“Her, and about twenty others who just got dinner and a devilish show!” Bub cackled.

“How does she look?”

There was a long pause, during which that fluttering in my chest became urgent, more like a beast trying to claw its way out of me. “Well?” I demanded.

“She looks like she wants to slap you … really badly.” Bub’s teeny mouse voice was filled with glee. “I’d give my soul to see that go down, Boss!”

The clawing feelings eased slightly. She wasn’t upset. She was angry.

Which potentially made my task much more difficult. Unhappiness turned to desperation so much easier than rage. And desperation was something I could work with.

So why did I feel relieved?

I shook my head, turning the corner and ducking into the dingy alley that we had portaled into that morning. I blew out a long breath.

“So, what now, Boss?” Beezle asked, scuttling down my arm and popping out my shirt cuff. “Is she ready to sell her soul?”

I shook my head. “We must follow her. The next few hours may bring her there, but only time will tell.”

Bub’s head appeared at my other wrist. “Hooray! Stalking it is!”

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Stalking it is,” I agreed wearily. They had been a great help to me today; I would let them have this one little win.

* * *

I could no longer deny that we were stalking Jemma Bliss.

We’d followed her back to the markets, observing from the shadows as she packed up her car and hopped into it with the red-haired sausage dog man from the hospital.

We could have lost her then, except for the delightful accident where I’d sniffed her hair. I had her scent now, and the Hounds could track her.

They stopped at a liquor store, and they both got out. He returned with a tall bottle of something the colour of blood. She was lugging a large box decorated with green grapes.

“A tiny thing like her, drinking that much all on her own? I don’t buy it,” Bub growled. “I bet she’s inviting someone over to share it with her.”

My jaw twitched, and I flexed my fingers, willing away the insane urge to do violence.

Finally, they returned to their dwelling. It was a tall, dilapidated-looking red-brick monstrosity. There was a musty blue sofa, the springs exposed on one side, resting haphazardly on the curb outside.

We watched them park on the street and enter through the ugly glass and metal door before we followed. I wrinkled my nose as we passed the sofa. It smelled of human urine and vomit.

Inside, the foyer floor was a mosaic of chipped tiles, and one wooden staircase led upwards. Beezle sniffed.

“Third floor,” he barked, and we ascended the creaky stairs.

The third-floor hallway was shadowy, only one measly electric globe illuminating the yellowing walls and the threadbare carpet.