Five gulps later, most of the whooze—aka leftover vodka—fled my head. Note to self: don’t try outdrinking Aunt Kate. It’s a lost cause. But it sure had been fun—at least for the first hour. Memories disappeared after that. Probably best. This way, I couldn’t remember the passive-aggressive insults infused with the lurking smugness that made up one Lacey Briggs.
But as a pack of school kids walked down the sidewalk, I questioned my whooze level. Because one: why were the kids dressed in school uniforms on a Saturday? What the hell was wrong with the education system that these kids didn’t understand the word weekend? And two: squeezed in the middle of the pack of confused kids was a giant black beast with flames trailing down its back. I blinked. Dang, still there. And I’d just gotten used to it being a permanent fixture on my doormat. I had pretended it was a statue, albeit a breathing one that growled and blinked at me. But it hadn’t snarled when I opened the door that morning. Actually, the beast had stopped grumbling at me the night before, shortly after I took the sword and told the monster he was a good boy. Perhaps I should consider it an efficient mail carrier? One who brought me letters straight from Hell draped elegantly over paws the size of dinner plates?
Yet now the beast had relocated. And not only had it moved, but it had also followed, heading directly toward me with a flaming tail wagging and massive pink tongue dangling. The only perk to the beast’s sudden mobility? I no longer had to use the fire escape. There were only so many times I could tell Mrs. Tidwell, “This is a safety and procedures inspection,” before she questioned the landlord.
That morning’s mail offering had been different from the previous ones. The packet contained two pictures tucked inside the sulfur-smelling envelope instead of one. The question begged, did I now have the option of choosing my target, or would they multiply until I either sent them to Hell or gathered the photos into a mound of scrap rivaling the pot roast for the bottom spot in my mother’s kitchen trash? That answer was still out for debate.
Right then, however, my concern over the situation was at a serious lack. It was the day after DD-day (dreaded deadline day), and the earth still turned, the coffee still brewed, and Hellhound was acting more like Sparky the oversized Pomeranian than a beast from Hell. Perhaps it’d be a breeze to stall Satan and Lucifer and anyone else until Hadley got me out of that dang contract.
I pulled out the latest photographs and, as expected, Logan Bradley’s image scowled up at me with all his deathly glory—presumed death, of course. With the photo collection I had on him, someone was going to think I was some sort of lovelorn sicko stalker. If memory served, I’d only stalked him twice. The first time had been almost a month ago at a sports bar on the west side of town. He’d met up with a few guys after work for a beer and chicken wings. Logan had been a hard one to peg because he was so bland. He drank house draft and didn’t put anything on his wings, and he responded to conversations rather than lead them. The guy only had that whole cute thing going for him. I’d told Maude to find him someone sweet and with a quick laugh. Preferably a woman whose humor found a cat attacking a marshmallow funny since Logan seemed to lack humor himself. Apparently, a prostitute had fit the bill.
Behind Logan’s photo was a picture of the newest target. A clean-cut redheaded man who appeared somewhat familiar. Another Fated Match client? Was that the link? Maude. Hadley was right; Maude was the devil. That Sebastian whoever, along with the hellhound, were her minions. Except the hellhound now appeared too friendly to be working for Maude Taggart.
But I was on to something. I knew I was. Maude used Fated Match to funnel evil ghosts to Hell. Except the men walked into her offices alive. So she killed them? Yeah, well, that didn’t exactly work. Maude didn’t like so much as spilled champagne dripping on her hands, much less blood.
I set down my empty coffee cup and leaned forward to stare at the beast. He’d plopped himself down at my feet as if he belonged. All I was missing was a leash and collar.
“You don’t scare me,” I said.
He snorted.
“You’re lazy. You smell like burnt charcoal, and you’re ugly. But you’re not scary.” Providing he didn’t growl. Growls as loud as thunder were scary. Not that he needed to be told that. Hellhound’s huge tongue rolled back out of his massive mouth, and a small swimming pool of drool collected at my feet. The look in his yellow eyes pleaded for me to pet him, but there was no way I was touching those flames.
“Do you know what this means?” I asked.
Hellhound tilted his head.
“This means,” I held up the picture, “I’ve got to figure out if this is a client.”
“Who’s she talking to, Mommy?” A young girl who appeared to be about five was seated at a table to my right. Large inquisitive eyes peeked at me through long bangs. “There’s nobody there. Why is she talking to nobody?”
“Come on, we’re leaving.” The haggard looking woman seated next to the child gathered her purse and grabbed the girl by the hand. Furtive glances cast over her shoulder as she dragged the stumbling girl down the sidewalk.
It happens.
“It’s because of you,” I told Hellhound. “You need to go away before everyone thinks I’m nuts.”
People got weird whenever I talked to ghosts in public, and I guessed there was no discrimination for hellhounds. The hound narrowed his eyes, and I could have sworn stubborn determination lurked inside them. Crap. Planting himself outside my apartment door over the past two days was probably a major indication of just how stubborn.
I sighed. That beast wasn’t going anywhere he didn’t want to go. I checked out the new photograph he’d brought me, curiosity gnawing to know who exactly New Target was. Unlike those crazy school kids, I understood the definition of day off so I wasn’t stopping by the office to check my database of clients. At least my day would be my own until Maude frantically texted because Forbes Magazine was scheduled for an interview, and she ran out of eyeliner (last Saturday), or because she had a no-show hot date at Felipe’s Tavern, and since the paparazzi had hit the place that night due to the latest feuding celebrity couple making a show, Maude needed a “date” so she wasn’t captured in a tabloid bound photograph eating alone. Working dinner it was. (Two Saturday’s ago). Pretty sad when the psychic got stood up. One would think she’d see that in advance. At least I got a steak.
Like Logan, New Target had a marked cheek. There were about six hundred and thirty-two plausible reasons for that mark, and so far, I hadn’t ruled out a one. Judging by New Target’s stance, he favored his left knee. He towered against the side of a car, indicating he was tall. Old basketball injury? The car was an old Ford Mustang—maybe 90s something? Nothing classic. The man’s pale skin implied no sun. Indoor job? An accountant, or perhaps an insurance claim adjuster? Something boring, I was certain. The lack of spark reflecting in his eyes placed him as dull.
A nose that nudged against my knee was surprisingly more of a shove, really, and it left a large wet circle on my jeans. How could a beast covered in flames have such a wet nose? Hellhound was his own fire extinguisher.
I scooted my chair to the right and pretended it never happened. Hellhound acted like a puppy, but I wasn’t about to piss off a beast who could eat me in two bites. I reexamined the size of that jaw. Okay, one bite.
Five seconds later, I didn’t receive a nudge. It was pure shove. Half of my left pant leg was drenched in drool and snot. My chair had moved half a foot away from where it sat moments before. And I was still seated on top. Barely.
What the hell? I stared at the beast; his tongue no longer dangled.
“Sit.” Hellhound had risen to his feet, and I pointed to the ground. Screw that getting eaten thing, commands worked on dogs, right? But the low growl from the beast’s throat indicated loud and clear. He was no dog.
Well, crap.
Words were all my mind could muster as the table shook. Hellhound crouched underneath, butting his flaming head into the small base. One of the photographs
slid off the top and fluttered to the ground. Then Hellhound sat. And stared. And I wondered what the hell I was supposed to do. Run?
Bending down, I grabbed the fallen picture. It was of New Target, and the sun shined on the bright red of his hair in the photograph. I looked up to give Hellhound the don't you dare turn into an obnoxious beast from Hell of all glares when the bright red hair from the man seated at the table behind distracted me.
Leaning over an open newspaper sat New Target. No wonder his photograph had seemed familiar, the ghost had been seated there before I’d arrived. He appeared perfectly normal sitting outside a café on a late Saturday morning while reading the paper. Except he had that dead thing going for him. Then there was the whole only I could see him thing.
But what was I supposed to do? Hellhound tilted his head again, and I could have sworn the beast was asking why I waited. Knowledge of how to proceed perhaps? Seriously, there needed to be an instruction manual for this job.
My eyes fixated on New Target’s marked cheek. The small interlocking circles were mesmerizing. For the first time in eleven years, I’d found someone bearing that symbol. The palms of my hands itched in sweat as I stood on shaky legs.
The beast’s growl snapped me out of my stupor. I had a job to do: learn the meaning of that unique mark. And if Hellhound got his way, I’d send a ghost to Hell. The demons down below would be off my back long enough for Hadley to get me out of that contract. First things first, the practical approach.
“Excuse me,” I said to New Target’s bent head. “You need to come with me.”
Wait. Except to where? Where did I want him to go? Yeah, hadn’t thought that one through. But it wasn’t as if I could have a public conversation with a ghost.
A page of the newspaper flipped over without New Target lifting a hand. Nice trick, but it didn’t mask the fact that I was being ignored by a ghost reading the obituaries. Seriously. The obituaries.
“So, what’s with the mark on your cheek?” Bold interaction was my choice of action as I bent down for a closer inspection. “I’m trying to find a ghost with that same mark. What does it mean?”
Nothing. Nada. Not even a glance. Well, except from the wide-eyed skateboarding teenager staring at the crazy girl—aka me—for talking to a newspaper as he rolled by. See? Public conversations don’t work.
Hellhound nabbed my attention with a snarl of warning, pointing out the job I had no desire to complete. That growl translated into send the ghost to Hell. But how? I couldn’t even get a conversation out of this one, but Hellhound prompted that I try to expedite New Target’s living arrangements.
“I command you to Hell.”
My pointed finger landed inches from New Target’s short red hair. His body stiffened. Vacant eyes raised to meet mine. Oh, holy crap. I’d just pissed off a ghost. But had it worked? There was a response. Reaction meant it worked—right? Maybe he was about to poof into Hell? My legs were confused about doing the happy dance of joy or fleeing down the street in terror. My gaze landed back on his cheek, mind screaming for answers. So damn close, but in the choice of getting answers or remaining alive, I chose alive. Because the only response I’d managed to extract from him this far had been volatile.
A blast of cold pounded me. It strongly indicated the answer would be a no regarding the Hell thing working. Fear tore through me, and it wasn’t by invitation.
With an outraged yell, New Target sprung to his feet. His table knocked over, shoving me down. I hit the concrete hard. A yelp of pain squeezed out of my lungs as a chair landed on top of my chest. Ow, ow, ow. That would so leave a mark.
Then quiet. Too quiet. Raising my head, I spotted the retreating back of New Target. What the hell? Wait—why question my luck? The back of my head thudded softly against the concrete. A thankful sigh escaped my lips. I had tried, and it was the best I could do. Ignoring the curious gawks from the passersby, I climbed to my feet.
Hellhound plopped down, and his body of flames became a wall of fire. Damn dog. I’d have no choice but to jump over him if I wanted to walk home, and there were no promises Legs could clear that high.
“What?” I asked the beast, his stubbornness grating my nerves. “I tried, but he got away.”
After another shove from the large wet nose, I was back on the ground. Another ow was yelped as my butt hit the sidewalk. An investment in jeans with padding was next on my to-do list. Maintaining a constant sore butt had become a tiresome task. Hellhound hovered over me. His eyes glowed in a fierce yellow, and my making another attempt for New Target became somewhat appealing. Hellhound’s intimidating jaws that close to my neck were quite the incentive.
Catching up to New Target took no time. His walk was casual, relaxed, while working his way through the Saturday morning sidewalk rush. It was obvious the ghost wasn’t scared of a novice Praedator, which stung my badly bruised ego. But I reassured myself it was fine because I hoped to be an ex-Praedator by the next weekend.
Four blocks down, I caught up to New Target. He’d barely spared me a glance, and I wasn’t certain he even realized I’d followed. I wished for some way to determine his final destination. Because another three blocks later, I knew something had to give. I was not up for a twenty-mile hike, and New Target didn’t appear to be losing any steam.
His abrupt left turn found me standing in a dead end alley. I didn’t need the tingling hairs on the back of my neck to know nothing good was about to come out of this. Dead end alley. Dumpsters. One pissed-off ghost. My life was turning into a full-fledged horror movie, and Checking Account had informed me I was only getting paid as an extra.
Narrowing my eyes, I squared my shoulders. New Target was inspecting me like a bug on the wash, but I was determined to take him. If everything came down to only one of us walking out of that alley, it was damn well going to be me. Somehow. Luck better get her ass back from the Bahamas. Pronto. I needed her.
Desperately.
“To Hell.” My pointed finger once again fell flat. No magic zipped out the tip to send the spirit to his final destination. Just nothing. Not a damn thing.
Well, nothing except an airborne cardboard box that moments before had sat on top of a dumpster. But its flight hadn’t been prompted by my finger. The object aimed for my head, not New Target’s. I ducked.
Violence pulsing in the ghost was almost tangible from where I stood, and it wasn’t only my sore butt warning me that it was in my body’s best interest to get rid of him. But if I wasn’t to command him to Hell, what the heck was I supposed to say?
“As Praedator, I command you to Satan.”
Yeah, that didn’t work either. Maybe just…
“I command you to the devil.”
Still nothing, except his growing rage.
“To Lucifer!”
The alley had become a whirlwind of debris. Garbage and cardboard boxes whipped around me so fast they created a tornadic wind that pressed against me. It took strength I didn’t know I had just to keep my balance. New Target stood but a few feet in front of me, yet I could only catch glimpses of his enraged face through the flying paper. My throat closed as I tried swallowing. My lungs heaved dry. I couldn’t breathe. Clamminess weighted my skin and ice chilled my bones. Of course, the urge to flee was strong. I wasn’t stupid. My mind was shutting down into pure survival mode, and I was trapped. The blasted hellhound hadn’t even followed me into the alley to make himself useful.
Swallowing back the fear overtaking my common sense worked as well as shoving a Blu-ray into my mother’s old VHS player, but I had to try. The only person to get me out of this mess was me. Straining against the pounding wind, I fought to see New Target. Except it wasn’t the expected ghost standing on the other side of flying paper and plastic bags. Red-eyed Ghost stared back instead. His haunting scarlet eyes blazed while his face twisted into a smirk. Exactly as I remembered him from eleven years ago.
The breathing difficulties I had suffered before was a joke. One look at Red-eyed Ghost and my lungs
collapsed. Tightness squeezed my chest and pain ripped through me. The more I gasped for air, the less my lungs filled. My chest heaved in and out, hollow. Movement intensified the pain.
Red-Eyed Ghost laughed. That laughter. It was a guttural sound, one I’d never forgotten. He would kill me because this time there was no Hadley to save my desperate butt.
My eyes lost focus and Red-eyed Ghost became no more than a blurry vision. But his laughter remained crystal clear, pounding inside my ears. Blissful numbness tingled down my nerves and my legs gave out. Concrete was quickly becoming my new bestie as I collapsed into a heap.
Everything stopped. The stillness was deafening, and my eardrums ached at the abrupt change of pitch—or lack thereof. I tensed. Nothing good came from silence after a ghostly temper tantrum. This silence would be my only warning before death.
Ghosts didn’t have to make a sound, yet heavy footsteps approached. They stopped near my head. I looked up and clutched my hands into sweaty fists across my chest. One last feeble attempt at protection. No red eyes. No evil laughter. New Target stared down at me… and he smiled. Then he turned and walked away. The last thing I comprehended as Eyes closed and Mind blackened into the welcoming depths of oblivion was that Red-eyed Ghost would now come and finish what he’d started eleven years ago.
But he never came.
Chapter Nine
The temperature was hot. Extremely hot, as in, my hair matted against my neck, and my shirt clung to me like a wet t-shirt contest winner hot. Either I was inside a sauna, or I was in Hell. Since Checking Account refused my requests for gym memberships, I had serious concern about the latter.
Carefully prying open an eye, I watched a narrow gap of blue sky peek down at me through tall buildings. Huh. Unless Hell had beach-worthy skies to torture the souls trapped inside its flames, that option could be ruled out. A snort to my left blasted me with a hot gust of wind. Dampness and stickiness came with it, but I refused to ponder anything since both of the words dampness and stickiness were synonymous with gross. Wherever this place was, I needed a shower.
Reaping Havoc: Kiara Blake Book 1 Page 9