Page 46 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

A glance over my shoulder shows Denim emerging through the entrance. I duck lower, hoping his gaze will miss me. From the sudden uproar, I can tell he isn’t being half as tactful as I am about who he’s shoving aside. Groans and complaints rise around me. When I look again, Denim is caught behind a wall of two men, or…something like that. They’re even taller than he is, and mangy tails whip back and forth through the air.

“Ah!” I yelp, slamming into a body. Hands right me before I can fall and bright green eyes with a slit through the center cut through the darkness.

“You alright, hon?” one of the dancers asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’ve heard they’re around tonight.”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just, uh, kind of in a hurry, and—” I look back toward where Denim is pushing past the two bouncers.

“Is that hound bothering you?”

“You could say that.”

“I can sneak you out the back.” She grabs my hand. Her skin is cool and has a strange texture I can’t pin. She pulls me through the crowd, only stopping to beckon two other dancers over.

“See that hound back there in the jean jacket?” She smirks. “Go give him a little love.”

Wicked grins transform their lips and they snake toward him. When we finally reach the flap at the back of the impossibly large tent, I glance back to see the women draped over Denim, who sits on a velvet chaise, expression half murderous and half tempted. As one of the women leans down to kiss him, the latter wins as he pulls her onto his lap.

“Like a bitch in heat.” The woman still gripping my hand cackles. “I’m Shonda, by the way.”

“I’m Brie,” I say as we step out of the tent and into an alley that’s even quieter than the last. “Thanks, you saved my ass.”

“Don’t mention it. Hating the hounds is what ties us all together. Fuck those devil mutt boys.”

“Hounds?”

“Hell hounds,” Shonda explains. “One part minor demon, one part bloodhound, which is where they get their tracking skills, hence the surplus of body hair.”

“I just assumed they were Greek or Italian.”

Shonda’s laugh hacks the air. “They might also be part mortal. But trust that they’re pure-blooded horn suckers. I’ll leave it up to your imagination which horn they’re slurping on.” She winks at me. “You new here? Struck a deal with someone you shouldn’t?”

“Something like that.”

She nods in understanding as a flash of lightning makes her eyes glow. It illuminates the faint lines across her skin. No, not skin—scales. Snake-like.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but if that one in there has got your scent, you’re shit out of luck. He’ll stop at nothing to bring you back to the big guy.”

“Is it too much to hope I’ll keep conveniently running into beautiful, kind women like yourself to save me?” I joke weakly. Denim having my scent makes disgust curl through my stomach.

Her painted red lips stretch in a Cheshire cat grin. She tosses her hip-length braids over her shoulder, looking back at me as she grabs the flap of the tent we just fled through.

“You have a sly tongue for a mortal.” My expression must falter. She laughs. “Were you trying to keep that a secret? You smell like one, plus your question confirmed my suspicions. Anyway, the devil will appreciate your mouth. I’ve heard he’s quite the charmer. I’ll meet him in a few days at the Strangers’ Soiree. He’s asked our troupe to put on a show. Maybe I’ll see you there. Hopefully alive.”

With another wink, she steps through the flap.

“Wait!” I say. She pops her head back out, raising a brow. “Where can I find Hazaar?”

• • •

When I step into the green-and-gold tent Shonda directed me to, bells jingle overhead.

Unlike the deceiving exterior of the club tent I left Denim in, this one is quaint inside. Shelves to my left and right are lined with small glass bottles with colorful liquids and cork stoppers. In the back are five enormous pots suspended from cables looped into the ceiling to hang over small fires. Cauldrons, if I’m being honest with myself.

A man stands on a step stool, bent over the center cauldron and stirring its contents. He hums a cheerful tune I don’t recognize. After a few moments of him not turning around, I clear my throat.

“I’m only blind, not deaf, too. I heard the bells when you arrived,” he says in a raspy voice.

“Sorry,” I say. “Are you Hazaar?”