Been dead too long to be good meat. My inner hound noted with detached curiosity. What a waste.
I inhaled sharply, more than once, allowing my human nose to scent the air. It was difficult to parse out the fragrances of used coffee pods and printer toner, but the entire alleyway stank of wet dog.
Stilettos pounded the rain-soaked concrete as my personal assistant paced behind me. Her trembling fingers tapped at her phone as she updated her social media.
“Ms Lindsey,” I repeated her name a few times before she heard me. “You can return to your desk.”
She looked up as if waking from a fever dream. “Should we call the police?”
I glanced at the soft, dead hand, slumped over the edge of the large bin and quirked a brow. “I suppose we'll have to.”
If Ms Lindsey thought that my phrasing was off, she did not show it. She simply nodded, rubbing the water-logged mascara from under her eye as if she had just noticed the rain.
My face remained frozen, my brow still arched as I waited for her to move. She did not.
“Ms Lindsey?” I repeated.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go back to your desk and call the police,” I said slowly.
Startling, Ms Lindsey nodded robotically as she backed out of the alleyway. Her phone already to her ear as she clacked away.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed my curly hair out of my face. It was getting long. I needed a haircut, but I simply hadn’t had the time or the inclination.
Now that I was alone, I padded up to the industrial-sized bin and studied the edge of the grubby metal for blood smears. There were none. Killed somewhere else. Dumped behind my office.
The rain had been pouring down all morning. Whoever had left the body had done so after the bins had been emptied that morning. After I arrived at the office at 6am.
I scrubbed my hand over my face.
The girl was a Hell Hound.
Fire, brimstone, broken souls and Devil blood, all wrapped up in a demonic bundle of flesh.
Hell Hounds were traditionally servile demons. She would not have been in the Human Realities unless she was acting under orders.
She couldn’t have been in London to see me. Mostly because I was not the one that had killed her.
I restrained the urge to push her arm back into the bin, and lock the body away. Things like dead bodies were challenging to deal with when in the city. I did not have the energy to try and conceal a corpse. That would imply guilt.
Ms Lindsey had already seen the dead woman when she had snuck behind the office to take a personal phone call. As much as I enjoyed asking for favours from people in high places, I would have to adhere to the human route for the time being. I could not influence the human mind. If I could, I'd be rich.
Hell Hounds were difficult to kill.
I knew this because I was one.
Devil’s Silver. Witch magic. Salt. Angelic weapons. It could have been any number of things. The body did not smell like poison, and I had not had a close enough look to determine the injuries.
I shook my head, stepping away from the dumpster. I did not want to get involved. I maintained a stance of non-involvement with most of London’s sizable Demonic population.
Many years ago, Lucifer stitched together a group of souls from the Pit of Despair and bandaged the mixture together with his own flesh and blood. The ritual resulted in several different souls struggling for control over a new and shiny body—shackled to the Devil with a metaphysical collar.
Thus was the story of my creation.
Luiz Ramirez.
I was a creature of many personal failings. Most importantly, a coffee addiction, and the Demonic version of Dissociative Identity Disorder.
I had once been Mary Sterling. Jacques DuPont and Harold Wittle amongst several others.
Each soul that I Owned remained locked in a different room in my mind. Luiz was the most dominant, and I proudly wore the human body that he had in life.
I wondered what combination of souls had made up the dead girl in my dumpster.
But, I digress.
I was very aware of my personal failings. I had the unfortunate habit of sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong—I had no intention of getting myself involved in Demon business.
The trip back up to my office was uneventful.
I sank into my orthopaedic chair, feeling the expensive fabric cling to my body with a hint of disgust. I had undoubtedly ruined my favourite suit, and Maggie St Clements—my personal shopper—would not be happy.
I might have been a Demon, but I had no desire to be scolded by a blue-haired pixie of a woman.
Luckily, I kept a spare pair of clothes in my duffel bag.
Unluckily, I had a full book of clients to see, and it was either wet clothes or a skin-tight Under Armour shirt. Neither of which were conducive to being taken seriously.
I pressed down on the intercom. “Ms Lindsey?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Can you call my personal shopper and ask her to send a replacement suit over?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Ms Lindsey, did the police give you an ETA?”
There was a static silence at the end of the speaker.
“Ms Lindsey?”
No response. I pressed down on the button again to establish a connection.
“An ETA?” She asked dumbly.
“Estimated time of arrival.”
She audibly gulped. I heard it through the speaker before the line went dead. My office door was made of frosted glass, and I watched with confusion as my assistant hurried to her feet and disappeared out of sight.
“Knock, knock.” A teasing voice called out, pushing open my door just a crack. “Is this a bad time?”
Yvonne Goodge was one of my best brokers over in Investments. She had been with Clark, Morgenstern and Ramirez back when it was just C&M, and I was a lowly assistant to Lucifer’s estranged ex-girlfriend.
“You’re wet,” Yvonne noted, with a perfectly arched brow.
“I would make a comment in kind, but HR.” I waved a hand dismissively.
The redhead let out an undignified snort as she stepped into my office. “Where’s Apricot going?”
“Ms Lindsey?”
“That’s the one.” Her eyes sparkled.
I shrugged, wiggling my mouse to start up my computer.
“What kind of parent names their child after a fruit?” She slid into the chair opposite and crossed her legs. I saw a flash of bright red sole—Louboutins. “Why was she running away?”
“Dead body outside,” I said, my eyes still on my screen.
“Excuse me?” Yvonne made a noise halfway between a choke and a gag.
“My assistant found a corpse in one of our bins. I asked her when the police were arriving.” I swivelled around on my chair and faced her. “I suspect that she forgot to ring them.”
“Bloody hell, Luiz.” Yvonne took one of the files from my desk and began to fan herself. “She’s useless. You need a new assistant—a dead body? Really?” I watched as her disjointed thoughts caught up with her mouth. It was amusing, but I did not smile.
I leant forward and plucked the contract from between her fingers, flattening down the paper and adding it to the pile. I did not want Yvonne to read it. It was the deed to a man’s soul, in exchange for five years of having a singing voice to rival Adele’s.
People traded strange things in exchange for eternal damnation.