Bella gave Mustached Max a once-over. "So you want to buy a magical artifact from me, flip it to some sucker at a markup, butter me up with a few compliments, and hope I'm in such a good mood I let you walk away with a fat profit?"
Mustache's face was a portrait of misery. "I won't pretend otherwise. That's exactly what I had in mind. Business has been brutal lately. Several of the Native American tribes blame the earthquake on white people and have cut off their supply chains. I've had to raise prices across the board, which has gutted my margins. Right now I'm in talks with some Black traders down in New Orleans, trying to source some voodoo merchandise, but they're asking through the roof too..."
Watching her very first employee pour out his woes, Bella felt a headache coming on. For someone in her position, this was honestly small potatoes. "All right, all right, I get where you're coming from..."
She rummaged through her dimensional pocket and pulled out a horn.
This was something Father Christmas had given her back in Narnia. The jolly old man had loaded her up with a whole sack of weapons and trinkets at the time. The horn's function was narrow: a single morale-boosting effect when blown. By the time Bella had fought the White Witch, the battle had swung from a losing start to a decisive comeback, and in the heat of it all she'd completely forgotten the horn existed. It had gone completely unused ever since.
"Here, take this. The horn carries genuine magic. Sound it, and every soldier within earshot gets a massive surge of courage. It works even in the modern world." She handed it over. "If you manage to sell it, Mr. Max..."
"Eighty percent to you!"
"Deal... oh, one more thing. If you want to break up with Heather, that's between you two, and I won't interfere. But don't hurt her. Heather is my friend."
Mustache could be wishy-washy about most things, but when it came to making money, the man moved like lightning.
He immediately contacted his most carefully cultivated big-ticket client, the gold-plated sucker himself: Comrade 006. The man was rich and had an intense interest in magical artifacts. He wired five hundred thousand dollars on the spot. Mustache didn't dare skim from the top; he transferred four hundred thousand to Bella and pocketed the remaining hundred thousand, more than enough to bankroll his expansion into new product lines.
...
Blissfully unaware that her horn had taken a detour straight into 006's hands, Bella attended the ball. Not eager to go home and face Natasha in full-on manic work mode, she dragged Barbara and Heather out to a bar afterward. When the drinking was done, the three of them crashed at Barbara's rental apartment.
Barbara was living with Sam, but Sam had been grinding to get into law school and had buried himself in books for weeks. Romance was the furthest thing from his mind. Still, just to be safe, Bella shared a room with Heather and left Barbara alone in the bedroom.
Bella was exhausted. She was out the moment her head hit the pillow.
Somewhere in the depths of sleep, her sixth sense flared. Her nostrils twitched. The thick, unmistakable reek of sulfur jolted her upright.
Following the pull of her instincts, she strode to Barbara's door and threw it open.
There was no visible flame on the floor, yet the temperature inside was searingly high. A man of average build stood before the bed, murmuring something under his breath. Barbara's body hung spread-eagled against the ceiling, pinned there by some invisible force, surrounded by a ring of dark-red fire. Her life force was draining at a rate visible to the naked eye.
"Hellfire?!" Bella didn't stop to think. She thrust out her right hand and unleashed a Frost Nova centered on herself. The blast of cold shattered the man's spell instantly, and Barbara plummeted from the ceiling into Bella's arms.
Barbara's face was deathly pale. Her breathing was faint, barely there. She was slipping fast.
Bella shielded her friend behind her body. The caster turned to face her.
He looked ordinary enough: average features, unremarkable clothes. The only thing that set him apart was his eyes, a pair of irises glowing with a sinister, otherworldly yellow light.
"Demon! Go back to Hell. Don't make me say it twice." Psionic energy was already coalescing rapidly between Bella's hands. If diplomacy failed, she was ready to hit him hard.
The yellow-eyed man studied her for a moment. Then he smiled, a thin, contemptuous curl of the lips.
"A human mage? Looking as drained as you do, you must have sold quite a few souls to get where you are. Without us demons, there wouldn't be any magic. You're tired. You're weak. Step aside, little mage. You're no match for me. You have no idea what kind of danger you're meddling in. Let go of her, and do me a favor: close the door on your way out..."
His voice was eerie, like a lover's delirious whisper at the peak of passion.
But the notion that a few words laced with petty mental tricks could make Bella back down was laughable. When it came to verbal manipulation, a psionic specialist never lost.
She countered immediately. "I'm tired, yes. But you look even more exhausted than I do. And what's the point of any of this, really? Is there truly justice in your heart? Evil? Isn't everything before your eyes just... illusion? Today, right here, right now, end it all. Embrace the peace you've been yearning for..."
Her voice was soft, and it didn't just smother his words. It struck back, threading layer upon layer of suggestion deep into the demon's mind.
Her voice was like stars in the night sky: unassuming at a glance, yet utterly inescapable.
"Cough, cough—!" The demon had been caught off guard. He hadn't known she was equally adept at playing mind games, and the blow landed clean.
His yellow irises flickered wildly. Black blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Drawing on the unique bond between a demon and Hell itself, he forcibly tore free of Bella's Suggestion, paying for his escape with physical damage to his own body.
That exchange cost him two precious breaths of time.
It was enough. Bella had already teleported away with the critically wounded Barbara and the still-sleeping Heather.
The Yellow-Eyed Demon stood alone in the apartment, studying the residual traces of magic lingering in the air. He seemed momentarily stunned. "Kamar-Taj? Damn it all."
Kamar-Taj's reputation among demonkind was formidable. Now that he'd identified her affiliation, the Yellow-Eyed Demon didn't dare pursue. Over the past century or so, the Ancient One's interest in demons had waned, but waned did not mean gone. If he waltzed up to her doorstep looking for trouble, he might as well be walking into a grave.
Still, his plan demanded completion. The Yellow-Eyed Demon staged an illusion: the image of Barbara hanging upside down from the ceiling, engulfed in roaring flames.
Sam Winchester had been pulled away by his brother Dean to hunt a demon. When he got home, the first thing he saw was his girlfriend's death: her body burning on the ceiling, suspended and helpless, identical to the way his mother had died.
His father's sudden disappearance. His mother's murder. His girlfriend's murder. Sam Winchester's grief hit rock bottom. Demons had never left his life. For the safety of everyone around him, after a long and agonizing deliberation, he made his decision: he had to leave the world of ordinary people behind.
The next day, he completed his leave-of-absence paperwork without telling a soul. He climbed into his brother Dean Winchester's car, and the two of them slipped quietly out of San Francisco.