“She does not,” I managed. Something else was lurching in my middle area at the thought of Jemma Bliss’s face when she discovered who had ‘popped in’ for a visit.

“Oh, you’re surprising her? That’s such a romantic gesture! What’s your name again?”

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

No human had ever asked my name before. Not even Jemma Bliss. But I suppose my only interaction with her before I revealed my true nature had not been the type where we would casually exchange names and pleasantries.

“No … you didn’t,” she remarked, then stuck her hand out to me. “I’m Sally. It’s lovely to meet you …?”

I stared at her hand. What was she doing? Did she … want me to shake her hand?

My chest constricted at the thought, sweat prickling at the back of my neck.

“You’re getting very slippery back here, Boss,” Beezle grumbled.

“My name is …” I mumbled, wracking my brain for a name … any name that would pass for a human one. “I’m …”

“Simeon,” Bub’s tiny voice whispered behind my earlobe.

“Simeon,” I repeated dutifully.

The Hounds’ claws dug into me. I could picture them throwing back their heads and cackling little rodent cackles.

Simeon … Simeon?

Where the bloody home had they picked that name up from?

Sally looked down at her proffered hand and then up at me, confusion on her face. Thankfully the box halted, and the silver doors slid apart, distracting her from my refusal to engage. Was this hand business considered a normal human greeting? Because in Hell, it meant something very different.

“I’ll just sign you in, get you a visitor pass, and we can go surprise her!” she giggled, trotting out of the box. “Oooh, I can’t wait to see Jemma’s face when you walk in!”

“Neither can I,” I muttered, my chest getting tight as I followed her.

11. Date Faking

Chapter 11

Date Faking

Jemma

“That’s the way! Take it out on the canvas.”

My voice was almost sickeningly upbeat as I rubbed Ellie’s back. She flicked the paintbrush again, sending a violent splatter of red across the canvas.

Ellie, her mouth tight and her face far too pale, flicked again and again and again. Blotches of black and red and orange slowly filled the giant canvas. She stopped, reaching under her palm print turban to scratch at her scalp.

I swallowed heavily. She was doing it to surreptitiously wipe away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

I hated when they got bad news. But at least I could help her get those angry, hurting, scared feelings out.

Faith and Harper were using their canvases in more traditional ways. Faith was painting something vaguely pop-art, with loads of pink.

“I’m loving the colours, Faith, that’s quite the aesthetic!”