Chapter 13: The Servants of the Damned

“Hellhound.”

The caption beneath the image led me to a classification I’d overlooked. The name gave me pause, but I spoke it aloud: “The Servants of the Damned.”

As if hearing her name, Shellie leapt from the floor below and perched menacingly on the rail I’d leaned against. I looked up—her human pupils were gone, replaced by a void of white.

My heart clogged my throat.

In an uncanny fluidity, she shifted to the floor, mimicking a dog sitting upright and giving me its full attention.

When I looked down, her pupils had returned. She was gazing up at me with puppy dog eyes. Her cute, innocent expression disarmed my fear.

Is she aware of what she is?

I moved to the edge of the bed, sat down, placed the book on my lap, and signaled Shellie. She stayed low and crawled over, resting against my legs. With my free hand, I rubbed her thick, raven-colored hair, probably easing myself more than comforting her.

I continued reading.

“‘Hellhounds, aka Daemon Canis Infernalis Familiaris, are a highbred species fashioned from the darkest of brimstone, taking form as a dog, a human, or a hybrid. In appearance, the canine hellhound usually possesses black fur…’”

I hovered over the words, eyeing the purple streaks in Shellie’s crown. I recalled a forgotten detail: the flecks in her beast-dog coat and how they hummed with soft light.

“’…but some are known to have red or white coats. Their eyes often appear black, white, or red as well. Additionally, they can vary in size, ranging from large dogs to draft horses.’”

I dug in deeper, skipping over the human hellhounds. From a brief scan of the text, they sounded badass—but they weren’t her.

“The hybrid—this is you, girl.”

My excitement was met with a dull, I-could-care-less expression from Shellie, but I read it to her.

“’The hybrid hellhounds command the shape-shifting ability to switch between their dog or human avatar at will. In dog form, all of the hellhound’s characteristics are accessible. However, as humans, they cannot use their supernatural skills without risking burnout, like the human hellhounds. Nevertheless, their lower form retains enhanced senses, physical strength, and dexterity far beyond those of humans.”

I can attest to that.

“‘All hellhounds are beautiful, wondrous, ferocious beasts serving as guards, hunters, or reapers. For the most powerful among them, their mere presence can instantly destroy humans, supernatural beings, and spiritual entities. In accordance with their intellect, cleverness, and abilities to cast shadows and pierce physical and ethereal substances, they are ranked as one of the most terrifying and powerful archetypes in existence. Depending on the user’s will, hellhounds are capable of unlimited powers.’”

I quit reading and looked down. Shellie was nudging her head against my leg.

In my euphoria of reading, I’d stopped petting her.

To my surprise, she must’ve been pleased with the attention. So I began again, mindful not to stop as I read on.

“‘Unfortunately, hellhounds’ most significant weakness or strength resides in their user’s abilities. Once summoned, hellhounds enter into an ethereal contract with their users. In exchange for the hellhounds’ obedience, loyalty, and protection, the users must sustain the hellhounds’ existence, acting as a siphon that empowers and feeds.’”

The user must sustain the hellhound’s existence.

My petting slowed.

“‘If users cannot fulfill the obligation, it can mean death for the hellhound and the user.’”

Death for the hellhound and the user!

My petting crept to light brushing.

“‘For that reason, it is recommended that only users bound by a Hellpact or of Daemon lineage manifest a hellhound.’”

Hellpact! Daemon lineage! What?! Holy fawk!

My hand tensed so hard it locked.

I stood up, slammed the book, and fearfully pitched it to the floor.

“So that book is a real grimoire. You’re a hybrid hellhound. And I’m the screwed user who summoned you.”

Shellie rolled her head from side to side, still seated, remaining very calm as I freaked out.

“All I was trying to do was visualize a cool companion for The Lords of Omni. How the hell…”

Using the word only triggered more mania. I paced back and forth, shaking my hands.

On the one hand, someone I lost and cared for had returned; on the other, she was a freaking hellhound. I couldn’t think anymore, or I’d burst.

So I did what I did best. I pushed it down. I had other important things on my plate, like getting ready for my sociology presentation, cleaning evidence that linked me to murders, and…and…putting some clothes on Shellie.

I immediately took off my robe and assisted Shellie into it. Vexingly, she made the whole process a chore, not because she didn’t know how to get into the clothes but because she didn’t want to. After chastising her and giving her a command to stop, she allowed me to tug the robe snugly closed. In response to her new apparel, Shellie looked at me like I was crazy and kept lightly pulling at the material.

I wasted no time moving on to the next task. Since I’m a clean freak, I had everything I needed to disappear evidence in my bathroom closet.

Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users did more than help me understand that Shellie was a hellhound. It hipped me to the fact that Shellie was also intelligent.

After a brief period of showing her the task, Shellie became adept at emptying the dirty bucket and bringing me clean water. We made a good team, albeit a silly-looking one—me in my filthy socks and underwear scrubbing, and her in an oversized robe that dragged on the floor carrying buckets back and forth from the bathroom.

During the clean-up, performing the tasks and visually checking them off a list helped me volley away every unwanted thought about the last twenty-four hours.

While removing the bloody sheets from my bed, I was happy with my decision never to skip or go cheap on a mattress liner. It performed its function but was destroyed along with all my other bedding. I smiled happily as I stuffed the last inch of material into a trash bag that Shellie held.

Looking around the room after cleaning added a little sunshine to my darkness. But there were two unfinished, filthy links to the murders left: Shellie—and me.

As grimy as we were, I was just grateful she didn’t have blood on her face or in her hair when she peeked out the door. Instead of thinking we were having sex, my friends might have assumed the worst. And no matter how loyal they were to me, they’d have either busted in or called the cops.

I knew what needed to happen next, and a little embarrassment bubbled into my expression. Both Shellie and I required showers.

After snatching up Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users, I led her down the stairs into the bathroom and let her stand near the sink. I also set the grimoire on the counter—no way was I letting it out of my sight again. Next, I pulled a stack of washcloths and towels from the linen pantry and set them on the counter. We had a heavy cleansing job ahead of us.

I decided Shellie had to go first, despite her ability to do minimal tasks. She showed no signs of understanding when I pantomimed washing. Instead, she was more interested in looking at herself in the mirror.

I thought to myself, What do hellhounds think of? Can they think?

After gathering extra soaps and shampoos, I began prepping the shower. I giggled, wondering if hellhounds liked scalding hot showers, but I programmed the water to run lukewarm in my handle-free shower.

Retrieving Shellie, I was wholly unaware of how she would react to bathing. Before I had her disrobe, I had to do some pre-cleaning, picking out leaves, twigs, and caked-on mud from her hair.

After flicking the last twig to the floor, I removed Shellie’s robe. Actually, she helped cast it to the ground. Elated to escape its cottony confinement, she stretched and moved around as if I had taken a collar off her.

Taking her hand and leading her to the shower, I imagined that bathtime would be as chaotic as Nightshade’s cleanings, and maybe it would have been if she were in her dog form. However, in her human form, she quickly acclimated to showering.

Despite my reservations, I leaned into the shower to assist her.

The darker blood-stained areas on her skin were the hardest to remove, especially on her hands and feet. I had to incorporate various luffas and brushes to wash the burnt crimson color away.

I periodically took breaks to let Shellie enjoy the water and clean herself. Unfortunately, during those moments of inactivity, my mind slipped back to troubling thoughts. Believe it or not, avoiding failing my sociology class took precedence over the dead people in the woods, summoning a hellhound, or a Hellpact.

I can’t fail. I have never failed. I can’t take Shellie to class, and I can’t leave her here. Maybe if I command her to lie in my closet? No. That’s too cruel.

My thoughts continued as I squatted down to clean her right foot for the fifth time.

And what if she gets out and hurts someone?

Scrubbing, I realized I needed to set ground rules with Shellie.

“Shellie, never hurt any of my friends or anyone—unless I give you the okay!”

I added the “unless” because the first rule of everything is to always be prepared. And from past events, I knew others were out there willing to kill me to get my grimoire.

“Do not—I repeat, do not change into the other you from last night, the beast you, unless I give you the okay.”

I briefly paused from the scrubbing duties and checked Shellie’s expression to see if she acknowledged my rules.

At first, she coldly stared down at me for a brief, uncomfortable moment, then tilted her head at an angle, shook the water out of her hair, and returned to rubbing suds in her hands. I took the head tilt as agreement—super-relying on my grimoire to be accurate about her obedience.

Surprisingly, the shower experience went well, even though I found bits of flesh and fingernails while washing her hair.

With Shellie wrapped up, I hurriedly unclothed and jumped into the shower. Getting naked in front of Shellie didn’t faze me. Of all the craziness I had endured, nudity was the tamest thing by far.

Under the warm water I could focus, and I finally didn’t feel anxious.

Shellie sat on the toilet wrapped in towels, looking like she was out for a spa day, and my grimoire was right next to her. Maybe I could devise a grand lie to make this all work out.

Class is only an hour. I bet I can get Weird Nikki to stay with her. She’s a sucker for helping with hardship cases.

As much as I wanted it to stop, there was no caging time.

***

I had approximately an hour and a half left ’til sociology class. In the time that passed since getting out of the shower, I’d gotten myself and Shellie dressed—of course, all I had for her was an oversized tee. I re-sanitized, sterilized, and purified all the surfaces throughout my place, and I stashed the trash bag in a secret room beyond my closet.

Most importantly, I had perfected a lie to get Weird Nikki’s help. I sent her the sob story in a text while completing the final detailing of our crime scene clean-up. She agreed to a video chat, and that time had arrived.

Shellie and I sat at the computer desk situated below my loft bedroom. We had been practicing for the ruse, and our last attempt was perfect.

“When you hear your new name, smile, wave, and look sad,” I repeated right before I pressed the dial icon on the video chat. Weird Nikki picked up on the first ring.

“What’s this about a secret girlfriend?”

“Yeah. This is Hellie.”

Per our rehearsal, Shellie, aka Hellie, smiled, waved, and then looked down sadly.

As for the name change, I couldn’t go around calling her Shellie. People might have put two and two together and connected her with my dead nanny with the same name and looks. So, from there on out, I stopped calling her Shellie and renamed her Hellie.