Page 74 of Hounded

“You shouldn’t associate with Evander,” I said.

Indy scoffed into the bowl of his wine glass. Tilting it back, he swallowed another mouthful. “People think you’re grouchy.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Ever wonder why?”

“I’m not…” I began, but Indy’s dubious look silenced my rebuttal.

He pulled away from me and crossed his arms above his bare midriff. “And I’llassociatewith whoever I want.” His expression held a reprimand I did not miss. “You’remy friend, but not my only one.”

He’d called Sully. Gone to the club. Reunited with Evander. Old habits were resurfacing, trends I’d observed over lifetimes. Maybe we should have moved. My truck could tow the Airstream. I could have picked him up from rehab and driven across the country, only stopping when we ran out of gas. Maybe this place was as much a problem as the people in it.

“Did you meet Joss earlier?” I thought aloud.

“Yeah.” Indy bobbed his head. “Nice guy. Real down to earth.”

I snorted while I scanned the horde again. “Think you could introduce me?”

My plan was, as of yet, unformed. I couldn’t pull out my glaive in the middle of a party and behead the guest of honor, though Joss’s work might benefit from a little blood splatter.

Indy fixed me with a suspicious squint. “Not gonna tell him what you think of his art, are you?”

A laugh slipped out of me, and Indy’s expression went slack. He stared, on the brink of a smile until I asked, “What?”

Color tinted his freckled cheeks, and he shook his head. “Just… you.”

I swayed back, looking myself over in search of what had given him pause. “What about me?”

His eyes flashed gold beneath the bright pink shadow. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Sidling up to me again, he took my hand and wound it around his waist. The tulle skirt rode low across his hips, leaving ample space for me to press my fingers into his side. I didn’t fightit—didn’t want to. It felt too good to dig in and pull him to me. He sighed as he laid his arm across the small of my back.

If Sully saw this, I would hear no end of it. I could see her now rubbing her hands gleefully together like some kind of matchmaking mastermind.

Indy’s grip on me tightened as he pointed toward the far corner of the room. “There he is,” he declared.

Short as Indy was, I didn’t know how he saw what I had missed: the mob grew dense the closer it got to a modern-day hippie who was a soapbox short of being a sidewalk preacher. I could all but guarantee he was waxing poetic about the icebergs and polar bears and how straws were killing sea turtles by the dozens.

Giving my wine glass a slosh, I downed what remained of it, then muttered, “Time to get to work.”

26

Loren

Joss Foster’s receiving linerivaled that of a wedding or, more fittingly, a funeral. By the time Indy and I made it to the front of the queue of enamored art enthusiasts, I had no strategy beyond getting within reach of my target.

I felt like we should have brought gifts or offerings. Indy’s collection of bottlecaps might have wowed the creative scavenger, but I’d come into this without preparations, so we presented ourselves empty-handed.

Sully stood to the side, occasionally beckoning a server to bring drinks or hors d’oeuvres to replenish the plate and glass on the table beside Joss. The man of the hour stunk of marijuana that failed to mask the grossly sweet odor of a tainted soul. The foul combination invaded my nostrils, and I sneezed three times in a row while Joss looked on blankly.

“Indy, right?” the artist asked once I’d recovered. He indicated Indy’s necklace. “I remember the jewelry.”

Indy nodded. “And this is Loren. He wanted to meet you, too.”

Joss peered out through a pair of glasses studded with scraps of refuse. His gaze traveled down then up, ending on the gleam of silver where my collar showed above the unbuttoned top of my shirt.

I wasn’t sure how my victims knew what I was, but they often managed to figure it out. Maybe they could smell me, too. Or maybe Moira showed them my photo, offering full transparency in her Faustian deals. When this guy shows up, it’s time to pay the piper.

“Loren,” Joss repeated with a tremor in his voice. “Always good to meet a fan. Would you say you’re more of an art guy or an environmental advocate?”

“Neither,” I replied. “But I do know garbage when I see it.”

Beside me, Indy sputtered into his rosé.

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