Chapter 3
Three
Hunter
“Why do I have to deal with this? I should be out shit-kicking and getting people pregnant, not babysitting a bunch of retired nurses and truckers as they run through their pensions!”
Hunter couldn’t hold back his annoyance any longer. He was a Hound of Hell, a supernatural monster of the lower realms, a creature of flame and Judgement. Why would Ammon put him in charge of a gaming hall the size of a large living room?
“Hunter,” Tristan said, “This is a good project for you. You can’t hang out at the manor all day, watching cat videos and waiting for someone to use some forbidden magic so you’ll have a purpose again.”
Resisting the urge to growl, Hunter took a deep breath. He liked Tristan. Tristan was kind and reasonable, if a little bloodthirsty for a human. And handsome, with his wavy brown hair and his silver-gray eyes, although Hunter would never admit that in front of Ammon Strong.
He was glad his pack leader had found his mate. Ammon had been alone for a long time, and he was calmer now and more relaxed than Hunter ever remembered him being.
Looking around the space, Hunter frowned. The room was gray and sad, with a concrete floor and unpainted drywall. Tristan had set up a bunch of card tables and metal chairs, but it was a depressing atmosphere.
“Your bar is successful enough. It’s one of only two in the whole town.
And I don’t need busywork!” Hunter strode over to a nearby card table and flopped down on it like a fish, staring at the ceiling and noticing at least three bits of exposed wiring sticking out.
The metal legs of the table bent precariously under his weight, but he didn’t care. He was feeling a way.
“The gaming hall has already been doing well during the trial run. You can make it so much better. Plus, you have to do something. Ammon doesn’t want his pups just lying around.”
“So I’ll go out and torture a murderer or a crooked cop or something. I’ll drive to Boston and track down one of the Forbidden Ones. I’ll deliver singing telegrams! Any of those make more sense than heading up a gambling operation in a town of five thousand people.”
Anything sounded better than being stuck renovating and running this stupid small-town casino in the back of this stupid small-town bar.
A hot wind blew through the room as the door swung open, revealing a giant man in a black suit that was barely winning the war against his huge muscles.
“Hunter, don’t give Tristan sass.” Ammon’s voice was deep and contained a note of danger that would send shivers down the spines of normal humans. “When you get bored, you make errors in judgment.”
Hunter shook his fist at the heavens, or at the cracked plaster ceiling at least, and let out a cry of frustration. “I don’t want to be bored! When is the rest of the pack getting to Purgatory?!”
“It’ll take them a while. Also, I don’t care if you’re bored.”
Rolling off the card table, Hunter belly-flopped onto the concrete floor with a thud. It hurt, but what was a little pain? He’d rather be tortured by a porcupine acupuncturist than spend his life doing stupid, boring shit.
“This isn’t Chicago, Ammon. Why are we building a criminal organization in a town of five thousand?”
“Because I—”
“And it’s so ugly in here!” Hunter wailed. He was tempted to slam his fists and feet against the floor like a toddler, but restrained himself. He’d had hundreds of years of experience pushing Ammon, and he was pushing it right up to the line.
“Hunter Strong, this is your task.” Ammon slid over to Tristan’s side and gave him a peck on the cheek before turning back. He sported a tiny, devious smile. “And if the place is ugly, decorate it, asshole.”
It was the smile that sold it. Ammon had raised him from a pup, and after all this time, the heavens had given the pack leader a mate. Hellhounds weren’t even supposed to have mates. Evidently, Ammon had been on earth so long that some angel just decided he deserved it. That was the theory, anyway.
The smile was new. Hunter had never seen it before Ammon found Tristan. Plus, Tristan was a good pack leader’s mate. Supportive. A peacemaker. So, despite himself, Hunter gave in.
“Fiiiiine,” he whined into the floor.
His agreement didn’t mean he was going to get up, though. Fuck it. Hunter would take a nap right here, his face pressed into the concrete floor.
Hunter was hanging the last of the framed paintings when the door opened at the far side of the backroom-turned-illegal gaming hall. He turned to see Tristan standing there, his mouth agape as he took in the room.
“Hunter. This is incredible.”
Admiring his own handiwork, Hunter had to admit it wasn’t bad. The concrete floor was now covered in a thick red carpet, and more substantial wooden poker tables had replaced the old, flimsy ones.
The room smelled new. Maybe it was just the chemicals used in making and packaging the furnishings, but it still gave him a jolt.
There was a large roulette wheel in the corner and a small bar against one wall. Instead of the harsh white fluorescents, the new light fixtures were in the Art Deco style, stained glass and bronze metal combining into geometric patterns. It gave everything a swanky feel Hunter appreciated.
He could be fancy when the occasion called for it.
Most striking, though, were the walls. Painted a deep chocolate brown, they were covered in vibrant paintings framed in burnished gold. Hunter had chosen the art, and he loved every piece. Some might think they were ridiculous, but he didn’t care.
“Dogs playing poker?” Tristan asked in an incredulous tone.
“It’s a classic.” Hunter crossed his arms, daring Tristan to disparage his choices any further.
“What the…” The human spun around, taking in everything with wide eyes. Hunter decided to believe Tristan was overwhelmed by the beauty of the room. That was the only reasonable reaction.
“This is insane. You have a kitschy Thomas Kinkaide next to a…is that an actual Rembrandt?”
“One of the less in-demand ones, yes. I got it for five thousand dollars.” And it was a damned steal. Hunter had been particularly proud of talking the guy down from ten. Human art dealers couldn’t match his tenacity.
Tristan stared at him with disbelief in his eyes. “You must have spent tens of thousands of dollars on this gaming hall. It will take us forever to earn that back.”
Hunter shrugged. He didn’t care how long it took. If he had to do this stupid project for Ammon, he was doing it his way. And his way involved high-end art dealers and thrift store finds. He was satisfied.
When Hunter didn’t answer, Tristan flashed a reluctant smile. “It is very you. Alright, I’ll spread the word. We’ll do a grand opening this Friday.”
Hunter just grunted and, glancing once more back at the finished job, headed for the door.
“Oh, that priest from St. Stephen’s will probably be back again this week. Father Roy.”
Stopping in his tracks, Hunter glared at Tristan. Father Roy? Was that his name? Was Roy his first name or last name?
It didn’t matter. Tristan was implying something by reminding Hunter about him. He wasn’t sure he liked what it was.
And yet, he couldn’t help himself.
“Does he always come in on Tuesdays?”
Tristan nodded. “Every Tuesday, and lately he’s been ending up blackout drunk. Like that night a few weeks ago. I still can’t believe you carried him home. A Catholic priest. You’re a hellhound, and you brought him to the rectory. To church housing.”
This human was annoying him. Yes, Hunter was a demon, and in theory he should be in some kind of adversarial relationship with religious folk, but in the end they were all working toward the same goal. Heaven and Hell just disagreed on the path to get there.
“There’s no chance he remembers me. He could barely muster enough consciousness to find the key to the front door. And I don’t know why it’s a big deal.”
The corners of Tristan’s mouth twitched, and Hunter got the urge to punch the smug little human. Ammon would never forgive him if he did, though, so he fought it.
“It’s not a big deal that you saw a priest pass out and carried him home? You could have called a car.”
“It’s half a mile to the rectory. A car would have been stupid. And I don’t know why you’re being weird. I’m a good guy. I wanted to help.”
Tristan barked out a loud laugh before stifling it.
His eyes twinkled with condescending amusement.
“You’re a demon, Hunter. A hellhound. You’re not a good guy.
You’re a bad guy who enjoys torturing and killing people for fun.
You’re also a brat and fairly unhinged. I think it’s reasonable to question your motives. ”
“I hate humans,” Hunted growled before walking through the door.
So he wasn’t a good guy. So what? Killing was fun—maybe the most fun thing—but he didn’t do it indiscriminately. Hunter served the Adversary. It was important, even if human morality didn’t account for it. He loved his work, which is why the whole gambling hall project annoyed him.
And yes, maybe he had eclectic tastes and a tendency to get distracted. That didn’t mean he had some sort of crush or something on a Catholic priest he’d only met once. When the man had been drunk. That would be ridiculous.
Wouldn’t it?