Page 21 of Hellbound

Nervous energy had her tapping her foot on the floor. She dug out her phone, ignoring the annoying voice that told her to put her groceries away. Marian thumbed through her emails instead. Her eyes lit up at a name she’d not seen in years.

Esther Armack. Financial Reporter at the Washington Post, and an old classmate from college Marian once called upon to help her decipher the documents she’d taken from Daniel’s computer.

Hey, all my emails to your Times account bounced. I hope you’re OK wherever you are. Just thought you’d want to see this, in case you’re still working on that tax fraud story. As usual, don’t ask me how I found it.

Marian’s eyes flicked to the attachment. Numbers. So many numbers and abbreviations she didn’t understand. Below them, another note from Esther.

Translation: The Sunset Boulevard Youth Ministries you were looking into is moving money again. This time to a construction company that didn’t exist until three weeks ago.

SBYM had been a fake ministry registered to Daniel’s LLC. It existed for years, serving no one until two weeks after they put Deborah Eaves in the ground, and Daniel learned that Marian intended to expose SBYM as a front. Only then did he open its doors and cover his tracks.

Marian scanned the rest of the document, plucking out the name of the so-called construction company. NS Works. Probably another shell corporation.

She’d never been able to locate the real recipient; one shell corporation always led to another. Marian itched to plug that name into Google, but stopped herself. What was the point? She’d lost the battle against Daniel; retreading these paths would get her nowhere. She closed her email app and moved onto voicemails. Most were from collections agencies—painful reminders of the price she’d paid for investigating Daniel Eaves—calling for “MAR-ian MAY-or.” She hovered over one she hadn’t had the energy for until now.

“Hey Marian,” the chipper male voice said as she played the message. “It’s Craig. Again. Ms. Vetrano would still really like to speak with you about a business opportunity. I’d love to invite you out to her studio for some face time. You have my number.”

Last week, she’d been dead set on ignoring every demon forever. Especially “Alice Vetrano,” the latest incarnation of Verinne, a demon who couldn’t afford Marian’s fee the first time she tried to solicit her for a dive when Marian was just starting out. Verinne hadn’t had an assistant then, either. Times certainly had changed.

The demon had gone by many names over the years, but Verinne was almost always broke. That supposedly wasn’t true anymore; in fact, Verinne was doing very well now. She’d started a lifestyle business; supplements, high-tech beauty gadgets, twenty-four karat gold face masks. Expensive and ineffective. Influencer catnip.

Was Marian in any condition to vet a demon right now, especially after the last two weeks?

She glanced at her souvenir from Mr. Vale’s office—the white bag she’d left on the counter still full of her clothes. She got up and walked over to the counter, thumbing the handles as she looked at the lump of jacket on the surface. She bought it years ago, before money became scarce. Duct tape kept the right sleeve attached to the shoulder. Her fingers drifted from the paper to the tape.

You don’t have the luxury of choice anymore. If Verinne really does have money now, then it’s just as good as any other demon’s.

And Verinne seemed eager. Eager demons gave Marian leverage.

A spike of unease speared through her as she hit the callback button and waited as it rang. She hated talking on the phone with demons and humans alike. Marian channeled her anxiety into upending the white bag on the counter to inventory her effects. Her new blanket spilled out on top of her old jacket.

She frowned as a few more soft somethings tumbled from the bag. A black business card fluttered free and landed on a plush, brand new black zip-up hoodie, a pair of gray denim jeans, and a sage sweater. The tags were still attached, but the prices had been removed. She took the sweater between her fingers. Holy fuck, it’s cashmere.

She was so taken aback that she didn’t speak for several seconds after Craig’s phone went to voicemail. “Uh, Gre—Craig. It’s Marian. Call me back.”

She ended the call and tossed her phone on the counter beside the pile. Nordstrom tags. Everything was her size, and to her tastes. Loose-fitting and comfortable.

Had Mr. Vale bought her clothes? No, that sounded insane.

Marian picked up the piece of card stock, frowning. He’d given her one of these when they first met.

John Vale, it read. Such a flavorless moniker for a demon. Then again, none of them adopted names that raised brows. The goal was to blend in.

Below the print was a cell phone number she didn’t recognize and a handwritten note in elegant gold strokes.

‘No more emails. Call or text. V.’

“Shit wizard,” Marian mumbled as she set the card aside and pulled a new container of instant coffee from the cupboard. She turned on the sink to let the water heat up and tried to push away the feeling like she was in for a terrible day.

WELCOME TO HELL > HELP RoyOfTheDead???

xXhellrazerXxDiver—W. HollywoodAnybody heard from RoyOfTheDead?

Katie_Traveler—San ClementeRoy the poacher? He’s dead

xXhellrazerXxDiver—W. HollywoodWtf? Since when?

Katie_Traveler—San ClementeSince he messed with Preeti’s diver and stole her artifact. read the news. All his houses burned down on the same night. They found Roy’s bones scattered in each one. Pro tip: If you’re going to poach, don’t get fkin caught