The 8th Circle by Sarah Cain

upside-down cross T-shirts, and other raptures for those inclined toward devil worship and the occult. He should have waited to shave until after he visited.
    A girl with green hair, black lipstick, and a pentacle tattoo on her left wrist stood behind the counter. Her name tag read, “Violette,” and he wondered if that was her real name. Laced into a black leather corset with a purple skirt that was high in the front and lower in the back, she looked a bit like a Goth showgirl.
    The air was filled with the aroma of what he thought might be patchouli mixed with dog shit and the music of some metalband he couldn’t identify. Red lights sparkled from red glitter lamps lining the walls. In the glass case stood crystal balls of all sizes and tarot cards from around the world. Something for everyone.
    “Welcome,” Violette said. “We have crystal balls on sale today. Twenty percent off.”
    “Sorry, I’m not a believer,” Danny said. “I’m looking for Max.”
    “Max quit a few days ago. Something about his aunt dying. You don’t look like a friend of Max’s.”
    “I’m a friend of a friend. I’m from out of town, and my friend told me to look up Max.”
    She pursed her lips together. “I can’t help you.”
    “I was told Max could hook me up with some clubs, you know?” he said.
    “This is a legitimate business.”
    Danny shrugged. “I get it. I don’t want any trouble. I just heard about this place called Pluto’s Bowl.” He didn’t know why he started with that one. It was the least sinister name from the list that came into his head. “I can make it worth your while.”
    He opened his wallet to pull out some bills and watched her back away when she caught a glimpse of Michael’s black-and-white card.
    Violette shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
    He noticed her hands shaking and knew it was time to back off. “It’s just a name I heard. I don’t know anything about it. I’m not looking for anything too weird.”
    “Bullshit. You’ve got one of those cards. You’re looking for weird.”
    Danny hesitated. He would have to tell her why he was here; she wasn’t going to talk to someone she thought was a total pervert. “Look, Violette. I’m just trying to get information. I’m a reporter. Dan Ryan. My friend Michael Cohen was—”
    “I know about Michael Cohen. I saw it on the news.”
    “I’m not asking you to go on the record.”
    She glanced up at the security camera. “I don’t know where Max is. He took off in a hurry. He was scared. That’s all I know.”
    “So he’s not coming back.”
    “Max wasn’t into clubs. Max had other business interests, y’know?” Violette sniffed. “Do you like stones? We have a ton of healing stones.” She walked over to a bin divided into sections. “They’re nice to touch.”
    “Colorful.”
    She smiled. “Yeah. Here.” She held up a black stone. “Jet. It’s really powerful. It protects you from evil and helps you heal from grief.”
    “What?”
    “It heals. You look sad. It’s your eyes. You have really nice eyes, but they’re sad. You should hold onto the jet. It will help.” She pointed to a bin of gray stones. “Like Apache tears. They’re very good for healing grief. Not as good for protection though.” She held the jet out to him.
    “I don’t believe in magic stones.”
    She closed his fingers over the piece of jet. “Maybe you should. Take it. It’s on the house. Go grab some white sage, and you can pay for it and the Apache tears while I write them up. Burn the sage in your house to get rid of evil spirits. Bad karma.” She selected a gray stone from the bin and walked to the counter.
    “Better safe than sorry?”
    “Hey,” she said, “if you’re smart, you’ll go home and forget about clubbing. Just hold onto that stone. I think you’re gonna need it.”
    *
    Eight hours later, Danny slouched in Beth’s Mercedes on a private lane in Gladwyne watching a parade of cars pull into the gated