Title: Hell Bound – Hell Hounds
Author: Andrew P. Weston
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Perseid Press
Hell Bound –
In hell, none of the condemned believes they deserve to be there. And that’s fine, so long as they’re not foolish enough to try and do anything about it. For those that do, there’s always Satan’s Reaper–and chief bounty hunter–Daemon Grim.
Feared throughout the many layers of the underverse, no one in their right mind dares to cross him.
However, when Grim discovers that someone has attempted to evade injustice, and seems hell-bent on gaining access to ancient angelic artifacts, proscribed since the time of the original rebellion in heaven, circumstances point to the fact they may be doing just that.
The question is…why?
Thus begins an investigation that leads Grim throughout the many contradictory and baffling levels of the underworld, where he unearths a conspiracy that is not only eating its way like a cancer through the highest echelons of Hellion society, but one which threatens the very stability of Satan’s rule.
How does Daemon Grim Respond?
Rest assured. It’ll be bloody, brutal, and despicably wicked.
Hell Hounds –
Feared throughout the many circles of the underworld, Satan’s Reaper – and chief bounty hunter – Daemon Grim, is known as a true force to be reckoned with.
Having eliminated a major player in the uprising eating its way like a cancer through the underbelly of hell, Grim is stunned to discover he cannot afford to rest on his laurels, for the rebellion runs far deeper than was ever imagined. New players have emerged – denizens with uncanny abilities – who seem determined to support Chopin and Tesla’s revolutionary agenda.
Ever keen to test their mettle, the Sibitti – personified weapons of the ancient Babylonian plague god, Erra – also appear eager to capitalize on the growing unrest, and set about maneuvering events in order to place themselves in direct opposition to Grim’s investigation.
And if that was not cause for concern enough, there’s an insane angel on the loose, a creature as hell-bent on creating havoc as he is to return home.
How do Grim and his rabid pack of bounty hunters respond?
Baying for blood – doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Hell Bound –
Across the street, a small crowd of mobsters had just exited an old style ale house, and Lady Gemini became much more alert. Hunkering down into a small depression created by the collapse of a major sewer tunnel, she removed a long cylindrical pipe from one of her elongated thigh-flaps, and rummaged around in her breast pocket with the other hand.
I watched her movements with professional curiosity.
She hasn’t taken her eyes off them once. Now that’s the kind of attitude I want to see.
The group comprised two boss types—one a Gomez Adams wannabe, the other a startlingly accurate representation of what you would get if you stuffed a bulldog inside human flesh; a statutory retinue of muscle-bound, knuckle-dragging, brain-dead hoods; and a hulking great lawyer dripping mucus and blood with every step. His steaming name badge gleamed dully in the twilight, and identified him as Othello.
Scanning their auras, I doubted the combined IQs of the thugs would challenge the slime Othello left in his wake, so they were obviously there to look mean, grunt in single syllables, and take a bullet for their masters.
Which is what they’ll probably be doing a few seconds from now . . .
I adjusted the sensitivity of my sweeps and glanced back and forth between the two parties. The Godfather wake was oblivious to the danger. Gemini merely studied them from her place of concealment, and slowly raised the tube to her lips.
So who’s the mark?
Gemini’s heartbeat never wavered. Nor was there any discernible peak of excitement. If anything, her esoteric presence diminished until it was next to nothing.
She’s the proverbial ice queen. Detached, focused, professional.
Without warning, the air shimmered and Gemini winked out of sight.
A chameleon mesh? This should get interes-
No sooner had she disappeared than the undulating mass of hearse flies orbiting her proximity swooped away, and descended en masse upon the unfortunate gangsters. In moments, they were twisting and turning and waving their arms so furiously it looked as if they had suddenly decided to engage in a hip-hop dance off.
Is she doing that?
Strangled curses turned the air blue as overzealous insects began to bite.
One voice cried out louder than the others.
Othello slapped the side of his filthy reptilian neck. He coughed, staggered, and reached out to support himself on the nearest boss. Mr. Gomez obviously didn’t like being touched—especially by a lawyer—for he swatted Othello’s hand away as if his illustrious hellegally qualified acquaintance was infected by the plague. Seconds later, Othello’s knees gave way and he crashed to the floor, whereupon his essence started to fade almost immediately.
The rest of the entourage took one look at the dissipating mist and starburst away from the scene in terror, closely followed by an inquisitive cloud of hungry buzzing friends.
Oh, very clever. She made it look like a simple acci- Eh?
By the time I looked back, Gemini had already slithered down from the mound and was halfway toward Westmonster Causeway.
Unholy cow but she’s fast. I had never seen her run before. I wonder how long she can keep it up?
I never found out. Reaching the banks of the river, Gemini kept going—straight as a die—leaped the shattered balustrade and jumped straight into the filthy waters of the Tombs without creating so much as a splash.
Hell Hounds –
Deep beneath the streets of Olde London Town, the brick-lined galleries of the main sewers resounded with the echoes of pursuit. Water splished and filth sploshed in time to erratic footfalls, and every now and then, each resonating burst of frenzied activity was punctuated by an interlude of hacking sobs as the terrified victim tried to catch both his breath and his bearings.
The endless chain of low wattage emergency beacons dotted along the apex of the tunnels stretched off into the distance. But their wan light did little to dispel the midnight embrace leaching into every nook and cranny, and if anything, only served to define the darkness into tighter clusters.
Isabella Castile slowed her pace and judged her prey’s progress.
It had been like this for more than an hour, ever since her quarry had discovered his second wind, in fact, and a determination to fight against the seeming inevitability of his situation.
Why Isabella had chosen this particular denizen, she didn’t know. Maybe the color of his hair, the cut of his pinstripe suit, the way he turned his nose up at those around him. None of it mattered now, for once started, she would continue the hunt until she had added his name to a growing list of damned souls who found themselves, at her behest, in dread repose upon the Undertaker’s slab.
His haphazard course through the maze was a clear indicator of the Blue Suit’s panic, and the notion that he would leave his fate to happenchance only spurred Isabella to greater efforts. That, and the sour aftertaste lacing his pheromone-ridden trail.
Isabella reached the latest in a long line of junctions. Pausing just long enough to taste the ether, she quickly determined his new route and set off with a fresh spring in her step and a deepening ache in her throat.
Not long now, my sweet. Not long.
A cruel smile stole its way across her lips.
The betraying splash tolled like a death knell in the dark.
Halting her advance, Isabella hugged the shadows along the far wall, and sang: “Can you hear what I hear?”
Her tuneful query elicited nothing but silence.
Creeping forward, she peered around the lip of a side shaft, her fingers testing the air like spider legs on a web. “And can you see what I see?”
A knife appeared in her hand where nothing had existed before. Then it was gone, traversing the fifty-foot gap in the blink of an eye.
A grunt coughed out of the gloom. Then a stifled curse. Moments later, the filthy waters slopping about Isabella’s feet turned crimson.
She stepped out into the scant illumination offered by a meager cone of light from the ceiling and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath.
“No, please. I’ll give you anything you want . . .” was all the Blue Suit managed to gasp before calamity fell upon him.
Hell Bound –
Hell Hounds –
Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076GWZ4DW
Amazon CA https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B076GWZ4DW
Amazon UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B076GWZ4DW
Andrew P. Weston is a military and police veteran from the UK who now lives with a large amount of cats in a medium sized house on a small Greek island.
An astronomy and law graduate, he is the creator of the international #1 bestselling and critically acclaimed IX Series, and has the privilege of contributing to the Heroes in Hell shared universe.
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