It shook its head and snorted. Raked the floor with one paw, leaving claw marks on the cement.
Keeping very still, Devon watched it warily. Jesus, it was one big, beautiful bastard. Broad and fierce and badass, it had muscles upon muscles. Its thick, coal-black fur stood on end as it growled at Roth, glaring at him through blood-red eyes. Nothing so savage and vicious-looking should possess a majestic air, but it just did.
It could also very well decide to attack her, hence why she slowly unsheathed her claws. Her feline? It wasn’t the least bit perturbed. In fact, it was eager to watch the hound rip their enemy to shreds. It even wanted to join in. Fuck that. The two entities would end up fighting to the death over their new toy.
A pitiful whimper escaped Roth. “Oh, God,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Please don’t—”
The hound let out a guttural roar that seemed to rattle Devon’s bones. Its veins suddenly glowed as if filled with liquid fire, and tiny red embers danced around its body like pixie dust—signs of its growing rage. And then it lunged, sending Roth’s chair crashing to the floor.
Roth let out a primal, bloodcurdling scream as the snarling hound brutally ripped into him. It clawed. Mauled. Slashed. Mangled. All the while, it ignored his cries, shrieks, and pleas for mercy.
She had a strong stomach, but she wasn’t gonna lie, the sounds of claws shredding flesh and teeth crunching bone made her stomach churn—especially when coupled with the sight of the hound digging Roth’s organs out of his body as if it were digging bones out of the ground.
The hound didn’t just kill Roth. It butchered him. And it didn’t back off until he was nothing more than a bloody mass of broken bones, severed limbs, and mushed organs.
And then it turned to face her, pinning her gaze with those blood-red eyes. Her skin tingled, and the hairs on her nape and arms rose. Shit.
“I’ll pop up my shield if need be,” Jolene whispered, “but I don’t think it will harm you.”
Yeah? Devon wasn’t so sure. Not while it was stalking toward her with its lips peeled back, exposing blood-stained teeth. It had the look of a predator that had chased down its favorite prey. Figuring that “Nice doggy” wouldn’t wash down so well, she instead said, “I’d like to have Tanner back now.”
Oh, that earned her a growl so rumbly it resembled an idling motorcycle.
Her feline gave it a half-hearted snarl, but it didn’t rise to protect Devon—didn’t believe it needed to. She took a deep breath. “Look, I appreciate you making mincemeat out of Lockwood—”
Little red embers floated around its body once more, and she figured it hadn’t been the best idea to remind it of Roth. The hound snapped its teeth, making blood and foam spatter on the floor … and on her shoes.
That was it, Devon had had enough. “Fuck you, Fido, I haven’t done shit! Now quit snarling and spitting at me, I’m not in the fucking mood.”
The growling faded. The embers winked out. There was pure silence. And then it was butting her hand with its big fat head, wanting … attention?
“Oh, you cannot be believed.” But she sheathed her claws and cautiously stroked it, ready to snatch her hand back if it tried to bite her. Instead, it leaned against her, rumbling a contented growl. In seconds it had gone from a killing machine to a big, shaggy dog.
She skimmed her fingers over the scar on its muzzle. “You’re not so bad.”
A rough tongue licked her hand, and then bones began to pop and crack once again.
Standing before them, Tanner cricked his neck. “So, kitten, why don’t you tell me about Pamela?”
*
A short while later, Tanner stood in front of Richie’s living room fireplace staring down at Devon. “You told me we’d talk up here, away from the mess in the basement. Well, we’re here.” Not liking how pale she was, he softened his voice as he said, “Kitten, talk to me.”
But she didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at him.
Tanner felt his nostrils flare. “The only way we’re going to untangle this fucking mess is if we’re all straight with each other. So … ?” Again, no one spoke. He crouched in front of his hellcat and rested his hands on her knees. “Where’s Pamela, and why would someone believe she needed to ‘pay’ for something?”
Standing beside the sofa, Jolene put a hand on Devon’s shoulder. “Pamela’s in the containment ward beneath my lair’s penal complex. She’s been balancing on the knife-edge of a psi breakdown for a long time now.”
Okay, well he hadn’t seen that coming. A psi breakdown occurred when a person’s psyche fractured under the strain of maintaining dominance over the entity within them. He’d met people hovering on that edge before; they tended to live very sad lives, considering they were only a few mental steps away from being rogue.