Chapter 13: The Servants of the Damned

“Hellhound.”

The caption beneath the image gave me pause.

As the symbol on my family crest, the hellhound had always stood for protection—never for anything as ghoulish as what I saw.

Still, I read the written words 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 been leaning against.

My tongue clogged in my throat.

I looked up—her human pupils were gone, replaced by a void of white.

With 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 who she once was—or 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 high-bred species fashioned from the darkest of brimstone, taking form as a hellhound, a human, or a hybrid. In appearance, the 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.’”

From a brief scan of the text, human hellhounds seemed badass—but they weren’t her, so I skipped ahead.

“The hybrid—this is you, girl.”

My excitement was met with a dull I-couldn’t-care-less expression from Shellie, but I read on:

“‘Hybrid hellhounds command the shape-shifting ability to switch between their hellhound and human avatar at will. In hellhound form, they unleash their full potential. However, as humans, they cannot use their supernatural skills at peak levels without risking burnout and death. Nevertheless, their lower form retains enhanced senses, physical strength, and dexterity far beyond those of humans.’”

I can attest to that.

“‘All hellhounds are wondrous, ferocious beasts serving as guards, hunters, or reapers. In accordance with their intellect, cleverness, and abilities, 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 the haze of reading, I’d stopped petting her.

To my surprise, she must’ve liked the attention. So I began petting again, mindful not to stop as I continued reading:

“‘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 into light brushing.

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

Hellpact! Daemon lineage! What?! Holy fawk!

I shot up, slammed the book shut, and hurled 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, staying seated and very calm while 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.

But now it made total sense—why I’d been confronted.

The book was freaking magical, and those cult weirdos knew it. Before their deaths, they’d said:

“We’re too late! He’s unleashed the unholy beast. We can’t let the Malvic keep the Tome. Get it!”

Repetitive flashes of The unholy beast, Servants of the Damned, and Hellpact led me to grip my head and rubbed my scalp in frustration.

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.

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, destroying ties to the grisly murders.

Since I’m a clean freak, I had everything I needed to make evidence disappear 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 she was also intelligent.

After a brief period of showing her the task, Shellie became an adept little helper.

We made a good team, albeit a silly-looking one—me in my filthy socks and underwear scouring, and her in an oversized robe that dragged on the floor as she carried buckets back and forth from the bathroom.

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 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.

We made the whole place spotless. If the cops come, they won’t find anything.

But two unfinished, filthy links to the murders remained: 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?

I chuckled, wondering if hellhounds liked scalding hot showers, but I programmed the water to run lukewarm in my handle-free shower.

After gathering extra soaps and shampoos, I retrieved Shellie.

I was wholly unaware of how she would react to bathing.

Before disrobing her, I had to do some pre-cleaning, picking out leaves, twigs, and caked-on mud from her hair.

“Funny how the tables have turned, Shellie. Looks like I get to take care of you now.”

Being with her in that moment, in front of the big bathroom mirror, sparked a memory. It seemed very similar to now, but I was on the receiving end of the care.

Shellie stood behind me combing my hair—both of us reflected in the mirror, laughing.

She’d always made me laugh.

That’s what best friends do.

But people, especially my mother, never wasted a chance to remind me that Shellie was just my nanny.

“Caring is one of her job prerequisites,” was a minimizing phrase my mother would say whenever I spoke highly of Shellie.

Plucking out the last twig, I snapped back to the present and moved on to my next task, removing Shellie’s robe.

Actually, she helped cast it to the ground. Free of its cottony confinement, she stretched and moved around as if I had taken a collar off her.

Holding her hand and leading her to the shower, I imagined what it had been like to clean Nightshade—chaotic and challenging.

Maybe it would’ve been… if she were in her dog form. But, in her human form, she quickly acclimated to showering.

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

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

It was a job, so I periodically took breaks to let Shellie enjoy the water and clean herself.

Unfortunately, during those moments of inactivity, my mind thought of the future.

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 my class. I have never failed.

I needed to be in class very soon, but Shellie was with me. My worrisome thoughts doubled while I squatted down to clean her right foot for the fifth time.

What if I command her to lie in my closet? No. That’s too cruel. Maybe I can take Shellie to class—but what if she gets away from me and hurts someone?

She needed ground rules—no matter how I handled the situation.

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

I added the “unless” clause to always be prepared. Others were willing to die or kill me for 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 my washing duties and checked Shellie’s expression to see if she acknowledged my rules.

At first, she stared down at me—cold, unreadable—for a brief, uncomfortable moment.

The death cry—“He’s unleashed the unholy beast”—popped into my head again.

Then she tilted her head—not quite a nod, maybe a nod—shook the water out of her hair and returned to rubbing suds in her hands.

I took the tilt as agreement—super-relying on my grimoire to be accurate about her obedience.

She’d agreed, right?

Other than that, surprisingly, the shower experience went well—if I ignore the bits of flesh and fingernails that I dug out from the base of her thick hair.

With Shellie wrapped up, I hurriedly unclothed and jumped into the shower. Getting naked in front of her didn’t faze me.

Of all the craziness I’d 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.

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 time to stop, there was no caging it.

***

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 then 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’d 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.

Shellie and I sat at the computer desk situated below my bedroom loft. 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.