Hell to Pay

by Lora Beth Johnson

Genres: Young Adult; YA Fantasy; YA Mysteries & Thrillers; YA Paranormal

Synopsis

Oceans Eight meets Six of Crows in this YA fantasy heist novel about a teenage con artist and her ragtag crew teaming up for their toughest job yet: stealing a soul from the Afterlife.

Elle Fields comes from a long line of thieves who specialize in breaking into the Afterlife to steal secrets—and magic—from the dead. But after her parents’ disappearance and her brother’s death, Elle is left adrift, without even her crew to rely on.

Until a mysterious stranger offers her a job she can’t refuse: stealing a soul from the Afterlife. If Elle can get it done, it could be the key to restoring the life she lost.

The only problem is getting her crew back together. Oh, and the fact that the job’s impossible—but Elle is confident that she’ll be able to work it all out.

After all, how hard could it be to raise the dead?

Release date: July 28, 2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 368

Sample

Today, the entrance to the Afterlife is a subway station.

That’s not a metaphor. I’m literally standing in a communal psychic re-creation of a Boston T stop. It’s musty and cool with a hint of burnt rubber and decay wafting down the tunnel. Fluorescent lights flicker above me, strobing the ad posters on the other side of the tracks. They’re vague and generic, placeholders rendered from collective subconscious memories of the station.

COMING SOON!

SATISFY YOUR CRAVING WITH THE FOOD PLACE™.

IS ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION KEEPING YOU DOWN?

The platform is covered in dried gum and discarded cigarettes. Green concrete pillars line the tracks, and the sign above says BOYLSTON.

Ugh. Of course it would be.

I set up a cardboard box as a busker table and sit ­cross-​­legged behind it, just far enough into the shadows that I can’t be seen clearly. I drape a black cloth across the box and then lay out three gold coins, all facing up. Two skulls and an ­eight-​­pointed star. There’s a loud screech, and a whale floats past.

It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Whales happen here.

It makes that sad moan you hear on sleep apps, flicking its tail as it disappears down the tunnel. Across the tracks, the posters switch to ads for Star Trek IV and Alaskan cruises.

There’s another shriek, and this time, an actual train careens around the corner. It whistles to a stop, stray trash skittering across the platform. A disembodied voice mumbles something unintelligible as the doors slide open and people flood out of the cars.

If this were the real Green Line, the Beforedeath Green Line, people would be shoving past one another confidently, aggressively heading up the stairs to pour into Boston Common above. But just like me, this place is not what it seems.

All these people are Dead. Newly Dead. That can be pretty overwhelming, so the human consciousness tries to relate the transition to some familiar liminal space. For most people in Boston, it’s the T. But it could be an airport or a bus station. I’ve seen movie theater hallways and amusement park queues and, one time, a Glamour Shots in an abandoned mall.

Today, there’s only a small crowd on the platform, and while some people start to move toward the exit, most hover as though they’re waiting for the next train. They don’t realize what’s happened to them. Not yet. If they don’t figure it out soon, someone (or something) will be coming along ­to—​­well, not help, but at least get them out of the station. And I need to be wrapping this up when that happens.

But these things can’t be rushed. I wait until I catch someone hovering.

“Wanna play?” I ask in my best Boston accent, making my voice a little rough. Not quite Kardashian vocal fry, more like ­Dunks-​­employee‑­at‑­the-​­end‑­of‑­their-​­eight-​­hour-​­drive-​­through-​­shift . . . fry. “First round’s free.”

It’s a ­middle-​­aged woman with an angled bob, and I see the disgust when she takes me in: a big girl in torn fishnets, black cutoffs, a worn leather jacket. An absurd amount of eye makeup, long brown hair held down by a holey knit hat. Street urchin chic. When the woman scoffs and scurries away, I’m not surprised.

It’s ­fine—​­she’s not my mark.

“I’ll play,” a reedy voice says. A guy in an ­ill-​­fitting plaid suit saunters up. Early twenties, dark hair with enough gel to put a 2000s boy band to shame, and a smirk that says he thinks he can win. These guys make the best marks.

“Know the rules?” I ask. A crowd starts to gather.

“I think I can figure it out.” His voice is thick with condescension.

Ugh. I can’t believe I have to let this guy win.

Because he’s not my mark either.

I’ve been tracking my actual mark since he got off the train. He’s leaning against a pillar, and even though he’s pretending like he isn’t, he’s watching my every move. Because one of these coins isn’t a coin at all, and it’s the thing he wants most in the Afterlife.

I made sure of it.

I smile at Suit Guy and hold up the coin with the star on it. “Know what this is?”

“It’s a coin.” Scoffing, he shakes his head and looks around, making sure the others on the platform are watching.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Do you know what it’s for?”

He shrugs. “Buying shit, I suppose.”

That is definitely wrong, but I nod anyway.

“You would suppose right, if this were any other coin. But this coin”—​­I flick the coin into the air and catch ­it—­“doesn’t buy just anything. This ­coin . . .” I show both sides to the crowd, because now I have a proper audience. Most of the platform has moved at least within earshot. “This coin is your ticket to heaven.”

Now I have the entire platform’s attention. Especially my mark’s, who’s dying (ha ha) to get his hands on one of these. It won’t be long until he approaches, and by the time I run out of Miracle Max, I’ll have the information I’m looking for.

You see, you can’t just smash and grab information. You have to lure it out: Entice it, make it feel safe and welcome. You have to be given information.

This is the first difference between me and my brother. He would call this a heist. While I, rightly, refer to it as a con. Any genius with an acrobat friend can pull off a heist. Conning takes finesse. Subtlety. A certain je ne sais quoi. With heists, you’re just a fancy ­burglar—​­you take things when people aren’t looking. With cons, the mark willingly gives you what you want. In front of god and everybody.

So to speak.

“It’s called an obol,” I say, placing the coin back on the table. “It gets you into a ­specific . . . neighborhood, if you will. And if you can keep track of where it lands, it’s yours.”