You’re almost out of time.
That’s what Logan had said. But what did he mean?
She turned to him and was more than a little unnerved to find his dark eyes settled onto her, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at her.
“I want some answers or . . . I’m not going anywhere w
ith you.” Did she sound childish? Maybe. Did she give a rat’s ass? Hell, no.
He remained silent and anger stirred within Kira. “Who are you?” She shook her head savagely. “No, that’s wrong. I think the question should be what are you.”
“Hellhound.”
“Say again?”
Logan moved toward the window and peered out. He dropped the blinds and turned back to her. It was several degrees darker now, and the shadows that flickered across his face made him look a hundred times fiercer than he already was.
“I’m a hellhound. I escort souls to the hell realm for processing.”
“Hellhound,” she repeated as an image of his furriness flashed before her eyes. She thought that maybe a normal person would reject what he’d just shared. But how could she? After all she’d seen?
“Are we talking . . .” She pointed below and waited, breath caught in her throat as he nodded. Okay, then.
“I’m not sure I understand exactly,” she paused, “what you mean.”
“Souls that have been marked for the lower realm usually require,” a ghost of a smile played around his mouth, though his eyes remained cold as winter, “a little coaxing.” He shrugged. “Most try to escape, but once scented, there is no evading a hellhound. I bring them in to be processed.”
“Processed?”
Logan was quiet for a moment. “I guess ‘sentenced’ would be the correct word.”
She snorted. “You have a judge and jury in hell?”
He shook his head. “No judge. No jury. Just a pissed off demon who decides what district the term will be served in. District One being almost heavenly compared to, say, District Three.” Logan’s smile was harsh. “Trust me. Rarely does one get sentenced to District One for the term of their punishment.”
“Term?”
He shrugged. “Term means nothing, really. A trip below means forever. Once you’ve been marked, there is no turning back.” Logan watched her closely. “Hell is no different from anyplace else. There is order,” he grimaced, “of a sort.”
Kira’s mind moved fast, processing what Logan had shared. “So, when I was ten you came for me because I’d been marked?”
He nodded but remained silent.
Flashes of heat, moans of pain, and the smell of fear as thick as acrid smoke filled her mind. She exhaled slowly and took a few steps, needing some space between them.
His dark eyes followed her as she moved away—she felt them on her skin as surely as if he’d taken his hands and run them across her shoulders and down her arms. A shiver followed in their wake and she ran fingers through the tangles that fell around her face.
Why?
“I was ordered to.”
Okay, he was a mind reader now?
“Ordered . . . you have a boss?”
“I answer to the Overlord Santos.”
“Overlord,” she repeated. “That makes sense.” Her eyes flashed. “It’s not like you’d have a boss called, say . . . Mr. Smith or Mrs. Hannigan or anything like that. No way, because that would be normal and you’re about as far away from,” she felt him just behind her and froze, “normal as you can get.” She finished in a whisper.