There was instant appeal in his words. But she glanced cautiously from face to face, still hesitant. Malachi offered no threat—in fact, he smiled. He reached for her hand again, and his demeanor encouraged her to let him continue.
“Due to your circumstances, and if you’re interested, the powers-that-be are offering you the job of Immortal Bounty Hunter, complete with a set of three Hellhounds.”
He snapped his fingers.
The hounds appeared. Snarling, slathering, chomping at the bit and waiting on her command. Their red-eyed forms shot a cold shiver down her back. “Mine?”
“Yours. To help you fulfill your job, to keep you company in the Purgatory dimension and the earthly plane, to be your partners … however you see fit. The only thing we don't allow is abuse of the hounds while they’re serving in Purgatory. We reserve Hell for that.”
The erotic dream slipped through her memory and she smiled. “Didn’t have abuse in mind.” She tapped her foot, her excitement building. “I get to deliver payback?”
“The most serious kind.”
She closed her eyes and rocked on her heels. She saw the man’s face who killed her and her mouth watered for retribution. “All right, I’m listening.”
He snapped his fingers, returning the hounds to human form.
Zander leveled his ice blue eyes at her, firing her core with promise. Ransom’s dark look spoke of expectation, and Dalton’s smile warmed her heart. She couldn’t believe her luck. I may be dead, but my prayers have been answered.
“So how does this work?” She glanced at her sleep shirt and baggy yoga pants. “You don't expect me to hunt in this outfit, do you?”
“You have carte blanche with a snap of your fingers. You and your hounds can come and go from this dimension at will. The hounds can stop time, be invisible, and compel. You experienced their talents before your demise.”
“With just a snap?” She flicked her fingers. Her baggy clothes were replaced with the hot outfit she had in mind; black pants, knee high boots and a lace-up bustier covered by a thigh length, swirling jacket. She felt like a pirate from Hades coming for her bounty. And I know just who to start with. “What are the rules?”
“Anyone seeing the hounds three times will next hear the bell. The bell calls the hounds for a collection and delivery to Hell.”
“That’s it?”
Malachi shrugged. “The rules of karma are pretty straight forward. As a Bounty Hunter, it’s your job to give your prey a taste of their Hell to come prior to their demise. The hounds are very effective in this capacity.”
She clarified. “This is all done however I see fit?”
“Whatever makes you happy. Creativity is encouraged.”
“Creativity is encouraged.” She nearly squealed with delight. “How do I find someone?”
“It’s like GPS. You’ll just know where they are.”
She tapped one foot. As options go, this one definitely had strong appeal.
Three hot lovers at my command and three hot monsters to sic on evil.
“If I gotta be dead, then absolutely, I’m in.”
Malachi stepped back and swept out his hand, giving her free reign.
“Boys, time to go,” she called. “Let’s pay a visit to my murderer.” She flicked her fingers and they became hounds, baying to the heavens and prancing on paws, eager to begin the hunt. Their howls sent goosebumps down her arms.
She smiled. “Someone’s gonna crap their pants tonight.”
Five
Gregor with the black hair sat in the circular booth of an exclusive Italian restaurant enjoying a fat cigar after a lunch of linguine and a bottle of red. Being Bronson’s dirty man was a profitable business, one Gregor was happy to keep going even with Bronson still in prison.
Yeah, well, he won’t be in prison for long.
Not only was the girl dead, but a haul of evidence was now at the bottom of the river. He looked at his watch, imagining Bronson getting out ‘any minute’ and puffed on his cigar.
A figure filled the doorway, casting long shadows into the room, shadows that traveled all the way to Gregor’s table in the back. The figure, a female according to the strut for he couldn’t see her face, walked in, followed by three men.
They came straight for him. Sensing an approaching threat, he eased his gun from his jacket pocket and let it rest on the banquet seat next to his leg. As she got closer, a hum filled his ears and a prickly sensation of heat ran up and down his legs like crawling ants. He didn’t like ants and he didn’t like this feeling. He palmed the gun, ready to use it.
She approached his table and slid into the booth on one side like she owned the place. “Hello, Gregor. You remember me, don't you?”
He rubbed his eyes. Something was so familiar about her. The lights were weird, never fully illuminating her face so he could get a good look at her—it was like she was cloaked in darkness. He opened his mouth to boot her out when she called to one of her men.
“Zander, sit.” She motioned to Gregor’s other side.
A weight slid into the leather seat, a weight so heavy Gregor listed toward it. With his eyes still fixed on the hazy presence of the girl, a chill snaked up his leg. He slowly turned his head to see what sat next to him, for his nose told him it stank of fire and death.
A snarling, red-eyed hound like he’d never seen before occupied the seat, with a drooling mouth and teeth bared, ready to rip him apart. It leaned into him and its body pressed against him; its teeth snapped within an inch of his ear. He pressed back from the hound without taking his eyes off it. “Holy shit, lady, who the hell are you?”
“I’m the girl you shot in the head last night.”
The hound and the girl trapped him between them. Whoever they were, he wasn’t playing any more. He raised the gun—
They disappeared. He gasped and started to shout out, “Who let that beast in—”
But no one acted like anything strange had occurred. No one came running at his shouts, no one was alarmed at the presence of a foul and stinking hound. A waitress walked by. He scrambled out from behind the table. “You saw them, right?” He grabbed her. “If you’re part of this, so help me—”
She twisted free, rubbing her wrist. “What are you talking about? Saw who? A part of what?” She backed up, eyeing him like he’d flipped.
A shiver slid down his spine to pool around his shrinking gonads; he threw money on the table and ran. At his apartment building, he rushed inside and shot past the security guard, gasping for relief to be home and safe. “Anyone come in here looking for me, Henry?” he asked the doorman.
“No, sir, Mr. Gregor.”
“No one?”
“Not a soul.”
Gregor peered sharply at Henry. “What does that mean, not a soul? Is that a joke?”
Henry pulled back. “No joke, sir. Only that no one has been here to see you today.”
Gregor rushed to the elevator and cowered in the corner as he rode to his floor. Once the doors opened, he peeked toward his apartment. With the way clear, he scrambled to his door, got it open and jumped through before slamming it. He turned the bolt lock, regretting there was only one.
He remained with his back pressed to the door while his pounding heart slowed; the sweat of fear dampened his armpits and his palms. He wiped his hands on his pants slowly over and over until the roar in his ears faded and he could take deep breaths. He strained to hear in the darkness, eyes darting in search of movement.
Not a sound beyond his breathing.
Still, he tiptoed to his bedroom and burst through the door. Fueled by panic, he drew his gun and rushed the bathroom, waving it about, then ran like a panicked fifteen-year-old to the kitchen. When he was certain the apartment was empty and he was alone, he collapsed on the couch with a glass full of bourbon.
Whatever they were, he never wanted to see them again. His sweat turned cold, soaking him in a damp layer of fear. “Never leaving this apartment ever again. Gonna live the rest o
f my life right here.”
He swallowed the fiery liquid and made his peace with the life of a hermit. “Whatever it takes. As long as I never see that bitch and her hound again.”
Bella clapped her hands. “That was wonderful. Thank you, Zander, for scaring the daylights out of my murderer.” She considered their next move. “Since I’ve used one viewing of a hound, I’m making this next encounter without you.”
She paused. “You know, I would have never thought I’d like this job so much.” She giggled and opened the portal. “Oh, Gregor …”
She appeared in his bedroom where he slumbered in a stupor, no doubt with the aid of a great deal of bourbon by the smell of it. She leaned over him in spite of the stench of booze and fear and wrinkled her nose. Up close and in this condition, he was pitiful and disgusting, hardly worthy of her terrorizing him. She straightened and gave the thought a moment.
“Nah, letting you go, Gregor, is never gonna happen.”
She dived into his dream.
Gregor wallowed in an alcohol induced semi-comatose state, as was his goal. In his dream, he curled, safe and sound in his bed, eye covers keeping out even the darkness of night.
A weight settled next to him in his dream bed. He smiled, not seeing who, only imagining the kind of woman he’d find in his dreams, maybe one from the homeland. He missed the simpler women of his country.
“Gregor,” a soft voice whispered.
Dreamy expectation delivered a shiver rife with hope of good things to come from this enticing interlude. He curled his toes with delight. “Yes?”
“What’s your desire?”
“I want you on top.”
He rolled onto his back and a weight settled on top of him.
“Like this?” she whispered.
“Yes.” Fully engaged with a hard erection, he flipped off his night shades, wanting to see this dream visitor. When his eyes focused in the dim light, he shrieked and covered his mouth with his hands.
That she-demon with the animal!
Curdling fear demanded he search for the animal, but the malicious light in her eye held him captive. Fear of the animal he couldn’t see battled with fear of her on top of him.
She won.
“What do you want? If you’re gonna kill me, just do it.” He dared her with more bravado than he possessed.
“Kill you?” she teased. “Where would be the fun in that?” She paused and put a finger to her chin. “However, once you die you’re going straight to Hell. And that’s going to be very entertaining.”
He relaxed, considering her offer of death better than any other available options. “Yes, just kill me. Will you make it quick?”
She lowered herself to speak an inch from his face. “You just need to know, ‘You can’t hide.’ As for mercy? How many did you make it easy on? How many did you kill without a care for what they left behind? Shall I let my hounds rip you apart over and over for every soul you murdered?”
Mention of the hounds released his bowels.
The wet crap filling his pajama pants woke him suddenly. His heart pounded and a sour sweat soaked his back and armpits. He tossed back the covers and ran for the bathroom, suddenly needing to vomit.
He made it barely in time and threw the toilet seat up and heaved into the bowl. With each breath after every hurl, the smell of the hound filled his nose and he retched again.
Exhausted, laying on the cold tile floor, he cried. Tears pooled under his cheek and snot dripped from his nose. Never in his life had he been so scared. No longer could he deny what they were: Hellhounds come to collect his soul.
Only one thought remained in his mind.
Catch me.
Bella laughed when she returned to Purgatory. “There you are, boys. The rabbit has been routed from his hole and the moon is high. Let the hunt begin.”
Gregor packed a single backpack with a change of clothes, extra shorts—just in case—along with a gun and bundles of cash.
He slipped out the back way of his apartment building through a utility access door and into an alley. Both ends of the alley were clear. He didn’t know where to go. All he knew was to run. He took off to the left.
Two blocks west, a block south and he arrived at the bus terminal. When they asked ‘where to?’ at the ticket window, he shrugged. “To the end of the line.”
“But there is no end of the line. It doesn’t work that way. The routes loop back,” the ticket agent said.
Gregor growled and threw money at the agent. “This far, south. I don’t care where to.”
The agent hurriedly processed the ticket and passed him change. “Bus number 1525 leaving from that stall in twenty minutes.”
Gregor took his ticket and slipped to the back of the waiting area, shrinking into the shadows and hugging his backpack like an abandoned child. Before getting on the bus, he went to the men’s room and stepped up to a row of urinals. He had his dick in hand with stream started when he was pushed from the back. He shouted as he lost control and pissed all over his shoes and pants.
When he regained control, he glanced at who pushed him.
That woman and one of her hounds.
He sagged against the wall. “No. Not you. Leave me alone.”
Bella laughed. “Seriously, Gregor. I’m in your dreams and you think you can catch a bus and run from me?” She sauntered past him. “You can’t hide … and you can’t run.”
After she passed, the hound stalked by, growling, red eyes glowing with supernatural menace. When they left the room, he collapsed with relief, grateful he didn’t shit his pants again. Knowing there was only one solution, he grabbed his backpack and headed for home.
He walked through the building front door with resolute determination. He passed Henry and took the elevator, understanding he was a dead man, one way or another. “I choose another,” he announced in the empty elevator.
In his apartment, he tossed the backpack aside, not caring what was found after his body was discovered. He pulled out his gun and sat in his favorite chair. I’ve delivered death to others for too long. Now it’s my turn.
He placed the gun under his chin and for a fleeting moment, he saw the images of those he’d killed in a long parade of begging faces. A tear collected in one eye, not for them, but for himself. He pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. Stupidly, he looked at the gun as if to see why it didn’t fire.
From a distance came the sound of hands slowly clapping. His shoulders drooped and he tossed the gun on the desk; he shrank as she and her hounds approached.
Terror rippled through his mind and out through his body. A hot sweat of prickly fire coated him, and his stomach felt ripped out, as though they’d already started tearing him apart. He refused to beg, but he wasn’t beyond bargaining. “I know something. Something you’ll be interested in.”
“What do you want in trade for this information, Gregor?”
He tried to swallow, but his mouth was tacky. “Make it quick.”
“That’s a lot to ask, all things considered. It depends on what you know,” she answered with half interest. The hounds had come to gather at her back in a snarling and threatening posture. “Ssshh. I can’t hear him.”
They quieted, but their red glares made his intestines rumble. “Bronson is getting out,” he blurted. “The evidence got dropped in the river; the DA had a car accident and was transferred out for extensive recovery; the judge had a finger delivered to him on his birthday. There’s no one left to fight for you, and you’re dead. Sorry kid, you lose.”
The hounds whined and pranced around her in excited fervor as if understanding what he’d said. He slowly began to think he’d overplayed his hand.
“Bronson’s getting out?” she hissed. “You arranged all this? The evidence, the transfer, the finger delivery … my death?”
“Yes. Bronson paid me to make it all happen. He’s being released tomorrow.” He cringed, shrinking as if to disappear from her sight. But he had no such luck.
>
She squatted down in front of him. When he turned his face away, she grabbed him by the chin and whispered in his ear. “Time to go.”
He slumped with relief, thinking she meant time for her to go. He was wrong.
“I trust Bronson will come to your funeral—your closed casket funeral.”
She motioned the hounds and they jumped on him.
Six
The next day at the penitentiary, Jack Bronson collected his personal items and glanced at his attorney. Getting out was a good feeling. Now all he had to do was set his life back in motion and put this behind him. Everything would eventually return to normal except for … that girl.
Gregor made sure the bitch was dead. I’m free little girl. He was just sorry he missed the opportunity to take care of her himself. No one stops Jack Bronson. Bitch. I said you were dead and you are. With her out of the way and the evidence missing, he’d overturn the court order to sell off the rest of his assets.
He and his attorney walked from the release section into the sunshine. A limousine pulled up to the curb and they got in. He settled into the backseat while the attorney babbled on about halting the sell-off order.
Bronson waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Just get it done.”
“There’s something else you need to be aware of … disturbing news, I’m afraid,” the attorney said.
“No disturbing news today. I want to enjoy my freedom for the moment.” He turned away and gazed out the window.
“You’ll want to hear this news,” a voice said.
It wasn’t his attorney that spoke, but a female voice. The very same voice that haunted his sleeping and daylight hours behind bars. He snorted. Come on, you’re just stressed out and hearing things. It’s not possible.
The voice read his thoughts and declared, “Oh, but it is possible.”
He scrunched his eyes tightly shut and put his hands over his ears. No, it can’t be. Not her, it can’t be her. I’m hearing things. I’m hallucinating.
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