Avian Alexander pushed his motorcycle up to the entrance of Pete’s Salvage Yard and put the kickstand down, taking in the heavily padlocked gates that stood before him. The radiator hose on his bike had been patched one time too many, and today was the day it gave up the ghost.
The day the damned junkyard was closed.
He was considering breaking in when his cell phone rang. “Father Montgomery?”
“Ah, I’m glad I could reach you.”
Avian smiled. “Finally decided to get a cell phone and join the—what century are we in now?”
“Twenty-first. And no, I fear I have not fully embraced technology yet. I’m using the phone at the rectory. Are you on your way home?”
“I’m going to be later than expected. A part blew on my bike.”
“Are you all right?” Father Montgomery asked. Then he chuckled. “What am I thinking? Of course you are. But this bike of yours, it’s older than I am. When are you going to replace it?”
Avian glanced down at the motorcycle. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to just go and buy a brand-new Harley. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford to. He just didn’t want to.
“You know I like my toys old and with a little dirt on them. Like me.”
“My boy, you may be indestructible, but the humans sharing the road with you aren’t.” The years of familiarity that spanned between them was evident in the gentle chiding.
Father Montgomery was the only one who got away with that.
“You worry too much.”
“You’re probably right. But just the same, I’ll leave the outside light on for you. Let me know when you get in.”
“I will.”
“Hey, we’re closed,” a man on the other side of the gates called. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Avian pocketed his phone and looked up. The man’s blue work shirt had the name PETE embroidered on it. Before Avian could respond, Pete’s eyes opened wide. “Holy shit. Is that a Vincent Black Lightning? I’ve never seen one in person before.”
“Vintage 1948. Only thirty were ever made.” Avian leaned against the bike and crossed his arms. “So, what was that you said about being closed?”
Pete unlocked the gate. “Nothin’. We’re open now.”
~ ~ ~
As Avian checked the new radiator hose he and Pete had just put on, something from the far side of the junkyard caught his attention. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The large black animal came straight to him.
“Nice dog,” Avian said.
Pete’s face grew nervous.
Anyone else looking at the beast would see something that resembled a cross between a rottweiler and a pit bull. Broad shoulders, massive paws, and oddly colored eyes. There was nothing on the surface to reveal its true nature. But Avian saw what was behind the veil.
Steam rising from its fur. The scent of sulfur on its breath. And eyes that burned hellfire. One bite from this animal, and you would not be long for this world.
Pete’s Salvage Yard was being guarded by a hellhound.
“Is this land consecrated?” Avian asked. Hellhounds only protected sacred ground.
Pete glanced around and then nodded. “Used to be an old German church back in the fifties. Sat right over there.” He pointed off to the left. “The congregation grew old, and they all passed on. Their heirs sold it to my pops, and he bulldozed everything. With their permission, of course.” Pete crossed himself, and Avian fought back an automatic response to recoil at the gesture. “The graveyard is on the other side of the lot. I don’t put any cars over there unless it gets really full and I have to.”
The hellhound came closer and pushed his head into Avian’s outstretched hand, causing dark curls of steam to weave through his fingers. Wrapping around them like smoke-laden tattoos. The scars on Avian’s back burned in response, and the dog whined.
“I know, boy,” he said softly. “Sometimes I miss it too.”
Pete looked on in awe. “He never lets anyone touch him. I just inherited him along with the junkyard when my pops died. Doesn’t even have a name.”
Avian gestured for the dog to return to his post. Slinging one leg over his bike, he started the engine. “I can relate. Everyone I know just calls me Thirteen.”