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I breathed a sigh of relief. That was good, at least.
“How many trailers burned down?”
“Four of ‘em are in feckin’ bad shape,” Slim Jim sighed. “But at least the whole feckin’ town wasn’t torched.”
“We woulda been able to save at least one o’ them trailers if Slim Jim had the goddamned sense God gave a squirrel. Instead, he went tearin’ off after that pig o’ his.”
“He’s a feckin’ hog,” Slim Jim grumbled defensively.
“All he should be is bacon.”
Slim Jim shook his head. “Ain’t nobody turnin’ him into feckin’ bacon ‘cept me. Not that the sonofabitch is grateful I saved his feckin’ hide. Damn near gored my feckin’ arm when I tried to drag him ‘way from his feckin’ scraps. If you think I’m stupid, you should see Sonny.”
“And what about everyone else?” I asked.
Slim Jim shrugged one shoulder, reaching for a packet of gauze. “They all okay, I guess. Scared though. Boonie let us know they found shelter, an’ nothin’ else caught fire. Sheriff Dean, his nephew, an’ some others cleared a feckin’ path out, cuttin’ down feckin’ trees and whatnot. The less fuel for a fire, the feckin’ better.”
Amen to that. My chest felt a million times lighter now that I knew Sicily and the rest of them were safe. I could kiss Dean for getting my daughter away from the danger. Actually, when he got back, Iwouldkiss him. He’d have to pry me off with a crowbar before I’d let him go. It felt like I owed him everything.
“No sign o’ that feckin’ hellhound,” Slim Jim continued, scowling. “My infrared sensors were completely feckin’ overloaded. Lost some o’ ‘em too. I suspect the feckin’ hound tucked tail an’ ran after you doused him, but I reckon we ain’t seen the feckin’ last o’ him.”
“Agreed,” I said, pacing into the kitchen. I swung the fridge door open and thrust a hand inside, seizing the first blood container I could find before tipping the contents into my mouth. Skunk blood, ugh. There was nothing worse which was why I always left it for last. I grimaced but choked it down. I’d take the aftertaste if it eased the ache rampaging through my body.
I settled in the chair next to Ol’ Ned, pointedly ignoring him as Slim Jim bandaged his backside. Sometimes you just had to spare a man’s pride no matter how funny you found his plight. When Slim was done and Ol’ Ned was now wearing a pair of Slim Jim’s boxers (which Slim must have brought over with him), Ol’ Ned went to lay face-down on my couch, putting himself in the path of the AC window unit. It was barely keeping up with the heated air outside (leftover from that danged hellhound), but it was better than nothing.
“That thing burned down the Thatcher house,” I said, speaking the words I was fairly sure we were all thinking. “It clearly doesn’t like this place, though I don’t know why.”
Slim Jim walked to the sink and scrubbed his hands vigorously as though he could wash away the memory of what he’d had to do to his friend. They’d only ever speak of it again to one-up each other in a fight, that was for damn sure. Like me, Slim Jim was willing to let Ol’ Ned keep his pride for now. It was that unspoken bond between friends—until it could be used as a bargaining chip or the butt of a joke.
“I think the real feckin’ question is why you didn’t find no bones,” Slim Jim said slowly. “Sheriff Dean’s lil girl says human skin starts to burn at a feckin’ hundred an’ eighteen de-grees, an’ I reckon even feckin’ monsters can’t survive much more than that. At a hundred an’ sixty-two degrees, you’re feckin’ cooked right through Thanksgiving turkey-like. She says it’d take about two thousand an’ twelve degrees to completely destroy bone. That’s feckin’ hotter than most crematoriums go, an’ it’d be enough to turn everythin’ around to feckin’ ash. So… why the feckin’ hell didn’t everythin’ around that homestead burn right up? That’s my feckin’ question. There was enough fuel there to take out most the feckin’ county! Them fires shoulda killed us back there since it got as feckin’ hot as it did. But we’re still here. Why?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Slim Jim. I just don’t know.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sicily was sooty but no worse for wear.
She slumped in her chair, still put out with all of us for having the gall to drag her away from all the excitement. I wanted to thump her on the back of the head and scold her, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good. She was a teenager, and all teens seemed to think they were immortal. I’d been there once, so I understood but, sheesh, if there was a force that could dissuade a determined teen, I had yet to find it.
We were all gathered around the table (‘we’ as in the boys, Dean and Mason, and me), watching her intently as she worked her way through the pile of resource materials she’d ordered by mail or checked out at the library. When it came to research, my daughter was the best at explaining things plainly. It wasn’t that the rest of us were stupid (well, some of us were brighter than others), just that Sicily was the smartest person to come from Windy Ridge in a very long while. It was no wonder she tutored most of her classmates.
Sicily clucked her tongue as she skimmed through and finally jabbed her finger at a page. “There it is.Hellhounds: a supernatural or spectral dog that resides in the underworld.”
“Summa bitch. In the Underworld?” Bud repeated, before looking over at me. “Is that what they’re callin’ this part o’ the country now?”
Mason scoffed at that until Dean gave him a look, and then he shut up.
“No,” I answered on a deep inhale as I told myself to count to ten.
“While Damnation County might feel like the Underworld, Bud,” Sicily answered in her friendly, nonjudgmental way. “It’s not.” Then she turned to face the rest of us. “The Hellhound isn’t just a part of Christian folklore either, it’s found all over the place. Commonly associated with graveyards, and is a close cousin to the Grimm or the Black Shuck.”
“The B-b-black what?” Boone echoed.
“Black Shuck,” Sicily repeated, brows knitting over her eyes as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Normally found in the British Isles, the hellhound prowls dark lanes and fields. Its howl makes your blood run cold, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t hear its footsteps.”
“Well,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “I definitely heard the damn thing.”
“I heard it too,” Dean said with a quick nod.
