Page 25 of Hellbound

Marian preferred silence in most scenarios, but Paul spoke like he was afraid of it. The bartender rarely dominated a conversation, but he’d toss out an anecdote at the first sign of a lull. Over the past year and a half, and against her will, she’d learned that Paul drove a motorcycle, surfed badly, was at least thirty years old, visited his cousins in Seoul every summer, and was a Schwarzenegger movie buff—Conan the Barbarian was the best, apparently. The man was a lover of many things about which Marian knew jack and shit.

Why Marian remembered any of that was beyond her. Paul was the only normal human in her orbit, though she could hardly call him a “friend.” Marian didn’t have friends, and that was by choice.

Now she could check her DMs in peace. She’d put out a call out for another diver and spotter, someone who wasn’t Greg, to come with her on the second hunt for Mr. Vale’s key. Nothing but crickets.

She wasn’t sure what she expected, especially after Greg confirmed what she’d feared all along.

No one wanted to go near the diver who claimed to have survived the Remnant. Especially not a diver whose spotter had died mysteriously.

When she decided no one was going to rob a dive bar in broad daylight, Marian ducked into the bathroom to relieve herself. She stood in front of the sink with her hands under the faucet long after she’d finished washing the soap away. Against her better judgment, she locked eyes with her reflection in the mirror.

The brim of her black cap cast a shadow over her face that exaggerated the deep purple bruises under her slate-gray eyes. Once upon a time, she’d had full cheeks and a second chin. Now the gaunt mess staring back at her was months away from turning thirty and looked like she’d spent every one of those years fighting for her life. The faded dye job and empty piercings in her earlobes were all that remained of her attempts to be someone she could stand to look at—someone she wanted to live for. The bottles of blonde hadn’t transformed her into someone else, and they were expensive, so she stopped trying.

Marian slammed the faucet off, pried a few tampons out of the rusty wall-mounted dispenser, and walked back to her stool. Kansas wailed through the speakers. Paul hadn’t returned from the kitchen yet, so she brought out her phone again and pulled up the tabs she’d saved.

Articles about Verinne’s exploits over the years. Old forum posts from divers who’d worked with the demon in the past. The Instagram account for Verinne’s lifestyle company, NuSense, and its crystal-focused, anti-aging retreat in Malibu.

Maybe the demon had figured out a legit business model to fund her anti-Vale pursuits. But Marian hadn’t actually seen any money—just an expensive outfit. Growing up with a stepfather who lived large regardless of whether his bank account could support it had taught her that just because someone looked wealthy, it didn’t mean they were.

A sheet of icy dread settled over her as the thought of Daniel Eaves threatened to summon a pack of unwelcome memories.

“What are you drinking?”

The cheerful voice startled Marian from her thoughts. She spun in her seat so abruptly, she accidentally elbowed her whiskey soda off the bar.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Marian barked as cold liquid drenched her lap. She looked to her left to find a young woman with deep brown skin and voluminous curls staring aghast at the intact glass on the floor.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” said the woman as she practically threw herself across the counter reaching for the empty napkin dispenser. “I’m such an idiot. Here, let me—” The woman frowned. “Where are the napkins?”

“I haven’t seen a napkin in this place for months.” Marian squinted at the stranger. Her thoughts stumbled over each other as she realized she was looking at the cutest girl she’d ever seen.

Early twenties at most, and pretty in an elfin way with large, warm brown eyes, arched brows, and full lips. She was shorter than Marian, though most women were, and wore a goldenrod sweater cropped at her midsection. High-waisted burgundy pants hugged the ample swell of her hips. Her makeup was flawless, her eyes accented by a masterful application of shimmery white shadow. A halo of springy black natural curls framed her face and bounced softly as she looked around.

Marian’s mouth went dry as butterflies fluttered in her belly. The feeling caught her off guard and fizzled out swiftly as her paranoia roared back to life, dampening her attraction to the stranger. The ghost of her mother’s voice nearly extinguished it entirely.

“That’s a sin, Marian. Your father and I won’t stand for it.”

“Well, whatever you were drinking, I’ll buy you another. As soon as the bartender comes out of whatever wormhole they slipped into,” the stranger said as she looked over Marian’s shoulder.

The woman exuded an easy-going sort of vibe that Marian found oddly magnetic, which could only mean one thing. She was Hell-touched in some way.

The realization had Marian pulling her mental walls up. She climbed back onto her stool and lied. “Blanton’s, neat.”

The stranger gave her a look that Marian interpreted as “why the fuck are you drinking whiskey at two in the afternoon?” But it was fleeting and followed by a thin smile. “Sure thing. So I—”

“Are you lost or what?” Marian said as she plucked her phone out of a shallow puddle of whiskey. “Beat it” was her conditioned response to unsolicited conversation, but the little dimples in the stranger’s cheeks almost made her ignore the reflex to shoo her away. She also really wanted another whiskey.

The woman’s eyebrows lofted as she unslung a leather backpack and set it on the counter. She climbed up on the stool beside Marian. “Can I sit here?”

Marian stared at her. “You just did.”

The stranger gave Marian an incredulous look. “You must be really fun at parties. I’m Tori, and I think you’re Marian?”

Marian sat up straighter. “How the fuck would you know?”

Tori arched a penciled brow. “Because you look like your avatar on the Welcome to Hell forums.”

“Oh.”