Hellhound on My Trail (11 page)

“Stay,” Jim said to the Hellhound. It made a loud rumbling sound in its belly that sounded like the purr of an oversized lion. “Stay, Phthonos.”

“The Hound obeys you,” Mike said. He felt numb, and wondered if he was going into shock.

“Some of my father’s minions are too stupid to know any better,” Jim nodded. “And some have divided loyalties. That’s the problem with Hell.”

“I don’t know,” Mike shook his head, thinking of Raphael. “It seems to be a problem with Heaven, too.”

“Maybe it’s a problem with thinking creatures generally,” Jim agreed. “Or maybe it’s not a
problem
at all. Maybe it’s just the effect of free will. Will you join us?” He stood and held out his hand.

Mike cleared his throat; he wanted to sound professional. “How many dates on the tour?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. Probably Chicago, for one.”

Mike nodded down at the Hound, purring at Jim’s feet. “Are we going to meet more friends like this one?”

“Almost certainly.”

Mike thought of his flophouse room in Santa Fe. He thought of Chuy, too, and then he shook Jim’s hand. “Sounds like a real crappy gig,” he laughed, a little bitterly. “But the alternative is worse.”

“That’s how I make most of my decisions.” Jim smiled. “Phthonos, stay,” he repeated, and then he took the hoof from Mike’s hands and walked out of the crumbling super-kiva through the hole in its wall. The Hellhound stayed behind.

Freakishly, it wagged its tail.

Twitch followed right behind Jim, in her horse shape, with the boy Rafi slung over her back. Adrian walked next to her, holding the kid in place. He patted Mike on the shoulder as he passed. “Good to have a rhythm section again,” he said.

Eddie brought up the rear. “Can you drive?” he asked.

Mike nodded. “I’ve been a driver before.”

“Cab, or limo?”

Mike sighed. “Getaway car, mostly,” he admitted.

“Perfect,” Eddie laughed.

“I had a rough youth.”

“Everybody does. Let’s go get the instruments and hit the road, before Fido here remembers that daddy sent it to fetch Jim.”

Mike scratched his head and they both walked out of the kiva. Mike shot one last look over his shoulder at the Hellhound, and was rewarded with a lopsided crocodilian grin. A fresh, water-bearing breeze blew into the overhang from the canyon below, and he breathed deep. “Aren’t they burnt to cinders?” he asked.

“All the band gear is fireproof and impact-resistant,” Eddie told him.

“Wards of instrument insurance?”

Eddie chuckled. “Something like that. Your bass is probably gone, but we have another one you can use.”

“I saw it in the van,” Mike remembered. “I’ll try not to impale myself on it.”

“That’d be good,” Eddie agreed. “That’d be a real good start.”

***

About The Author

D.J. Butler (Dave) is a novelist living in the Rocky Mountain northwest. His training is in law, and he worked as a securities lawyer at a major international firm and inhouse at two multinational semiconductor manufacturers before taking up writing fiction. He is a lover of language and languages, a guitarist and self-recorder, and a serious reader. He is married to a powerful and clever woman and together they have three devious children.

Dave has been writing fiction since 2010. He writes speculative fiction (roughly, fantasy, science fiction, space opera, steampunk, cyberpunk, superhero, alternate history, dystopian fiction, horror and related genres) for all audiences. He has written and is writing novels for middle grade, young adult and adult readers. He is working on getting published via the traditional route; in the meantime, he is entertaining readers with Rock Band Fights Evil. Dave has always had a soft spot for good pulp fiction.

Follow the band at
http://rockbandfightsevil.com
.

Read about D.J. Butler’s other writing projects at
http://davidjohnbutler.com
.

***