Every day, the black velvet rumble of its voice was a little louder and a little closer to drowning out his own.
He trusted his hellhound—he had to—but his inner animal used to just ride shotgun in his head. Now those animal instincts were doing the driving, and Logan felt like he was sacked out half-conscious in the backseat. He couldn’t reach the steering wheel from here, and his subconscious didn’t even want him to. In fact, it might bite his hand off if he tried.
But his name was Logan Vega. He remembered that much. Good for him.
His name was Logan Vega, and he worked for—
He weakly prodded at his hellhound.Who do we work for?
There was a cool, wet sensation like it was licking his cheek. That kind of internal comfort, from one part of his soul to another, was the only kind he got lately.
I don’t know.It sounded as confused as he was, but it was better at shrugging off that kind of thing philosophically.
After all, his hellhound didn’t care who they worked for. It would just carry on with its doggy life either way, according to its own principles. Its spirit was the same as his, but its mind was simpler and more straightforward. More instinct-driven. It didn’t fixate on hope or names.
It just wanted out of its cage.
Try, Logan said, pressing it anyway.Try to remember, okay? I need something to hold onto, and I can’t spend all day clinging to your scruff, buddy.
Another imaginary lick, and then it was like he could feel its head resting against his paw.
No, wait. Hellhounds had paws, humans had hands.
This was all in his imagination, so he should at least give himself hands, dammit.
You had a badge,his hellhound said finally.
That idea rang a distant bell. He could picture something gold and glinting, something that had mattered a lot to him before R—
Just getting close to thinking the name made his hellhound growl, its lips wrinkling back from its sharp teeth. A glint of orange fire sparked in its black, bottomless eyes.
If it ever got unleashed, it would tear their captor to pieces, and Logan wouldn’t be able to stop it even if he wanted to.
He didn’t know if hewouldwant to. Every day, he was a little less human. And the parts of him that were surviving weren’t the best parts. They were just what fanned the flames in his hellhound’s eyes: his rage, his fear, his pain, his sense of agonizing loss.
All he could do was try to hang on and hope that if anyone ever did come for him, they came with a whole army, because that was what it would probably take. If Houdini himself had been in Logan’s—
What was the expression? Socks? Skin? It was one more thing he couldn’t remember, one more piece of his human life that was falling by the wayside.
My point is, he told himself, trying to ignore the slick panic he felt whenever a word or memory went missing,not even an escape artist could get out of this place. Not as a hellhound, anyway.
A soft whine made his ears twitch forward, and he sprang to his feet and stalked over to the bars.
He was, as far as he could tell, the only creature down here that had once been even partly human, but there were dozens of mythical animals in this godawful prison-zoo-hellhole. They hated being caged up in the dark just as much as he did, and sometimes it got to them too. Whenever it did, he tried to do what he could to comfort them.
He reached out with his mind, examining each cage with his hellhound’s telepathy. The animals responded to his mental touch, and their minds pressed against him, radiating love and trust he wasn’t sure he deserved.
He found the source of the hurt, sorrowful whine: Nathaniel, a winged greyhound who had been here even longer than he had.
Like their flightless counterparts, winged greyhounds could happily spend ninety percent of their time being total couch potatoes. But they still needed the chance for a good run every day, and Nathaniel needed the chance for a good runanda good hard flight ... two things that were impossible to achieve in a kennel, no matter how spacious it was. This wasn’t the first time the ongoing lack of exercise had eaten away at Nathaniel’s peace of mind.
Today, Logan could tell, Nathaniel was thinking about flying. His wings were molting from stress, and the floor of his cage was littered with stray feathers.
> Logan said softly. >
He sent Nathaniel a sensory blast of Logan petting him, digging his fingers into his scruff and scratching along his belly, and he felt Nathaniel’s mind relax just a little.
He knew what Nate found soothing in times like this.