Page 114 of Hounded
He stood, and the metallic ring of his saber being drawn from its sheath drove me backward in the kennel. I didn’t believe he would stab me, but I’d felt the burn of his blade enough times to fear it. When he thrust the weapon, it found its mark far from me. The tip of the sword lodged in the lock of the kennel door, and the cage swung open.
Whitney stepped aside as I scrambled out, crawling into the empty space where I could shove myself to standing. My neck and back ached from too long spent cramped and crowded, and my knees throbbed with deep bruises. They would heal, and the pain would subside. I had more pressing matters to attend to.
Fully upright, I looked at Whitney as he sheathed thesaber.
“Thank you,” I told him.
“I did nothing.” He shook his head, and a smile curved his lips. “If you say I did, I’ll deny it, and we both know Miss will readily take my word over yours.”
My focus drifted to the bare spot on the wall that waited for me to draw a portal out of here, but I had to ask, “What about Nero? The hunt?”
Whitney flapped his hand. “Consider me withdrawn. Better the horned bastard thinks me a failure and casts me aside. I’m ready to come home.”
I would never understand his affection for our demon mistress, but I related wholly to the rest. I offered my agreement with a final, parting nod, then I left.
41
Indy
The toaster oven dinged,and I rose from my art desk to meander into the kitchen. The sun had set almost an hour ago, and the trailer was lit by the TV playingThe Breakfast Clubfor the third time in a row. The smell of melted cheese and singed bread filled the air when I lowered the oven’s glass door and inspected the pair of pizza bagels topped with pepperoni.
I was out of mozzarella and sauce, so I made do with a cheese whose name I couldn’t pronounce and watered-down tomato paste I scavenged from the pantry. But the end product looked edible enough.
When the bagels crowded onto a flimsy paper plate, I reconsidered my portion size. It looked more like a meal for two, which meant leftovers for tomorrow. Shrugging, I turned toward the living room. And then the floor dropped out from under me.
Not dropped. More like shifted. The whole trailer dipped, and the pizza bagels slid over the rim of the plate to land face down on the floor. Red sauce shot out to one side like blood splatter. Food forfeited, I grabbed onto thecorner of the kitchen counter and braced for what must have been an earthquake.
Looking down the alley of the trailer’s interior, everything was at a slant. Items toppled off shelves, and the table lamp began a slow tip. I was ready to bolt forward and catch it when the Airstream rocked again, returning to level with a bouncing dip.
I glanced around, checking the windows to see if the world outside was as unstable as I was. In the dusky darkness, my view remained unchanged. Everything was quiet except for the music playing while Emilio Estevez took a drug-fueled dance break on the TV. I was distracted by the eye candy until the ratcheting clatter of the outside awning rolling up goaded me into motion.
I darted to the door and shoved it open, barely hanging onto the handle as I swung my head from side to side in a rapid inspection of my front lawn. A man stood beside the awning’s arm, turning the crank to retract it flush against the Airstream’s exterior. My pride flag was sloppily folded beside his feet.
If he hadn’t been facing me, I might not have recognized him. His face was scruffy and unshaven, and his long hair was tangled. Wrinkles were pressed into his shirt and jeans like they’d been slept in more than once.
“Loren?” I bounded down the steps onto the paver patio.
He secured the awning, then dusted his hands down his pantlegs. His lack of response gave me time to further survey the scene. His truck was backed up to the end of the trailer. Its engine was running, and its taillights glowed dimly red. Beside the Airstream’s tires, chock blocks hadbeen pulled out and cast aside. It was like he was trying to steal the damn thing with me inside it.
I stomped over to him, looking anything but intimidating in leg warmers and booty shorts with a tie-dyed tee shirt tied above my navel. But better to be a pissed-off twink than an actual crazy person kicking the blocks out from under someone else’s trailer after dark.
He was on the move, though, headed toward the coupler on the front of the Airstream. It was already attached to the truck’s bumper hitch, and he crouched to affix the safety chain and connect the wiring harness.
I came up behind him and balled my fists on my hips. “Welcome back, asshole. What the hell are you doing to my house?”
With a testing tug on the chain, Loren stood straight and looked at me at last. “Ourhouse,” he corrected. “We’re moving.”
My chest swelled with the protest I spouted off. “No, we’re not. I’m not.”
He shouldered past me toward the line of plastic pickets that formed a rectangle under where the awning had previously been.
I chased him after him, shouting, “Hey!”
He was a blur of motion, faster than a person should be, stooping and scooping handfuls of something from the layer of mulch around the fence. He finished the brisk circuit with a half dozen dirt-smeared baggies tucked under his arm.
I squinted at them as he approached. “What are those?” I asked.
Passing by me again, he snatched the pride flag fromthe ground, speed-walked to the trailer door, opened it, and flung the items inside. Then he slammed the door.
