Page 4 of Hellbound

She slammed the mental door on her instincts, which shrieked at her to about-face and march her ass back home where no demon would find her. Instead, she cleared her throat and muttered “Howdy.”

Mr. Vale’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his chest. A silver Breitling peeked out from under his shirtsleeve. His steely gaze raked over her, making Marian wish she’d worn three more layers of clothing.

“You’re a difficult person to reach these days, Meyer.” Mr. Vale said at last in a resonant baritone. “And you look dreadful.”

He had a faint accent she’d never been able to place, and he never gave a straight answer when she asked about it, which annoyed the shit out of her. But that voice draped over her mind like a weighted blanket, tempting her to trust him, to let him bend her to his will even as he insulted her to her face. But when she bit down on the inside of her cheek, the temptation ebbed.

All demons were disconcerting in their own way, but Mr. Vale was exceptional. His guise could barely contain him. It also failed to blunt the snide remarks he hurled at her. Marian’s upper lip twitched.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” she replied. “I missed … whatever this is.”

Mr. Vale’s gaze hardened as he watched her. He stood up from his chair—all six and a half feet of him—and came around to perch on the edge of his desk.

Tension crackled in the air as he dissected her with his stare. It set Marian’s teeth on edge and struck her with a new aggravating question.

Does he know?

Impossible. There wasn’t a being on Earth—demon or human—who knew what had happened to Marian three weeks ago. Marian included. The world kept on turning, unaware of what she’d seen in Hell, or the debts that now compelled her to return.

After a long pause, Mr. Vale spoke. “Whiskey?”

The word zapped Marian back to the present.

Oh, fuck yes, she very nearly said. But Marian didn’t drink with demons; she didn’t trust them not to take advantage of even a slight impairment to her judgment. Not that any besides Mr. Vale ever invited her to imbibe. Still, she shook her head.

Mr. Vale reached for the console behind his desk. There came a quiet “click” before he spoke. “Carson, lock the lobby doors.”

A male voice floated up from a speaker. “Yes, sir.”

This after-hours ritual of discretion once frightened Marian, who strongly disliked the idea of being locked inside a building with a demon, but he’d always made good on his promise that she was free to leave whenever she wished.

“What, no ‘please’?” Marian said dryly, sniffling as the warm air turned her sinuses into a faucet.

The edge in the demon’s side eye could cut through steel.

“I didn’t think you knew the word, given that I’ve never heard you utter it before today.” He dropped his gaze and frowned at what Marian guessed was one of the many gaping holes in her soggy black jeans. Mr. Vale rose from his desk and opened the cabinet behind him, revealing a stocked bar. For months, Marian had observed this habit of his. During the week, his selection rotated—Glenfiddich, Blanton’s, Pappy van Winkle. But on Friday’s he always opted for The Macallan 30-Year. Today was no exception as he poured himself a whiskey, neat.

Glass in hand, he turned around and resumed scowling at her clothes. She was down to her last clean shirt, which was a dull gray–much like her eyes. Nothing fit well anymore, either—a newer development; her clothes were all too big for the body she couldn’t afford to feed properly. But Marian felt more at home now in her ill-fitting, androgynous wardrobe than the feminine cuts and colors she’d been forced to wear growing up.

Mr. Vale broke the silence. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Marian pursed her lips.

“I needed a break.” The truth, for once—well, half-truth.

“A one-month break? How lovely,” Mr. Vale said almost bitterly as he took a pull from his drink. He walked over to the spacious seating area beside the wall of windows and stopped behind one of the black leather chairs, gesturing to the opposite seat with a pointed look at her.

Marian shifted her weight, eyes narrowing. Every word out of his mouth came laced with accusation, but Marian wasn’t confident enough in her suspicion to call him on it. Maybe she wouldn’t need to. Maybe he’d let it go, and Marian could do what she came here to do.

She inhaled deeply. “Listen, can we get right to—”

But before she could complete the sentence, Mr. Vale’s gaze sharpened.

“Sit.”

The command snared her round the middle as it echoed in her ears, urging her to obey. She groped for the back of the chair for support while she envisioned herself shoving him away. When the pressure around her midsection vanished, she shot the demon a disapproving glare. “You don’t get to do that to me, remember?”

Mr. Vale’s expression shifted, the frost in his gaze supplanted by faint amusement.