Page 84 of Hounded

Assuming he’d gone straight back to the hotel and gathered his things, then caught a ride here, he might have made it through security, but no further. I grew more certain with every pounding step that I could catch him before he boarded a plane, but that assurance didn’t convince my heart to slow its rapid rhythm as I ducked into the elevator then waited while it rattled downward.

On the ground level, crickets sang and fluorescent lights hummed. I hurried toward the sliding glass doors while weaving between waiting taxis and travelers lugging carry-on bags.

My hound sniffed the air, searching for traces of that certain stink we’d found faintly at The Jewel Hotel. Upon entering the airport, I caught a whiff of it: sweet as decayed remains and twice as potent.

Hanging signs indicated I was in Terminal B. A bay of escalators ferried passengers to the upper stories of the building. Ticketing and Check-In—and hopefully my target—were on the third floor.

I rode an escalator up, tucked between businessmen chattering on cellphones and making me wish I had mine. I often fantasized about being rid of the damned thing, but the idea of missing a call from Moira made me anxious.

Upstairs, a long desk was barricaded by a maze of black stanchions. People filed in, holding tickets and passports. At the front of the line, looking as frazzled as Imust have while questioning the hotel attendant earlier, Joss Foster stood. A pair of lumpy bags piled on the floor beside him, and he leaned over the counter, stretching to see the computer screen as the check-in clerk scrolled down it.

“Destination doesn’t matter, I just need the next flight out,” Joss said breathlessly. “Could be Fiji for all I care. In fact, check Fiji. I could use a vacation after the shit I’ve seen tonight.”

“The shit” was, undoubtedly, me, a demonic entity on the hunt for the artist’s bartered soul. It had been cocky to approach him at his show, effectively outing myself as his executioner. I felt brazen now, too, as I took up a post at the back of the room and watched the scene before me unfold.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the next flight to Fiji—”

“I just need a ticket, lady!” Joss slammed his fist on the counter, and the clerk flinched back.

My hound snarled a threat that I swallowed.

Soon,I told him.

The clerk returned to her keyboard, flustered but focused until she ripped a slip of paper off the printer and passed it to Joss.

“You’ll need to hurry to get through security in time,” she told him.

When Joss bobbed his head, his greasy hippie hair swung limply. “I plan on it.”

He heaved his bags onto the scale, hastily attached luggage tags, then pocketed his ticket before cutting a line toward the open area of the airport. I followed at a distance, intending to close the gap as he progressedtoward the security checkpoint.

I’d never been on a plane. Witnessing the invention of the things had not inspired me to trust them, and that wasn’t likely to change tonight. Not to mention I couldn’t get far without a ticket of my own. Bolting toward the metal detectors and guards scanning boarding passes might have been Joss’s best bet to elude me a second time, but that didn’t seem to occur to him when I caught up to him twenty feet shy of the entrance and clapped my hand on his shoulder.

The artist spun, then looked up to meet me eye to eye.

“Oh, fuck,” he sputtered.

I dropped my voice to a whisper and bent toward him to say, “I hope you have your affairs in order.”

His face washed ghostly pale. He lurched back, but he couldn’t go far with my grip anchoring him in place.

I couldn’t draw my weapon here. There were security cameras all over this place, and witnesses who would rush to report a man being bisected with a polearm. I needed to take Joss somewhere private, and I didn’t expect him to go quietly.

I didn’t expect him to start screaming, either.

“Help! Police!”

His shriek rang in my sensitive ears.

When I winced, he ducked from under my hand and took off toward the escalators heading downstairs.

“Security!” Joss raced ahead, barreling through the passengers cluttering the moving staircase.

His summons drew the notice of everyone on the third floor, including the guards waving detection wands over shoeless passengers and scanning IDs and passports.Walkie-talkies crackled as rapid-fire descriptions of Joss and me were shared with security team members throughout the airport.

I broke into a sprint, following the path being cleared by Joss’s escape. Ahead of me, the grungy artist arrived on the second level and boarded the next escalator to continue his descent.

Cries of alarm and Joss’s continued calls for help inspired chaos. I took the stairs two at a time, my pulse pounding along with my shoes as I raced after the retreating man.

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