No. Focus, Aurora.
Questions first, existential crisis later.
“Setting aside the Billy Joel bombshell, what about angels and demons? And what about the whole good versus evil thing? And what souls do you call back as a hellhound if Hell is for people who’ve lived a good life?”
I have so many more questions, but I stop here and wait for Louie’s response.
“Angels and demons? They’re the same thing. Erevald—that’s what they call anyone born in Heaven or Hell. Angels get feathers, and demons get horns and leathery wings, but that’s just geography. Neither side is all good or all bad. And neither is as powerful as they want you to think. Most of them are just self-entitled twats who think they’re better than you. Best advice? If you see one, walk away.
“And hellhounds, like me, hunt down and return lost souls. Since Heaven showed no interest in rounding them up, Lucifer created hellhounds to complete the task. Those who commit suicide or those who die violently and refuse to leave Earth may become lost souls. If left to their own devices, they roam the Earth, causing all kinds of problems. The sheer anguish of a lost soul created the last hurricane that hit Puerto Rico. They don’t just linger, Aurora. They rot. It’s not a fun assignment, but it’s a necessary one.”
Louie hangs her head and sniffles.
I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her back for a hug. I’ll be struggling with what she just told me for a long fucking time, but right now, my little hellhound seems really sad.
“Well, if I’ve already got a seat at the table, I’m ordering mimosas and finding the orgy.”
Apparently, this is my life now, braiding my hellhound’s hair while stressing over what to wear to an afterlife sex club.
“Didn’t know one shadow-slut with pretty eyes and boundary issues could turn you into a heat-seeking missile for dick,” Louie says with a growl.
She’s so unintentionally funny, it makes me chuckle. I give Lou a quick kiss on the cheek, then return to braiding her wild hair.
On the fifth day Ezra’s gone, Louie’s starting to embrace her humanity. Well, sort of. I don’t have to “teach” her as much, and she’s decided she’ll tolerate blueberries and strawberries.
I heard from Eve yesterday. She filled me in on all the town gossip, regaled me with her sexscapades with Thane, and threatened my life until I agreed tomaybehang out with them.
Because apparently I’m not allowed to wallow in silence forever. I do miss them, though. Like way more than I want to admit.
Babysitting Louie has been … exhausting, and if I spend one more night alone in this giant, too-empty house, with no one to talk to but my barely human hellhound, I might actually lose my mind.
My gaze drifts to the expensive set of pots and pans stacked on the counter.
Fuck it.
Maybe I’ll cook dinner. Invite my friends over. Act like I’m not spiraling into full-blown supernatural burnout.
I call Louie into the kitchen, sit her down, then place my hands on the table and fix her with a stare.
“Louie, I want to have my friends over tonight.”
“What? The himbo and the pixie? Why d’ya need them? You got me!”
“And I’m, like, so grateful for that. But having other friends doesn’t mean I love you any less. Humans need other humans, Lou. It’s just how we’re wired. It doesn’t make you any less important.”
Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that I’ve been her entire world for the last twenty-seven years.
“I’d like you to join us, but only if you want to. I’ll make something you like. Maybe steak? Very rare? And we’ll say you’re my second cousin, Laura, from England. What do you think?”
I pout and give her puppy dog eyes, wondering if this will work on someone who spends most of their time as a dog.
“Oi, don’t give me that fucking face. Fine. Steak, and I’ll even pretend to care about small talk. But if they ask about the royal family, I’m making shit up.”
Louie mutters something about “fucking goddamn human bodies” as she stomps upstairs. A moment later, her bedroom door clicks shut. Not slammed, but firm enough to make sure I know she’s annoyed.
“See, that’s the type of thing humansdon’tsay!” I call after her, stifling a laugh.
After I order my groceries, I kill time with my book, occasionally checking my phone. I’m bracing myself for an update from the shopper saying they replaced my eggs with a scented candle called “Ova Easy,” and lowkey expecting Ezra to crawl through the screen like some hornyRingghost.
