Page 10 of Hellbound

No, I don’t think it gets any dumber than this.

And what about Greg? Should she have asked for more cash to cover what she owed him?

Fuck Greg.

With a shallow breath, she placed her ashen hand in the demon’s and tried not to flinch when his long, elegant fingers enveloped hers. “Deal.”

Mr. Vale’s face split into a pleased smile. Marian found herself unable to meet his gaze and looked down at his polished black Oxfords instead as slithering darkness erupted from him in her periphery—darkness that was uniquely his and had been since the moment they first met in this very office. Darkness so unlike the squirming pitch of the Remnant or the transient creatures in her apartment. Vale’s shadows moved like the smoothest, blackest smoke. Graceful, eerily beautiful, and deeply unsettling.

A heavy silence settled over them as the reality of what Marian had agreed to slammed into her. The deal took shape quickly, writhing between her fingers before coiling up her arm like a serpent. The shadows only existed for the few seconds it took for the bargain to manifest. A newly minted weight lashed to Marian’s soul. Static crackled and faded in her mind, there and gone in an instant. Everything went momentarily fuzzy while echoes of chaos faded into the distance, and a new sensation emerged. An odd pressure behind her that vanished as swiftly as it appeared.

She was vaguely aware that Mr. Vale had walked away, leaving Marian swaying and mute in the middle of his office as the shock of the binding waned. She heard a bottle opening, followed by rattling ice. Then he stood in front of her again holding two tumblers: one filled with amber, the other tonic.

He offered the bubbling one to Marian, his expression guarded. “How is it that you’ve lost so much weight so quickly?”

Marian snatched her hand back, the concern in his voice catching her off guard. She balked before she remembered to bristle. “That’s rude and none of your business.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as his tone sharpened. “And what of the second unfulfilled bargain you didn’t disclose to me? The blood wager that I now feel like slime between my fingers?”

“Also none of your business. There’s no rule that says divers can’t work two deals at once. Go wash your hands or something.”

In fact, there were virtually no rules in the Hell-diving business. But the hard set of Mr. Vale’s jaw implied he disliked the notion regardless, and she’d concede that she didn’t enjoy the weight of multiple concurrent bargains. Demons were solitary at best, and at worst, bitter rivals without a means to kill each other; their immortality was so absolute, Marian had read that they didn’t even bleed. So, she’d come up with her own rules: don’t drink with demons, don’t tell demons where you live, and don’t talk to demons about other demons.

She prepared to deflect questions about her deal with Stellan, but to her surprise and relief, Mr. Vale looked out the window instead.

“Well then,” he drawled as he raised his whiskey to his lips. “Since you seem to have a flair for danger, why don’t we indulge in an ocean drowning? Perhaps we could bleed you a bit, go down to the pier, get a few sharks involved.”

“Perhaps you could go fuck yourself.” Suddenly parched, Marian tossed the tonic back in a single gulp. Her eyes watered as the carbonation seared her nostrils. “You don’t even remember the shitstorm you’re about to send me into.”

And I’m going there for a fucking key that may or may not exist.

“No. I suppose I don’t.” Mr. Vale was silent for a spell. Then he sipped his drink. “But I promise you’re safe with me, Meyer.”

“I wish I believed you.” Marian eyed the amber liquid swirling in his tumbler and decided she was going to need one of those tomorrow. If she lived to see tomorrow. It all reeked of madness, but Marian was in too deep to turn back now. Without thinking, she reached out a trembling hand to clink her empty glass far too hard against the full one he held to his chest.

“Well, cheers or whatever,” Marian grumbled. “As usual, you get what you want.”

Mr. Vale escorted her to the vacant 30th floor, which thrummed with a haunting silence that filled Marian with dread as soon as they stepped out of the elevator to the rec center. The only sources of light were the city skyline out the massive windows of the far wall, and the pink and blue of the pool’s recessed lights. The room was downright balmy, but Marian hadn’t stopped shaking since she’d sealed their deal.

She tried to focus on the process: the journey to Hell could only be made through conventional death. The longer Marian remained dead, the more time she’d have to search Hell for the key Mr. Vale assured her existed there. Marian couldn’t remain dead for too long; the body she left behind had to be able to live again for her to return. Brain death and irreparable wounds spelled game over for divers the same as they did for all mortals. There was no magic in this process, at least not that Marian knew, though she’d be the first to admit it was uncanny how many times she’d died and returned without permanent brain damage.

The body and mind weren’t meant to die more than once. Most divers used narcotics to both send themselves to Hell and cope with their experiences, but Marian hadn’t been able to touch the stuff since the overdose last year she’d never intended to survive. That was before she learned what awaited her after death.

She told Mr. Vale to wait three minutes after her heart stopped before beginning chest compressions. Once dead, she’d have to make every second in Hell count. Marian never knew how long she’d have. Minutes of death on Earth might give her hours in Hell, sometimes longer.

Some part of her still feared that Mr. Vale intended to kill her permanently, that this was all a cruel trick she hadn’t fully puzzled out yet. But what did he stand to gain from killing her? It made no sense, yet it still took her three clumsy tries to tug her jacket zipper down past her clavicle.

Whatever she wore in death came with her to Hell, though she usually brought a change of clothes, so she’d have something dry to wear home. But she’d set off for this meeting unprepared to die.

When Marian found she could no longer bear the weight of Mr. Vale’s stare, she craned her head around to find him standing several feet beside her, exuding smug confidence that made Marian want to scream.

“What is that you have there?” He said as he pointed at the layers of blue fabric wrapped around her left wrist. “Another fashion statement?”

Marian stiffened. She forced the memory of driving that knife into her own skin down, down, down.

“That,” Marian replied, tightening the band’s knot. “Is a good luck charm, and it stays on.”

But Mr. Vale stared at the scrunched blue fabric anyway while Marian tore off her ball cap and tossed it to the floor, exposing a faded blond dye job and inch after inch of dark brown roots that she used like tree rings to count the months since she’d given up maintaining it. She gathered it into a tighter bun as she’d resolved to jump in the water without a plan when she noticed that Mr. Vale’s gaze had wandered. It took Marian too many seconds to realize he was staring at her breasts. She was about to chew him out when she remembered the shirt she’d put on today.