by Ryan Hill
“Half.” Veronica cracked her knuckles.
“Well, half-demon, I find it very suspicious that you showed up, right after someone attacked us,” Sam said. “Almost as if you planned it.”
“Really?” I shook my head. “The only thing Veronica planned was meeting up. She didn’t know where I was, at all, until I texted her to pick me up.”
“So she knew where we were?” If Sam’s eyes could burst into flames, they would have in that moment.
I ran a hand through my hair. “Will you stop with the Gene Hackman-level paranoia?”
Sam squinted, taken aback. “Gene Hackman?”
“Forget it.” I waved her off. “You’re being paranoid, is all.” I turned to Veronica. “Did you have anything to do with some random thugs coming and destroying Sam’s place?”
“No.”
I gestured at Sam. “See?”
Angry, Sam balled her hands into fists, complete with bits of Hand of God light peeking through the cracks. “I want the truth. Did you let the Mop Tops know where we were after Bartholomew texted you?”
Veronica seemed thoroughly confused. “The Mop Tops?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Sam said. “The Caelo in Terra foot soldiers.”
“And I destroyed them.” Duffy pounded his chest and made a barbarian yell.
I winced, uncomfortable at the kid advertising his … abilities. A ghost that could affect the physical world was a powerful thing, and very useful to certain parties. Sam locked eyes with me. She knew Duffy had messed up too.
I shook my head, dismissing the worry, and popped a cigarette in my mouth. Veronica wouldn’t care about Duffy, right? She didn’t know who I was when we hooked up in the Barnes & Noble bathroom. I was just some rogue she’d bumped into at the ABC store. Besides, a half-demon didn’t have nearly enough power to pull off this “Paradise” the Caelo in Terra were trying to create.
Sam glanced at the half-demon. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
“Bitch, you don’t tell me what to do.” Veronica laid her hands on her hips and leaned back on one leg. Classic defensive stance. “I go where I want, when I want.”
“That can be arranged.” One of Sam’s hands lit up.
A car horn blared, making all four of us jump.
Remy.
He’d quietly rolled up in his black Escalade, the headlights turned off. There was a boyish smirk on his face as he sat in the car, watching the scene. His black hair and clothes blended into the night, making him sort of look like a floating head.
“The truth is, you’re just some wannabe-angel.” Veronica looped an arm around mine. “No amount of atonement will ever make you the real thing.”
“Wow.” The word burst out of Sam in fit of laugher. “Bartholomew, you’ve got yourself a winner here.”
Remy got out of the SUV, then, the engine still running. “We going to leave, or we going to tussle?”
I realized then that sirens were blaring in the distance, coming this way. We needed to go. All of us.
“You coming?” Veronica asked.
“What?” I didn’t notice she’d been tugging at my arm.
Veronica took it as a slight. “Fine.”
“I, uh,” I stammered.
Idiot.
“Go with your freaky friends. See if I care.” She got in her car and slammed the door shut. The car’s tires screeched as it sped out of the parking lot.
Bless it all.
“Come on,” Sam said. “I took care of the crud in my apartment, but if the paramedics get one look at you, they’ll probably faint.”
Getting into the back of Remy’s Escalade proved a little difficult. I tried to step up into the SUV and, I’m embarrassed to admit, yelped in pain. With so many bits of door and glass stuck all over my body, every movement felt like one of the pointed, sharp punishments handed out by demons on the Fifth Circle of Hell.
“Don’t make me ask for it,” I said through clenched teeth.
Remy and Sam took me by the sides and helped me into the back seat. Sitting down felt like the sort of sweet relief a coal miner would feel after lying down on a comfortable mattress after a long shift down in the darkness. Duffy slid in next to me, and Sam sat up front with Remy. Then we were on the road, the ambulance passing us as we left the complex.
Duffy glanced back, the ambulance’s flashing red lights holding his attention. “Sorry about your house.”
“It’s okay.” Sam turned back, her eyes dropping at the sight of what remained of her place. “I’m sorry too.”
“Where to?” Remy asked.
“My place,” I said. “I need to take my dog out.”
It took Sam and Remy no less than eight minutes to regain their composure, pick up their jaws, and realize I wasn’t joking. Once they could speak, the pair started in, giving me an endless amount of Heaven about Ozzie. I expected the razzing, despite my head injury/diminished ability to trade quips, barbs, and insults.
“Is this some new strategy to pick up virgins?” Remy asked.
“No,” I said.
Sam stuttered, trying to speak during a giggle fit. “I know you’re torn to shreds, but are you going soft on us?”
“No,” I said. “Do you think this is fair?”
“Giving you Hell?” Remy asked. “Absolutely.”
“Even though I’m using my tie as gauze,” I said. “It’s stuck to my head, by the way. Think about it.”
“I feel bad for you,” Sam said. “I do. About that. It’s just … the idea of you taking in a rescue.”
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” I said. “Ozzie’s going to be the finest Hell Hound in centuries, and he will treat your blessed faces like chew toys.”
Sam and Remy didn’t understand. They’d never met, or owned, a Hell Hound. Those two jackalopes didn’t appreciate what it meant to have such a prized beast. Once Ozzie was whipped into shape, they’d change their thinking.
“Will you teach him to shake?” Remy asked.
“Roll over?” Sam asked, adding insult to injury.
They laughed to the point of tears. I wished their armpits would turn green and mossy. Not to mention, this rapport of theirs was way too chummy for my taste.
“What kind of dog is it?” Sam asked.
“I bet it’s a Chihuahua,” Remy said. “Does it clean up after you? Drink your spilled wine? Eat your cigarette butts?”
Pfft. “He’s way bigger than that. Ozzie’s sixteen pounds of raw Hell Hound.”
“Sounds like it,” Remy said. “You’ve got me scared.”
Duffy leaned over. “Do you think your dog will see me?”
“Hope so.”
If not, the kid would probably have a repeat of his earlier crying spell. Then, considering my recent luck, he would miss his parents again and want to go home, causing yet another weeping episode. The cycle would continue over and over until I ripped my ears out. Or moved to the Alps to pursue an existence of throwing snow balls at monks. Both seemed like good options.
My phone vibrated. A text from Veronica.
That angel better watch herself or someone’s gonna clip her wings.
I love it when you talk dirty.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. Thoughts poured in, making my head swirl all over again. Veronica wasn’t a Mop Top. She didn’t have the power to lead them … but her appearance had been sort of timely. What if she were a high-ranking official?
My brain commanded me to stop thinking about it. There were more important things to figure out, like whether Sam and Remy had spent a lot of time together behind my back.
And what in the world made Duffy the ghost-with-the-most?
CHAPTER TEN
And How Did You Become a Ghost, Little Boy?
Back at my place, I enjoyed a small victory. Ozzie saw Duffy, sending the kid over the moon with excitement, and the two of them played together, having a grand old time. Sure, the whole thing wasn’t very Hell Hound-like of Ozzie, but
it kept Duffy from crying. Remy helped me to my couch, where I sat up straight to keep the cushion from pushing the shard of door any farther into my back. Remy eyeballed my tie.
“That needs to come off.” He tugged at the end of the tie. Ouch. “It’s literally stuck to your head.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” I smacked his hand away. “Leave it alone.”
Remy smirked, folding his arms. “Come on, you big baby.”
Sam was in the kitchen, sipping on a bottle of my wine. The almost-angel wasn’t the biggest fan, but I was working on warming her up to the stuff.
“I hope you’re pouring me some of that,” I said.
She grabbed another glass from the cabinet, holding it up for me to see.
“Excellent.”
Remy locked eyes with Sam. Judging from the look on her face, he was mouthing something. I wasn’t sure, since I could only see the back of his head, but it seemed that was the case. It was so petty, talking behind my back.
“Your friend was pretty cute.” Sam walked over, handing me a full glass of wine.
“I know.” I tasted the wine. Chateau Margaux 1990. A single case cost several thousand dollars. Not that Sam cared. It was all the same to her.
“I’ve been thinking.” She sipped the wine, hmming as she swallowed. “I’ve never kissed a girl before. If I get a little more wine in me, maybe you should ask her to come over.”
Wait. Her and Veronica? Kissing?
“Really?”
Sam nodded. She glanced to Remy for a split second, then back to me.
“I think that could be arr–”
Without warning, Remy yanked the tie off my head. Every hair, pore, piece of skull, and whatever else the tie was stuck to stung with the pain of a thousand needles. I screamed, then punched Remy on the arm.
“Assholes.” I rubbed my head. “Both of you.”
“It had to come off,” Remy said.
Ozzie hopped in my lap, barking at the sight of me in pain. The pooch sniffed my face and licked one of my wounds. I let Ozzie have a little, since every good Hell Hound needs to know the taste of blood on their lips.
“Gross, Ozzie,” Duffy laughed. “Don’t do that, silly dog.”
“That was an evil trick,” I said. “Making me think I’d see some hot girl-on-girl action.”
Sam raised her hand. “My idea.”
“Figures.”
She put her glass of wine down on the coffee table, then set about cleaning my wounds with a wet towel. I closed my eyes, trying to shut them all out. This wasn’t fair. I took in a potential Hell Hound, a door exploded on me, I was thrown through a window and fell three stories, and now Sam—Sam!—was fooling me into thinking she wanted to kiss Veronica! Things had gotten completely out of line.
Meanwhile, Sam put the blood-soaked towel down. “Don’t move.”
The almost-angel picked up two Band-Aids, then leaned in close and stuck them to my head with a hint of tenderness.
“Another one bites the dust.” Remy held the tie up. My dried, black blood was caked in one large spot, right where it had touched my head wound. From there, the blood spread in thin veins. No amount of cleaning would get it out of that tie. “I’m sure you have a credit line somewhere.”
He and Sam laughed at the joke and I mock laughed at them, belting out an obnoxious “Ha. Ha. Ha.” The room fell silent. Ozzie resumed playing with Duffy.
“I’m still a little unsure as to how the Mop Tops found us,” Sam said, breaking the radio silence.
I groaned. “Can’t a rogue recuperate in peace?”
“Nope.” Sam’s eyes honed in on mine. “Because you and I both know how it most likely happened.”
Remy sat, a hand in his beard, listening as Sam and I argued about the Mop Tops and Veronica’s potential association with them. To be honest, if the conversation didn’t revolve around weird voodoo recipes or the New Orleans Saints, Remy didn’t add much to the conversation. Duffy sat cross-legged on the floor, Ozzie lying in his lap, snoozing away, while Sam continued insisting that Veronica sold us out.
“Let it go,” I said. “If that were the case, wouldn’t there be more of them breaking down my door right now? I mean it’s not like she doesn’t know where I live. She could send the whole army.”
“Are you so blinded by her breasts that you can’t see what’s hitting you in the face?” Sam asked.
“Besides her breasts?” I asked.
Sam grred and blushed. It was cute.
“Jealousy suits you,” I said. “But what would Gabriel say if he knew about you being jealous over little old me?”
“That–” Sam said, caught off guard that the ball was back in her court. “My personal feelings have nothing to do with this.”
“No?”
“No. But while we’re at it, I’d love to point out your illustrious track record since I’ve known you.”
“She’s got you there,” Remy said with a smirk.
Says the Creole who was banished from New Orleans because he fell for the wrong girl.
“You two are missing the point. Up until Sam came along, I was a full-fledged demon. I’m not supposed to have a good track record.” I stood up and paced around the room. “I don’t expect you to understand. It’s different with Veronica, okay? She has a little demon in her.”
“Emphasis on little, am I right?” Remy nudged Sam, who didn’t respond. The Cajun cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.
“And here I thought Duffy was the only child in the room,” I said. “Veronica is a half-demon. We have a bond that extends beyond the bedroom.”
If wanting to get back into the bedroom the second we’ve left it counts as a bond.
Confession. I’d never say it aloud and give Sam the satisfaction, but the Mop Tops showing up was a little … suspicious. That didn’t mean Veronica was involved, or that I wasn’t dead-set on changing the subject. Besides, what I’d said was true, too: If she’d been setting me up once, why wasn’t she still doing it? Why stop at the one attack?
“What about Peter Heinrich?” I asked.
“What about him?” Sam asked.
I leaned against the back of the loveseat. “Have you forgotten about him?”
“I have not.” Sam rested her elbows on her knees. “But Veronica we can easily track, whereas we have no idea where Heinrich is.”
I let out a pfft. “Let it go. Heinrich is the big fish. Focus on him, you heathen.”
“Whatever.” Sam sighed, leaning into the couch and crossing her legs. “Have it your way. Though for the record, I still think Veronica is involved.”
Remy slapped his knees. “Anybody mind if we hit the pause button so I can get up to speed? I’m bored stiff trying to piece this together.”
Sam took a moment to catch him up on everything. She slanted the story toward making Veronica look guilty, but whatever. I’d moved past it. Besides, Sam was a jealous carny.
“So this was a hit by these Mop Tops?” Remy asked. “Plain and simple?”
“That’s one way to put it.” Sam went into the kitchen to pour each of us another glass of wine. “Thanks to Bartholomew drugging the homeless at the soup kitchen, their big secret is out. Why wouldn’t they do everything they can to suck us into oblivion before we cause any more trouble?”
I wrapped my arms around my chest. Whatever gears in my head that survived the attack were now churning. Unless they were buffoons or more desperate than a fat girl on prom night, the Mop Tops had flown under the radar far too long to be complete idiots. I replayed the scene in my mind over and over.
Think, you handsome devil. What are you missing?
The exploding door. The metal in my head. Sam’s Hand of God power. Then, the Mop Tops turned their attention to…
“Duffy,” I said.
“What?” he asked, his face full of curiosity.
“Do you ever remember seeing someone with a black hole on their head before tonight?”
Duffy froze. His face we
nt from curious to stone cold fear faster than the speed of light. His breathing sped up. “I … I don’t remember.”
“Try. Were they the bad people?”
“I said I don’t remember.”
He got up and darted for my bedroom. Ozzie followed close behind, but Duffy slammed the door in front of the dog. Part of me wanted Ozzie to crash through the door in true Hell Hound-style, but that was asking too much. Instead he whined and pawed at the door, probably scratching the paint. If anyone else were messing with the door, they’d have Heaven to pay—but not him.
Finally, the door opened a crack and Ozzie rushed into my bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.
Great. Not only was Duffy crying—again—but odds were good he was rubbing snot all over everything. And Ozzie? So quick to offer compassion to the ghost? What a terrible Hell Hound. I’d have to double up my efforts in training the dog.
The one good item of note? It was pretty clear the Mop Tops were after Duffy, not us.
I waited a few minutes before knocking on the bedroom door. My door, I might add. When there was no answer, I opened it.
“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound positive.
Duffy’s face was buried in a pillow. I tried not to imagine how many washes it’d take to clean the ghost goop from the bed. Ghosts couldn’t disturb the living, but they sure as Heaven disturbed me. Why couldn’t there have been a rule stating that ghosts couldn’t leave snot all over my bed?
“Go away.” He didn’t raise his head to speak.
“Come on, buddy. We need some answers.” My positive tone cracked under pressure. That bedroom set had cost me a mint. I wanted it to have a certain level of panache when entertaining female guests.
“Let me try,” Sam said, laying a hand on my shoulder.
I figured she’d picked up on my frustration and followed me in. I stepped aside, motioning for her to give it a shot.
“Hey.” Sam sat down on the corner of the bed. She looked back at me for a second and I smirked. She knew what was up. That mattress was the most comfortable the world had to offer.
Duffy sniffed. “Bart’s being mean.”
“No.” I rolled my eyes. “My name is Bartholomew.”