Page 9 of Hounded

The demon pulled back and wiped his spit-damp fingers on the lapel of my suit coat. “Fine specimens, indeed.” He turned to our mistress once more. “What tricks do they know?”

Moira cocked her head coyly. “Do you have something specific in mind?”

Hellhounds were suited to many tasks but, like real dogs, there was room for variance. Temperament was a factor Moira was keen to ignore. I’d never been sure if it was me or my hound who was predisposed to protecting and guarding rather than fighting in Hell’s arena or dispatching the wayward souls I was sent to collect. I didn’t enjoy sparring even for sport, but Whitney reveled in it. He was battle ready and made for an expert combatant. Any match against him ended with me on my back, usually disarmed, and wearing a new scar for my efforts.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Karst said. There was something in his contemplative squint that I didn’t trust.

Moira motioned for the other demon to sit beside her in the open chairs at our table. She offloaded her papers onto the tabletop, then clasped her hands in her lap.

Whitney and I returned to our seats, as well. I gripped the sides of my seat, needing more than the chain leash to tether me. I couldn’t leave. Walking away would be suspicious, not to mention disobedient, and defiant behaviors had been stripped out of me long ago.

Moira was an expert at instilling discipline and the profound desire to cater to her whims. More than that, she taught me what would happen if I stepped out of line. It was nothing to her to muzzle and cage me for weeks or months on end. She could lock me in the kennels and forget I existed. She’d done exactly that for my first years in Hell. Memories of the solitude and excruciatingquiethaunted me.

While I pondered, Moira scooped the pages off the table and began leafing through them.

“I’m sure we can find something to your liking,” she told Karst.

They skimmed the documents as Whitney and I sat, seen but not heard, the way our mistress liked it. The demons were so engrossed in their study that they didn’t notice another man marching toward our table. I recognized him immediately.

Nero was an archdemon and the nearest thing I could equate to my mistress’s boss. He rarely ventured from his private chambers, preferring to summon Moira there where they would speak in confidence while Whitney and I loitered in the hall. Sometimes for hours. Once, it stretched into an all-day event.

Whitney had been a soldier in life and didn’t seem to mind standing endlessly in place, but my mind was apt to wander and tempt my feet to follow. I thought of home, always home, and Hell had never been home to me.

Nero advanced with stomping steps, towering head and shoulders above everyone in the room. Yellowish horns spiraled from his slick black hair. It was hard to tell if he was redder in the face thanusual since his complexion was always a deep shade of crimson, but the lines cut across his brow suggested a level of contempt that rippled through his words as he spoke.

“What is all this?”

Moira leaped up, as surprised as I was to see the recluse drawn from hiding. “Sir!” She gestured toward the contracts now strewn across the black tablecloth. “Sir, the event has been quite successful. Donations are still coming in, and Karst here is in the market for—”

“No.” Nero’s voice rumbled so deep I thought it might shake the ground beneath us. “What isthis?” He stabbed a meaty finger at Whitney and me.

Moira’s lips fell apart as she tracked his gesture to us. “My pets, sir,” she replied. “My hounds. You know them—”

“You brought your mongrels to our party?” Nero’s cheeks tinged purple as his rage mounted.

Karst rose from his seat and backed slowly away until he vanished into the crowd.

In his absence, Moira babbled. “It’s for them, sir,” she told Nero. “The party isforthe hounds, to fill the kennels—”

“And the kennels are where such beasts belong, not prancing about feigning civility,” Nero replied, every word a dull roar. He glanced at Whitney and me, and his mouth twisted in unmasked disdain. “Get them out of here. Immediately.”

Moira blanched. “But, sir—”

“Despicable.” Nero spat at my feet. The glob of saliva struck the toe of my boot, then slid down to puddle on the marble floor.

Moira’s pale skin splotched with an angry flush. She squared herself with Nero and set her stance. “If they can’t stay, neither will I.”

The archdemon barely batted an eye. “Then we’ll carry on without you. Begone.” He flapped his hand toward a doorway on the far wall.

The ruckus of the room swallowed Moira’s protest. Nero folded his arms and watched as she rounded the table to usher Whitney and me to our feet. She unhooked our leashes from the chairbacks and took one chain in each hand. With her chin held high and her lower lip quivering, she led us through the crowd, bearing the weight of Nero’s glare all the way out of the ballroom.

She sped up as we exited, forcing us to trot to match her pace. She neither slowed nor stopped until we had wound our way through the firelit corridors back to her dressing room. Outside the closed door, she paused and drew a shuddering breath. In the glow of the flickering sconce, I saw tears streaking mascara onto her cheeks.

Whitney whined and sidled closer to her. She turned into him and touched her forehead to his while she drew a sniffling breath. In the growing silence, it was all I could do to fight the urge to check my phone for the time.

With a kiss on Whitney’s cheek, Moira pulled back from him. She unclipped the leash from his collar, then mine, and patted my chest.

“I’d like to be alone for a while.” She glanced over us both. “Stay close, won’t you?”

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