Brought to Heel

Eager to please, the Handler says, passing over the Hound’s proverbial leash with a smirk. Go on, try him out. He does tricks.

The Hound simmers silently next to the table. He hasn’t been invited to sit, and so he doesn’t. He stands instead, hands clasped behind his back to hide the way his knuckles whiten whenever his Handler opens her mouth. She’s been running it all evening, talking herself up, putting down her rivals, and bragging, as she so often does, about her Hound.

Sitting across the table from her is the most powerful man this side of the state line. The Boss has no hounds of his own, but no one could meet those ghastly pale eyes and come away with the notion that he feels intimidated by the Handler’s attaché. Interested, perhaps, in the manner of a general inspecting a new weapon schematic.

An apothegm: The king of a great nation spares little attention for the nobles squabbling for power beneath him. Far more heed is paid to the men who follow the courtiers: how many swords, how strong the arms. For when the squabbling turns to violence—as it inevitably will—the one who fields the greatest army will wear the crown.

The Boss sends a cursory glance over the Handler’s phone, at the leash that keeps her Hound from tearing out her throat. Does he know ‘speak’?

The Handler sends her Hound a subtle nod, so he drags on his best mask of civility. Sure, he says. But you won’t like what comes outta my mouth.

The words earn him a glare from the Handler. Her anger is conjured armor against a flicker of genuine fear. As she prepares her reprimand, she is interrupted by a soft noise from across the table. It’s not a laugh, nothing so uncouth, but it draws attention to the glimmer of amusement in a pair of pale eyes. The Boss sits forward to rest his forearms on the table, and the Handler falls quiet.

I happen to be in the market for someone unafraid to speak his mind. The Boss’s gaze rests heavily on the Hound.

The Handler makes a noise somewhere between a squawk and a cough. He’s— Frankly, he’s indispensable to me—

Pale eyes twitch like cracking ice.

—but perhaps arrangements could be made, the Handler concludes graciously. She is all too aware of the line she walks, thin and uncertain, a balancing act to rival the most occult of her ledgers.

Meanwhile, the Hound’s nostrils flare. He’s a long way past indignation. Perhaps he smells blood.

Watching them both, the Boss adjusts his mask to let slip the smallest flicker of satisfaction. He returns to his food, the very best the restaurant could offer on such short notice. The Handler follows his motions for a long moment before judging it safe to indulge herself. A bite of lamb makes it halfway to her mouth.

I find ‘indispensable’ is a matter of perspective, the Boss observes, as quiet as the pause between lightning and thunder.

A tiny falter from across the table. Meanwhile, the Hound’s lips crook upward at one corner. Clearly, he is enjoying the game and by now can guess the winning side.

The Boss measures his expression before fixing his gaze blatantly on the Handler. In that moment, his gaze is not ice, but white fire, scorching away any trace of cover. Daring the Handler to interrupt, he picks up the phone still glowing on the table between them.

The Handler is not stupid enough to knock his hand aside. She watches the motion with rabbit-wide eyes.

An apothegm: To a dragon, no theft is too small to go unnoticed—or unpunished.

A chair shrieks against flooring as the Handler stands too fast. Her eyes skitter towards the Hound, and an order leaves her lips. The Hound glances at the Boss’s hand on his leash, then back to the Handler. He brushes an invisible speck of dust from his lapel.

After weighing the odds, the Handler finds flight the least costly. For all her skill juggling numbers, this is one equation she fails to balance.

Pale eyes regard the Hound with simple expectation. Well? Fetch.

The Hound grins, and does.

Once business is taken care of, the Boss invites the Hound to sit and order. The remains of the Handler’s meal are quietly cleared away.

You’re fast, the Boss says while the Hound digs into the best steak he’s ever had. I enjoy things that surprise me with their usefulness. Tell me, were your former employer’s boasts true?

About me, yeah, the Hound answers easily. Can’t say for sure on the accounts; she never let me see ‘em.

Mm. The Boss sips his wine. He toys with the leash, flicking through the documents again. And is this the only copy of the material she kept over you?

A painful nod serves in response. The Hound has long since noticed that they’re alone in this room, that the phone is loosely held. The temptation is so plain it’s almost a taunt. But the Hound is quite fast...

An apothegm: Proper hunting dogs, though never shy, remain aware of the mysterious power their master possesses. A deer or a dog; it matters little to a gun.

With a deep breath, the Hound tears his gaze away and kills another future. Head down but never bowed; that’s the way. He eats another bite of excellent steak.

The Boss watches all this transpire, and something in his cool, unflinching demeanor softens, appeased. I see, he murmurs, as though the Hound had spoken his thoughts aloud. Then, with an effortlessly casual motion, he lets the phone fall into the water pitcher.

The Hound’s silverware clatters on his plate as the screen displaying the documents flickers, glitches, and goes dark. The Boss looks on with little more than curiosity as the Hound struggles through the revelation happening before his eyes. There must always be a hand on the leash, he knows this. Yet here he sits: alive, awake, uncollared.

Why?

Plainly, he still expects the offered hand to become a fist. The Boss allows a corner of the mask to fall, and for the first time this evening, he smiles. It makes him appear both younger and wiser, lending a crystalline beauty to those pale eyes.

Hungry dogs, he says, inclining his head, are never loyal.