I fly from the tree and away from Anora’s house. The hound follows, howling and slinging slobber as it chases me down the road. Once I’ve left the last house behind me and am surrounded by trees, I shift into my hybrid form and land on the ground, widening my stance. The hound halts before me. His back looks bent, and his hips are narrow, as if he’s been run over.

“You’re an ugly bastard.”

The hound howls, blowing sticky, rotting breath in my face. I choke on the stench and unsheathe the blades on my back. “That”—I jump into the air and come down on top of the hellhound—“was rude.”

My blade sinks easily into the demonic dog, and the howl that escapes the creature’s mouth is more like the whistle of a freight train. He starts to move and shake his head vigorously, trying to throw me off and get the blades out. I pull my knives free and jump off, landing in the middle of the road. The hound tries to run, stumbles, and falls, finally halting some distance from me, dead.

I let out a breath, relieved the creature wasn’t harder to destroy, but then something inside it starts to move. A sick feeling settles in my stomach as the body of the hound explodes and several smaller but equally terrifying hounds emerge. There are five in total. They all turn and growl at me, baring razor-sharp teeth.

“Dammit.”

I’m pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.

The hounds attack all at once. I slash at the creature closest to me and then jump into the air, hovering over the others as they snap at me. I land behind them and strike, charging at the pack. I manage to hit the hound on my left and the one in front of me with my blades, but the third grabs my right arm, his teeth sinking deep into my skin. The pain is cruel. I drop the blade and rip my arm away, jamming my second blade through the dog’s eye. It yelps but only springs back into formation with the other four, unharmed hounds.

This is not how I was taught to defeat a hellhound. In practice, we are made to fight holograms, which are programmed to act just like the real thing. Hellhounds are all but indestructible unless you skewer their brain, or so I thought.

They crouch low and bare their teeth, growling in unison and collectively smelling like a pit of dead bodies.

Sometimes my job is the worst.

I tighten my grip on my blade and pull a small scythe-like weapon from the holster on my thigh, wincing at the shot of pain that bolts up my arm. The hounds inch toward me. I mimic their stance, bending my legs, preparing to jump before they attack.