Page 14 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)

14

Loren

I crossed the arena to where Abigail stood, hugging her arms around her middle to hold the cut pieces of her dress together. As I approached, I tugged out of my sweater, exposing the thin white A-shirt underneath. My side throbbed through the motion, and I muscled back a grimace. Puncture wounds healed slowly, needing to knit together from the inside out. I’d be sore for a day or two, bruised, then scarred, but ultimately not much worse for wear.

When I reached Abigail, the hounds around her recoiled as though shrinking into their skins. She remained at the front of the group, wide-eyed and shivering.

I held out my sweater. Despite being blood-soaked and sporting a new hole, it was in better condition than her dress.

Abigail stared at the garment until I practically pushed it into her grasp. Reluctantly, she shouldered into it, finding it was so oversized for her petite frame that it hung to her knees. It reminded me of Indy bundling up in my clothes whenever he got cold, and I smiled .

Abigail’s expression relaxed, as well, but the hounds behind her remained wary.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her gaze darted to my injured side.

I nodded. “Just a scratch.”

The pinch of her features indicated doubt, but she carried on despite it. “I don’t know how I got here… or why…”

I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault but, truthfully, I didn’t know. Souls landed in Hell for any number of reasons. She could have been an irredeemable sinner, but all I saw was Indy in her soft, guileless face.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Too long.”

She nodded, and her ratted brown locks brushed her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

I tipped my head. “Why?”

Abigail squeezed her middle harder, like she was trying to wring the bad feelings out. “It’s awful,” she said.

I thought about the cramped kennels reeking of despair, then I remembered Karst and the way he’d ogled her. In a few short weeks, she would be handed over to that demon as a pet who could meet all his needs. A bitter taste filled my mouth.

“Why are you here?” Abigail’s dainty brows knit together. “Do you remember?”

I remembered too many things. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be free of them, to become a brand-new thing like Indy, unburdened by guilt and shame and, in the case of my fate as a hellhound, regret.

Manhattan, New York

June 10 th , 1890

My knees rocked against the polished wood floor while I drew down deeply on Jonathan’s cock. It hit the back of my throat and stayed there, stopping the flow of air and thought. It made my eyes water when I gagged on him, and I told myself that was the reason for the tears streaking my cheeks because I was done crying about this. It was a smart choice. An inevitable one. Jonathan had money, and reputation, and a family with expectations. Those expectations included marriage and children, and I fit nowhere in that equation.

Jonathan rolled his hips, and I could breathe again. With a single, wet gasp, I went back to work, sucking and slurping to keep drool from dripping onto my suit coat.

Above me, he moaned a low note that made me ache. I wanted more. More of things it was unfair to ask for. He’d given me everything I had: a place to live, the means to afford a modest lifestyle… He’d brought me into society despite the whispers and stares.

Not many doors were open to a poor, parentless immigrant. But, with Jonathan leading me, I’d found I could go nearly anywhere. Above all that, he’d given me himself. Or whatever portion remained after his duties to his job, his family, and soon, his wife.

Jonathan cupped the nape of my neck as he guided me up and down in a steady rhythm. It was getting faster, more frantic, and his fingers dug in. I closed my eyes and hollowed my cheeks, immersing myself in the feeling of him gliding through my mouth and the sound of his voice hitching as he said my name.

His knees caged me in, quivering as he neared climax. With a final bucking thrust, he came into my mouth, coating my tongue with bitter seed. I sputtered when he pulled out with an abrupt pop. His hand slid around and caught my chin, tilting it up so he could watch while I swallowed.

Jonathan rumbled a satisfied sound, then stooped to press his lips against mine. He savored the kiss and the taste that lingered.

After pulling me to my feet, he kissed me again. He nipped my bottom lip in a pinching bite, then he stepped back and toppled onto the bed with a sigh.

“God, I needed that,” he said.

My erection throbbed needfully, and I turned away to adjust it. With my back to Jonathan, I had a clear view out the bedroom window of the brightly clouded sky. My footsteps echoed as I walked forward and stopped beside the thick, velvet drape. I rubbed the fabric between my fingers while I stared down at the lawn where wedding guests had begun to arrive.

Wooden chairs were arranged in rows facing a gazebo crowned with flowers. Everything was white and wonderful, and the perfection of it all only further soured my mood. For Jonathan, it was a beginning, but I only saw an end.

He sat up on the bed, saying something I didn’t register before he stood and crossed the floor to stand behind me. Sweeping my hair over my shoulder, he leaned in and feathered his lips up the side of my neck. When I shifted away, he heaved another noisy sigh.

“Loren…”

Outside, seats filled and people milled. Jonathan’s mother and father greeted and shook hands with attendees. Across the center aisle, another middle-aged couple exchanged similar pleasantries with the guests. They must have been Jonathan’s future in-laws.

Jonathan lingered at my back. His hot breath rushed along my jaw.

“Loren, how long do you intend to stay angry at me?”

The windowpane reflection showed his brows shadowing his pale eyes and his lips bent into a frown.

I had no right to be upset. No good reason to gaze across the growing crowd and wonder how different this day could have been or to loathe how my life would change because of it.

More than that, it was wrong to resent the woman who had taken my place. Beatrice wasn’t to blame. The few times I’d met her, she’d been quite charming. Jonathan said it was important that I liked her; said he hoped she and I would become friends.

I didn’t wish her ill, I only wished she wouldn’t take what should have been mine.

“Do you fuck her?” I realized belatedly I’d asked it out loud.

“Why would you…?” Jonathan grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to face him. His forehead creased in a scowl. “It’s unbecoming, you know. Indulging yourself in petty jealousy.”

I looked aside, but didn’t break his hold on me.

Jonathan’s chest swelled, then emptied. He was as dashing as the day I met him with his auburn hair carefully combed and his swallowtail coat hugging the curves of his body. The sight was enough to distract me from what was happening outside and, when he cupped his hand around my waist, I leaned into his touch.

“You know something?” His stubbled cheek scrubbed against mine. He smiled. I heard more than saw it as he spoke. “Sometimes, when I’m with her, I close my eyes and pretend she’s you.”

Somehow, that was the cruelest thing he could have said.

Hours later, I held my peace as I stood beside him in front of a crowd of well-wishers. I bit my tongue while the priest shared scripture and blessings for the happy couple.

When it came time at last to recite the vows, I thought I might choke on my silence.

Jonathan clasped hands with his new wife, enraptured in the moment. And, while he repeated words like “honor” and “cherish” and “forever,” I closed my eyes and pretended she was me.

I didn’t tell Abigail any of that. I didn’t answer at all because Moira chose that moment to descend from the stands and whistle shrilly .

“Lorenzo!” she shouted. “Come!”

She could lure me with more than a call. More than my name. More than a ring on my cellphone. She could lead me to any corner of Hell or drag me down from Earth with a pull on my very soul. It had been a long time since she’d needed to exert that level of authority. I was trained in obedience, after all. So, with a parting nod to Abigail, I answered Moira’s summons.

Whitney joined us, relishing any opportunity to hang near the demoness’s side. Moira stroked his hair and face while she addressed me without the scarcest hint of fondness.

“I think I’ll leave the instruction to Whitney from here on out. From what I just observed, you may be better suited to hunting than sparring.”

I didn’t miss the insult or Whitney’s subtly smug look, but it wouldn’t do to protest. Saying I’d taken pity on Abigail would earn me none.

Moira surveyed the hounds battling around us. Yelps of pain mingled with animalistic roars as weaker opponents were weeded out.

“That can be fixed, though,” the demoness said in a cheerier voice. “We can put you through your paces along with the rest of them. Might be a nice refresher.”

Or an excuse to exact the punishment she believed I deserved.

My gaze dropped to the dirt below me and found it speckled with beads of blood. I nodded.

“For now, though, I have an assignment for you.” Moira spread her hands to produce a rolled sheet of parchment from which she read. “Joss Foster. He’ll be in New York soon.” Her forehead scrunched. “Are you familiar with the area?”

“Yes, Miss,” I replied.

“Wonderful.” She released the scroll. It curled closed, then disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke as she continued, “He’s an artistic fellow. Creative type. Nothing compared to that battle-ready Abernathy.” She laughed. “You must have a few new scars from that one.”

With my arms and upper chest mostly bare, I had plenty of old wounds already on display. Supernatural healing minimized damage but didn’t erase it entirely. In former lives, Indy had offered his tears to remove my scars, but I didn’t want to use his powers. He’d been used before I found him—exploited—and I refused to contribute to that.

“Well?” Moira looked at me. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Always in such a hurry to leave.”

There was a warning in her words and sarcasm biting enough I felt its teeth. Damn if Whitney wasn’t right.

“You’re dismissed,” she said. It took five seconds, maybe more, until I worked up the courage to turn my back on her.

While cutting a path between sparring hellhounds on my exit from the arena, I regained the presence of mind to consider my new assignment.

Joss Foster.

Why did that name sound familiar?