Page 2 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)
2
Loren
During the two months Indy was in rehab, I had a lot of time to think.
After repeating the cycle of life and death, love and loss over and over, I believed I excelled at grieving. But something had changed this time, deep inside.
When I returned from Hopeful Horizons, there was much to be done: cleaning, packing, and painting over the scorched spot in the trailer’s ceiling. But I couldn’t bring myself to do any of it. I could hardly move. So, I laid on our burned mattress, wrapped up in sheets that smelled like Indy, hugging his pillow and wishing it were alive and breathing.
I kept vigil like I was still waiting for my phoenix to be reborn, and I thought. For days. And days and days and days.
I thought about how short a decade was when weighed against immortality. I thought about demons both real and imagined, and what kind of horrors must have plagued Indy to make him need to silence them with drugs. I thought about how happy he seemed the day he died. I left him giddy and giggling and returned to find him engulfed in flames.
It was a betrayal. The happiness was a lie, and I’d believed it.
From the day I first found him, Indy felt fragile to me. He had a transient nature, but I never blamed him for the way he was made. He was a victim as much as I was, though we suffered in different ways. It was his curse to forget and mine to remember. I wasn’t sure which was worse.
But this time— this time —he left of his own accord. He chose to go and left me with nothing but ashes and broken pieces.
I was confused. Lost. Lonely. Angry.
The anger spurred me to action. I got out of bed, and I got busy. The trailer had been our home together, but now it would only be his. I removed myself bit by bit, packing my clothes in plastic totes and piling them in the bed of my pickup. Pictures and cards went straight to the community dumpster. Sheets and bedding were tossed and replaced with new, and I painted over that charred circle on the ceiling until it was gleaming white.
It took about a week to turn the place. I staged it as spotless as a show home, then I moved out. I spent the next month trying to wedge my 6’3” frame into the front seat of my pickup, sleeping light and waking up sore, and thinking.
I thought about leaving, but where would I go? More than that, where would Indy go? Who would look after him when he returned to the world? Who would protect him? No one knew him like I did—no one knew him at all. So, it had to be me. It always had been; always would be.
I thought about that moment the day I took him to rehab while I stared at his remains and waited for the fire to burn again, for life to restart. It carved out a pit in my stomach to realize there was a second, a fraction of an instant, when I hoped it wouldn’t. Because I excelled at grieving, but starting over destroyed me every time.
At noon today, I would be doing exactly that. Indy would be packed and waiting at Hopeful Horizons, and I would be there to drive him home.
It was after 10 AM, and I’d been dragging around since dawn, walking the cracked asphalt streets that wound between the motorhomes and RVs that populated Trailer Trove RV Park.
Indy and I settled in Trailer Trove two decades ago after buying a lot and trailer from an elderly couple bound for a Florida retirement home. The Airstream they left behind stunk of mothballs and age, and it hadn’t been updated since ever. Indy claimed to love the “original charm,” then spent the next year directing me on what he wanted ripped out, replaced, and painted over.
Living here for twenty years had not ingratiated us with the other residents, largely by design. Excuses like good genes and Indy’s skincare regimen only went so far in explaining how two young men never appeared as anything but. To anyone paying attention, I should have been middle-aged by now and looking like my father with his receding hairline and modest gut. Instead, I was eternally thirty-two, tall and lean, and wondering when Indy and I would need to pull up our roots and move down the road to the next community that didn’t know us and never would.
I was at the back of the property near the communal bathhouse when my phone rang. It buzzed against my thigh until I fished it out of my pocket. Tilting the device away from the sun’s glare, I saw the letter M above the green handset icon. No number. No need. And, of course, it was a video call.
My hound yipped, and I stifled my own growl as I swiped to answer. Moira’s face crowded onto the screen. Inky black locks curtained her pale countenance, and her eyes shone ruby rich as she smiled.
“Lorenzo,” she crooned. “Where are you, my sweet?”
“Out for a walk, Miss,” I replied.
Her mouth puckered, and her brows drew a flat line. “The question was where, not what,” she said. “Because where is not here , and that is a problem, don’t you think?”
I veered off the road to stand in the patch of scrubby grass that served as the front yard for a singlewide on cinderblocks. My attention traveled to the home’s dented beige siding and open window. Inside, a telenovela played on a console TV.
“What problem, Miss?” I asked, only half-interested in the answer.
“You are expected to attend me today,” Moira replied. “Did you forget?”
More likely she never told me. If she had known about my scheduled pickup, I would have assumed she planned something out of spite. But my demonic mistress, and no one else in Hell, knew about Indy. He was my best kept secret, the one thing that remained solely mine after I’d signed my life and liberty away.
A check of my visage in the front-facing camera found my expression more honest than I meant to be. I unclenched my jaw and reset to neutral before replying.
“I’m working. Can’t Whitney do it?”
My fellow hellhound would jump at the chance to hang off Moira’s arm or beg at her feet for scraps of affection. And she was always happy to let him “attend” to her needs in the bedroom. Surely, he could escort her to whatever event was going on today.
Moira’s scowl returned, more dangerous than before. Despite the scorn in her expression, her voice remained saccharine sweet. “You said you were out for a walk. That sounds leisurely for your line of ‘work.’”
It looked leisurely, too, despite me doing what I could to keep the camera angle from betraying my whereabouts. For the past century, I’d kept this corner of the world to myself. Endless assignments of running down wayward souls filled my time, and Moira largely left me to my tasks. She didn’t ask why I lingered on Earth longer than necessary or who kept my company when I wasn’t at her heel. I didn’t want her to start wondering now.
“I’m waiting.” The verbal equivalent of a toe-tap called my focus to the phone again.
I glanced at the clock at the top of the screen. 10:25 AM. That left me an hour and a half to venture to Hell, hold Moira’s arm while she schmoozed with the demonic elite, and get to Hopeful Horizons on time. It would be close.
“Yes, Miss,” I said and ended the call.
The community bathhouse was usually vacant this time of day. It was also the only semi-private place in the trailer park, which made it the ideal spot for me to literally disappear. Abandoning my view of the telenovela, I ventured up the road.
Entering the squat cement building, I was greeted by the smell of mildew and a waft of wet air. Dead bugs dotted the fluorescent fixtures overhead, and my boots stomped through puddles that never seemed to dry. Wandering past the trough-style sink and a row of toilets stalls with warped wooden doors, I reached the bay of showers.
One was in use, occupied by a man warbling an off-key country song while the water sent up plumes of steam. I entered the neighboring bay and pulled the plastic curtain closed behind me. A clump of wet hair blanketed the drain at my feet, and I set my stance wide to avoid stepping on it. I placed my palms flat on the scummy wall, then spread them, causing a shimmering portal to yawn open. Beyond it lay the black and red interior of Moira’s private dressing room.
As soon as the opening stretched tall enough to accommodate my height, I threaded my body through the gap. It zipped shut behind me with a crackling hiss.
The swirl in my stomach felt like my hound was spinning circles, chasing his tail and burning boundless energy. His joy sent a rush of warmth through me. It tingled at first, then turned scorching hot, singeing my fingers and toes.
I clenched my hands as smoke wisped off them. The room I now inhabited was small and stuffed with plush upholstered furniture. Clothing racks lined every wall, crowded with slinky, shimmering dresses and crowned with piles of designer purses. High-heeled shoes filled a tower in the corner beside a dressing table with a large vanity mirror. A square of bare bulbs cast light across the tabletop littered with pots of makeup and eyeshadow palettes that would have made Indy jealous.
In front of that, Moira sat on a low stool with her back to me.
The demoness swiveled and stood, swathed in a gown as dark as a starless night. The neckline plunged down her chest, creating a space her ample cleavage filled. Her eyes glowed in the absent light, so warmly red it seemed she could burn me with her glare alone.
“Chop, chop.” She clapped her hands, then motioned to a tufted chaise lounge with a suit draped across it. “We are on a deadline.”
I turned toward the outfit and gave it an appraising once-over. It was a burgundy velvet tailcoat and slacks with a black satin kerchief tucked in the coat’s breast pocket. The shirt and tie were notably absent. Apparently, my mistress would not be the only one showing a bit of skin today.
Moira watched with unmasked interest while I stripped down to my boxers and donned the formal attire. With little space to maneuver in the cramped room, I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror’s reflection. The suit fit snugly, baring my chest and the silver choke chain permanently fastened around my neck. My dark hair hung past my collarbones in loose waves, and my tan skin looked even more so in the muted light .
Moira entered the frame and pressed her lithe body against mine.
Even in spiked heels, she barely crested my shoulder. She leaned past my arm to reach around with a wide piece of leather in her hands. She raised the muzzle to my face, where it snugged across my nose and mouth. The oppressive sensation was startling at first, and I resisted the urge to jerk back as she pulled the material together at the nape of my neck, reducing my airflow to the minimum.
I fought to keep my eyes from going wide, or worse narrow, as the demoness considered our shared image in the mirror.
“What do you think?” She brushed her fingers over my smothered lips. “Seen but not heard?”
After a few seconds, the muzzle fell away. I sucked a greedy breath, and Moira tittered a laugh. She tossed the muzzle onto the vanity table, where it landed with a clink of its metal buckles.
She stepped around in front of me to tug on my jacket lapels and smooth the grain of the brushed velvet. Every touch was jarring, despite having endured her dress-up games for more than a century.
My eyes slipped out of focus while she combed her claw-like nails through my hair, then dragged one down the bare expanse of my chest. She claimed we were on a deadline but took her time caressing and finessing every inch of me, smoothing down my sides and cinching in at my waist. When her palm cupped over my groin, I ground my teeth together but didn’t protest.
Finally, Moira withdrew, reaching to the vanity table and the length of chain coiled there.
The leash unfurled into a string of steel links with a black leather handle. It couldn’t have been more than three feet long, creating a clear boundary for how far I would be allowed to stray from my responsibilities today.
“You’re such a good boy, Lorenzo,” she said with a smile. “So patient.” Leaning in, she clipped the chain to my collar, then gave it a taunting tug. “Shall we go?”
I followed her to the door, which she pushed open into the corridor. Across the hall, Whitney stood, holding up the wall beside a blue flame sconce. He wore a suit identical to mine, except his was piney green. The chain around his neck was gold, and his matching leash was looped around the sconce.
I spared a lingering glance on the other hellhound. Moira claimed she got me for him—a pet for her pet. I’d thought at first that he was meant for me, as well. He was undeniably handsome with tousled blond locks, strong shoulders, and a square jaw, but he was devoted to Moira and disinterested in me, so our mistress’s plan for us to be anything more than coworkers was doomed from the start.
The demoness pulled me into position on her left and freed Whitney to take his post on her right. She kissed his cheek, then ventured ahead toward an undetermined destination.
I cut my gaze over to Whitney, hoping he might explain. Hellish events could last hours or days, and I had little time to spare. But, while Moira might have felt the need to threaten me with a muzzle, Whitney was a better-trained hound. He wouldn’t utter a word unless our mistress commanded it. He didn’t even tear his eyes away from her, practically drooling over the way her hips swayed as she led us along.
I’d realized not long after my death that Hell was much like a hotel. Scores of rooms occupied expansive floors that defied the laws of physics. One door could open into a closet while the next allowed entry to a multistory theater. We had libraries and gardens and beauty parlors and torture chambers, all obscured by innocuous, identical doors.
The walk was long, bypassing a half dozen options for our destination until only one remained: the grand ballroom. That explained the vacancy in the halls; none of the higher demons would miss a chance to prance around at a formal event.
Rather than take the path to one of the side entrances, Moira directed us to a secluded stairway. It was too narrow for us to ascend in stride, so Whitney and I fell in line at her back. Our leashes jingled and jerked with every mounting step.
Our mistress said nothing as we arrived on a landing, where my curiosity piqued. With only a single sconce and a heavy black drape obscuring the doorway leading into the ballroom, darkness swallowed the space. The sounds of music and chattering voices came from the other side of the curtain. From the volume alone, the place must have been packed.
Moira spun around. Her heels clicked on the stone floor as she faced Whitney and me.
“My handsome boys,” she gushed. With a tug on our leashes, she pulled us down one at a time and placed a red- lipped kiss on each of our cheeks.
Whitney beamed at the attention while my features pulled tight.
“You’ll do me proud tonight,” Moira said. “I want everyone to see how wonderful you are.”
Not how vicious, or cruel, or even dangerous. Many of our public appearances took place in the fighting pit. Demons loved any excuse to carouse and twirl around the dance floor, but they craved violence immensely more. Hound fights were a bloody sport and always well-attended. There we didn’t wear suits, and Moira doled out commands instead of kisses.
Today was clearly different.
“Ready?” the demoness asked.
Whitney bobbed his head. I almost missed it, fixating on the strip of light beneath the curtain and pulling on the hem of my jacket’s sleeve until Moira snapped her fingers.
“Lorenzo!”
I met her eyes and found them blazing hot. My hound dragged belly-low inside me and pinned his ears in submission.
“Are you ready?” she repeated.
As if cued, someone boomed from the other side of the drape, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our Mistress of the Hounds.”
The curtain swept aside, admitting a flood of orange-yellow light. I stood, squinting, until Moira yanked on the leash and cinched my collar tight. I lurched into motion without being sure of what I was walking into as the scene ahead became slowly clear.
The ceilings soared upward into a dark abyss. Chandeliers made of bone and glass hung throughout the space, suspended from nothing. Flame dripped from them like balls of lava that wisped into smoke before they reached the ground.
Demons in all their finery cluttered the floor. The music had stopped and that, combined with the announcement, brought a halt to everything else. Horned heads turned and gazes fixed on Moira, Whitney, and me where we stood at the top of the staircase. Eyes in every color from lustful red to greedy green were trained on the three of us. Even the silence felt loud, and I fiddled with my coat sleeve again, dragging my nails over the flocked burgundy fabric until I thought I might scrape it smooth.
A male demon scampered up the steps toward us, holding a microphone for Moira to speak into.
Her smile spread, flashing fanglike teeth as she launched into a greeting. “Ladies and gentlemen, demons and denizens of the underworld, I thank you all for coming to our first, and hopefully annual, Howl for Hope Charity Gala.”
The declaration made me frown, and I looked to Whitney for answers. He surveyed the crowd with his hands behind his back and his posture rigid. I followed his example and tried to keep the bewilderment off my face as Moira carried on.
“Tonight, we gather not only to revel in the flames of hellish delight, but also to ask you to extend your claws of compassion toward a noble cause,” she said. “We seek your donations of unneeded or unwanted souls to fill the hound kennels for the first time in a century!”
My stomach lurched. The kennels were comprised of dozens of stacked steel boxes in a dank corner of Hell. I spent the first twenty years of my afterlife confined to that claustrophobic space, caged and muzzled, deafened by the whimpers and cries of other trapped souls. Falling into Moira’s favor bought me a pass out of there, and her bed was now mine. At least, it was on those infrequent occasions I couldn’t find a way to avoid it.
On the floor below, the crowd continued to stare. Their targeted focus caused sweat to prickle up my neck and bead on my temples. I swallowed, feeling hot and itchy despite my open suit jacket letting in plenty of air. The demons’ eyes were like lanterns beaming toward me, and their murmurs became a mounting cacophony in my ears.
Moira grew more boisterous as her speech neared its end. “With each given soul, we pave the path to a brighter future for our beloved hellhounds.” Reaching back, she cupped her palm to Whitney’s cheek and fixed him with a loving look. “These creatures of unwavering loyalty deserve our support.” She faced the assembly, and our leashes jingled as she flung her arms wide. “So, tonight, let us answer their call with resounding howls of solidarity!”
A chorus of wolven cries answered her, complete with yips and whistles. The whole thing might have been comedic if it wasn’t so unnerving. Indy would have been cackling for sure, pointing out that it was like the reverse of the yearly Clear the Shelter event run by our local dog rescue. Rather than emptying the kennels of unfortunate souls, Moira planned to pack them in. I could have used a joke or snickering laugh, even at my own expense, but Whitney provided neither while Moira descended the grand staircase with us in tow.
On the lower level, we were swarmed by horned and fanged fiends. I felt immediately crushed as they greeted our mistress with congratulations and handshakes. Her lips curved a wicked, winsome smile, and her vermilion eyes glittered as she addressed each new arrival.
When one of the demon gentlemen placed a kiss on Moira’s knuckles, a flash of anger pinched Whitney’s blond brows, but it smoothed away as our mistress turned toward us.
“Boys,” she began while tugging us toward one of the tables that lined the perimeter of the room. Finding a pair of unoccupied chairs, she positioned us beside them, then looped my leash around the metal seatback.
A pat on the cushioned seat accompanied her command. “Sit.”
My hound snapped to attention, and I dropped as swiftly as if I’d been kicked in the knees.
She repeated the process with Whitney before issuing another terse statement. “Stay. I’ll be back.”