Lysander Tennison owned the tattoo studio down the street, and almost everyone in town had been inked by him at one point or another. He came into the bakery on occasion, and Sammy bumped into him around town sometimes.
The incubus had always been affable enough, and everyone in the community seemed to like him, including Sammy. They weren’t close, though. Certainly not close enough for him to ask for a favor.
But he could hire him. The money he’d squirreled away in his savings account had been meant for renovations on his cabin, but nothing in his home needed urgent repairs.
Besides, unless he found his mother soon, he might not be around to enjoy the upgrades anyway.
Chapter two
"Um, hello? I’m looking for Dominic Rivas. My name is Sammy Leeds, and I live in Hunters Hollow, Louisiana. I got your number from Lysander Tennison, and he said you might be able to help me. I don’t want to say too much over the phone, but I’d appreciate it if you could call me back. My number is…”
Shrouded in shadows, Dominic Rivas stood across the street from the Cherry on Top Bakery, replaying the voice messages for the third time in as many days. Given the lack of details, it wasn’t a request he would typically entertain, but something about the quiet desperation in the voice had grabbed him and wouldn’t let go.
Sammy Leeds also came with references.
It had been years since he’d been in contact with Lysander Tennison, but he liked the demon well enough. Not a friend, but they had shared a mutually beneficial business arrangement for nearly a decade.
More importantly, he knew Tenn wouldn’t waste his time. If he deemed the situation worth his attention, Dominic figured there must be some merit to the request.
He had considered reaching out for more details, but frankly, it wouldn’t have changed anything. No matter what information Tenn provided, he would have ended up in Hunters Hollow regardless.
People embellished. They misrepresented the facts. They outright lied.
Dominic hadn’t made it to where he was by taking others at their word.
Selecting the next voicemail, he lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hi, this is Sammy Leeds again. I’m sorry to bother you, but I don’t know what else to do. I’d rather not go to the Ministry, and Tenn said he can’t help me. I can pay you, of course, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“What have you gotten yourself into?” he muttered under his breath.
Clearing the screen, he slid his phone into the front pocket of his jeans and turned his attention to the bakery windows, to the male behind the counter. He couldn’t make out many details through the fogged glass beyond a petite frame and a head of blond hair.
Still, he watched.
A brisk wind swept down the street, unseasonably cold for southern Louisiana, and carrying the familiar scents of the bayou—stagnant water, aged cypress, and damp fur. All completely overshadowed by the smell of the town itself.
The stench of discarded and rotting food wafted from the back of the diner. The veterinary clinic down the street that catered to “exotic” animals reeked of antiseptic and anxiety.
Wilted flowers and overripe fruit at the grocer. Ink and rubbing alcohol at the tattoo studio. Pomades and blade oil from the local barbershop.
It was fucking overwhelming and reminded him why he chose to live four miles from his nearest neighbor.
But at least it was relatively quiet.
Despite both the bakery and the local diner being filled with customers, he detected only brief, clipped exchanges rather than the steady drone of conversation. Instead, the night was filled with all the usual suspects.
An owl hooted from a nearby tree. A bobcat yowled from somewhere deep inside the forest.
And the rhythm of smooth jazz floated to him from the hotel in the distance.
Perched atop the hill and lit up like a runway, the Greek Revival mansion shined like a beacon in the darkness. Pearly white with towering columns and spacious balconies secured by ornate iron railings, it was a stunning piece of architecture, which only made it look more out of place.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, Dominic sighed.
The last time he had been in Hunters Hollow, the town had been little more than a bog with a handful of rudimentary cabins. No streets or sidewalks. No electricity or indoor plumbing.
It damn sure hadn’t boasted an artisanal bakery or a luxury hotel.