Page 25 of Hounded: Ashes to Ashes

I shook my head, wanting to grab Whitney’s arm for lack of a better tether. I’d seen Loren walk through walls and disappear into Hell without a moment’s notice. I assumed this hellhound could do the same, and I couldn’t risk losing him. Not yet.

“Wait!” I blurted, though he’d made no move to leave. “You have to find Loren. We need your help. We don’t…” I glanced at Sully clutching the grimoire, then swallowed hard. “We don’t have anything else.”

Whitney paused like he had before, clearly reluctant, but he answered without prompting. “I’ll do my best.”

My heart leaped into my throat as he turned and walked toward the apartment door. I thought he would let himself out until he drew up before it and began dragging his finger across the surface. Starting up from his shins then around in an arch, it opened into inky darkness, then the hellhound exited Earth, leaving Sully and I in cavernous quiet.

Indy

Days passed.

As promised, I worked with Sully in the gallery. There wasn’t much to do, so she set up an easel and watercolors and put me in front of it as a live exhibition. Not a very interesting one, though, since I had yet to do more than mix one color, then another, only to watch them dry in their pots.

By Friday evening, Sully was sick of my moping and lack of productivity, and I was desperate to venture beyond the four walls of the gallery. So, I took some cash and headed for the Thai restaurant down the street. They were notoriously slow, which gave me time to roam without Sully looking over my shoulder.

I called in our orders and started walking, then kept on, past the restaurant and farther, trying to outpace my thoughts.

Sobriety was shitty.

The club was open, and I battled the urge to call Chaz. He would meet me in that scummy alleyway, always happy to fill my order. But I had my memories now. And I’d been clean for seventy-two hours and counting. I didn’t need pills.

That was what I told myself as I advanced down the street and past the cordoned club entrance.

It became a mantra as I moved. A marching tune.

I didn’t need drugs. Didn’t want them.

I was cured.

Repaired.

Whole.

I tugged on the sweater yarn knotted around my wrist.

Staying quit should be easy now.

I walked all the way to Central Park before I realized why. Evander would likely be onsite. Looking back over the scope of my lives, I had known him in every one. He was almost as constant a fixture as Loren. He showed up at events like Joss Foster’s art exhibition, or my own gallery shows, or masquerading as a groundskeeper at the trailer park when Loren and I moved there.

He and Loren clashed for reasons Evander already explained. Demons and angels were like oil and water, but I knew enough now to realize Evander had never been a problem for me. In fact, if demons were so opposed to him, even on principle, he might have been a deterrent for the hellhounds hot on my tail.

Maybe I owed him an apology.

Traipsing down the path toward the heart of Central Park, I spotted Evander’s crowd of fans. Wafting paint fumes lured me closer, and I wondered if anyone else had gathered in the hopes of catching a contact high.

Not me. I didn’t need that anymore. Didn’t want it.

I grew quickly bored watching the angel work. It was another cosmic scene. Planets and stars and way too many moons cluttered the canvas. Evander hunched over the newspapers protecting the ground from the color and glitter being thrown down layer after glossy layer.

This show came with a flashier finale. Once the painting was complete, the angel pulled out a Zippo and a can of topcoat.Striking the lighter, he sprayed through it, creating a belch of fire like a makeshift flamethrower. The onlookers gasped in awe as the heat rapidly dried the painting and left it with a high shine.

Applause answered the performance, and Evander sat up to offer a bow.

I rolled my eyes and, of course, that was the moment he spotted me, looking far from impressed by his showmanship.

Rather than call me out by name—or hair color—he smirked and accepted payment for his masterpiece, then informed the crowd he needed to fuel his creativity with some popcorn from the nearby cart vendor.

Standing and dusting down his paint-spritzed apron, Evander padded over to greet me. His jovial expression became guarded as he closed in.

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