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They tell him he is a good dog, and he knows that it is true (and it is not true, it was never true). But what his master says is true, and his master says he is a good dog.
Now, though, his master is gone. He can feel the world and his master is not there.
His master's sire (who is his sire and is not his sire and always and never was) is angry and frightened; his master's dam (who is his master's dam and never was his master's dam) is scared and distraught.
He can smell their fear and they keep telling him he's a good boy while they hold him back--he could go, he could track him across every plane. But they keep him from going to his master's side.
He could melt their bones. He could growl once and drown them in fire. But he doesn't, because his master has forbidden it, and his master has told him he's a good boy.
The red one comes, with her hands that slip him treats and her heart that took on War itself. She is angry and she is frightened and being frightened makes her angry. He leaps to her.
"Good boy," she tells him, and strokes him absently. She has tears on her face and he licks them, wanting to clean the sadness from her.
The tears taste of salt and they taste of sweat, they taste of humanity and sadness and Hell, they taste of Hell, why do her tears taste like Hell?
He is not very good with human words. He understands what his master says, because his master says what is, but he has to concentrate for human words. He concentrates now, trying to lick all the residue of Hell from the girl like fire.
Taken, he hears, and shadows. A pale Man with white hair and night black eyes. A suspicious fire, and a rain of befuddled frogs.
He licks her again, she doesn't bother to push him away as he cleans her face, nuzzles under her arm, covers her with his own smell to replace the smell of Hell. He will not leave until he has done so, because she is his master's friend, she is his friend, and Hell cannot have her.
She holds him tight and whispers to him, “Can you find him?” and he is off like a shot, wriggling free and dashing away. He ignores the cries of Bad Dog! behind him as he runs - - they don't know, they don't know what he knows, and he is about to be the Best Dog Ever.
The bigger demons, the Fallen ones, they think they are special. Sometimes they need specific Gates to get to Hell. But he was made to be unleashed whenever and wherever his master commanded, and so when he has left his master's family behind he shakes himself and appears in Hell.
A demon sees him arrive, and laughs. He remembers that he is smaller than he used to be, and that he has learned more things. He has chased rats and he has very nearly gotten the huge ginger cat next door on the ropes several times now. But nothing in the world above would ever be able to burn all of Hell from him, and he launches himself at the demon's throat and moves on.
The next demon does not laugh.
His master is not far. If he cocks his head, perhaps sharpens his ears just a bit, he can hear him. His master's voice.
He runs. The mazes of Hell are made to annoy demons, to confuse lost souls. But he knows where he is going now.
It's a group of demons that appear, this time, and they aren't laughing either. This group is coming toward him, holding weapons upraised.
He growls, and shifts. The group of demons that had been aiming for a small Dog now have their hands full of determined Hellhound, the strongest Hell had to offer.
They barely slow him down.
It's louder now, his master's voice. Clearer. He has settled into a loping run that eats up the rings of Hell. No one can catch him, not if he doesn’t want them to.
“I zzaid, be quiet, boy,” he hears up ahead, in a voice that sounds like the beehive in the orchard. “Hazztur, you were told to not interfere.”
“He was unguarded, Lord. Surely Lucifer would like him back?”
He knows that voice--the pale one with eyes like night that used to poke him in his cage, used to make games of feeding other demons to him. That poked him and poked him, always staying out of tooth range.
He has finally reached the door. His master sees him, and smiles. “I’m going home now,” his master says.
And he springs.
One figure disappears--the beehive voice goes quiet, an absence in the air. For one second everything is silent.
Then the Duke begins to scream.
He cuts that off with a clench of his jaw and a good proper shake. Just the way a good dog should take care of a rat.
Something touches his head. He flinches, growling, then relaxes and drops the motionless Duke. It is only his master's touch, after all, and he is immediately back in the beloved form that had been chosen for him.
“Good boy,” whispers his master, wrapping him in a hug. He shakes once, and all the signs of the demons he had taken down vanish. He rubs his face on his master's shoulder, leaving a trail of drool and hair; he licks his master’s face to start to remove the scent of Hell.
“Good dog,” Adam says again, laughing. “You're the best dog. Let's go home.”