His gaze grew hazy as he crossed his arms over his chest and leant back on his heel to study me from head to toe.
I knew I looked good. Pressed and tailored Tom Ford suit, and shined loafers. Pink silk tie. My unruly hair slicked back.
I was a very different man from all those years before. No longer the docile servant to the Devil and his Consort, but a reputable soul broker in my own right.
It was hard to remember all that I had achieved when Vincent licked his bottom lip and drew his forest green eyes to mine.
“You've changed, my little cherub.” Vincent clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I would ask why you are here, but I have a feeling that I already know.”
My brow furrowed and I watched as he stepped towards the globe in the corner and opened it to reveal an array of liquors.
“Gin?” Vincent asked, his voice deceptively casual. “I know you like the flavoured ones. I have a Cherry Bakewell gin that I think you'll love.” He continued blithely as he grabbed a balloon glass from the rack underneath and began pouring a drink.
I did not like Gin.
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the piece of paper that I had used to copy the rose brand from memory.
“I have all the different kind of tonics.” Vincent bounced on his heels as he swept his hand towards the shelf of bottles. “Gin is becoming such a fashionable drink again. So many flavours.”
“Vincent,” My voice was a sharp knife slicing through his jovial chatter. “Look at this.” I thrust the paper forward and waited for him to take it.
Vincent sauntered forward, his velvet shirt open at the collar and the balloon glass hanging from his fingers like a cigarette. “Did you bring a pretty drawing, my Luey?”
I inhaled deeply. Willing my face to not react when the Daemon used his pet name for me. “Just look,” I said, holding my hand out.
Vincent plucked the paper from my hand using two fingers and unfolded it by biting the edge of the paper. He stared at the drawing at the bottom, his face fixed in a pleasant smile.
“That’s one of ours.” He said with a shrug. “Do you want to try the Bakewell Gin?”
My eyes fixed to a spot on the wall above his head, as I counted to ten before I answered.
“No, thank you, Vincent,” I stated.
He nodded before sipping from the balloon glass. “We brand all of our cattle like that.”
“Your humans?” I corrected as he piqued my interest.
Vincent nodded, distracted by the taste of his gin as he sucked his lips into his mouth.
“I found a dead woman outside of my office. She had that brand.” I gestured towards the paper in his hand.
Vincent startled as if he forgot I was there. “None of my humans are missing.”
“She was a Hound,” I told him.
Vincent blinked slowly. He said nothing.
“I know you are a human herder.” My brows arched. “Have you recently acquired a Hound?”
Vincent rolled his head to the side. “I don’t know how much I can tell you.” He said, affecting a childish innocence. “I haven’t killed anyone recently.”
“I should ask your brother then.” I surmised, my nostrils flared in anger, but I refused to let it show.
Dios Mio. Vincent Rose was challenging to deal with. It felt like trying to catch a carousel horse.
I had turned to leave. My hand clasped the brass door-handle before Vincent spoke again.
“I didn’t mean to, Luey.” He whispered. “I really loved you.”
I knew he was not talking about the dead Hound.
“It's too late, Vee,” I replied. “Tell your brother to expect my call.”
Chapter 2
The white tent was gone from the alleyway behind the office the next morning—along with any police paraphernalia or dead bodies.
It was business as usual as I juggled a full day’s worth of appointments and phone calls. People were just desperate to sell their souls.
I didn’t have much say in the advertising methods. My best friend and ex-boss Dahlia Clark had several schemes in place that continuously bore fruit when it came to finding desperate people.
Internet adverts, data mining and email scams, all designed to lead a person to my office.
I tried to put the dead Hound out of my mind, but it was easier said than done.
Hell Hounds almost always belonged to Demon Royalty. They were servants. Spies. Whores.
Hell had several kings and queens. One for every Circle and Sin. The dead woman could have belonged to any of them.
Magic was a living and breathing thing—ebbing and flowing through Hellspawn like oxygen. It would be virtually impossible to trace her owner now that she was dead.
Hounds and their Masters were connected by a metaphysical bond. My kin and I had called it 'collaring.’ When a Hound travelled to the Human Realities, there was always a risk that the collar would break and the Hound would gain their freedom.
The chance was 1 in a thousand.
It was unlikely that the dead Hound was a free one.
As far as I knew, I was the most recent Hound to find freedom. I had been a spy once, but I could not hide behind any excuses—I had been a free Hound when I had reported to the Devil. Motivated by fear instead of being commanded by magic.
I clenched my fist and pressed it against the cool wood as I tried to bring myself back to the moment. It was too easy to get lost in the fear and tumult that came with remembering my first days cut off from Hell, weak and afraid.
I shuffled my papers and cleared my throat a few times. Leaning forward, I pressed the intercom. “Ms Lindsey, could you send in my next appointment?” I asked.
Dead air.
I pressed the intercom again and heard it’s tinny chime ring out behind the frosted glass wall.
A few seconds later, an out of breath PA from Accounting knocked on my door. A young man, with an ill-fitting suit and converse trainers.
“Apricot has gone home for the day, Mr Ramirez. She said she wasn’t feeling well.” The PA told me, his words rushing together.
My lip twisted in dismay. “Who did Ms Lindsey tell before she left?”
The PA squirmed, uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Mr Ramirez.”
I nodded but my focus was already on my private waiting room and the bald head of my client, visible through the wall of my office.
“Thanks, Stephen,” I told the PA. He stood still for a few seconds, shocked that I knew his name.
“Could you bring Mr Jackson through, Stephen. Then you can get back to work.” I said, throwing the guy a bone.
He nodded frantically and darted off to greet my client.
It still amazed me that people treated me as a figure of authority. I had spent my formative years in chains and a collar, unable to disobey even the most simple commands.
A few seconds passed, enough for me to shuffle the papers in front of me and find the contract that I was looking for. I arranged my pens, just so, as my newest client hovered in the doorway and waited for my attention.
I knew little about what had brought Frank Jackson to my threshold.
The man had shoulders wide enough to fill my door frame and an aura just as significant. His eyes were hard and suspicious, as he rubbed his hands down his grease-stained jeans. His fingernails were yellow with nicotine stains.