“It’s a start.” Helen unfolded her computer and plugged keywords into the search engine. After a few tries, she landed on a sleek page of thumbnail photos arranged in symmetrical rows and pointed at a headshot of an unsmiling middle-aged man. “That’s him, right?”
Brian compared his picture to the one onscreen, getting distracted by the shape of Helen’s full lips. “Look at you, Lois Lane.”
“Well, I didn’t have to sleuth too hard. The executive ranks of Hollywood are small. They don’t refer to the elites, the one-percent, because their legions are many.” She scrolled to the top of the page, paused and mouthed a few words, then backtracked to the search results and clicked on a link. “So our guy is James Elwell, the new chief financial officer of a record label who merged with yours a few years ago.”
The most significant takeaway from this was a connection to Aries. All roads led there. “We have a name. Let’s see what else he’s in to.”
“I have a guess.” Stretching out her response in a dry drawl, Helen keyed in the man’s name alongside “dark cult” and pressed enter.
Dozens of links to Elwell populated the screen. Hovering a finger over the track pad, Helen cringed. He didn’t want to know the gory details either, but they needed them.
With a lift of his chin, he signaled her to go on.
Helen selected pages. Brian’s breath hitched every time a site loaded. She surfed, and they read, words and meaning sucking oxygen out of the room and filling the hole with awfulness.
Brian wrapped a hand around his throat like an invisible devil stood poised to rip out his jugular. “It’s all in the realm of conspiracy theory and speculation. So we can’t be sure what’s real.” Yet he croaked the words out as if he spoke through a mouthful of sand, relinquishing any remaining claim to skepticism.
“It checks out, though. With our preexisting suspicions.” Helen used the zoom tool, and text swelled when the page magnified.
Plain as day, in lurid yellow font against black background, allegations from an amateur webpage hurtled at Brian’s eyeballs. He forced himself to read and reread, though the words pierced like arrows. And Helen was correct, it all lined up. A secret society of Hollywood elites supposedly dealt in demonology and human sacrifice. Projects included turning celebrities into vampires in efforts to create cash machines of eternal youth and hollowing people out as part of a demonic possession ritual.
Talismans and other types of magical objects facilitated the transfer of energy, allowing the summoned entity to slide into and inhabit the host body. In the lower left-hand corner of the page sat a symbol. The sigil matched the brand etched on the party guest’s stomach.
Brian rubbed his face. “I suppose the end game has to be mind control, or appeasing the whims of their demon master in hopes it will bring them money and power. Christ, this all sounds so preposterous.”
“It’s insane. And scary. Insanely scary.”
“How are you implicated in this?” he asked without expecting much.
If she hid anything, she wouldn’t say. And though Helen didn’t wear everything about herself on the surface, he’d ceased suspecting her.
A theory of her as a spy or crony for this cult didn’t make sense. Not one shred of evidence pointed to Helen having aligned goals with Joe. Except the near-universal motive of money. At one point, Helen faced bankruptcy. He ought to keep all options on the table.
She tapped the cursor, bookmarking pages. “They must be casting energy transfer spells to move the crystals. Look, I have to get home and touch base with this witch. I’ll call you when I have more.”
A flurry of taps, and Hotwire appeared on the screen. A rock formed in Brian’s gut. He touched her busy fingers, halting her motions before she selected a late flight from Denver to Minneapolis. “Stay. Please. Just for the night. We’ll figure out more in the morning.”
She turned away from the screen, forehead bunched in puzzlement. “Why? I’m no use to you here.”
He let his hand stay on hers for longer than he should have, stroking silken skin over delicate veins. “You mentioned desire, in a roundabout way.”
What was he doing? Brian hadn’t felt this awkward around a woman since his teen years, spent strumming his guitar behind the prestigious secondary school in another ill-fated, pathetic effort to show off to the girls.
Those bored, elegant, London society princesses had tendered a clear verdict. Brian the imposter would never be enough. Never rich enough, refined enough, posh enough, princely enough. Still he’d tried, as hard as he could, to prove them wrong. Prove to them his worth, his talent, his merit. He’d never ceased his quest to prove himself.
Though Helen pulled a face, she rubbed the inside of his index finger in two playful strokes. “I guess I did, yes. I thought for a minute that the curse fed on something inside of me, maybe my emotions. But again, I’m not sure how that links in with your manager and this demon cult agenda or stolen crystals. But, like I said, I’m hoping the witch in Minneapolis might be able to help.”
Brian swallowed, stuffing down his old stuttering habit with a gulp. Good grief. Get him around a woman he liked, and he regressed to a gawky schoolboy. “You brought up being a fan of my music, so I had an idea. Sort of like a test, or an experiment if you prefer.”
“Yes, I am a fan. True statement. But I’m not sure I get what you’re driving at here.”
Bringing a closed fist to his face, Brian cleared his throat, noticing after the fact how overloud and comical the gesture sounded. A meteor was welcome to plummet from outer space and strike him dead.
“I
