Page 82 of Hounded

We crossed the intersection held up with a few yellow cabs and a cyclist. The walk timer ticked steadily down as Sully said, “I feel like I should point out this is cheating, too. Since you were so eager to cast judgment on me.”

Neither of us spoke until we stepped onto the curb of the adjacent block. Once there, Sully grumbled, “I booked him a room at The Jewel, across from Rockefeller. It’s a boutique place, very chic—”

“Thanks,” I cut in.

We made it to the Urban Easel, where Sully unlocked the door and pulled it open before I turned to leave.

“Loren.” The way she said my name made it impossible to ignore.

I tipped my head toward her.

She met my gaze in earnest. “Don’t give up on Indy. And think about the memory charm. If it works, it could be a miracle.”

A pedestrian couple strolled past arm in arm, and I watched them travel halfway down the block before I responded, “Demons don’t get miracles, Sully.”

I expected protest. Instead, she nodded, resigned. “Goodnight, hon.”

The gallery door swung shut and locked.

The couple rounded the corner at the next block, sharing a laugh that echoed off the brick storefronts. I wondered what story they’d shared or joke they’d told and imagined where they might be going next. Home together was as good an answer as any. Certainly better than my plans for the evening.

Joss had asked me not to kill him in front of his admirers, and I granted that wish. The least he could do was make himself easy to find so we could both get this nasty business over with. But, with the way my luck was apt to go, that would be entirely too convenient.

29

Loren

The stench of taintedsoul hung in the air of the Jewel Hotel lobby. I was bloodhound enough to know it was a trail quickly going cold, and I wasn’t surprised when the attendant manning the front desk answered my inquiry about Joss Foster with a shrug.

“He checked out.”

I bit back a curse, and my hound grumbled in anticipation. He was antsy for the hunt and intolerant of delay. Especially one that could set us back for days.

A line of guests queued behind me, shouldering weekender bags and leaning on wheeled luggage. The woman closest to me was a bottle-blonde socialite pushing a terrier in a stroller. Every few seconds, the scruffy canine let out a yap. Each shrill report felt like a rubber band snapping against my brain.

“Do you know where he went?” I squared myself with the attendant who stood with her hands clasped.

She shook her head. “People don’t tell us those things. It’s more of a drop the room key and run kind of situation.”

Her eyes darted behind her tortoiseshell spectacles as she looked past me, ready to summon the next person in line.

The terrier in the stroller yipped again, and I bristled.

“Did you call him a cab?” I asked.

The attendant’s red lips pursed. “How do you know this guy exactly?”

Over the years, I should have fabricated a better cover story. Indy suggested I get a PI license to use as an excuse to slink around inquiring after strangers. He said I should wear a fedora hat and a suit like Sam Spade, maybe take up a cigar habit. The whole idea amused the hell out of him, but I’d done nothing about it, which left me with whatever lie I could come up with on the spot.

“I’m on his security team,” I replied.

The attendant looked me over. Wearing a button-down and vest and with my hair hanging loose, I didn’t fit the standard for hired muscle which might have explained her skepticism as she asked, “And he left without you?”

“Apparently.”

She glanced at the young woman behind me and her rat of a dog, but her words were for me, “Sounds like you should call him, then. Before he gets too far.”

Her beckoning wave prompted the socialite to push past, bumping my heel with the wheel of her stroller. The jostle caused her terrier to burst into a chorus of shrill barks, and my hound snarled in response.

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