Page 20 of Hellbound

Greg had taught her how to drown and survive it. He’d imparted his firsthand knowledge of Hell to her, used his own personal tragedy to keep Marian from repeating history. Years ago, he’d watched the Remnant subsume his partner—the only diver to have witnessed such a thing. Greg said he’d have met the same fate had luck not been on his side; his spotter revived him just before the Remnant could consume him, too. But today Marian struggled to muster gratitude for her former mentor’s experience and “wisdom.”

“I turned it down,” she lied.

All the pleasure drained from Greg’s face. He took a menacing step forward.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Marian shrugged. “I didn’t like the terms.”

“Didn’t like the terms?” Greg reared back with a hideous laugh. “This from the idiot who told Stellan Blacke, the Butcher of Bel Air, he could scoop her eye out with a fucking spoon if she came back from Hell empty-handed. And then you came back from Hell empty-handed.”

Greg’s face flushed red as he damn near shouted. Marian spotted a few curious passersby walking across the parking lot. The last thing she needed was an audience. Especially not a normie one. To the world at large, demons didn’t exist, and Marian wasn’t about to be the one to convince them otherwise.

She gritted her teeth. “Keep your voice down.”

“You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met. The one time I try to call in a favor, you fuck it up.”

“Your chief import is favors. Look, I tried, but I’m not exactly operating at one-hundred percent efficiency here. Whatever the Remnant did to me—”

Greg groaned. “You have got to drop the ‘I escaped the Remnant’ shit. It’s freaking people out.”

Marian’s brows furrowed. “You said you believed me.”

“Because that’s what you’re supposed to tell people when they act insane!” Greg shouted.

Quiet fury swelled inside her. “Well, I think I’ll break into Sea World and throw myself at their angriest whale before I dive with you again.”

Marian snatched her grocery bag off the table, ripping a hole through the paper in her haste. Greg lunged in front of her.

“Y’know, I liked you better when you were sad all the time. This cunty attitude of yours isn’t working for me.”

“Then go find someone else to look out for,” Marian ground out as she clutched her bag tighter.

“You wanna fly solo? Fine. Be my guest. I had a new spotter sourced for us and everything. I’m not going to be there to catch you when you fall this time.”

“Catch me?” Marian laughed. “Like you caught your old pal Arthur?”

His face contorted with rage. She tried to run, but Greg grabbed her wrist and pulled so hard that her elbow audibly popped. Marian yelped as he whirled her around to face him.

To anyone on the sidewalk, the two of them probably looked like a couple locked in an embrace. But they couldn’t see how Greg’s fingers bruised the skin above Marian’s scar.

“You watch your fucking mouth,” he hissed in her ear, his hold on her punishing. “Or I might change my mind about our little deal.”

The understandings between them were few and simple: Marian didn’t mention Arthur Falk, the partner Greg lost to the Remnant, and Greg wouldn’t talk about Marian’s first death.

After another brutal squeeze, he let her go.

Marian flinched, instinct screaming at her to prepare for him to strike her. But Greg only shoved past her, clocking her shoulder as he skulked out to the parking lot. She gripped her bag tightly and scampered homeward in the opposite direction. Adrenaline simmered in her blood and eroded the edges of her vision; she missed her first turn as she clung to a single bitter, shaky thought like a shield.

You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.

The cold, long walk back home swiftly whittled down her temper. By the time she’d reached the last flight of stairs to her apartment, her legs were gelatin, her stamina gone. She nearly tripped and dropped her groceries side-stepping her neighbor’s cross-eyed orange tabby sitting on the landing’s edge.

“Beat it, Jeff. Nothing in this bag is for you,” Marian grumbled at the cat. She used to leave out bits of deli meat for him back when she could afford to. He’d never forgiven her for ending that ritual.

Jeff gave a creaky meow. His tail swished irritably.

“Yeah, well, stop puking on my doorstep and then we’ll talk.” She shoved the key in the deadbolt, stepped over the fresh hairball at her feet, and slipped inside. Once she’d deposited her bags on top of the nearest milk crate tower, she plopped down on the sagging futon.