American Hellhound Read online

  American Hellhound

  Dartmoor Series Book VI

  by

  Lauren Gilley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Names and characters are the property of the author and may not be duplicated.

  AMERICAN HELLHOUND

  ISBN -13: 9781546818298

  Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Gilley

  Cover photograph Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Gilley

  HP Press®

  Atlanta, GA

  All rights reserved.

  The Dartmoor Series

  Fearless

  Prince of Angels

  Half My Blood

  The Skeleton King

  Secondhand Smoke

  Loverboy

  American Hellhound

  AMERICAN HELLHOUND

  Prologue

  “You don’t want to get lost out on the moors at night,” old Donnie Rawlins said, his English accent thickening as the tale began, the firelight licking across his grizzled features, catching like sparks in his eyes. A low breeze scudded across the hard-packed dirt beneath their camp chairs, a faint whistle that could have been branches, could have been voices, could have been the faraway baying of unseen hounds.

  Kenny cinched the hood of his jacket tight around his face and snuggled hard into his Uncle Duane’s side. He was eleven now, and would have died to be caught doing such a thing in the daylight. But night lay upon the mountains now, and there were things staring at them; he could feel their eyes through the gloom.

  “You see, it’s hard enough to find your way in the day,” Donnie continued. “Everything looks the same out there. Hills, and bogs, and rocks. The ponies know the way, clever things, but a man…a man’s just a man, and he wasn’t made for the dark.

  “You can’t find the landmarks with a torch. And you can’t remember which way home lies. You’re just as liable to step in a bog as to tumble down a cleft in the rocks and break your neck.

  “You hear things, in the dark.” And here his voice dropped low and rough, full of spooks. “Sounds like you’ve never heard before. You see things. Lights. And you worry it might be fairies until you remember what else might be out there. Watching. Listening.

  “And then every once in a while, some poor unfortunate traveler comes across a set of eyes, glowing red in the dark. And he smells corpse flesh, and hears a growl like thunder.” This he mimicked with a sound deep in his throat that left Kenny’s scalp prickling. “And the man knows, then, that he’s been found. Hunted – and rightfully so, ‘cause he’s a sinner same as all of us. Blood on his hands, and evil in his heart.

  “And it ain’t no living creature that’s come for him. No. It’s old Black Shuck. The black dog. The Lean Dog. It’s one or it’s all of ‘em. Don’t matter. They’re all dark creatures. You see, sonny, when you make a deal with the devil, he always collects his price. And when he can’t find you…well…he sends his hounds after you.”

  Kenny gulped a deep breath and bit his lip, bones quivering inside his skin.

  But it was Collier who spoke up, and saved Kenny from total embarrassment.

  “Mr. Rawlins? We don’t got hellhounds here in Tennessee, do we?”

  The old Englishman laughed, head thrown back, firelight bathing his throat red, as if it’d been cut. “Rest assured,” he said when he’d caught his breath. “They’re a little different over here.” He fingered his Lean Dogs cut, the leather worn and cracked from age and wear. “But you’ve got ‘em.” And all the men around the fire let out a loud war whoop.

  Donnie laughed again. “Let’s hear it for the American Hellhounds!”

  The wind howled again, and something deep and dormant in the center of Kenny’s heart answered.

  ~*~

  The first rule of a good ghost story: make sure it’s real.

  ~*~

  On the Labor & Delivery floor of Knoxville’s largest hospital, a nurse with a kind smile handed Denise Camden Lowe her new baby girl, wrapped in a white blanket, small wrinkled red face peeking out from the folds. “Here she is,” the nurse said, cooing.

  The child was just a little wisp of a thing, a week early, and small; she weighed nothing. But Denise felt the heaviness of the burden that had been placed in her tired arms; felt it in the way her husband squeezed her shoulder with oblivious joy.

  Raising a child was a heavy, heavy task. Already, Denise was planning her girl’s future, from preschool to walking down the aisle. There were so many lessons to impart, so many good habits to instill, so much wisdom to offer.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Arthur asked. “Our Maggie.”

  “Yes.”

  Somewhere below the window, down on the street, she heard the hum and throb of motorcycle engines, and she shuddered.

  “Are you cold? Let me get your robe,” Arthur said, moving from the bed.

  Denise glanced from her new daughter’s face toward the window, dark and smeared with streetlamp gold, the street not visible from this height. The Harley engines revved, and swooped, and then slowly faded into the distance.

  “There, there,” she whispered to her baby. “They’re gone.”

  She thought, faintly, of the leather-clad outlaws of their city, their shiny machines and their scarred knuckles. That world would never touch her baby, she vowed silently. Never. Maggie was going to have it all. Maggie was going to be a princess…

  ~*~

  The second rule of a good ghost story: make sure your leading lady’s smart.

  And hella ferocious.

  Not just anyone can put a devil dog on a leash.

  One

  “Mrs. Teague, can you tell me your husband’s whereabouts tonight?”

  Maggie swallowed the sharp tang of bile that was pushing up her throat and said, “Of course. He was with me.” She gave him her best, most disarming cotillion smile. “And officer, you know a wife isn’t obliged to answer questions about her husband anyway.”

  Officer Parsons, young and blonde and still wet behind his sizable ears, frowned at her. Looked troubled. Like she might be a battered housewife. “Is that why he married you, ma’am? So you couldn’t ever testify against him?”

  She laughed. She shouldn’t have, because it made her stomach clench, and oh God, she was going to throw up. But she forced the sound out between her teeth and said, still smiling, “Bless your heart, no. He married me because he couldn’t function worth a shit without me.”

  “Uh…” Parsons didn’t seem to know what to do with that. He shuffled the paperwork in front of him, the stuff Maggie knew without a doubt had nothing to do with her, and was only meant to intimidate her.

  “Kenny was at the clubhouse with me all night,” she said, helpfully. “We had out of town guests in to stay and were having a party.”

  It was a cool night, colder than mid-September warranted. They’d been outside, around the drum fire. Maggie could still smell the smoke inside her nostrils, which wasn’t helping the nausea. She could still close her eyes and feel Ghost’s solid strength pressed down the length of her side, feel the vibrations of his laughter through her own ribcage. Smell the liquor in his plastic cup; she hoped he didn’t figure out she was sipping ginger ale instead of sparkling wine.

  The red and blue lights had shown up without an accompanying siren, and instead of Fielding, this little toothpick of a boy had climbed out of the cruiser and said he needed to speak to Ghost…and to her.

  Maggie swallowed a gag and said, “Can I ask what this is about, officer?”

  He looked down at the paper in his hands, chewing on the inside of his cheek, deciding. F
inally, he pulled a photo from beneath the top sheet and slid it toward her.

  Maggie snagged it with a fingertip and dragged it the rest of the way across the table. It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing inside the ring of the camera’s flash, and then she bit down hard on her lip and breathed through her nose, willing her roiling stomach to cooperate just a few minutes more.

  A brown dog lay on a sidewalk, up against a white-painted brick wall. Its coat was patchy, its ribs showing: obviously a stray. Above it, written on the wall in unsteady dark paint: The only good Dog is a dead Dog. Then: Teague, with an arrow pointing toward the dead dog.

  Maggie breathed unsteadily through her mouth, finger shaking at the edge of the picture.

  “It wasn’t written in paint, ma’am,” Parsons said, and slid over another photo.

  This one was a grainy security footage shot of a man dressed all in black, hood pulled up over his head. He had wide shoulders, and a narrow waist, something predatory in the lean, disguised shape of him. He held a knife down low along his thigh, and his face was in shadow.

  “Someone called this in about an hour ago. It’s around back of this building; that’s our wall. It’s a threat, ma’am.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” She took one last look at the man, unable to find anything recognizable about him. “Where’s the wastebasket?”

  He frowned. “Behind you.”

  “Thanks.” She turned around and lost her dinner into it.

  ~*~

  Parsons brought her a cup of water and managed to reach forward and set it on the corner of the table without actually entering the room. He looked green around the gills himself when she glanced up at him.

  “Can…can I get you anything else?” he asked. “Ma’am?”

  Maggie tucked her hair back behind her ears, wincing when she felt beads of cold sweat at her hairline. “Am I free to go? ‘Cause all I really want is to get out of here.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. You’re free to go. Your husband…”

  “I’ll find him, thanks.” She hooked her purse over her shoulder and fought a wave of dizziness as she stood.

  “Ma’am–”

  “I’m fine.” And if he called her that one more time, like she was old or something, she was going to hit him, cop or not.

  Beyond the precinct’s bullpen, Ghost and Ava sat side-by-side in uncomfortable chairs, dark heads bent together as they talked. Ava had her old man’s habit of sweeping the room before her with cautious dark eyes, taking everything in and giving nothing away. They looked very much like co-conspirators – and like father and daughter.

  Her heart gave a little bump, despite the fear and overwhelming urge to vomit.

  Ghost stood the moment he saw her, gaze asking her a dozen questions. His mouth asked: “You alright, baby?”

  She gave him a tired smile. “Actually, not so much. I’m feeling kind of sick.”

  Concern tugged his brows together. His hand found her hip on instinct. “Why? What’s wrong?” His unspoken declaration of tell me what it is and I’ll kill it! His expression said he thought the pictures had overwhelmed her. Which, they had, in a way…but that wasn’t why she’d felt sick before she got here.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “But maybe Ava can take me home? I don’t think I’m up to the bike right now.”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  She patted his cheek as she passed him, and their family of three filed out the main doors. The cold air was a blessing against her hot cheeks, soothing the most urgent element of the nausea.

  Mercy waited in the parking lot, standing beside his bike, massive arms folded. The sight of him eased the tension inside her another notch. It was always hard to feel vulnerable and shaken when Mercy was on patrol.

  “Take your mother home with you,” Ghost said to Ava, in his President Voice. He looked to Mercy and the men exchanged a nod. “I gotta go back and tell the guys about this.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” Maggie said with a sigh.

  “I know you’re not, baby.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead, which was a smart move considering what her mouth tasted like. “I’ll call before I head that way. You call when you get there.”

  She nodded. “Love you.”

  He knew better than not to say it back. “Love you, too.”

  Walking to the passenger side of Ava’s truck and climbing inside took a lot more effort than normal, her tongue salty and heavy. She hated the idea of the truck actually being in motion, but she had to get out of here.

  “I’ll follow you,” Mercy said through the open driver window, and Ava cranked the engine.

  When it was just the two of them, Maggie said, “We gotta make a stop at the drug store on the way home.”

  “Pepto?” Ava guessed as she put the truck in gear.

  “No. A pregnancy test.”

  ~*~

  The problem, she reflected a half hour later in Ava and Mercy’s guest bathroom, was that they’d both stopped being careful. Condoms had gone out the window back in the very early days, and she’d slowly stopped taking the pill over the last six months. She was forty-one now, and she was starting to worry about the long-term health risks associated. She’d asked Ghost, a few months ago, if he’d ever thought about a vasectomy, and his expression had been so horrified she’d laughed herself into a stomach ache. So careful was something they definitely hadn’t been lately.

  Forty-one.

  Ghost was fifty-two.

  Well, guess what, Daddy. There was another one on the way.

  Maggie stared at the “pregnant” reading on the test window for three solid seconds, then sat down hard on the edge of the bathtub. This was the kid’s bathroom, and it was full of soft loofas and squeaky toys, no-tears shampoo and a stool nestled up to the sink. It had been predominantly green and blue for a while, but there were touches of pink now, here and there, for Millie, though she was too young to appreciate them now. If she was anything like her mother, she wouldn’t ever appreciate them; she’d ask for a pair of Fryes for her eighth birthday and never look back.

  There was a soft rap at the door. “Mom?” Ava called through.

  “Come in.”

  She did, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it.

  It struck Maggie, suddenly, like a physical blow, that Ava was a long, long way past the girl who’d come home from college a few years ago. She was still slender and beautiful. But there was a new sharpness to her eyes…and a new understanding. Motherhood had both honed and softened her, that powerful contradiction of fierce and gentle that a woman found when she realized she loved something so much she’d kill to protect it. She’d always felt that way about Mercy, though – and she had killed for him.

  “What’s it say?” she asked, bouncing a little on her toes.

  Maggie released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “I’m pregnant.”

  Ava didn’t react a moment, absorbing the information and keeping her mask firmly in place. A Teague through and through. Finally, her brows jumped. “You only took the one test.”

  “I’ve been throwing up all week,” Maggie said. “I’m sure of this.”

  Ava nodded. Took a deep breath. “Wow. Okay. Wow. Congrats.” A smile twitched at one corner of her mouth. “Wow.” Then a true smile. “My own brother or sister is going to be younger than my kids.”

  Maggie groaned…but she smiled.

  Ava came to sit beside her.

  “Your father is going to shit a brick.”

  Ava chuckled. “I can already see his face. Oh my God, Mom, you can’t tell him, he’ll literally have a heart attack.”

  “His blood pressure is a little high,” Maggie conceded. Then she glanced over at her daughter. “What do you think – is this more or less stressful than when he first found out you were pregnant?”

  They both burst out laughing.

  ~*~

  The party had taken a definite turn for the somber by the time Ghost returned to Dartmoor
. The music was turned off and the revelers had gathered in clumps around the barrel fires. Their faces danced with leaping shadows, their low murmurs of conversation tinged with worry. As Ghost approached them, he had a distinct sense of timelessness; these could be any men around any fires, in any decade.

  “Maggie alright?” Walsh asked when Ghost was close enough.

  Of all the questions his brothers would ask him tonight, that was the one he could answer with absolute clarity. “Yeah, she’s good. Went back home with Ava and Merc.”

  The boys nodded; they were concerned, but not worried about Mags. She wasn’t the sort of frail female anyone fretted over.

  “What’d the PD want with you?” Michael asked.

  Ghost glanced around those gathered, spotting club girls and old ladies. “We should take it in the chapel.”

  ~*~

  “The implication being that we’d end up like the literal dead dog,” Maggie said as Ava set a glass of Sprite on the table in front of her. “Thanks, baby. Or, at least, one Teague would.”

  “Clever,” Mercy said, rolling his eyes. He folded his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “And clearly, there’s only one Teague that was meant for.”

  Ghost.

  “Clearly,” Maggie echoed. Her stomach rolled and she reached for the Sprite, took a conservative sip.

  “The cops don’t have a lead or else they wouldn’t have talked to you guys,” Ava said.

  Maggie nodded. “They just have one photo of him. Hoodie. Knife. You can’t tell anything about him.”

  “Theories?” Mercy asked.

  “You’d know better than me, honey. You boys have a lot of enemies.”

  And what better way to cripple a club than to take out their president?

  Her hand went to her stomach on impulse, and she took a deep, shaky breath. “Welcome to the world, baby Teague. Someone wants your daddy dead.”