Nada.
Nothing.
I huff and fold my arms over my chest, tapping one of my feet impatiently.
“Hello!” I call out. “Can someone die already, please? I have a soap opera to get back to.”
Predictably, there’s no response, and my irritation grows.
Why can’t the person already be dead?
Why am I always forced to watch it happen?
Pounding footsteps precede the appearance of a huge beast.
A wolf?
No, not a wolf.
A hellhound.
The creature’s massive form wears a cloak of coal-black fur that ripples with an unnatural, molten sheen—as though its very hide is imbued with the essence of fire. Its eyes—two burning orbs of crimson—glow with an intense, demonic light. Its elongated snout twists unnaturally, baring yellow teeth as sharp and jagged as broken glass and dripping with saliva that sizzles when it touches the ground.
The beast is large and terrifying and intimidating and?—
“You’re fucking adorable,” I coo, placing my hands on my knees to stare at it better. “Who’s a good hellhound?You’rea good hellhound. Yes, you are. Yes, youare.”
Hellhounds are mindless beasts created when hell’s fire bubbles to the surface. They hunt indiscriminately and burn their victims alive.
Adorable.
The creature paws at the ground, and a low, guttural growl reverberates from deep within its chest.
Is this the creature I’m reaping? I’ve never done it with animals before, only humans and supernaturals. I wonder if the creature’s victim is nearby. Maybe that’s who I’m?—
An arrow sails through the air and embeds itself into the hellhound’s side. The monster releases a howl of rage and anger, whirling around to face the attacker.
“Mamma Mia,” I murmur, ogling the man stepping from between two trees. “Who are you, and where have you been all my life?”
I’ve seen hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of men in my time on this earth, and none compare to him. Just his presence ignites all of my nerves and makes my nipples pebble.
Blond hair, the strangest shade of white-gold, frames an angelic face plucked from heaven itself. He’s muscular, but not in a way that’s overwhelming or excessive. A white T-shirt clings to his physique in a way that shouldn’t be legal. The slightly pointed ears let me know he’s an elf.
“Over here!” the elf calls, his arrow still trained on the snarling beast.
Holy crap.
Is that a British accent I detect?
I begin to subtly fan myself, even as an uneasy feeling slashes at me.
Is he the person I’m here to reap?
For some inexplicable reason, ice-cold fingers of dread creep down my spine.
I don’t want to stab him, dammit. He’s too sexy to die.
Another man races out of the forest holding an onyx sword—one of the only substances capable of permanently killing a hellhound.
