Yet Lacey gripped the countertop with knuckles white from tension, the slim musculature of his arms standing out beneath his skin. He was watching something. And he seemed convinced that something was watching him back.
Suddenly, sitting inside a well-lit room behind an un-obscured wall of windows didn’t seem like such a good idea. It would be much easier for someone to see into the office than it was for us to see out into the dark.
“Where? I don’t see anything.” I scanned the lot again as I sank slowly back into my chair, pulling open the middle desk drawer to grope for my second favorite Ruger. The duffle slipped from my right shoulder as my fingers brushed cold steel.
“Right in front of the sidewalk, between our cars.”
I pulled the pistol from the drawer into my lap beneath the desk, staring intently at the strip of blacktop between the two vehicles. At first, I still saw nothing. Then something flashed at me: two points of crimson in the dark, around the height of my sideview mirror.
Tension drained from my body. “Orthus,” I muttered, dropping the spare gun back into the drawer as I stood. “What the hell is he doing here?” I stepped up to the window, cupping my hands on the glass to block out the light from inside. Sure enough, Orthus sat on his haunches between Lacey’s firebird and Rusty, staring at me. How the hell had he found me?
I scanned the rest of the lot to make sure he was unaccompanied, and I was not surprised to find it empty. The goblins would never trust him again. In fact, they’d have shot him if they had the chance, though I was far from sure a bullet would actually kill the hellhound.
Orthus took my appearance in the glass as an invitation to plod forward onto the sidewalk, into the light shining from our office. At my back, Lacey gasped. I reached for the push-bar on the front door, but before I could press it, a heavy, slide-catch sound came from behind me. Lacey had just pumped the ancient Winchester 12 gauge we kept beneath the counter.
“Get out of the way Lex.”
I turned to find him staring past me at Orthus, shotgun aimed and ready. His gaze held a mixture of terror and determination. I’d never seen him look braver.
My hands found my hips. “Let me get this straight: you’ll let the lust-hungry parasite suck you dry without lifting a finger in your own defense, but you’re going to shoot a stray dog with an antique shotgun?”
Lacey huffed. “‘Antique’ implies non-functional. This is exceedingly functional.” He held the shotgun in his right hand, arm extended Terminator-style. “It’sold-school.”
I cleared my throat to disguise a laugh. My gadget-man could repair or rebuild any gun he got his hands on—but he couldn’t hit a brick wall at ten paces. “Use two hands, or the recoil will knock you on your ass. Better yet, put the gun down. The dog means us no harm.”
Probably.
Lacey spoke through gritted teeth, still aiming from the hip, as if he held a pistol, rather than a forty-two-inch-long shotgun. “That’s not a dog, Lex; it’s a fucking hellhound. They don’t show up for coffee and donuts. They’re death heralds. Now get the fuck out of my way, so I can blow his ugly muzzle off!”
Damn. He knew what Orthus was. So much for the “friendly stray” story I already had half-concocted.
I drew in a slow, deep breath, reminding myself that Lacey was just trying to protect me from the hellhound he thought had come to drag one of us screaming into the brimstone beyond.
Could he be right? Had I misread Orthus the night before? If my judgment was off that badly, I had bigger problems to deal with than a lost dog and a trigger-happy coworker.
“Lacey, put the gun down. I know what he is. His name is Orthus, and while I don’t think a three-inch slug will kill him, it’ll sure as hell piss him off. And you donotwant to see that dog angry.”
Confusion flickered behind his eyes, and the shotgun barrel dipped slightly. “Youknowthat thing?”
“We met last night, on the Murphy job. I had to leave my Ruger in the car, and he watched my back.”
“Thehellhoundwatched your back?” The gun bobbed again, and Lacey’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure he wasn’t trying to take a bite out of your ass?”
“Funny you should mention that…” I smiled, wondering if Orthus had ever gotten the taste of goblin out of his mouth.
“What?”
“I’ll explain later. Just trust me; he’s not here on business.”
Lacey frowned, but he set the shotgun on the counter, still within easy reach. “So he’s here on what? Pleasure? What does a hellhound do for pleasure?” he grumbled, eyeing Orthus through the glass. “Chase sinners through the streets of Memphis? Chomp on dismembered-limb chew toys?”
Anything he wants, I thought half-hysterically, my palm splayed out on the cold pane of glass. Chills traveled up my arm, raising goose bumps. What if I was wrong? Was I willing to bet my life—such as it was—on the assumption that Orthus wouldn’t drag me into the bowels of hell tonight, because he didn’t do it the night before? Yes, most days I was eager to begin an actual afterlife, but notthatkind of afterlife.
I was shooting for the penthouse, not the basement furnace.
The clock ticked softly over my head, and I glanced up at it. I needed to be in line at airport security in twenty-five minutes, and the drive there would take at least half an hour. I didn’t have time to throw a human femur around the park for Orthus just then.
“Come on.” I tossed my head toward the parking lot as I jogged back to my desk, where my duffle and gun box still sat. “I can’t miss my flight.” I grabbed my gear and crossed the office again, pushing open the front door. Two steps later, I stood in the middle of the sidewalk.
