Prologue
16th Century Spain
Luiz Ramirez stared up at the stone archways of the church, unable to draw his eyes away from the Arabic prayer engraved above the entrance to the Cristo De La Luz.
The Inquisición española had stolen the last of the outspoken Muslims of Toledo, forcing their religion into the shadows. The Cristo De La Luz had once been a Muslim holy building and a tribute to Allah, but the Reconquista had stolen the honey-coloured brick and given it to the Christians.
Luiz trudged, caught in the riptide of the dawn parishioners, as they flowed into the sacred space. His heart was heavy and his mind was clouded.
The wide brown eyes of Christ stared down at Luiz from the portrait on the ceiling, surrounded by a clear blue sky, the son of God stood with his hand poised and ready to give blessings to all that asked.
Unable to look away from Jesus’s sorrowful gaze, the thick and respectful silence pressed against him.
Please, Lord. He thought. Please give me guidance.
The Padres' voice rose above the crowd as he greeted them, but Luiz could not hear a word.
Soon, the service was over but Luiz had not heard a single word.
The sun had only just risen when Luiz left the church. The Cristo De La Luz overlooked the city of Toledo and bathed the amber stone buildings in a wash of light. Luiz pushed his mop of curly hair away from his face and stared out from his vantage point, his spindly fingers gripping the ledge.
It would be so easy to jump. He thought.
Luiz had only a short time to reach his Maestro’s studio, along the banks of the river Tagus, but he did not want to go.
Maestro was brilliant. There were few words for his talent with a paintbrush, and his unique view of the mundane world. Trapped in a studio overlooking the green water of the Tagus, with the scent of turpentine and wood shavings in his nose, Luiz and Maestro had grown closer.
Their intimacy was a secret, kept between the velvet curtains of the bright studio. Their bodies twined in their workspace—paint smeared on their skin; the breeze from the balcony window the only hint of the world outside.
Luiz felt like he was caught in a spiral. Going down down down.
He was only a lowly apprentice, gifted with whimsical affection of Matteo De Trillo—a mannerist painter, and an upcoming star of the rising Impressionist movement sweeping from Italy and through Spain like an eerie wind.
Luiz believed in true love. He always had, and he always would. He saw examples every day in the shining eyes of his mother and father, who still acted with the same fervent love that he had read about in books.
God told him that it was wrong to love Matteo.
God told him that it was wrong to commit adultery.
Every time they touched, Luiz was sure that he stained Matteo's soul as if he gripped it in his dirty hands. Covered in charcoal and dust.
He wished that he could give up his love, but he was not strong enough.
Maestro burned too fiercely. Pure. All consuming.
El Amor es ciego.
Love was blind. But also deaf. And dumb.
Luiz had stopped, drawn by habit alone, at the fruit seller on the corner. He had brought a pomegranate to share, certain that Matteo would be irritated by the seeds but delighted by the gift.
He pulled the luscious offering from his pocket, shining the edge, as he took two steps at a time to reach the studio.
The streets began to roar to life as Luiz let himself into his Maestro’s building overlooking the steep banks of the river.
“Matteo! You won’t believe what I found—” He called, forcing brightness into his tone. He hated that he was doubting his God, but love as beautiful as what Luiz shared with his Maestro could never be wrong.
Luiz pushed the Hessian screen to the side—stopping when he found the stern and unforgiving stare of Valentina.
Matteo's wife.
Luiz's stomach squirmed. An apple rotted with maggots burrowing under the surface. He pulled the pomegranate to his chest and cradled it.
Matteo sat, his back to the entrance. His Maestro did not turn to look at his apprentice.
“Hello, Valentina.” Luiz tilted his lips into a welcoming smile. “Can I get you a glass of wine? A chair?”
Valentina continued to stare.
Luiz found himself unable to move further into the room. The silence was oppressive. Unwieldy.
“Maestro—” Luiz turned to Matteo, to ask him what was happening, but Valentina interrupted.
“Silencio.” She barked.
Luiz startled.
She had a knife, the blade red with blood.
Luiz's eyes darted back to his Maestro. Seeing the situation in a completely new light. His eyes wide like a deer as he began to tremble.
Matteo was slumped over, leaning against the back of his chair. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dripping blood ran down the legs of the wooden chair, forming a puddle underneath. Luiz’s feet faltered as stepped backward.
Hollow. Trapped underwater and unable to hear or see. The world narrowed to a pinprick as he imagined the soft skin of Matteo’s cheeks, and his radiant smile looking down at him.
Two things that Luiz would never experience again.
“I know what you've been doing with my husband.” Valentina stalked forward, the knife clenched in her tiny fist. “They need to know. They need to know you are full of Sin. May God punish you for how you have betrayed my family and my husband.”
Luiz glanced at Matteo's body but was unable to see through the tears in his eyes. He slumped down. His knees hit the stone floor, as he looked up through his lashes at the bloody knife.
Matteo was gone.
Eres el Amor de mi Vida. You are the love of my life. Matteo had said. Swathed in the paint-stained canvas sheets that dotted the cool floor of the studio.
“As long as I can be with Matteo. I do not care.” Luiz did not waver. “Do what you must, but only God can judge me and know that if we are punished, that you will be as well.”
“Silencio! Silencio! Silencio!” Valentina howled, pressing her hands against her ears. One hand still clasping the bloody knife, the sharp edge pointed away from her face as she shook her head frantically. “You did this to me!”
“All I did was love a man,” Luiz replied.
Valentine’s footsteps were delicate as she advanced. “He was not yours to love.”
It has been theorized that Hell Hounds are beholden to one master, and one master alone.
Lucifer. The King of Hell.
In reality, Hell Hounds can be made by any of the Hell sovereigns.
Created using an undetermined number of ‘fractured' souls, Hell Hounds require a ritual to facilitate their creation. Made from the flesh of the monarchy, all Hounds have a bond with their master that cannot be broken through traditional means.
The number of souls that are required to create a single Hound can vary.
Some experts speculate the number to be as low as three 'fractured' human souls—while others think as many as thirteen.
Sin, Solomon and Sodom (A comprehensive guide to Cyclian History) by Jack Henshaw
Chapter 1
21st Century London
There was a corpse in the industrial-sized bin behind the office of Clark, Morgenstern and Ramirez.
I stood, both hands tucked inside the pockets of my Tom Ford trousers, as I noted that the hand was dainty. Female. Limp as it hung over the lip of the dumpster. Its fingernails were long but manicured.