea of people to find Sully smiling at me.

“Look who made it!” she exclaimed, fooling no one with her exaggerated look of surprise.

Beside her, Indy stood. Swaths of hot pink tinted his eyelids, and a long, black tulle skirt fanned around his legs. “Loren!” he said. The excitement in his voice made myheart skip a beat.

He looked stunning. Besides the skirt, he wore clunky combat boots and a white crop top with a patched denim jacket. A necklace hung to his exposed navel, strung with keys and soda caps like the ones affixed to the paintings on display. His hair was freshly dyed in two-tone; his roots were stained deep blue that bled into the brighter teal.

I would have given anything to be on his arm, or to have him on mine, but the shock at finding him somewhere he should not have been stalled me.

Grabbing Indy’s hand, Sully pulled him through the crowd on a swift approach. As she drew near, her smile strained, and I knew I must have looked as disconcerted as I felt.

She released Indy and moved into the space between him and me. “Hi, honey,” she greeted, wrapping me in a hug I failed to return. When she pulled back, her expression was losing the war of worry over cheer. “Glad you could make it. What do you think?” Her arm swung in a gesture to the gallery, transformed to compliment Joss Foster’s apparently eclectic style. Salvaged items hung from the ceiling, including tarnished brass instruments, bicycle wheels, and kitchen utensils.

“Looks like he brought the entire local dump,” I grumbled.

Indy snorted.

“It’s eco-art,” Sully said defensively. “It makes a statement about sustainability and our impact on the environment.”

I scanned over her, noticing her usual skirt replaced by one made of what looked like braided plastic bags, andher suit jacket was stitched together with strips of silver duct tape.

Grunting, I nodded to the table of hors d’oeuvres on platters and in chafing dishes against the side wall. “Is the food garbage, too?” I asked.

Sully’s lips pursed. “I can tell you need a minute. I’ll introduce Indy to Joss, then we’ll circle back.” Stepping away, she took Indy’s hand again.

He offered feeble protest as Sully led him through the throng.

I watched them go, then expelled a hot breath. Joss Foster had the same stink as the rest of my victims. It was pervasive in the room like every piece of his art carried his curse. It amused me to think of him as some talentless hack who got his inspiration from a demon, and that the inspiration was to parcel out recycled goods and call it art.

---