Page 24

Indy

The collar was, in fact, the first thing to go.

After we took away, it was time to add.

I dragged Abigail to Sully’s room and raided the closet with reckless abandon while Loren leaned against the doorway looking every bit the guard dog.

Abigail didn’t tell me much about her style preferences, so I settled on something cute and sensible—wide-leg trousers with a bandeau top—and laid them out on the bed.

“We’ll give you some privacy,” I told the girl hound.

My smile didn’t do much to ease her apprehension, but I got the feeling that had a lot to do with Loren glaring daggers from the entry.

When I left, I made sure to take him with me.

Grabbing his hand, I led him out and pulled the bedroom door shut behind us.

In the living area, Dottie and Gunnar sat on opposite sides of the coffee table, playing Go Fish while Whitney and Sully bumped elbows in the kitchen.

It was strange seeing the apartment so full and noisy.

Multiple conversations were underway, and everyone looked comfy cozy.

Except Loren, of course.

We made our way to the kitchen to get a better look at Whitney who had somehow been convinced to don a red plaid apron and oven mitts.

I snickered at the sight.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked as Loren and I approached.

Sully sidestepped to give Whitney space to pull a turkey out of the oven.

With mashed potatoes and green beans already on the counter, it was a Thanksgiving-worthy spread.

Having our resident Brit help prepare it made for a strange sort of irony.

“Thought we might make up for a few missed holidays,” Sully said.

It was nowhere near November, but I could appreciate a party for any occasion, even made-up ones.

“Is there room for two more?” I asked.

Sully grabbed a bottle of wine and began twisting a corkscrew into it.

“Only because you’re my favorites,” she replied.

“Though, if you keep bringing me roommates, I may have to downgrade you to distant acquaintances.”

She was kidding, but only just. Her living room was in a state of disarray with pillows, blankets, and clothing scattered around.

Since the hellhounds didn’t have paying jobs, I imagined the new outfits and anything else Dottie, Gunnar, Whitney, and now Abigail would need came out of Sully’s pocketbook.

It made me want to check the bathroom for the flock of toothbrushes that must have been accumulating in there.

Speaking of the bathroom, the apartment only had one, now shared by five people…

It was a lot.

After making space for the stuffed bird, Whitney shed the mitts and apron and dropped them beside the sink.

He rounded the island and came over to Loren, who drew to wary attention.

“I’d like to have a word with Abigail,” Whitney told him, then added, “Would you care to join me?”

“She’s getting dressed,” I told Whitney, who barely batted an eye at the protest.

“We’ll be sure to knock,” he replied.

“Indy, can you help me finish up?” Sully called over.

“We need butter for the rolls and the cranberry sauce. They’re both in the fridge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

I headed for the refrigerator while watching Loren and Whitney head toward Sully’s bedroom.

Opening the fridge, I retrieved the butter dish and a bowl of cranberry sauce, then moved to stand alongside Sully.

She had uncorked the wine and filled a glass for each of us.

Taking mine, I swirled it, then took a sip.

It was red and dry, the kind Loren preferred, but I wasn’t too picky to turn it down.

“What happened to her?” Sully tipped her head toward the bedroom door and our most recent addition inside.

“She said she was trying to get away, but the other hounds attacked her,” I said.

“They were hurting her from the sound of it. I think they were trying to kill her.”

“Good thing they can’t do that,” Sully replied.

Speaking of Abigail made me realize how long she was taking to change.

Safe to assume she wasn’t eager to meet everyone or suffer any more of Loren’s narrow-eyed glares.

I assured her he was a nice guy, a real teddy bear once you got to know him, and that he wasn’t always this way.

It made me feel even more like a record skipping, stuck on the same thoughts and half-truths.

He was always a little like this.

Some things didn’t change, but others definitely did.

My loss of power remained at the forefront of my mind since I’d been forced to stand by and watch the hellhounds battle in the isolated alley.

Sully’s reminder that the hounds couldn’t dispatch each other permanently presented a dilemma I had not yet considered.

They could fight, bloody, and wound each other, but no one could ultimately win .

They were sent back to Hell for their own form of rebirth and could return to Earth from there.

They would, now that they had proof we were in Brooklyn.

Or at least that Loren was.

I wasn’t sure they really noticed me.

But that begged the question of the strategy I’d told Abigail we had.

If every hellhound fight was a war with no winner, then they were all simply warmups.

Nero and his witch would be the ones to settle this.

Their power would overwhelm everything else, and we had no way to stop it.

My fire had reduced the hounds in Ohio to ash.

Permanent death. That was the power we needed to do more than merely delay the inevitable, and it was gone.

Missing. Out of reach.

Which made our odds of victory next to nil.

“Sully?” I glanced over at her.

“Something’s off.” It was too vague of a statement, and she waited to respond until I clarified.

“I’m not very… phoenix-y these days.”

Sully lifted her chin in the beginning of a nod.

“Loren mentioned something about that. He said you seem to be regressing.”

Setting my wine down, I dipped a knife in the butter and scooped some onto one of the rolls.

I took a bite and cheeked it before speaking.

“I guess. Any idea why?”

Sully shook her head.

“None of my books say anything about the phoenix powers being lost. Or how to get them back.”

Seconds stretched into minutes.

I nibbled on the roll, then pinched off pieces of it, watching the dough stretch and tear.

“I feel less than I used to,” I said softly.

“Less of myself. And the voice in my head doesn’t talk much anymore.”

Sully peered at me over the rim of her wine glass.

“Voice in your head?”

I raised my hands.

“I’m not crazy, I swear.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Sully chuckled, then took another drink of wine while pondering.

“When it did talk, what did it say?”

Near the beginning of this life, the day I met Loren, I’d heard it.

It whispered to me in my trailer, reminding me of things I didn’t yet know.

“It likes Loren,” I said with a smile.

“Says he’s my mate.”

Sully smiled in response.

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s true.”

Across the room, Gunnar whooped and laid down his newest pair of cards, putting him three sets ahead of Dottie.

Celebrating the holidays sounded like the best idea Sully could have had, if a little grim.

These people had been imprisoned in Hell for decades, only to escape and be thrust into an unwinnable fight.

I was starting to understand why Loren was so afraid.

Why Abigail was hiding in Sully’s bedroom.

Why I should be afraid, too.

Manhattan, New York

April 8 th , 1987

I stumbled off the dance floor, nearly tripping over my own heels.

My high was peaking, which made this the worst possible time to take a break, but keeping up with the insatiable thirst meant drinking enough water and margaritas that I must have been sloshing.

Before I ducked out of the room, I paused to check on Loren, the only person I’d ever seen bring a book to the Pyramid Club.

He was at the bar, reading while nursing the same bottle of Phoenix brand beer I’d ordered for him because I wanted the cap for my collection.

He looked so pretty in the lights with his dark hair spilling like an oil slick over his shoulders.

I smiled to myself then hurried down the hall toward the bathrooms. Darting into the cramped, dingy room, I made for the single stall.

The metal walls were scribbled with graffiti and lewd drawings that made me snicker as I relieved myself then used my shoe to push the flush lever.

Tugging up my panties and smoothing my skirt, I exited the stall and headed for the sink, where a filmy mirror showed my reflection.

The neckline of my gold lamé top plunged nearly to my navel, creating rings like water ripples across my chest. The clip-on earrings were another bit of glitz, swinging and sparkling amidst the curls I’d bleached white hot blond.

Like Billy Idol. In a skirt.

Water rushed from the faucet as the door swung inward and another man entered.

I glanced his way and immediately recognized him from the dance floor.

He looked a little like David Bowie, feathered mullet and all, and I’d let him grind on me, but I’d had my fill of him, so I rinsed my hands quickly and angled toward the exit.

It was a narrow pass, so I had to shimmy to get by.

I’d nearly made it when the man barred his arm level with my throat and drew me to a stop.

“Where you off to in such a hurry?” he asked.

His voice was growly with a bit of a slur, and his alcohol-scented breath rushed across my face.

“No party in here,” I replied, backstepping.

“Don’t wanna miss the fun.”

I started to edge around his opposite side, but he was quick to pivot.

He caught my elbow and dug his fingers in.

My skin prickled at his touch.

“I’m lotsa fun. Bet you are, too.” His lips peeled back in a leering grin.

It wasn’t exactly a proposition, but I shook my head anyway.

“No thanks.”

He didn’t look much like Bowie now.

His skin and hair were slick with sweat that seemed almost slimy.

Greasy as he was, it should have been easy to slip away from him, but he held me tight.

“That’s not what you were saying a few minutes ago.” His smile took on a sneering slant.

“Rubbing all over me. Flaunting that ass like it was on sale.”

Panic spiked, and my tittering laugh bounced off the bathroom’s tile walls.

“Yeah, well, it’s not.” I tried again to jerk my arm free.

Not-David-Bowie turned my attempted retreat into a game of tug-of-war.

He was taller than me—most men were—and had enough muscle in the biceps bulging out of the cut sleeves of his vest to drag me in until we were chest to chest.

“Can’t buy it?” He didn’t wait for my reply before concluding, “Maybe I’ll just take it.”

My pulse had been speeding up since he grabbed me, but now it was racing, making my heart beat so hard I wondered if he felt it hammering against my ribs.

I tried to backpedal, but my heel caught in the grate of the floor drain and this time, I did stumble.

Not-David-Bowie kept his grip, wrenching on my elbow as he stomped toward the open stall and hauled me along behind.

I skidded across the grimy floor while prying at his fingers with my opposite hand.

“Hey!” I shouted, hoping someone in the hall outside would hear.

“Hey, stop!”

He could pick me up, and practically did, swinging me around until I was pressed face-first against the cold, metal wall.

“You really think you weren’t asking for this?” His breath assaulted me again, so sour it might have made my eyes water if tears weren’t already flowing.

He growled near my ear.

“Begging for it like a slut.”

I bucked and swung my free arm until he caught it, too.

The, he took my wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them to the wall above my head.

Anger edged in alongside my fear.

Fiery rage that boiled in my gut and started to spread.

Faster. I needed it everywhere.

Filling this damn bathroom and melting Not-David-Bowie’s face off.

I squeezed my eyes shut and focused, trying to flame on like Johnny Storm.

I could do that. I was the real Human Torch.

A match waiting to be struck, and this grabby bastard was about to get burned.

The slam of the stall door closing jolted me from concentration.

The other man’s body was all over mine.

His hand—the one that wasn’t squeezing my wrists together—roamed over my ass then lower, tugging up the hem of my skirt.

There was no fire. Not even a spark.

My heart rattled again, shaking me all the way into my suddenly weak knees.

No fire?

Gritting my teeth, I dug deeper inside, reaming out every bit of ire and trying to channel it into an inferno.

Not-David-Bowie kept groping me, stretching the waistband of my panties as he yanked on them, and no.

No fire at all.

My eyes flashed open to an all-consuming view of that cold, cold wall.

The warmth in me dispersed, like someone had thrown water on a wavering spark, and I shivered from the chill.

“I didn’t mean anything!” I sputtered while kicking out and connecting with nothing.

“It was just dancing. I have a boyfriend?—!”

Not-David-Bowie snorted.

“Yeah, well I don’t see him.”

My panties slid down my thighs, and the man palmed my bare ass.

I did have a boyfriend.

A veritable hellbeast sitting in the next room with his beer and his Yeats poetry.

He didn’t like the club.

It was too bright, too crowded, too noisy, and the earplugs I’d given him may have rendered him unable to hear my cries.

But I had to try.

“Lore!” My voice cut up my throat like fiberglass.

“Loren!”

The hand left my backside and moved to my mouth, thick fingers smashing against my lips.

“Shut the fuck up!” Not-David-Bowie snapped.

I bared my teeth and bit him, sinking my incisors into his skin and fully intending to rip out a chunk.

He yanked his hand away with a hissed curse.

I started to buck again, but he slammed his palm into the back of my head, smashing my forehead into the wall.

Pain spiraled through my skull, making everything spin.

My eyes watered, overflowing.

Fire, fire, fire…

I needed to burn , but all I felt was dizzy and cold.

“You wanna dress like a girl?” Not-David-Bowie snarled.

“I’m gonna fuck you like one. Tranny whore.”

His belt buckle jingled as he hiked my skirt up again.

His knee wormed in between my legs, followed by a kick that spread my feet apart, and I sobbed.

Choked on a breath drawn too fast and thrashed every inch of me that could move.

“Loren!” My scream resounded in my ears as they rushed with blood and the man behind me shuffled his feet.

It was still echoing, deafening me so I didn’t hear the stall door open, but I saw it.

It swung out so fast and hard the lock snapped off.

Not-David-Bowie’s body went stiff.

“What the hell—?” He barely got the words out before his gaze must have settled on what mine did.

Hell, indeed, on two feet and towering over us both.

If I hadn’t been so strangled, I might have cheered.

No, I wouldn’t have, because my gorgeous boy was bowed up bigger than I’d ever seen him, flexing muscles all the way into his neck and forming his fists so tight even I wanted to shrink away from them.

“Get lost!” Not-David-Bowie barked.

“We’re in the middle of something here.”

Loren lunged forward and grabbed the other man by the neck.

In a blink, I was free.

My arms dropped to my sides, wrists aching and sending painful tingles all the way up to my shoulders.

I didn’t move myself, but I was displaced, pushed out of the stall as Loren invaded it.

I scrambled to pull my underwear up and cover my exposed ass as Loren bore down on Not-David-Bowie with inhuman speed.

Driving him by the head, Loren bent the other man forward so fast it seemed his feet flew out from under him.

He hit the ground on his knees, his pants sagging to expose his dingy white underwear as Loren slammed his head into the toilet.

The knocking sound of the collision made my stomach lurch.

One strike, then two, and the porcelain bowl cracked, letting water rush across the floor.

Not-David-Bowie groaned.

He sprawled in the wet wreckage of the toilet, his face misshapen and leaking blood from cuts that canvassed his distorted features.

Loren stepped back from the fallen man.

He looked terrifyingly calm, so placid I believed that he truly was possessed.

He kept his position between Not-David-Bowie and me, then held his hand out to the open space as a long, bladed weapon materialized in his grasp.

I’d only seen it once before, the thing that was neither spear nor sword.

It was as tall as me, with a wickedly sharp edge that caught my reflection before Loren turned the blade end toward the downed man.

“Lore, don’t!” I called out without being sure why.

The weapon descended in a decisive sweep, and I covered my face.

Missing the visual didn’t stop my ears from tuning to the wet snick of flesh and bone being cleaved apart.

Breathing hard, I peered out through quaking fingers.

The weapon was gone, and Loren stood over the man’s headless corpse looking almost serene.

Water bubbled out of the fragmented toilet, tinged deeply red from the blood oozing from Not-David-Bowie’s severed body.

I stepped timidly through it, trying not to splash as I approached Loren and tugged on his arm.

“Baby?” It was almost a babble, the first in a stream of words tumbling out.

“Baby, we have to go. We have to leave…”

Loren’s head hung low as he watched the dead man wisp into smoke.

Within seconds, all that remained of my assailant was a smear of blood on the tile being washed away by the toilet’s endless flow of water.

A shudder ripped up my body, leaving me feeling sick, dirty, and so, so cold.

At last, Loren looked at me, and the life returned to his eyes.

His expression went soft, brows lifting, lips parting, and he drew me into his embrace.

He was warmer than I was, pulsing with heat that failed to reignite the spark inside.

With the corpse gone, other concerns took precedence.

My high was ruined, leaving me low and agonizingly sober.

It was another missing thing, the buzz along with the fire, and I clung onto what remained as the tears returned.

“Loren?” I mumbled, my voice nearly lost in his chest.

He hummed in response, then brushed a hand through my curls.

Squeezing his middle, I sniffled and said the thing I was afraid to hear out loud: “I think something’s wrong with me.”