soul thief / forbidden

To
Michelle Roper
who taught me to find humor
in the small things
Acknowledgments
There are many wizards behind the curtain making the
magic that becomes the book in your hand. Here are a few
of those souls.
I owe a big shout-out to Jennifer Weis (my editor) and her
assistant, Mol ie Traver. They are there for me in al the
ways that count. I am blessed to have the amazing Meredith
Bernstein as my literary agent. She always has my back
and wil often cal just to ask, “How’s it going?”
My fel ow authors and critiquers deserve praise as wel :
Nanette Littlestone, Dwain Herndon, Aarti Nayar, and
Harold Bal . My beta readers (who slog through a real y
muddy version of the early manuscript, usual y at breakneck
speed) are total y fearless and so I send my thanks and
hugs to Jean Marie Ward, Michel e Roper, Cate Rowan,
and my dear spouse, Harold. Wil iam MacLeod kept
Master Angus Stewart’s lilting Scottish accent honest and,
as usual, the great city of Atlanta and Oakland Cemetery
provided excel ent backdrops to Riley’s adventures.
Without al this support my life would be immensely crazy,
and not in a good way.
For they both were solitary,
She on earth and he in heaven.
And he wooed her with caresses,
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine …
—SONG OF HIAWATHA,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five
Teaser
Also by Jana Oliver
Copyright
ONE
2018
Atlanta, Georgia
The Grounds Zero Coffee Shop made the most amazing
hot chocolate in Atlanta, maybe even the whole world. It
appeared Riley Blackthorne would have to wade through
Armageddon to get it.
“The end is near!” a man cal ed out to passersby. He stood
at the shop’s entrance holding a homemade cardboard
sign that proclaimed the same thing. Instead of having a
scraggly beard and wearing a black robe like some biblical
prophet, he was wearing chinos and a red shirt.
“You’ve got to prepare, missy,” he said and shoved a
pamphlet toward Riley with considerable zeal. The tract
looked remarkably like the one she had in her jacket
pocket. Like the one the angel had given her right before
she’d agreed to work for Heaven to save her boyfriend’s
life.
“The end is near!” the man shouted again.
“Is there stil time for hot chocolate?” Riley asked.
The End Times guy blinked. “Ah, maybe; I don’t know.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “I’d hate to take on Hel without fueling
up.”
That earned her a confused frown. Rather than explain she
jammed the tract in her pocket and pushed open the door
to the coffee shop as the man went back to exhorting his
audience to prepare for the worst.
The Grounds Zero didn’t look any different from how it did
the last time she’d been here. The smel of roasted beans
hung in the air like a heady perfume, and the espresso
machine growled low and deep. Customers tapped on
laptops as they enjoyed expensive coffee and talked about
whatever was important in their lives. Just like every day.
Except …
Everything is weird now.
Even buying hot chocolate. That used to be easy: Place
order, pay for order, receive hot beverage. No hassles.
That didn’t appear to be the case today.
The barista kept staring at her even as he made the drink,
which wasn’t a good thing, because he nearly scalded
himself. Maybe it was the multiple burn holes in her denim
jacket, or the ragged slice down one sleeve that revealed
the T-shirt underneath. Or the fact that her long brown hair
had a frizzled, been-too-close-to-a-flame look, despite two
shampoo sessions and a lot of conditioner. At least she’d
changed her jeans, or the guy would be staring at al the
dried blood. Blood that wasn’t hers.
“I saw you on TV. You’re one of them, aren’t you?” he asked
in a shaky voice, brown eyes so wide they seemed to cover
most of his face.
On TV? Riley had no choice but to own up. “Yeah, I’m a
demon trapper.” One of the few lucky enough to survive last
night’s slaughter.
The guy dropped the ceramic cup on the counter, sloshing
some of the brown goodness over the side and onto the
saucer. He backed away like Riley had horns coming out of
her skul .
“Whipped cream?” she asked, frowning now. Even if the
world was ending, hot chocolate had to have that glorious
white stuff on top or what was the point? He reluctantly
added the topping, keeping his eyes on her rather than the
cup. Some of it actual y went inside. “Chocolate shavings?”
she nudged.
“Ah … we’re out,” he said.
It’s just one creepo guy. No big.
But it wasn’t just him. Other customers stared as she made
her way to an empty booth. One by one they looked up at
the television screen high on the wal , then back to her,
comparing images.
Ah, crap.
There, courtesy of CNN, was last night’s disaster in
glorious color: flames pouring out of the roof of the
Tabernacle as demons ran everywhere. And there she was,
il uminated by the raging fire, kneeling on the pavement
near her injured boyfriend. She was crying, holding Simon
in her arms. It was the moment she knew he was dying.
Oh, God. I can’t handle this.
The saucer in Riley’s hand began to quake, dislodging
more of the hot chocolate. It’d been bad enough to live
through that horror, but now it was al over the television in
ful and unflinching detail.
She paused near a booth as a picture of Simon appeared
on the screen. It must have been his high school graduation
photo, since his white-blond hair was shorter and his
expression stone serious. He was usual y that way except
when they were hanging together; then he’d let his guard
down, especial y when they were kissing.
Riley closed her eyes recal ing the time they’d spent
together before the meeting. They’d kissed, and he’d
admitted how much he cared for her. Then a demon had
tried to kil him.
Riley sank into the booth and inhaled the rich scent of the
hot chocolate, using it to push the bad memories away.
The effort failed, though it never had in the past. Instead, her
mind dutiful y conjured up the image of her boyfriend in his
hospital bed, tubes everywhere, his face as white as the
sheets.
Simon meant so much to her. He’d been a quiet,
comforting presence after her father’s death. Losing him so
soon after her dad was unthinkable and Heaven had known
that. What else could she do but agree to their terms:
Simon’s life in trade for Riley owing Heaven a favor. A Real
y Big Favor. Like stopping Armageddon in its tracks.
“Why me?” Riley muttered. “Why not someone else?
Why not Simon?”
He was religious, fol owed al the rules. He’d be the perfect
guy to keep the world from ending. They could have made
the deal with him when he was injured.
Instead they chose me.
To Riley’s annoyance, the hot chocolate had cooled beyond
what was acceptable drinking temperature, but she sipped
it anyway. She kept her eyes riveted on the cup’s contents,
away from the television screen. Someone scraped a chair
across the floor to sit at a table, and Riley jumped at the
sound, half expecting a horde of demons to pour through
the front door at any moment.
The cup trembled in her hands, reminding her how close
she skated near the edge. Too much had hit her in a short
period of time. Too much more and she wouldn’t cope.
I have to find my dad. That she could do. Maybe. Stil , it was
something she could focus on. It was unlikely his body was
buried under the rubble at the Tabernacle, not when a
necromancer went to al the effort to summon him from his
grave. That’s what necros did: they reanimated corpses
and sold them to rich people as unpaid servants. By now
someone would be lining up to buy Master Trapper Paul
Blackthorne, if he hadn’t been sold already.
What is it like to be dead and walking around like you’re
still alive? Besides the creep factor, it had to be truly weird.
Did her dad remember dying? Did he remember the
funeral and being buried? Spiky cold zipped down Riley’s
spine. She had to get her head in the game.
I’ll find him. I’ll get him back in the ground, and that’ll be the
end of it.
Her eyes wandered back to the television. A different
reporter was doing a play-by-play of last night’s horror. He
had it mostly right—the local Trappers Guild had held a
meeting at the Tabernacle in downtown Atlanta, just like
they always did. In the middle of the meeting the demons
had arrived. Then it got bad.
“Eyewitnesses say that at least two different kinds of Hel
spawn were involved in the attack and that the trappers
were quickly overwhelmed,” the reporter said.
Three different kinds, but who’s counting?
Riley frowned. The trappers hadn’t been overwhelmed.
Wel , not completely. They’d even managed to kil a few of
the things.
When she went to pick up the cup of hot chocolate, her
hands were stil shaking. They’d been that way since last
night and nothing she did made them stop. She downed the
liquid in smal sips, knowing people were watching her,
talking among themselves. Someone took a picture of her
with his cel phone.
Ah, jeez.
In the background, she could stil hear the reporter on CNN.
“A number of the trappers escaped the inferno and were
immediately set upon by a higher-level fiend.”
The higher-level fiend had been a Grade Five demon who’d
opened up deep holes in the ground, spun off mini
tornadoes, and caused the earth to shake. Al in an effort to
take out one trapper.
Me.
If it hadn’t been for Ori, a freelance demon hunter, the Five
would have kil ed her just like it had her dad.
“We have interviewed eyewitnesses who claim they saw
angels last night,” the reporter continued. “We’ve had
Doctor Osbourne, a professor of religious studies at UC
Santa Barbara, review the videos. He’s with us here today,
via satel ite.” A solemn gray-haired man appeared on the
screen. “What’s your take on this amazing event, Doctor?”
“I’ve watched the videos, and al that is visible is a circle of
incredibly bright light that surrounds the demon trappers.
I have col eagues in Atlanta who’ve claimed to see angels
in your city. They appeared throughout the Bible to
Abraham, to Jacob. Sodom and Gomorrah rated two of
them. In this case, they were actively protecting the trappers
from Hel spawn. I’d say that’s biblical y significant.”
Tell me about it.
Riley dug in her messenger bag, retrieved a pen, and
began a list on a crisp white napkin.
Find Dad
Bust Holy Water Scam
Save the World
Buy Groceries
Do Laundry
As she saw it, if number three on the list didn’t work out, the
last two weren’t going to be an issue.
TWO
Feeling a tickle in his throat, Denver Beck coughed deeply
in an attempt to purge the stale smoke from his lungs. It did
little good. In the distance, firefighters moved across the
Tabernacle’s rubble, working on the hot spots and
searching for charred bodies in the mounds of broken
bricks and burnt wood.
I should have died last night. In the past it wouldn’t have
mattered. Now it did. It was his fear for Riley that had driven
him out of the smoke and flames.
To his right, Master Trapper Angus Stewart leaned heavily
on his cane in the late-afternoon sun. His usual y ruddy face
was nearly the color of his white hair, pale against the
bloodstained bandage tucked into his hairline.
They stood near one of the many holes in the Tabernacle’s
parking lot, the stench of burnt asphalt hanging heavy in the
air. Beck bent over and stared into the crater’s maw, which
was laced with tangled wires and debris. It was a good ten
feet wide and three times as deep. A thin column of steam
rose from its center.
“How does a demon do this kind of damage?” he asked in
a soft Southern drawl.
“The Geo-Fiend just waved its hands and this abyss
appeared. They have some strange power over the earth
and the weather,” Stewart said in his rich Scottish accent. It
was stil noticeable, though blunted by a decade in Atlanta.
As Beck straightened up, the demon wound in his thigh
cramped in protest. The dressing was leaking and the
drainage had soaked into his blue jeans. He needed more
aspirin—his temperature was up and every now and then
his teeth would chatter. Like a mild case of the flu with claw
marks as the bonus.
Everythin’ has changed now. He knew angels were for real;
he’d seen them around Atlanta. Most were the ministering
kind, the most prolific of Heaven’s folk, who came and went
doing whatever God wanted them to do.
He’d never seen any from the higher realm, the ones with
the flaming swords. He had last night.
Beck shook his head again, unable to deal with how eerie
the things had been. At least seven feet tal , clothed in eyeblinding
white with shimmering alabaster wings edged in
gray, their fiery swords had roared like summer thunder and
fil ed the night air with the crisp tang of ozone.
“I’ve never heard tel of Heaven steppin’ in to protect
trappers,” Beck said in a lowered voice, mindful of a
television news crew on the other side of the parking lot.
They were al over the city now, trying to get a handle on one
of the biggest stories to hit Atlanta since the 1996
Olympics. “Why’re the demons workin’ together now? It
feels like a war’s brewin’.”
“So it does.” Stewart cleared his throat. “Seein’ the angels
make ya a believer?”
Beck blinked at the question. Had it? He’d never real y
thought much about God, and he figured the feeling was
mutual. “Maybe,” he admitted.
Stewart huffed in agreement. “The city wil be wantin’
action.”
“Master Harper wil take care of that, won’t he?” Beck
asked. Harper was the most senior trapper in Atlanta and
Riley’s master. From what Beck could tel , he was a
serious piece of work but a good trapper when he wasn’t
drinking.
“Nay, not with his ribs bein’ the way they are,” Stewart said.
“I’l have ta take the lead. With Ethan dead, I’l need yer
help.”
Ethan had been one of the master’s apprentices, but he’d
not made it out of the Tabernacle alive. “What about yer
other apprentice? Rol ins. Where’s he?”
“He quit. Canna handle this sorta thing. I respect that.”
Stewart paused a moment, then added, “I’m pleased ta
hear young Simon’s gonna make it. That’s good news for
Riley.”
“Yeah,” Beck replied, unsure of where the old master was
heading with that last comment.
“She and Simon have taken a fancy ta each other, did ya
know? They were holdin’ hands and kissin’ before the
meetin’. They didn’t know I saw them.”
“Kissin’?” Beck felt something heavy form in his chest, like
a stone weighing on his heart. Had to be because of the
demon wound; they always made you feel sick. It wouldn’t
do for him to think of Riley as more than just Paul’s little girl.
“Ya didn’t know?” the master asked, al innocence.
Beck shook his head. He’d known Riley and Simon were
spending time together: They were both apprenticing with
Harper and saw each other every day. But he hadn’t
realized their relationship had gone that far. She was only
seventeen, and now that both of her parents were dead he
felt responsible for her. Sort of like a big brother. Sort of
something more.
“Yer frownin’, lad,” Stewart observed.
Beck tensed, uncomfortable under the old trapper’s
scrutiny. “Simon’s better than some she could date,” he
acknowledged. “But he’s not what she should be thinkin’
about right now. I’l have a talk with him once he’s better.
Warn him off.” Let him know if he goes too far with her I’ll rip
his damned head off.
The master gave him a fatherly smile. “Let them sort it out,
lad. Ya canna keep her in a bubble the rest of her life.”
Wanna bet? It’s what Paul would have wanted and, if he
was honest, the only way Beck could sleep at night. As he
stared at the broken landscape and the savaged building,
his mind fil ed with images from the evening before. Of
demons and the trappers battling for survival. Of Riley in the
middle of the flames and how close he’d come to losing
her. Beck shuddered, ice shearing through his veins.
Stewart laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, startling him.
“I know ya stayed inside that furnace until the very last. That
takes stones, and I’m damned proud of ya.”
Beck couldn’t meet the master’s eyes, troubled by the
praise.
The Scotsman’s hand retreated. “Ya can’t carry it al on yer
shoulders, broad as they are.”
He sounded just like Paul, but that made sense: Master
Stewart had trained Riley’s father, who in turn had
apprenticed Beck. From what Paul had said, the Stewarts
were some of the best demon trappers in the world.
This man thought he’d done al right last night. He’s just
bein’ nice.
As if knowing a change of topic was needed, Stewart
asked, “Any idea who pul ed Paul from his grave?”
That was the other thing hanging over them. Though he’d
been dead for two weeks, Riley’s father had appeared at
the trapper’s meeting, summoned from his eternal rest by a
necromancer. He was a reanimated corpse now, money on
the hoof providing he’d made it out of the Tabernacle in one
piece.
“Riley did everythin’ she could to keep him in the ground,”
Beck complained. “She sat vigil every damned night, made
sure there was a consecrated circle around his grave. Then
some bastard steals him the one time she isn’t there. It just
sucks.”
“She have any notion who did it?” Stewart nudged.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask her.” Which wasn’t quite the
truth. Beck could have. They’d huddled together in her
family’s mausoleum in Oakland Cemetery until dawn, on hal
owed ground in case the demons came after them.
She’d been so upset about Simon and the others, she’d
cried herself to sleep. At the time it didn’t seem important
to know who’d resurrected Paul, so he’d just held her close,
kept her safe, thanking God she’d survived. Trying to work
through his feelings for the girl. When he’d left her this
morning she’d stil been asleep, dried tears on her cheeks.
He hadn’t had the heart to wake her.
Stewart shifted position again: He was hurting more than
he let on. “I canna help but believe there’s a connection
between the demons’ attack and Paul’s reanimation,” the
old trapper mused.
“How could there be?”
“Think it through. Wouldn’t he have gone off with the necro
who summoned him rather than droppin’ in for a wee visit
with his old mates?”
“I don’t know,” Beck said, swiping a hand through his blond
hair in agitation. “But I’l know soon enough. I’l find the
summoner who did it and we’l come to an understandin’:
Paul goes in the ground or the necro does.”
Stewart stiffened. “Be careful on that account. The
summoners have wicked magic and they’l not appreciate
ya gettin’ in their business.”
Beck didn’t respond. It didn’t matter what happened to him;
Paul Blackthorne was going back in his grave, and that was
that. He hadn’t been able to keep him alive, but he could
honor his friend’s memory in other ways. He’d do it for
Paul’s daughter, if nothing more than to give her peace of
mind.
“I hear that Five went after Riley in particular,” the master
stated. “I wonder why.”
Beck had no answer to that. Grade Five Geo-Fiends were
the big boys of Hel who generated earthquakes and
spawned mini storms as easily as he took a breath. A Five
had kil ed Paul, and he was wil ing to bet it was the same
one who’d gone after his daughter during the battle.
Beck was sure of one thing: The demons were taking too
much of an interest in Riley, cal ing her out by her name.
Hel spawn didn’t do that as a rule. Maybe I should tell
Stewart. Maybe he would know what’s goin’ on.
But if he did, it’d only add to Riley’s long list of troubles.
Before Beck could make a decision, the master’s phone
began to buzz inside a coat pocket.
He pul ed it out, frowned, and opened it up. “Stewart.”
Beck turned his attention to the hole in front of him. One of
the trappers told him that the Geo-Fiend had thrown Riley
into this very pit. That same trapper hadn’t known how
she’d managed to escape, said there’d been too much
smoke to see what had real y happened.
Why didn’t the Five kill ya, girl? There was one possibility,
but he didn’t want to think about that. No way Riley would
have sold her soul to Hel to stay alive.
What if she’d fallen into that hole and never come out
again?
Before Beck could admit to himself what that loss would
mean to him, Stewart ended the cal .
“That was Harper. The Guild’s representatives are ta meet
with the mayor in two hours. We need ta be there.”
“We?” Beck said, caught off guard. “Me too?”
“Certainly. Ya gotta problem with that?”
Hearing the chal enge, Beck shook his head. “Can’t the city
at least wait til we bury our dead?”
Stewart huffed. “Of course not. Politicians wait for no man
when they can lay the blame on some other poor bastard.”
THREE
Riley knew that finding a parking place near the Terminus
Market was never easy, but today was worse since the
market was so close to the site of last night’s tragedy. After
trol ing up and down the street for what seemed an eternity,
she final y caught sight of a scooter pul ing out leaving a
thick blue cloud of exhaust in its wake. She edged her car
into the open space, nervous she might clip the stal ahead.
It was ful of knitted hats and scarves, most sporting
Georgia Tech or Georgia State logos. The owner, an older
black man, kept a wary eye on her progress. Once she
turned off the engine, the knitted-hat guy relaxed and gave
her an appreciative thumbs-up. She returned it.
When Atlanta joined the growing list of bankrupt cities
across the country, the city planners mined every possible
way to make money. They’d sold off the school buildings,
put a tax on cigarettes, alcohol, day-care centers, Holy
Water, homeschooling, almost everything. As the parking
spaces went empty because of the excessive price of gas,
the city turned them into “retail opportunities,” which meant
there were a cluster of mini shops where once there were
cars. Each store lived within the white lines of a parking
spot, like the guy with the knitted hats and scarves. Some
vendors rented more than one, which was why there was a
music shop on Peachtree Street cal ed The Five Meters.
Riley crawled out of the car at half speed, her denim
messenger bag in hand. It felt like her body had been
ambushed by a particularly sadistic army of karate experts.
When she’d showered this morning she’d been astounded
at al the bruises. Holy Water was only good for demonic
wounds, so she’d be a patchwork of yel ow and brown
spots in a few days. Luckily most of them were hidden by
her clothes. The one on her left hip was particularly painful,
courtesy of the malevolent Grade Five demon and the door
handle of a Volvo.
Riley trudged into Centennial Park on the wide brick path,
favoring her sore hip. When she was a kid this place was
just a park, though pretty cool as far as green open spaces
went, especial y one in the center of a major city. It had the
five Olympic Ring fountains to play in, and vendors sold ice
cream and other yummy goodies. It was stil a cool place,
but there was a lot more to it nowadays. Over time, vendors
moved into the market with portable campers and a smal
city sprang up inside the bigger one. Now the Terminus
Market, as it was cal ed, was a year-round thing.
Right before she entered the market, Riley paused on the
walkway, al owing the past to catch up with her. Closing her
eyes, she swore she could hear her mom’s voice, jesting
with her father about his need to buy just one more book on
the Civil War.
“I miss you guys,” she whispered. Wish you were here.
Then she continued into the chaos of the marketplace.
Original y there had been a plan to al this—food vendors in
one section, crafts in another, and so on. That plan was
ignored as the market sprawled in every direction. The
tents came in al different colors, ranging from deep black to
bril iant red; some were plain, others were adorned with
flags and streamers. Al had some form of lighting, since the
merchants were usual y open until after midnight.
Riley paused in front of a tent where a dead animal hung
from a spit over a large wood fire. A boy was in charge of
turning the spit, and Riley could tel it took al his strength, his
muscles straining with every rotation. The sign on the tent
said it was pork, but you never knew. Sometimes they sold
goat. It smel ed good, whatever it was. Her stomach
complained, reminding her there hadn’t been a lot of food it
in al day, besides the hot chocolate.
Later.
A bit farther on was a guy sel ing used furniture—chairs,
tables, dressers. Some of it was in worse shape than the
thirdhand stuff in her cramped apartment.
“Riley?” a voice cal ed out.
She turned, knowing that voice anywhere. The body, too.
Clad in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a steel gray duster that
swept the ground, the man striding toward her was over six
feet with shiny ebony hair and bottomless dark eyes.
Definitely yummy. What she liked best was his attitude: It
told the world to take a number and wait its turn.
What am I doing? She real y shouldn’t be checking out
other guys when she was dating Simon, especial y when he
was in the hospital. Still, it can’t hurt to look.… That wasn’t
being unfaithful.
“Ori,” she cal ed out. “What are you doing here?”
“Stil trying to find a proper sword,” he said.
Riley smiled at that. The first time she’d seen him he was at
the tent that sold al sorts of sharp pointy objects.
He’d been holding a sword, looking like a hero out of a
romance novel. He still does.
“How are you doing after last night?” he asked, his ful
attention on her now.
“I’m okay.” It was her default answer.
Ori’s jet-dark eyes searched her face. “Try again,” he said
softly.
She sagged. “The truth? Life sucks. There’re lots of dead
trappers, and, just to make things real y special, my dad’s
been reanimated.”
Her companion looked surprised. “By whom?”
“No clue,” Riley said, holding up her hands in defeat.
“I’m truly sorry.” Ori moved closer to her, sending little
tingles through her skin. She never understood why that
happened, but it felt good. He sounded genuine, which
caused her conscience to nag at her. Many of her
memories of the previous evening were hazy, however one
in particular was crystal clear: Ori pul ing her out of the
crater as he threatened the Grade Five demon, making it
back off. If he hadn’t, she’d be lying next to her parents now.
One of them at least.
Feeling awkward, she dug the toe of her tennis shoe into
the dirt. “Did I … thank you for … wel … saving my life?”
“No, but you just did,” he replied, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Don’t go al modest,” she protested. “You saved me. I owe
you.”
A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “You do.”
“I know it sounds weird, but I don’t remember what
happened after I reached the car. Next thing I knew I was at
the cemetery.”
“It happens. When the mind is confronted by something too
big for it to deal with, it shuts down.”
“Wish it worked that way with the nightmares.”
His hand touched hers. It was warm, and she could feel the
heat radiate through her skin. It wasn’t a grabby sort of
gesture, more a gentle one.
“Not many apprentice trappers would chal enge a Geo-
Fiend,” he said.
“I just wanted it to stop kil ing the others.”
“Which was real y brave. Don’t sel yourself short.”
She felt a rush of warmth on her cheeks. He thinks I’m
brave. How cool is that?
“Don’t worry; the next time I wil kil it,” Ori said, his voice
rougher now.
“Do you think it’l come after me again?”
A determined nod. “I’m counting on it. So don’t be
surprised if you see me hanging around a lot.” He delivered
a sexy grin. “The only thing I’m stalking is the Hel spawn.”
She couldn’t stop the smile. “Why didn’t you just nail it last
night?”
“I wanted you out of harm’s way,” he replied. “And I won’t
show off in front of the trappers. It’l be my kil , on my terms.”
“I know you don’t like them, but the Guild is shorthanded
right now. I bet you could get a job real y easy.”
Her companion shook his head. “I work alone.”
Which is what she expected he’d say since Ori was a
freelance demon hunter, a Lancer. Trappers couldn’t stand
Lancers because they didn’t play by the Guild’s rules.
Rome’s Demon Hunters didn’t like them, as they wouldn’t
pay homage to the Vatican. They were a force al their own,
each Lancer his own master, and they dealt with demons
as they saw fit.
In a few years maybe she would go out on her own. The
trappers didn’t like her anyway; she might as wel work for
herself.
“How is your boyfriend doing?” Ori asked.
Riley blinked. “How did you know Simon and I are dating?”
“I saw you with him right before you went after the Five.
You weren’t crying over any of the other trappers, so I
assumed there was something between you.”
She couldn’t argue with his logic. “Simon’s much better
today. He’s going to make it.” Because of me and the
angel. A warm glow fluttered through her chest at the
thought.
Ori paused near a bookstal . After a moment’s hesitation,
he reached into a display and removed a paperback. It was
Dante’s Inferno. He glanced at a few of the pages and
frowned.
“He got it wrong; the Ninth Circle of Hel is not a skating
rink.” He thumped the book closed in disgust and returned
it to the rack.
“Have you ever seen angels before?” Riley asked.
“Lots of times.”
“Oh.” Maybe it was just her. She’d only seen one in her
entire life.
“You’re talking about the ones from last night, aren’t you?”
Ori asked, somber. When she nodded, he explained,
“Those were the…” He paused and searched for a word.
“Warrior angels. It’s been a long time since they’ve been
deployed.”
Deployed? Military guys used terms like that. Had Ori been
in the Army?
He glanced away at that very moment, frowning as if
something had distracted him. “I’d best be going. It’s good
to see you again, Riley,” he said.
It was like he was suddenly keen to be somewhere else.
Had she said something stupid?
“Thanks … again. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Riley watched him head down the row of tents, his duster
flapping behind him. Women turned and watched him pass;
he had that kind of magnetic pul . She had a lot of
questions about this guy, but there was no one she could
ask. She’d promised Ori not to tel any of the trappers that
he was in Atlanta, which seemed odd, since he’d definitely
been right in the thick of the action last night.
“I’l think about that later.” Her dad came first. Then she’d
figure out Mr. Hunky Mysterious Dude.
Riley kept moving toward Bel , Book, and Broomstick, the
witches’ store. It was easy to find, the gold and silver stars
on the midnight-blue canvas glittering in the late-afternoon
sun. To her relief, Ayden was arranging bags of incense at
the end of the counter. The witch wore her usual Renn Faire
garb—peasant blouse with a laced bodice, a ful skirt, and a
heavy emerald-green cloak in acknowledgment of the chil y
January weather. Most prominent was the large dragon
tattoo that began at her neck beneath her russet brown hair
and went al the way down into her ample cleavage. In the
midst of the market, she seemed ageless, like a fairy
queen.
“Ayden?” Riley cal ed out, stopping a few feet away.
The witch looked up then raced out from behind the
counter, springing at her like a mother does a missing
child. The embrace wasn’t a quick one, but the kind that tel
s you the embracer is thril ed to see you’re alive. Riley
returned it with just as much fervor.
“Goddess, you had me worried,” the witch said, releasing
her.
“Sorry. My cel phone got toasted so I didn’t have your
number. I’m using my dad’s phone now.”
“And you lost my business card, too?” Ayden chided.
“Ah … no.” It was at the bottom of her messenger bag
somewhere under al the other stuff. “I didn’t think of that.”
“It’s okay,” Ayden said. “You’re alive. That’s what counts.”
“Dad’s gone. Someone pul ed him out of his grave last
night. He was there, at the Tabernacle, and he…” Riley’s
shoulders began to heave.
There was another embrace, and this time her tears
soaked her friend’s shoulder. When they broke apart, Riley
fumbled in her messenger bag for a tissue.
“Come on. There’s a guy down the way who sel s hot cider.
I think we both need some.”
Riley blew her nose while fol owing her friend through the
winding paths of the market. The cider merchant’s tent
reminded Riley of a Turkish bazaar. Red fabric, possibly
silk, hung underneath the traditional canvas, and it was shot
with gold threads. An incense burner sat in the corner
wafting something aromatic into the air. The vendor was
dark-skinned, Middle Eastern, maybe, and she could tel he
had his eye on her friend by the way he smiled at her.
Ayden returned the smile, but not quite as warmly, col ected
the drinks, and herded her toward the back of the tent away
from the other patrons. They sat on large, plush pil ows near
an electric heater. The cider tasted wonderful and warmed
Riley from the first sip. Not quite as luscious as hot
chocolate, but stil good.
“Tel me what happened with your dad,” Ayden said.
Riley settled the thick mug on her lap. “I had to go to the
meeting, so the cemetery had this new volunteer sit vigil. A
necro sprang a huge magical dragon on the guy. He was
dragon-phobic, so he freaked and broke the circle. The
cemetery people don’t have any idea who did it.”
“It was probably Ozymandias, especial y after you dissed
him.”
Riley groaned. A couple nights earlier Ayden had been
sitting vigil with her at the graveyard, watching over her
father’s grave while they shared a bottle of the witch’s
potent homemade wine. Riley had gotten seriously ripped,
and when Ozymandias, the creepy necromancer who
resembled one of the evil dudes in The Lord of the Rings,
showed up, she’d smarted off to him. She was inside a
protective circle, so what could he do?
Steal my dad, that’s what. “I was sooo stupid,” Riley
admitted.
“No argument.”
“Hey, it’s partly your fault. I blame your wine; it was wicked
strong.”
“I blame your mouth,” Ayden retorted. “Either way, your
dad’s on the loose for the next year. There’s not much you
can do about that.”
“I’m not letting him stay aboveground.”
“Don’t even think you can tangle with a necromancer and
come out ahead,” the witch scolded. “Especial y if it’s
Ozymandias. I wasn’t blowing smoke when I told you he’s
into the dark stuff. Just let it be, okay?”
Not okay.
Riley fel silent to avoid an argument. Ayden took that
silence as acceptance and turned her attention to the
remainder of the cider in her mug.
“Do you want to talk about what happened inside the
Tabernacle?” she asked in a low voice.
Riley shook her head immediately. How do you explain
what it was like to see people you know being ripped apart
and eaten? What it felt like to think you were going to die
the same way?
Ayden’s comforting hand touched her arm. “When you’re
ready, I’l listen.”
“I don’t know if I’l ever be,” Riley admitted. “It was too …
horrible.”
“Is Beck okay?” her friend asked.
“He got clawed up, but he’s alive. Simon—” Riley jammed
her lips together. Just thinking of him made her want to cry.
“Is he going to make it?” the witch asked. Her hand was stil
on Riley’s arm, warm and reassuring.
“I … yeah. They didn’t think he was, but now he is.”
Ayden frowned, like she didn’t understand Riley’s verbal
gymnastics. “Anything else you want to tel me?”
Riley couldn’t hold it back. Someone had to know her
secret. “Ah, wel , you see, I made a deal with this angel,
and…”
The witch’s frown deepened. After a quick glance around to
ensure they weren’t being overheard, she leaned closer.
“What do you mean by deal?”
Riley told her about the agreement with Heaven.
“My Goddess,” Ayden murmured. “You sure it was an
angel?”
Riley nodded. “And she came through. Simon’s getting
better.”
“Once Hel finds out you’re on Heaven’s team, it could get
complicated,” her friend warned.
Riley snorted. “More complicated than last night? That Five
was after me. It was the one who kil ed my dad and the
same one who tried to flatten me at the law library.”
“Which happened before your deal with Heaven,” Ayden
said. “Oh, Goddess, you are in trouble, aren’t you? Have
you told Beck any of this?”
“No, and I’m not going to. I’l work it out on my own.”
“It’s not showing weakness to ask for his help.”
“No way, not from Beck,” Riley retorted. “End of subject.”
* * *
Ayden walked with her as far as the witches’ store. “Try the
Deader tent two aisles over,” she suggested. “The man
there might have heard about your dad.”
“But you said I shouldn’t go near the necros.”
The witch raised an auburn eyebrow. “I know you’re not
listening to my sage advice, so I might as wel steer you in
the right direction.”
“And if that guy doesn’t know anything?”
“Then work through the summoners who were hounding you
at the cemetery. Minus Ozymandias. Do not go near that
man, do you understand?”
“Got it.”
“Real y got it or just saying that to make me happy?” the
witch pressed.
“Don’t know yet.”
Ayden rol ed her eyes, then reached for something on the
counter. After giving Riley another hug, she handed her a
smal plastic bag ful of herbs. “Brew yourself a cup of tea
with this right before bed; one teaspoon should do it. It
helps clear your head and might keep you from having
nightmares. I’m thinking you need that right now.”
Riley smiled. “Thanks, Ayden, for everything.”
The witch traced something in the air between them. It
looked like a complex symbol.
“What was that?”
“Just waving away a mosquito,” Ayden replied.
In January? You are so lying.
FOUR
The Reanimate Palace, as it was cal ed, wasn’t doing
much business. Four Deaders stood in a row, staring at
nothing, a grayish tint to their wan faces. From what she’d
heard, if their bodies were treated careful y they could
remain outside the grave for almost a year.
If her dad’s body had been in pieces after his battle with the
Five, no necro would have wanted him. Instead he’d died
from a single shard of glass driven into his heart by the
demon’s windstorm. A pristine Dad meant a potential
reanimate. Her father was one of a kind: It was rare any
trapper ever made it onto the reanimate market.
Riley cocked her head, studying the four forlorn figures—
two males, two females. One of the guys was about her
age. One minute he was dead, then he was standing inside
a tent while people decided whether to buy him or not.
That so has to suck.
The government outlawed slavery in 1865; that date had
been drummed into her head by her father, the history
teacher, but the dead were another matter entirely. Recent
court cases had ruled the deceased had no civil rights, so
there was a bil in Congress to rectify that big hole in the
law. It was stal ed in committee, the victim of a wel -
financed lobbying campaign by the necromancers.
Meanwhile people like her dad were stolen out of their
graves and trafficked to those who could afford to buy them.
Riley took a deep breath to calm her nerves and walked
into the tent. The salesman immediately moved forward
with oily ease.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?” he asked. It sounded like
he sold bootleg designer purses. Anything but dead
people.
“My dad was reanimated last night, and I need to know who
did it.”
“The summoner should have left a notice at the gravesite, if
it was a legal reanimation.”
“It wasn’t,” she said. “I didn’t give anyone permission to do
that.”
“Ah…” the fel ow said, moving back behind a folding table
that served as a makeshift desk. He riffled through a stack
of cards and then offered her one.
“Contact this guy. He’s the summoner’s ombudsman in
Atlanta. He handles al complaints about ripped-off
corpses.”
The card was familiar. A number of them had been left just
outside the circle that once protected her father’s grave. Of
the necromancers she’d encountered, Mortimer Alexander
had been the nicest, always polite. He’d claimed he
wouldn’t reanimate a corpse without the family’s
permission. If that was true, then he’d be her best bet to find
her dad.
Riley studied the address on the card. “Little Five Points?”
The sales dude grunted. “Necros like it there. They say it
has a kind of magical vortex or something.”
“Is there?”
The guy shrugged. “If Mort can’t help you…” He handed
over another card.
GONE MISSING DETECTIVE AGENCY. YOU LOST ’EM,
WE FIND ’EM.
“They charge for this?” she asked dubiously.
“Sure. There’s always money to be made in death,” the guy
remarked.
Riley hurried out of the tent before she hit him.
* * *
Ori followed the girl’s movement through the market from
his position near the five fountains. After they’d talked, Riley
had gone to the witches’ tent, where she met someone who
apparently was a friend, given the intensity of their greeting.
Then they’d moved to the tent that served drinks. Now she
was speaking with someone at the tent where they sold
corpses. Others might not see it, but he could tel she was
hurting, both inside and out. That wasn’t a surprise after the
death of her father and last night’s battle.
“Too close,” he muttered. By the time he had realized what
was happening at the Tabernacle, he’d almost lost her to
the demon. “Won’t happen again.” He would be fol owing
her from this point on. It was only a matter of time before the
Five came after her, and he’d be waiting. At least her
boyfriend was out of the way for the moment.
One less complication.
Ori scratched his chin in confusion. Higher-level Hel spawn
were always on the lookout for souls to harvest.
Why hadn’t the demon made her a deal—her life for her
soul? Then the fiend could use that valuable bargaining
chip to buy favor with others of its kind. That was how Hel
operated—an endless line of favors owed al the way up to
the Prince of Hel himself.
Riley was on the move again. Ori tracked her to her car and
watched as she pul ed away. No sign of the Geo-Fiend.
Sometimes he couldn’t get a break if he tried.
* * *
Riley’s hope that she could zip into the hospital, spend
some time with Simon, and then retreat without anyone else
seeing her was just not in the cards. Her father had once
remarked that after every disaster there is a time of
reckoning. After the smoke clears and the bodies are toted
off, the survivors and their families need time to come to
terms with what has happened. Put things into perspective.
Since Riley was one of the survivors, her boyfriend’s family
wanted to hear her story. Before she realized what was
happening, she was shepherded into a private waiting
room set aside for the Adler family. There were ten of them,
and they al looked like Simon—lanky and blond.
Someone whispered, “She’s a demon trapper?”
Riley was getting used to that. It came with the territory.
Simon’s parents didn’t rise from their seats; their faces
were pale and lined. They appeared more exhausted than
when she’d met them this morning. The others settled in
around the couple, talking quietly among themselves and
shooting furtive glances at Riley. One of the women carried
a sleeping infant. In the midst of the group was a toddler
who wandered from person to person showing them his
stuffed dog. It had big blue eyes, just like the little boy. As
he made his rounds, he received lots of hugs and kisses.
I could so use a hug right now. Ayden’s had worn off.
When the little one stopped in front of her, Riley smiled and
touched his blond hair fondly. “He looks so much like
Simon,” she said.
“Just like him when he was little,” a young woman replied. It
was Amy, one of Simon’s sisters. “He used to drive me
crazy fol owing me al over the house.” She had her hand
placed protectively over a noticeable baby bump that
pushed against her blue knit top.
“Come here, son,” the child’s mother urged. The toddler
wandered in her direction, babbling and waving his little toy.
Mrs. Adler stirred. She had a kind face. “When Simon first
mentioned a trapper named Riley, I thought you were a boy.
You look so young to be catching demons.”
“Lots of people think that,” Riley replied.
“I’m sorry about your father,” the woman added. “You must
miss him deeply.”
Riley could only nod. She took a long sip of water from a
plastic cup. She didn’t remember where she’d gotten it, but
there it was. The Adlers didn’t press her for answers as she
organized her thoughts.
How do I tell them that everything went wrong? That the
demons weren’t supposed to get across the line of Holy
Water. That they had coordinated their attack like an army.
Just get it done.
“Ah … we didn’t see it coming,” she began.
Simon’s father leaned forward in his chair, brows furrowed.
“Simon and I met before the meeting. He’d just put down
the ward, you know, the Holy Water circle we do to protect
ourselves from the demons. Then we went outside for a
while.” And that was about as much as she could say about
that. It’d been his idea to go around the back of the
building. His idea for them to kiss and hold each other
close and talk about the future. She remembered how good
that had felt, how she’d never wanted it to end.
“Riley?” Mr. Adler prodded.
“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “We went back inside for
the Guild meeting.” Riley hesitated. This was where she’d
told the trappers about the Holy Water, how some of it was
counterfeit. The Adlers didn’t need to know that. “The
demons just appeared out of nowhere.”
“How did the fire start?” Simon’s father asked.
“Pyro-Fiends. There were a lot of them. They just went
crazy. It was the Threes that broke through the Holy Water
ward.”
“Threes?” Amy asked, perplexed.
“They’re…” How could she explain these things? They were
so much a part of her world now. “They’re Grade Three
demons. They’re about four feet tal ,” she said, indicating
their height, “and al teeth and claws. They eat …
everything.”
There were gasps around her.
“That’s what hurt my son?” the man asked, his voice edged
with a quaver.
She nodded. “They broke through the ward, and one of
them got between us. Simon shouted for me to run, and it
went for him. If he hadn’t said anything…”
It would have come for me instead.
That would have been okay. Better than watching the thing
tear into him like a big cat, shredding and clawing, Simon’s
blood spraying into the air in a fine red mist.
She shuddered at the memory, the cup shaking in her hand.
“I hit it with a chair and then one of the trappers carried
Simon outside.”
Which wasn’t al that had happened. She wasn’t tel ing them
about the others—the ones that were burned or torn to
pieces. Ethan, Morton, Col ins … so many.
Mr. Adler touched her hand gently, jarring her out of her
dark thoughts. Riley looked into the eyes of her boyfriend’s
father. Simon would look like this in thirty years or so. He
would age wel , as long as he stayed alive long enough to
do it.
“It is not your fault,” he said softly.
Wish I could believe that.
“The Guild’s doctor said someone treated my son’s
wounds with Holy Water and that’s why they’re not infected,”
his mother said. “The surgeons sewed up al the damage,
and from what we’ve been told, he’s healing real y quickly.”
“Holy Water does that.” Providing the wound was caused
by one of Hel ’s fiends.
“They don’t know what to make of the fact that his brain is
working again,” his mother continued. “Father Harrison said
it was a miracle.”
That’s the truth. Her boyfriend’s family would be making
funeral arrangements if Riley hadn’t agreed to Heaven’s
terms.
“He was so brave last night.” Riley’s heart swel ed at the
memory. “He didn’t back down at al .”
“Sounds like our son,” his dad said, smiling faintly at his
wife, a glint of tears in his tired eyes.
“He’s a real y nice guy,” Riley said, then felt foolish. They
knew that.
“He likes you a lot,” his dad replied. “He smiles whenever
he says your name.”
Riley didn’t reply. If she said anything more, she’d start to
cry, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop. The energetic
toddler wandered over again. He patted her knee with a
chubby hand.
Riley bent and hugged him, feeling his warm breath on her
shoulder. The tears came anyway. Then she got hugs from
every member of Simon’s family. Al of them said they were
praying for her.
Like I’m one of them.
* * *
Simon’s hospital room was less crowded with equipment
than it had been this morning. The machine that had helped
him breathe was gone, and in its place was the soft hiss of
oxygen.
Her boyfriend’s wavy blond hair held flecks of dried blood.
His gorgeous blue eyes were closed, and he was breathing
deeply, just like the night he’d fal en asleep at the
graveyard. The same night he’d held her as she wept for
her dead father.
Would Heaven have let him die if I’d said no?
There was a slight moan from the bed. Both of Simon’s
hands and arms were bandaged, and the image of him
trying to fend off the demon’s slicing claws returned before
she could block it.
Riley careful y took one of his hands in hers. Simon
painstakingly pried his eyes open.
“Hey there,” she said. His gaze final y settled on her face,
and he gave her a bewildered look.
“Water?” he croaked.
Riley hunted around until she found a glass of ice on the
bedside table. She remembered this from when her mom
was sick, and after fumbling with the electronic controls to
help him sit upright, she gingerly placed a piece into his
mouth. He sucked on it, but his bloodshot eyes never left
her. After three more pieces, he pushed the spoon away
and she returned the cup to the table.
“Riley,” he whispered.
“You scared me, guy. You can’t do that again,” she said,
smoothing back a lock of hair. It refused to stay in place.
Dried blood wasn’t a great styling product.
“You’re alive,” he said. It sounded like he hadn’t been
entirely sure on that point.
“Because of you,” she said.
“No.” Then he grimaced, extracted his hand from hers, and
slowly pul ed down the blanket. It was hard going, what with
the thick bandages. He wasn’t wearing a gown, but a pair
of drawstring pants. Riley barely suppressed the gasp
—his chest and stomach were covered in a patchwork of
bandages.
“Itches,” he said, wincing, careful y scratching near the
edge of a piece of adhesive tape.
“Tel me about it,” she said, pasting a false grin on her face.
Her demon-clawed thigh stil demanded a lot of lotion to
keep it from driving her nuts. “It means you’re healing.”
It hurt so much to see him like this. He’d be marked for life.
Like me.
“You kil ed that demon,” he said simply, letting his arms fal
on the bed as if the scratching had depleted his energy.
“You saved my life.”
“I didn’t like seeing my guy getting chewed on.”
Simon shivered in memory. “Its claws burned like fire,”
he said, not looking at her now. “I thought it was going to…”
His voice trailed off.
You thought it would eat you alive. Like the Three that had
attacked her a few weeks back. She stil had nightmares
about that, stil felt its claws imbedded in her thigh and its
rancid breath in her face.
Riley gently squeezed his hand again, waiting for the
questions that were sure to come.
“How many…?” he whispered.
He’ll have to know eventually. “Thirteen that we know of.
There’re probably more in the rubble they haven’t found yet.
Another four are in bad shape.”
“Who died?”
“Simon, I—”
“Who?” he demanded, his attention returning to her.
Riley gave him the names, and with each his face grew
more solemn. He closed his eyes when she told him about
Ethan, one of their fel ow apprentices.
“He was so happy,” Simon whispered.
Ethan had a reason to be happy. He and his fiancée were
looking for an apartment and were planning a wedding
sometime in the summer.
Now he was dead.
“Who else?” Simon asked, his voice so quiet she almost
“Who else?” Simon asked, his voice so quiet she almost
didn’t hear it.
“That’s it. Both of the masters are hurt: Stewart has a
concussion, and Harper’s got a couple of cracked ribs.”
Silence. Not the good kind.
She offered him more ice and he took it. Once it was gone,
he sucked in a thick breath. “I must have put down the Holy
Water wrong.”
“No way. You did it perfectly. The demons shouldn’t have
gotten through.”
But they had. It was a good bet he would carry that
horrendous guilt forever, no matter who said he wasn’t to
blame. Simon would always second-guess himself.
More silence. She held his hand, knowing he needed to
think things through.
Eventual y Simon closed his eyes, and she took that as a
hint he wanted to be alone. After a kiss on his forehead,
she whispered, “You get better. You hear?” No reply.
When she reached the door Riley paused and looked back
at him. A single glistening tear rol ed down his pale cheek.
It was a match to her own.
FIVE
When he was young, Beck had spent time in the high
school principal’s office, hauled in for swearing, roughing
up bul ies, threatening teachers, and vandalizing a
skinhead’s truck. Same dril in the Army, though most of the
time that had been on account of his drinking. Even now, at
twenty-two, he knew what it was like to be cal ed to account
for his sins. That’s what this felt like.
As they waded through the throng of newshounds outside
Atlanta City Hal , he shot a look at Stewart. From the
expression on the master’s face, he could see the man
agreed. They were going to be held responsible for this
disaster.
Reporters churned around them, shooting questions at
them like bul ets. As the pair made their way toward the
massive building that housed Atlanta’s civil administration,
Beck did his best to clear the path in front of Stewart,
knowing the master’s leg was troubling him. Truth was, his
was just as bad, but at least he had age on his side.
Once they reached the top of the stairs, they turned as one
and were greeted with an amazing sight: Mitchel Street
awash with satel ite trucks, their masts high in the air like
overzealous daisies. Across the street, in the park, the
police had formed a viewing area for the curious citizens of
Atlanta. Signs were everywhere. “Prepare to Meet Your
Maker!” one said in bright red lettering. Others cited Bible
verses. Then there was the Demons Have Rights group
with fake horns on their heads. They even carried plastic
pitchforks and wore pointed tails. That bunch was
separated from the rest, probably to keep them from
getting beaten up.
“So what ya seein’ here?” Stewart asked.
“A whole lot of crazy people,” Beck replied sourly.
“A few, maybe. Frightened people do stupid things, lad.
Keep that in mind in the days ta come.”
Beck didn’t reply. He knew the old trapper was right. As
long as the Guild stood between the dark scary things and
the public, the good folks of Atlanta had been okay with
that. Now it looked like the trappers were losing the battle,
and that scared their fel ow citizens out of their minds. Hell,
it even frightens me.
Beck caught a glimpse of flaming red hair bil owing around
a woman’s shoulders, stirred to life by a light breeze. She
wore a chocolate-brown pantsuit and stood near a news
van. From this distance it was hard to tel the color of her
eyes, but he’d bet they were vivid green to match her
blouse. She stood out like a fiery beacon in the midst of a
monotone crowd.
There was a nervous cough from behind them. It came from
an earnest young man in a suit. “Sirs?” he said. “If you
would fol ow me. The council is ready.”
Stewart waved their escort forward. “‘Lay on Macduff, and
damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’”
“What?” the young flunky asked, bewildered.
“Never mind, lad. Show us the way, wil ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
As they walked into the building Beck wondered aloud how
the solid metal doors had remained in place. “These must
be worth a fortune.”
“The last three fel ows who tried ta steal them were given a
one-way trip ta Demon Central,” Stewart explained.
“Word gets ’round.”
They kept walking, which only made Beck’s leg throb.
They were shepherded into one of the smal er meeting
rooms. It wasn’t fancy, nothing more than a long table and a
few padded armchairs for the council and folding chairs for
the audience. The master trapper sank into a chair near the
front, his forehead sweaty.
“Ya okay?” Beck asked, worried.
“Nothin’ that a little whisky won’t cure,” the man replied
gamely. Stewart’s eyes met his. “Ya keep that temper on a
leash, ya hear?”
That was going to be difficult. Beck was dog tired, he had a
raging headache, and his body ached like he’d been in a
mosh pit. With demons. Keep it cool, a voice said inside
his head. It was Paul’s voice, guiding him like he had since
Beck was sixteen.
Ezekiel Montgomery, the mayor of Atlanta, entered from a
side door. The politician sported a noticeable paunch and
was accompanied by a few council members, a couple of
assistants, and a pair of Atlanta cops. The officers
positioned themselves on either side of the long table,
facing toward the audience like they expected trouble.
“They brought backup,” Beck murmured. He heard a snort
from his companion.
“This isn’t al of ’em,” Stewart observed. “The council
president is missin’. I wonder why the others aren’t here.”
As the council settled themselves, Beck took a seat next to
the master and waited, drumming his fingers on his knee to
work off some of his tension. When he brushed a hand over
his forehead, it came away wet. He wanted to peel off his
leather jacket, but then everyone would see the sweat rings
and how his shirt clung to him because of the fever.
He’d changed clothes before this meeting, taking care to
tightly bandage his left thigh in an effort to keep the jeans
clean. The way the leg throbbed, he suspected the
bandage was a waste of time.
God, I feel like crap. At least in another twenty-four hours
he’d be better. Until then, he just had to tough it out.
“Which one of you is Harper?” the mayor asked without
looking up from the paperwork in front of him.
Stewart cleared his throat. “He’s out with an injury. I’m
Master Trapper Angus Stewart. I’m empowered ta speak
for the Guild.”
“Could you stand when you talk?” the mayor asked. “It
makes it easier for us.”
“But not for me,” the Scotsman said, remaining in his chair.
“Tel ’em why, lad.”
Beck pul ed himself to his feet. “Ah, what Master Stewart
means is that he’s injured. It’s best he sit.”
The mayor frowned, then gave a curt nod. Beck’s attention
moved to the young man right behind Montgomery. He
looked like any other young political assistant, but
something about him felt off. The guy wouldn’t meet his
eyes but kept his ful attention on his boss.
“So who are you?” the mayor asked, scrutinizing Beck like
he’d just discovered him breaking into his house.
“I’m Denver Beck. I’m a journeyman trapper.”
“Mr. Buck,” the mayor began, “we offer our condolences for
the losses the Guild has incurred.”
That’s just fancy talk for “As long as it isn’t my ass that’s
hurtin’, I’m good with it.”
“The name’s Beck,” he said. Grudgingly he added,
“Thank you.”
The councilwoman sitting three seats down from the mayor
issued a faint smile. She was African American, with
caramel skin and bright eyes. There was no nameplate in
front of her, so Beck had no idea who she was.
“I want to know what you intend to do about these demons,”
Montgomery demanded.
Beck looked over Stewart, who waved him on. Why am I
doin’ all the talkin’?
“Master Harper cal ed the National Guild, and they’re
sendin’ us another master so we can train new
apprentices.”
“How does that solve the immediate problem?” the
councilwoman asked.
“It doesn’t,” Beck admitted. “We’ve put out a cal for other
trappers to move to Atlanta for the time bein’.”
“How many were in the Guild to start with?” the
councilwoman asked.
Beck gave Stewart a quick look, and the master whispered
the answer.
“Fifty-six,” Beck said, feeling like a talking puppet. “Not al
are active. Right now we have about twenty trappers who
can work.” He’d never felt so out of place in his life. What
did he know about al this political stuff? He hadn’t even
voted in the last election.
“What about the demon hunters? Why can’t we have them
take care of this?” a balding councilman asked.
Stewart final y spoke up. “I talked with the Archbishop about
that this mornin’. The Church’s position is that we can
handle it.”
The mayor’s assistant leaned forward and whispered in
Montgomery’s ear. The mayor shook his head, causing the
man to repeat whatever he’d said. This time there was a
nod.
“I must respectful y disagree with the Archbishop,”
Montgomery replied. “The governor has been in touch with
the Vatican, and they’ve offered to send a team of demon
hunters to Atlanta. I think we should move forward on that
offer.”
The muscles in Beck’s jaw tensed, causing him to weigh
his words careful y. “I’m sure the big boys are good at what
they do, but they don’t know Atlanta or her demons. Our
fiends aren’t the same as the ones in New York City or L.A.
… or Rome for that matter.”
“So you’re saying that your knowledge of the city wil be
better for this situation than the Vatican’s expertise?” the
councilwoman asked.
The lady was feeding him the right questions, and Beck
loved her for it. “Yes, ma’am. We got ambushed last night,
and that won’t happen again.”
“If last night was an example of how the trappers work,
we’re in deep trouble,” the mayor insisted.
One of the other council members nodded. “I agree. We
should request the hunters come to Atlanta. They’l get the
job done.”
“The trappers have dealt with our demon issues for as long
as the city has existed,” the councilwoman protested.
“Bringing in an outside force wil only make things worse.
The hunters aren’t locals, and they don’t have to answer to
anyone but the Church.”
“We need to get this behind us,” Montgomery replied.
“We’ve got major industries looking at moving to this city.
Unless we get this settled as quickly as possible, those
opportunities are going to dry up.” The mayor began to
shuffle papers in front of him, clearly agitated. “We’re
having this problem because of the Guild. The trappers had
their chance and they blew it. We need professionals, not
amateurs.”
Stewart’s face turned blood red at the grave insult. His
mouth opened, but no words came out. Beck was sure the
man was going to have a stroke.
After a quick motion, which was seconded, the vote went in
favor of the demon hunters. Only one nay vote was cast:
The councilwoman had held to her principles.
“Motion passed.” The mayor gaveled the meeting to a
close and then rose from his seat. “Go bury your dead and
cal it a day, gentlemen,” he said. Behind him, his assistant
wore a sly smile, like he’d just won a major victory.
Beck’s temper burst out of its restraints. He took a step
forward, his fists clenched, but he was immediately blocked
by the cops, hands on their firearms.
“Don’t, lad,” Stewart said from behind him. “Give it up.
They’re not listenin’.”
* * *
Once they’d waded through the crowds and were inside the
truck, the master produced a silver flask from a pocket and
took a long swig. He offered it to Beck, who did the same.
The whisky burned his raw throat as it went down. “Thanks,”
Beck said, and handed the flask back. As he pul ed away
from the curb, he asked, “Why did ya let me do al the
talkin’? I’m just a journeyman.”
The old trapper took another swig of his flask, then
smacked his lips. “… Who’l be a master someday. Ya
might as wel learn the ropes now. It’s not gonna get any
easier, that’s for damned sure.”
“But I’m not…” what ya think I am.
Stewart glared at him. “Paul Blackthorne only trained the
best. Ya wouldn’t want ta be insultin’ his memory now,
would ya?”
The master had him by the throat: No way Beck could diss
his friend. “No, sir.”
“Good. First thing, take me home. I need sleep. Pick me up
about eight tonight, and we’l go ta Harper’s. We need ta
find a new meetin’ place, start the insurance paperwork, al
that.”
“But if the hunters are comin’ to Atlanta…”
“Al the more reason ta get our own house in order.”
SIX
Oakland Cemetery. It was the last place Riley wanted to be,
but here she was, trudging along the asphalt road that led
into the boneyard. The cemetery sat east of the city and
had been there since the mid-1800s. Since the Victorians
had a thing about graveyards and designed them like
parks, Oakland was known for its massive magnolia trees
and stately mausoleums.
Over the last couple of weeks Riley had spent almost every
evening here, safely tucked inside a sanctified circle of
Holy Water and candles, guarding her father’s grave from
the necromancers. As long as the circle had remained
intact, no one could have touched him. Once the moon was
ful , he’d have been safe from any summoning spel .
But he never made it to the full moon.
“I should have been here,” she grumbled, her breath puffing
out in a thin white stream as she tromped deeper into the
graveyard. Nothing would have scared her into breaking
that circle.
She turned left onto the road toward her family’s patch of
ground. The air was stil at the moment, the moonlight
draped across the ancient gravestones like thin silver icing.
Beneath each of those stones was someone who’d lived in
this city, walked its streets. Now al they had was a bit of red
clay to cal their own.
Back when the Blackthornes had money—one of her
relatives in the 1880s was a banker—they’d constructed
the family mausoleum. It was one of the finest in the
cemetery. Sitting on an island between two roads, it was
built of red stone, so solid it had withstood a tornado. In true
Victorian fashion the builders had real y pimped out the
place—heavy bronze doors, stained-glass windows, and
lurking gargoyles on the roof.
Now Riley thought of the mausoleum in terms of hours and
hours of sitting vigil for her father. Of last night with Beck
after the trappers had been kil ed. She’d fal en asleep
inside the building, nestled in his arms, safe on holy ground.
She didn’t think he’d ever closed his eyes. He’d smel ed of
smoke and blood and righteous anger. Denver Beck was a
stick of dynamite waiting for a match, and she hoped she
wasn’t anywhere near when he exploded.
Riley halted in front of the mausoleum and peered up at the
gargoyles. Their bizarre lion faces glowered down at her as
if she were an intruder. They had always creeped her out.
Since the building was ful of dead relatives, her parents’
graves were on the west side looking toward the state
capitol dome. Though it hurt too much to think about, Riley
knelt in front of her father’s grave. It was stil a mess, like a
giant mole had dug itself out, mounding dirt on either side
in its frantic effort to escape. The damaged coffin was
gone. Apparently the cemetery people had taken it away.
She took a deep breath, feeling the cold saturate her lungs,
causing her to cough. Her mouth stil tasted of soot.
Blinking to clear the tears, she whispered, “Sorry, Dad. It
wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He was supposed to be alive, teaching her how to be a
trapper, laughing at her jokes and taking her out for pizza.
Cal ing her a sleepyhead when she woke up late. Being
there for her. Now there was just an empty hole in the
ground that matched the one in her heart.
Riley remained silent for a time, pul ing memories from the
corners of her mind like someone might detangle yarn.
She never wanted to forget her father’s gentle voice, his
face, how his hair refused to behave. As long as she held
those memories close, he wasn’t real y gone.
Then she began to talk to him. Though his body was
missing, maybe somewhere his spirit would hear her. It
wasn’t like she hadn’t been close to her mom, but her father
had been a trapper, so she told him what had happened
over the last twenty-four hours. She knew he couldn’t
answer, but somehow the talking seemed to help.
“I saw some of them die,” she said, shuddering. “Beck’s
okay but pretty beaten up. Simon’s—” Her voice caught.
“He’s going to make it, but only because, wel … just
because.”
There was a sigh of wind in the trees around her, like her
father had heard her and was offering his sympathy. His
calm voice floated through her mind. It’ll be okay.
When she was a child she’d believed him. Not anymore.
Once she’d talked herself out, Riley rose, dusted off her
knees, and headed back down the road to the Bel Tower,
where the cemetery had its office and gift shop. She would
wait there for the volunteer who’d failed her and her father
so spectacularly.
Boredom quickly took hold, and she dialed her best friend.
She didn’t have many friends, at least none like Peter. He
was more like a big brother than a buddy.
Unfortunately, the last time they’d talked they hadn’t parted
on good terms.
“Hel o?” her friend asked, his voice hesitant.
She’d forgotten she was using her dad’s phone and he
wouldn’t know the number.
“Hi Peter. It’s me.”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“The cemetery.”
“Stil grave-sitting?”
Peter didn’t know. They’d last spoken when she was at
Beck’s place the morning after the Tabernacle fire. Upset
that she’d nearly gotten herself kil ed, Peter had hung up on
her and she’d never had a chance to tel him about her dad.
“No, I’m done with that.” Then she told him why.
“That bites. You go to al that work and…” He swore into the
phone. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”
“Yeah, it sucks. I’m trying to find him but none of the necros
are talking.”
More silence on the other end of the phone.
“So what’s up with you?” she said, hoping to spark more of
a conversation.
“Not much. It’s tense here right now. I real y should go.”
“Ah, okay. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”
“Sure. That’l work.” He hung up.
Was he upset because of her nearly dying at the
Tabernacle or was it something else? No way she would
know unless he was wil ing to talk, which didn’t seem to be
the case. She shelved that away as another potential
problem.
A quarter of an hour later—Riley kept checking her watch
every few minutes—the cemetery dude arrived. He was
younger than she’d expected, about twenty-five, and wore
glasses. His heavy coat hung off a thin frame. He moved up
the road like someone who’d been viciously mugged and
expected to be a victim again.
This was the volunteer who’d failed to keep her father safe.
Last night she could have happily thrown him to a demon,
and tonight wasn’t much better. Stil , she’d almost broken
the circle twice herself, only catching Ozymandias’s clever
ruses at the last moment.
The guy stopped a good ten feet from where she was
sitting on the steps that led to the cemetery office. It was
easy to see the look of devastation on his ruddy face. He
was a walking apology. They stared at each other for a
time, neither wil ing to speak first. At any little noise, he
jumped, casting a worried glance in the direction of the
sound. What had it taken for him to come here tonight?
This was too painful. “Tel me what happened,” she said.
He winced. “I … did everything like I was supposed to.”
Oh, God. He sounded just like her after the disaster at the
law library. She’d used those exact words when Beck had
demanded an explanation.
The volunteer kept fidgeting, and final y she beckoned him
to sit next to her on the stairs. He did so with great
reluctance, as if it were physical y painful to be anywhere
near her.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Richard.”
“I’m Riley,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. This was
hel for her, and it couldn’t be any different for him. “Tel me
what happened.”
He sighed and adjusted his leather gloves before
answering. “I set the circle like I always do. No problems.
Necros came and necros went and—”
“Which ones?” That could be important.
He pondered on the question. “Mortimer and that guy who
dresses al flashy. I think his name is Lenny.”
“Anyone else?”
He shook his head. “I was reading a book, and then the
wind picked up. I ignored it. That happens sometimes, and
usual y it’s a summoner playing with my head. Then the
ground in front of the circle began to glow like it was a pool
of lava. It was a real strange red and gold.”
“And?”
“Then it blasted out of the dirt like a rocket,” he said,
throwing his arms out like an explosion.
“It? You mean the dragon?”
“Yeah. I’ve always been afraid of them ever since I was
little. My parents bought me a stuffed one because they
thought it was cute. I was sure it was going to eat me, so I
hid it in the back of the closet.”
She’d expected him to blame someone else, but this guy
was taking it al on his shoulders.
“Did you tel anyone that you were afraid of dragons, I mean
like one of the necros?” she asked. Maybe that might give
her a clue.
“No,” Richard replied. “It’s not something you go around tel
ing people.”
He had a point.
“What did it look like?”
He rubbed his face, his fingers making a scratchy noise on
the stubble around his chin.
“It was huge, at least twenty feet tal . It had these thick
mirrored scales that changed color when it moved. I could
see al the candle flames in them. It was real y eerie.”
“It didn’t fly into the graveyard,” she said, more to herself
than him. Like you’d think a dragon would.
“No. It came right out of the ground. You should have seen
its claws. They had to be at least three feet long. It kept
staring at me, hissing. I could hear it in my mind, tel ing me
to break the circle or it’d roast me alive.”
“And you did?” she asked, working to keep her anger out of
her voice.
“No!” Richard retorted, shaking his head instantly. “I closed
my eyes and tried to think of anything else but that damned
thing.”
“So how did the circle get broken?”
“When I didn’t do what it wanted, it leaned back on it rear
legs and roared,” he said. “I saw tombstones shatter, and
the roof exploded off the mausoleum. Then this wal of flame
came right toward me.”
Richard was shaking at this point, so Riley hesitantly put a
hand on his arm. It seemed to comfort him.
There was no evidence of destruction near the mausoleum.
“Al il usion,” she said.
Richard took a deep breath and then pushed on. “When the
flames hit the circle, the candles began to rock. It got so hot
I thought I was being baked alive. I dove under a blanket
and tried to hide, but somehow I must have kicked over one
of the candles.”
Once the circle was broken nothing kept the necromancer
from summoning her father.
“What was it like when my dad…” she began, tucking her
hands into her lap.
Richard looked over at her. “The dirt flew everywhere, and
there was the crack of wood. I think it was the coffin lid.
Then your dad just rose out of the ground. I tried to stop
him, but he shook his head and pushed me away.”
“Did he … say anything?”
“Yes, and that was really creepy. Your father walked up to
the dragon, stared at it, and said, ‘It just had to be you.’”
Richard swal owed hard. “Then the thing just vanished,
taking your father with it.”
“But you never saw the necromancer?”
“No.”
“How about a swirling bunch of leaves?” That was
Ozymandias’s favorite disguise.
“No.”
Richard was no longer shaking, as if tel ing the story had
somehow exorcised a portion of his fear.
“I’m real y sorry,” he said. “I feel real y bad about this. If I
hadn’t been so frightened…”
She could blame this guy for everything or let it go.
Hating on him for the rest of her life wasn’t going to help.
Wel , maybe just a little hating, but he didn’t need to know
that.
“I understand. I almost fel for the ‘Let’s sacrifice a kitten’
trick.”
At his puzzled look, Riley explained Ozymandias’s bril iant
scheme, how he’d threatened to cut a kitten’s throat if she
didn’t break the circle. Luckily the cat wasn’t real, nothing
more than a bit of his dark magic.
“Wow. I’ve heard about him. You think he’s the one who
took your dad?”
“Maybe.”
Silence fel between them for a time. Final y Richard
cleared his throat and rose. “Thanks for listening. I was
afraid you’d be too angry to talk to me.”
“You did what you could.”
The young man shook his head. “Al I did was let your dad’s
body be stolen. I don’t deserve your gratitude.”
He slumped down the road. Riley watched him until he took
the turn toward the entrance. She wondered if he’d guard
anyone else’s grave or whether Paul Blackthorne had been
his last gig.
“It just had to be you.” Her father had known who had
summoned him. Was it Ozymandias?
“Doesn’t feel right,” she said. Ozy would want her to make
the mistake, not a cemetery volunteer. So he could gloat.
Her phone rang deep inside her messenger bag. She was
tempted to ignore it, but it might be Amy giving her an
update on Simon. It was Beck. She groaned.
“Ya on hal owed ground?” he asked without bothering to
say hel o.
“Yes.” She was, though she wouldn’t be once she crossed
under the cemetery archway.
“Stay there.” It wasn’t a request.
“You know, I’m glad I never had brothers.”
“Why?” he asked, clearly puzzled.
“If they’d been like you I’d have run away from home.”
“Go ahead. Just make sure it’s to Fargo,” he shot back.
Jeez, you just don’t quit. He’d been on this “Move in with yer
aunt” kick ever since he found out she had a relative in
North Dakota. It didn’t seem to matter that her aunt had
hated her dad and disliked Riley by default. Once Beck got
something into his brain, it was as immovable as a lump of
dried concrete.
Time to change the subject. “I’m sleeping in my own bed
tonight,” she announced, knowing that would set him off.
“I’m sure yer neighbors wil real y like that when they get
barbecued.”
“Huh?” He wasn’t making any sense.
“Nothin’ would keep a couple Pyros from torchin’ yer
apartment buildin’ just so that Five can get ya.”
She hadn’t thought about that. It seemed pretty far-fetched,
but fiends attacking the Tabernacle hadn’t seemed like a
possibility either.
“I want to be in my own place, Beck. I’m tired, I need a
shower, and I hurt al over.” Her dad’s things would be
around her at home. Maybe that way she wouldn’t feel so
alone.
“I hear ya, girl, but that’s not the most important thing in the
world.”
He was lecturing her again like he knew al the answers to
life’s questions.
“Good night, Beck.”
“Riley…” he said in warning.
“I got the message,” she said, hanging up.
And I’m so ignoring it.
* * *
Though she hadn’t seen anyone when she’d climbed into
her car at the cemetery, she was unnerved when a
motorcycle fel in behind her. It fol owed her until the next
intersection, then it pul ed even with her driver’s side door.
Oh, crap, now what? The motorcyclist flipped up the
helmet’s visor. Ori. He replaced the visor and fel in behind
her again once they cleared the intersection. It felt strange
having an escort, but she had to admit he total y owned that
bike. Absolute bad boy. The kind you dream about but real
y shouldn’t date because you know it would never work out.
They couldn’t have been more different—saintly Simon of
the most holy kisses, and Ori, who stirred primal emotions
she didn’t understand. Riley shook her head again. Can’t
go there. Simon’s perfect for me. And he’s al mine. Even
her dad had liked him. She suspected that wouldn’t have
been the case with the hot guy on the bike.
When Riley parked in the lot near her apartment, Ori pul ed
into a slot next to her.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” he said, walking over to her
car.
“A little. I’m not used to having guys fol ow me around.”
“I’m surprised to hear that,” he said smoothly.
Riley felt the warmth creep onto her cheeks. Luckily the
parking lot wasn’t wel lit, so he probably didn’t notice. “Just
demons fol ow me around.” How many guys could handle
that statement? Only trappers, and most of them weren’t
that cool.
“Ah, wel ,” Ori replied, “I’l just have to deal with that
problem.”
“You know, you don’t carry a duffel bag or anything. How do
you kil fiends without any weapons or Holy Water?”
He gestured toward the saddlebags. “I’ve got a few things
tucked away.”
But you don’t carry them with you all the time, not like Beck.
“So this is where you live?” he asked. It was like he’d
wanted to change the subject. He did that a lot.
Riley went along with the shift of topic. “This is it. It used to
be a hotel. Now it’s an apartment building with lots of dinky
rooms.”
Ori studied her home. “It’s got a roof and four wal s, so
that’s al you need, right?”
No. It wasn’t al she needed. There was so much more to it
than just a place to live.
Somehow her escort was closer to her now. “Sorry, I didn’t
mean to upset you,” he said softly.
She looked up into his dark eyes. “Not your fault,” she
replied, shrugging. “Just the way it is now.”
“Maybe that wil change,” he said. Ori gently brushed a
strand of hair out of her face. “In fact, I’m counting on that.”
Her cheeks heated up again. What is it with this guy?
A moment later he was rol ing out of the parking lot.
Apparently his idea of watching over her didn’t mean
camping underneath her window.
Probably a good thing. Or she might be tempted to invite
him inside.
* * *
When Riley eased open the apartment door, it creaked on
its hinges. The place felt wrong: It suffered from a severe
lack of Dad. Her father’s clothes stil hung in the closet, his
electric razor sat in the bathroom, and al his books were stil
here, but he wasn’t. That’s why it felt wrong. She’d hoped to
find solace here, but the emptiness just made it worse.
There was a solid bump at calf level, and she jumped in
surprise. The neighbor’s cat.
“Hey, Max.” She knelt to give him a scratch as he leaned
against her, purring. His front paws stood on her tennis
shoes, the claws kneading into the fabric as his whiskers
tickled her hand.
Max was a Maine coon, a solid mass of feline that weighed
in at close to twenty pounds. He was Mrs.
Litinsky’s and seemed to think Riley’s apartment was just
an extension of his owner’s.
“Sorry, you can’t come in tonight.” Normal y she’d enjoy the
company, but now al she wanted was a shower and a good
night’s sleep. Max would expect a great deal of human
fawning, and she wasn’t up to it.
After another thorough scratch under his furry chin she
managed to get through the door without him fol owing. She
heard a petulant meow from the hal way but didn’t al ow the
guilt to get to her like it usual y did.
She dropped her messenger bag on the secondhand
couch and she joined it a second later. The timer had
turned on the one light in the living room, and it il uminated
the compact space. Since the building was original y a
hotel, they’d made this apartment from parts of two
separate rooms. Between the drab beige wal s and carpet
and the jigsaw layout, the end result lacked anything
resembling coolness.
At least it’s mine as long as I keep paying the rent.
Riley pul ed herself up off the couch, yawned, and then eyed
the answering machine on the table near the old computer.
The message light was urgently blinking red.
She needed an incentive to tackle whatever lived on that
machine, so she retrieved a strawberry yogurt out of the
refrigerator.
Last one. She dutiful y added that item to the grocery list.
The three entries before hers were in her dad’s
handwriting. Her heart constricted, and she was forced to
swal ow a thick lump in her throat that had nothing to do
with the yogurt. Yet another reminder that someone she
loved used to live here.
She sank into the chair in front of the computer, pushed the
play button on the machine, then began spooning yogurt
and strawberries into her mouth. Five of the messages
were from the CDC—the Consolidated Debt Company, not
the germ people. Her father had taken out a loan to pay for
her mother’s hospital bil s, the ones the Guild insurance
policy didn’t cover. Now the CDC wanted their money back.
The first message was polite, but they became less
pleasant with each subsequent cal . By the last one the cal
er was shouting into the phone about how she had to pay
the debt she owed them and if she didn’t they’d exhume her
father and sel his body to defray their expenses. The date
on that one was yesterday morning.
“Too late for that, guys,” she said, pausing in her enjoyment
of the yogurty goodness. “Someone else beat you to it.” For
half a second Riley actual y liked the necro who’d screwed
these guys over.
The rest of the cal s didn’t require her immediate attention,
which was a blessing. The moment the yogurt was finished,
a yawn erupted.
Shower. Bed. Sleep. In that order.
But it wasn’t to be a good night. Apartment buildings
generate ambient noise, and though these sounds weren’t
any different than normal—someone on the floor above
flushing the toilet and the occasional cry of the new baby
down the hal —al of them woke her up.
“Thanks, Backwoods Boy,” she growled, using the
nickname she’d invented to describe Beck when he was
getting on her nerves. Which was most of the time. He’d
seeded the idea that the demons would come cal ing, and
now she couldn’t get that out of her mind, even with Ori
doing sentry duty. With a sigh, Riley rose and walked to her
window, pushing back the curtain. The moon glared off the
car windshields in the parking lot below, but no sign of Ori.
“Watching over me, huh?” If he was, he was invisible.
After staring at nothing for some time, she trudged back to
bed and pounded her pil ow into shape. “Maybe I should
have let Max in tonight.” He would have curled up against
her and purred her to sleep.
A slight shifting noise came from her dresser, and she
remembered why an overnight cat wouldn’t be a good idea
—her fel ow lodger. Max would destroy the apartment just
to get the thing.
More movement, or at least the faint hint of movement. “I
hear you,” she said, quietly.
The sound halted abruptly, fol owed by a minute sigh.
There were a number of things a demon trapper was
supposed to do: Riley was expected to trap fiends, keep
the proper paperwork, protect the public, and prevent Hel ’s
Minions from making a real mess of the world.
She was not supposed to be sharing an apartment with
one.
This was a Grade One Klepto-Fiend, or Magpie, as the
trappers cal ed them. He was about three inches in height,
with brown skin and dressed like a ninja. He even carried a
little bag like a cat burglar. He wasn’t dangerous, just prone
to ripping off shiny items such as bright pennies or pieces
of jewelry. Sometimes she’d find them in bizarre places in
her apartment, like in the silverware drawer. Often they’d be
stuff that wasn’t hers.
Riley had trapped and sold this fiend to a demon trafficker
but it had promptly returned, like one of those missing dogs
you read about in the paper, the ones who travel hundreds
of miles just to find its owner. Not that she owned this fiend.
He was definitely one of Lucifer’s critters.
She wasn’t even sure if it was a “he” but as she saw it, girl
demons probably dressed nicer.
Riley rol ed over, thumped her pil ow, and tried to shut down
her mind. Instead she heard a teeny voice, the demon
talking to himself. Probably counting his stash of goodies.
At least you don’t start fires.
And with that in mind, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
SEVEN
Morning felt as cruel as a dul knife slicing across her throat.
To Riley’s annoyance her head ached as much as her
body, like she’d overdone it with some of Ayden’s highly
potent witchy wine. Every little noise had made her think of
crackling flames and the taunting cackles of the Pyros. As a
result she’d slept poorly, bouts of being awake
interspersed with seriously bad dreams that had featured
fountains of blood and lots of screaming.
“I should have had Ayden’s tea,” she grumbled, but she’d
completely forgotten that remedy until this morning.
It annoyed her that Backwoods Boy might have a point: If
Hel real y wanted her dead, the fiends wouldn’t care how
many people they kil ed to get to her even if the mysterious
Ori was nearby. No way could she admit that to Beck’s
face. His flurry of unwanted advice would become an
avalanche.
Riley sat at the kitchen table, face propped up by an elbow,
watching the microwave carousel rotate her dad’s favorite
cup, the one that said STUPIDITY CAN BE HABITFORMING.
Forty more seconds and there’d be hot chocolate.
She felt miserable, partly because of the poor night’s sleep
but mostly because of the calendar. Today’s date was
circled and marked with a big D. She’d marked the
calendar that way because this was Dad Is Free day, the
day of the ful moon. After today no necromancer could
touch him.
“Yeah, that real y worked, didn’t it?” she mumbled. She
rose and turned the page to February, even though it was a
day early. Anything to keep from staring at that D.
Just as she returned to her chair and resumed the
microwave vigil, her cel phone jarred her out of her misery.
She answered it without looking at the display.
“Riley?” a gravel y voice asked.
“Good morning, Beck,” she said, not taking her eyes off the
cup. Thirty seconds. First the hot chocolate, then oatmeal.
Maybe she’d be adventurous and make toast.
“I told ya to stay at the cemetery, but ya didn’t,” he said
accusatorily. “I was outside, watchin’ yer place al night;
that’s how I know.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You sat out there in the cold?
What kind of idiot are you?
That was why Ori was nowhere to be seen. He wouldn’t
want Beck to know he was around.
“What are ya thinkin’, girl?” her cal er demanded.
“I’m thinking my hot water is almost ready and I don’t want
to talk to you anymore, not if you’re going to be a stalkery
butthead.” She hung up on him. He immediately rang back
and she ignored it.
“I’l so pay for that,” she mumbled, but right now breakfast
was the only thing she wanted to think about.
Ding!
“About time.”
As she stirred the hot chocolate mix into the cup, she
realized Beck wasn’t going to give an inch. He’d sit out
there, night after night, watching her place like a vigilant
bloodhound. If he kept it up, he’d be so tired a demon
would make a meal of him. And if he was out there, it would
make it harder for Ori to do his job.
“Ah, jeez,” she grumbled. Why was everything so much
hassle?
What she needed was a “bolt hole,” at least until Ori caught
up with that Five. Every trapper had a safe place on hal
owed ground just in case the demons went to war.
When her father had first told her about that, she’d thought it
sounded real y paranoid. After the Tabernacle, not so
much. Beck’s bolt hole was in a church, so it was heated
and had a bathroom, both of which would be a major
improvement over the Blackthorne mausoleum, her family’s
“sanctuary.” Besides, if she could find a place to stay, that
would get Backwoods Boy off her case.
“Until he comes up with something else to complain about.”
The phone rang again, but it wasn’t Beck’s name on the cal
er ID. This wasn’t someone she could blow off.
“Lass?” the Scotsman asked, his voice tight.
“Master Stewart.” Why is he calling me?
“I’m hearin’ that yer givin’ Beck a hard time. Now let’s be
clear: Ya will be on hal owed ground after sundown, til I tel
ya different.”
“But why not during the day?” The Five had come after her
in the late afternoon. Or, it might have been right after
sundown. It was easy to lose track of time inside a library.
“The beasties are stronger at night. Ya might be thinkin’
that ya might go about yer business and I’l not know if yer
fol owin’ my orders. That would be wrong.”
“Yes, sir. I’l be on hal owed ground at night.”
“Glad we got that sorted. Good day ta ya, then.” Stewart
hung up.
Riley dropped the phone on the table like it was red hot.
“Cute, Beck. Bring in the big dog,” she said, shaking her
head. “You’re such a jerk.”
A sharp series of raps came from the apartment door.
She ignored them. Mrs. Litinsky didn’t knock that loudly,
and she was the only person Riley was wil ing to see this
early in the morning. At least until the hot chocolate was
history.
“Miss Blackthorne?” a voice cal ed out. It took a moment for
her to recognize it: It was the guy from the col ection
agency.
“Go away,” she muttered under breath, continuing to stir the
hot chocolate. Almost al the little clumps were gone now. A
few more stirs and—
“Miss Blackthorne? Your car is in the parking lot so I know
you’re here.”
Wel , at least she could see what this idiot knew about her
father’s summoning.
Riley opened the door, leaving the chain lock in place.
The guy promptly wedged a highly polished shoe inside to
keep it from shutting. He wore a black suit, white shirt, gray
tie, and carried a black briefcase. His hair was so glued
down it didn’t budge when he moved. It made him look like
one of those dress-up dol s she used to play with as a kid.
He offered his card and she took it. ARCHIBALD LESTER,
CLAIMS ADJUDICATOR.
“What do you want?” she asked. Her hot chocolate was
cooling.
“I would think that would be obvious,” the man replied, an
eyebrow arched. He pul ed a sheaf of legal-size paperwork
out of his briefcase. That was never a good thing.
“If you’l just tel me where I can find your father’s body and
where the funds from his sale are located, we can get this
taken care of without any unpleasantness.”
Her sleepy fog vanished. “You think I sold my own father?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t real y matter who did the sel
ing as long as we receive the money and the asset in
question.”
“Asset?”
“Your father’s body.”
Her stomach twisted. “No way.” She tried to shut the door,
but the guy’s foot prevented that.
“You’re not helping matters, Miss Blackthorne.”
Riley jammed a finger in his direction. “Why don’t you go
find the necromancer who stole my dad and ask him for that
asset.”
“We’d rather deal with you. You don’t wield magic. If you
refuse to cooperate, I’l be forced to file a complaint with the
police.”
A giggle escaped Riley’s mouth before she realized it.
Then another. She wasn’t a giggler, but this was just too
stupid to think about. After everything that had happened,
this guy was worried about money.
The man’s face clouded. “You’re not taking this seriously,
Miss Blackthorne.”
The giggles ended abruptly. “I watched people die the other
night. Do you think I give a damn about your money?”
“You should. It’s your debt.”
“No, it’s not. I’m seventeen, so I’m not responsible for
anything my parents did. You people are total y hosed, and
you know it.”
He glowered. “Then we’l play hardbal . We’l confiscate your
father’s life insurance payment.”
Can they really do that? “Whatever,” she said. She just
didn’t care anymore.
“You’l regret this,” he cal ed out.
“The regrets line forms to the right,” she said.
The CDC guy retrieved his foot microseconds before she
slammed the door.
* * *
In Riley’s search for the Guild’s priest, the church secretary
used the words temporary and mortuary in the same
sentence and sent her to a location just west of downtown.
After a bit of hunting she located the building, a music shop
that stil had sun-faded posters in the windows announcing
the latest albums from several years back. Now it was
home to the Guild’s fal en, as no mortuary would touch a
trapper if the cause of death was demonic in origin.
Another weird superstition, as if death by demon was
somehow contagious. Apparently Father Harrison had
found a sympathetic soul who had agreed to let them use
the location until the trappers were buried.
Eight pine caskets sat in a neat row down the center of the
store, their lids closed. Each had an index card attached
with the name of the coffin’s occupant. These eight were
just the start: Not al the bodies had been identified by the
coroner yet, and others were stil buried under the rubble at
the Tabernacle. Standing near the head of the coffins was a
trapper about her father’s age. That was tradition: A
member of the Guild remained with the dead until they were
buried. It had been Simon’s choice to perform that duty for
her dad. Riley didn’t know this particular trapper’s name,
but he gave her a solemn nod, which told her the man
wasn’t an enemy. She made sure to return the gesture.
Father Harrison was attempting to comfort an older woman.
“I didn’t want him to do this,” she said in between sobs. “I
told him it’d get him kil ed.”
The man next to her, probably her husband, mumbled
something reassuring, but it didn’t seem to help. The
woman only sobbed louder. As they left the building, Riley
stepped aside to give them space.
Father Harrison joined Riley in the doorway. About thirty
with brown hair and eyes, today he appeared older, dark
circles beneath his eyes.
“Ethan’s parents,” he explained. “He was their only son.”
Riley dug for tissues as tears began to burn. The priest held
his silence until she’d pul ed herself back together.
He’d probably been doing that al day.
“I heard about your father’s reanimation,” the priest said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, I thought I had it covered.” She blew her nose one
more time, jammed the tissues in a pocket, then leaned
against the building. “You know about the Holy Water
problem?”
The priest nodded. “The Archbishop cal ed me. He said
you’d discovered the consecration dates were incorrect
and that some of the Holy Water was counterfeit.”
“I bought some from the vendor at the market and took it to
the meeting so we could test it. Some of the bottles didn’t
react right.”
“Tested? How?” Harrison asked. He, too, was leaning
against the building now.
“I put my demon claw inside the bottles.” Riley pul ed the
item out from under her shirt, al three inches of ebony
lethalness. Its former owner, a Grade Three Gastro-Fiend,
had not so kindly left it in her thigh as a souvenir when it had
tried to kil her. Beck had made it into a necklace, and now
she wore it with perverse pride.
The priest leaned closer to her, studying it intently.
“Wicked thing, isn’t it?”
“Total y,” she agreed as she tucked the talon away. “The
real Holy Water went nuts when it touched the claw. The
fake stuff didn’t do a thing. And I found out that the fake
bottles have labels that smear when they get wet, so that’s
a quick way to check them.”
Harrison swiped a hand over his face. “I’d heard rumors
that the Holy Water wasn’t working as it should, but I never
thought someone might actual y be counterfeiting it.”
“I checked the labels on the bottles Simon used for the
ward, and they were good.” There was more to it than that.
Riley lowered her eyes, not wanting to see the priest’s face
when she made her confession. “But I didn’t check what
was inside those bottles. Maybe if I had, those trappers
would stil be alive.”
She waited for the condemnation. Instead she heard a
profound sigh. “It wouldn’t have mattered, Riley,” Harrison
murmured. “It’s not your fault. There were a lot of demons in
that building, am I right?”
Her eyes rose. “They were everywhere. It was so scary.”
“Holy Water loses its potency in the presence of sustained
evil, unless it’s consecrated by the Pope.”
“So if it had just been one or two of them they might not
have gotten through?”
The priest nodded. “Even if the Holy Water Simon used
was counterfeit, he’d created a ward for the previous
meeting, and the ones before that. The effects wouldn’t
fade that fast unless there was an immensely evil presence
or al the Holy Water was bogus.”
“The trappers aren’t going to believe that. They’re going to
think he made a mistake or that I did something wrong.”
“Or that your father let them inside the ward.”
Her eyes veered upward. “He didn’t! He was trying to save
me, not kil al of us.”
“I know,” the priest said, gently touching her arm. “Your
father was an honorable man, but that doesn’t mean others
might not want to make him a scapegoat. Or you, for that
matter. You have to prepare yourself for that possibility,
Riley.”
“It’s already started,” she admitted.
“I feared as much.”
For one wild instant she felt the need to tel the priest about
her deal with Heaven. Then her eyes shifted to the trapper
standing vigil over the caskets. She didn’t dare, not with
him here. He might overhear her, and then he’d tel the
others, who’d make fun of her, accuse her of being crazy.
Master Harper might find a way to use that to force her out
of the Guild.
I don’t want Simon to know. He’d feel like he owed her
something, and that wasn’t the way she wanted their future
to play out. She’d tel Father Harrison her secret someday.
Just not today.
When Riley left a few minutes later she felt better for having
talked to the priest and she’d received his permission to
use Beck’s bolt hole at the church for her temporary living
quarters. No more cold nights in the graveyard.
One problem solved. That left countless others. On impulse,
she dug out the list she’d made at the coffee shop and
studied it. Nothing to cross off yet. The least she could do
was buy her groceries.
If Harrison was right and concentrated evil had taken out
the Holy Water ward, then neither she nor Simon had
caused the deaths of their fel ow trappers. That was a
profound relief. Simon has to know he isn’t to blame. It was
what the priest hadn’t said that weighed on her mind.
If the Holy Water isn’t strong enough, how do we stop the
demons?
EIGHT
Riley knew she should be at Harper’s place by now, but
dealing with her master rated a negative five on a scale of
one to ten. The feeling was mutual. So she’d bought
groceries, one thing off her list, and now she was savoring
a big cup of hot chocolate at the coffee shop and wasting
time by staring at nothing. If she stared hard enough she
couldn’t hear the sound of roaring flames. Or the cries of
the dying.
“Hel o?” a voice cal ed out. “Earth to Riley.”
Riley glared up at the unwelcome interruption. Her barista
friend, Simi, was clad in a criminal y short jean skirt, black
tights, and blood-red T-shirt that said PHREAKS ARE
PHUN, her hair a wild mishmash of electric blue and hot
pink. On her, it al looked good because she was a
potpourri of Irish, Native American, Lebanese, and
Chinese. Simi had never real y explained how al that global
DNA had connected, which was probably for the best.
Her friend pul ed out a chair and took a seat. Her purse, a
plush vampire bat with huge purple fangs, dropped on the
table in front of her.
“Why are you here? You’re not working today,” Riley
muttered.
“Looking for you. I think it’s time for a Simi intervention.”
Riley groaned. The last intervention had been two years
ago, right after Al an, the soon to be ex-boyfriend, had
socked her in the jaw. It’d been Simi who’d figured out how
to apply enough makeup to cover the massive bruise so
there’d be no questions from her classmates, but not so
much that Riley looked like a zombie.
“No one has hit me today,” Riley retorted. “Just go away.
I’m busy brooding, okay?”
“Not okay. You’re coming with me,” Simi said, jumping up
from her chair so fast it spooked a couple of customers
nearby. Maybe it was because the girl lived on coffee. “I’m
going to take care of your fol icular issues.”
“My hair is fine.”
“No, your hair is fried, toasted, and shriveled. It needs help.
Just like you.” Simi leaned over the table. “You know I’m
right. You don’t want your trapper boyfriend to see you like
this.”
“He already has.”
“And he’s probably praying he won’t see you like this
again.”
“I don’t want—”
But that was the problem with her friend—the world ceased
to exist until Simi got her way, which she usual y did by
sheer force of wil . Riley continued to protest as she was
pushed and tugged out of the coffee shop and onto the
street. She gave her friend the glare that always worked on
her other friends. No response. Apparently Simi was
immune, so Riley gave up.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’l see,” her friend tril ed.
As they threaded their way through the city’s streets, Simi
kept up a running conversation about the club she’d been to
the night before. Some place cal ed the Decadent
Vampire.
“Let me guess: They wear fake teeth and lurk a lot,” Riley
said, conjuring up an image of her faux-vamp classmate
who lisped and wore overly fril y shirts.
“Some. Not al . It’s a mixed crowd. I real y liked the band
last night and—” She lost track of what she’s saying,
distracted. “OMG! Hunk at two o’clock.”
Riley wasn’t in the mood, so she didn’t bother to check the
guy out. What was the point? There were more important
things to worry about than handsome guys, at least in her
world.
“He’s coming this way!” Simi said, primping a couple of her
pink dreadlocks. “Could you, like, fake a heart attack or
something so he’l stop and talk to us?”
Riley scowled at her friend. “Are you kidding? No way.”
“Come on. Just for me? He’s amazing.”
Riley final y eyed the oncoming hunk and then smiled. It was
Ori, dressed to kil . Literal y, if you were a demon. Simi is
going to be so jealous.
Actual y, her friend fel speechless when Ori stopped in front
of them, which had to be a first.
“Riley,” he said in a voice that would melt steel.
“Ori,” she said. Somehow the day felt better already.
“How’s it going?” At her side, Simi had fal en into ful -stare
mode.
“You … you know this guy?” she asked breathlessly.
“Sure. Ori and I met at the marketplace. He was trying to
buy a sword.”
“Occupational hazard. You slay dragons and you go through
a lot of swords,” he jested, turning those bottomless eyes
on Simi and playing the rogue. Actual y, it was more the
default setting with him.
“God, you’re so cute,” her friend blurted.
Riley did a mental face-palm. “Simi works at the coffee
shop. And lives on caffeine.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Ori replied politely. He didn’t seem the
least bit troubled by her friend’s adulation. “Glad to meet
you.”
“You real y slay dragons for a living?” she asked, her eyes
locked on him.
“On occasion. And rescue damsels,” he said, winking at
Riley.
For a second she thought Simi was going to tackle this guy.
As if Ori sensed the danger, he said, “I best be going.
Good to meet you, Simi. I’l see you later, Riley.” Then he
walked off, duster flowing behind him.
The barista grabbed Riley’s arm. “You have been holding
out on me, girlfriend. Give me the deets, now!”
“No details. He’s got business in Atlanta, and we see each
other every now and then.”
“See each other? Has he kissed you yet?”
What? “Pleeeze. I’m dating another guy. You think I’m a
skank or something?”
“A kiss wouldn’t hurt. I mean, you’d probably explode from
the ecstasy, but, hey, it’d be worth it. You just don’t see guys
like that very often.”
Simi was right, Ori was top-shelf material. Which meant he
wasn’t in their league.
“True, but he’s not in Atlanta for that long. Once his job is
done, he’s outta here. Simon is not going anywhere.”
Simi herded her down a side street. “Don’t be an idiot.
This Ori guy likes you, or he wouldn’t be hanging around al
the time.”
“Not going there.”
“You’re too stuffy, girl. You need to be wild every now and
then.”
“You do wild. I’l do sane.”
Luckily the conversation ended as Riley was shepherded
into a salon. The hair stylist had colors even crazier than
Simi’s, which didn’t do a thing for Riley’s confidence. But
after the shampoo, scalp massage, and deep conditioning,
she began to relax. The woman seemed to know what she
was doing, deftly removing the frizzled hair, shaping it as
she wielded the scissors.
“You are overdoing the curling iron,” she said. “I’ve never
seen hair this badly damaged.” In the mirror Riley could see
her friend gesturing frantical y, trying to derail the
conversation. The stylist kept on. “Just what are you doing
anyway?”
Before Riley could figure out a way to avoid talking about
just why she was in this state, Simi tugged on the stylist’s
arm and then drew her aside for a private talk.
When the woman returned she was repentant. “Sorry, I
didn’t know. We’l make your hair look good, and there’s no
charge.”
“But…” Riley said.
“No. I should have recognized you from the television.
Don’t worry, you’l look great when I’m finished. You deserve
that for al you’ve done for us.”
Twenty-three minutes later Riley stepped outside of the hair
salon minus the fried ends and with hair that moved,
according to the stylist. And it did. Move that is. She had
talked the stylist into a generous tip, but Simi insisted on
paying it.
“Better?” her friend asked, beaming like a sun at high noon.
She always did that when she got her way. Riley tried her
glower again, but couldn’t muster the proper level of
aggravation.
“Yes.” She had to admit the new haircut, which kept most of
the length but had cool layers, looked awesome. Even
better, her hair no longer smel ed like burnt Tabernacle.
That in itself was a blessing.
After a time, they sat on the steps in front of the Suntrust
Building, soaking up the sunshine like a pair of human solar
panels.
“You’l have to keep it trimmed or it’l look awful,” Simi
advised as she fussed with her lipstick, some deep purple
shade cal ed Nameless Sin. “You need to look hot now that
you’ve got three guys giving you the eye.”
“Three?” Apparently her friend’s math was different than
Riley’s.
Simi capped the lipstick with a click and dropped it back
into the bat bag.
“Sweet blue-eyed blond trapper,” she said, raising one
finger. Her nail polish was purple and sparkled in the
sunshine. “Muscled blond trapper number two, who buys
you cards,” she said, adding finger number two. Finger
number three rose. “And that gorgeous, ‘Where have you
been al my life?’ dude with the raven-black hair and dark
eyes.”
“You read too many romance novels,” Riley replied sourly.
“You don’t know how good you have it,” Simi countered.
“Any of those guys are great. Me, I’d go for the dark and
dangerous one. He’s smoking.”
“You would.” Simi was an on-the-edge kinda girl.
“Simon’s just fine for me, thankyouverymuch.”
“Of course. You go with safe and secure every time, but no
guy’s real y that way. Might as wel go for a wild one once in
your life.”
“Simon is right for me,” Riley argued. “Ori isn’t.” It was
pushing the envelope to even think in that direction.
“What about Beck?” Simi asked, wrinkling her brow.
“Backwoods Boy? Are you crazy? It’d be a threesome—
me, him, and his overbearing ego. Definitely doomed to
failure.”
Simi laughed, then a few seconds later her bril iant smile
faltered. She took Riley’s hand and squeezed it. “You know,
you’re doing incredible and dangerous stuff, but I don’t want
you to forget who you real y are.” She perked up. “With your
new hair, you’re going to kick demon butt and look
awesome doing it. That’s the Riley Blackthorne way.”
A lump formed in Riley’s throat. “Thanks.” They hugged,
and when they broke apart there was a film of tears in
Simi’s eyes.
“I do not want to see any more pictures of you on the
television,” her friend commanded. “Unless you’re winning
an award or something.”
“They don’t have those for demon trappers.”
“Not yet,” Simi said, hooking her arm around Riley’s.
“Now you tel me al about this babelicious blue-eyed
boyfriend of yours.…”
* * *
Like most places in Atlanta, Master Harper’s place was on
its second reincarnation. Once a car repair shop, now it
was his home, an aging single-story concrete block
building with twin overhead doors that led to what once
were the repair bays. Harper had made a few changes,
adding a smal apartment behind the original office, but it
was stil a dump that stank of old tires, grease, and demons.
No matter how Riley looked at it, her time with Master
Harper hadn’t been good. He’d hated her dad for some
unknown reason, was a drinker, and had a volatile temper.
He was too quick to strike out at his apprentices if he
thought he wasn’t getting his way, often leaving bruises.
She’d not seen him since the Tabernacle. What kind of
mood would he be in? If she was lucky, he’d be drunk and
asleep, then she could do a quick walk-through and take
off.
No such luck; Harper was awake in what had been the tire
shop’s office, perched in a ratty recliner that gave used
furniture a bad name. There wasn’t a bottle of booze at his
elbow, which had to be a first. Instead there was a bottle of
pil s that sported a thick red sticker on the side warning
against taking them with alcohol. Who knew keeping the
old guy sober would be so easy?
His usual frown was in place, along with a sheen of sweat
on his forehead, though it was cool in the room. The long
scar that ran from his left eyebrow down to the corner of his
mouth was pul ed tight like he was in pain. She kept her
distance from him: He was vicious on a good day.
The old television was on, tuned to CNN, with yet another
talking head standing in front of the smoking ruins.
They pul ed up a file shot of the body bags lined along the
street like long black cocoons.
Her master scowled up at her, hitting the mute button.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
“Bringing you food,” Riley replied, hoisting the bag of
groceries on the desk. Though you so don’t deserve it. “I
didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got what looked
good.”
When she placed a McDonald’s bag on the arm of his
chair, he glowered at it like it held a bomb. The smel must
have gotten to him because he opened the bag and
rummaged through it. The cheeseburger came out first.
“None of this adds up,” he said around a mouthful of burger.
“Demons don’t work together.” He frowned, opened up the
sandwich, and discarded the pickles into a nearby trash
can with considerable disgust. “Every fiend wants to suck
up to Lucifer. If that means shivving another demon, that’s
the way it is.” Harper’s sour expression diminished.
“You got something for me to drink?”
She dug into the grocery sack and then handed over a cold
bottle of soda, one of a six-pack. Harper twisted open the
top, and after two big gulps, he put it down. He didn’t say
another word until the burger was gone, then he started on
the fries. As he ate, Riley put away the groceries in the
smal kitchenette that shared space with his bedroom.
Harper’s bed was unmade, and from its condition it looked
like he’d done a good bit of thrashing around in it. A stack
of books sat on the floor, and the titles al had something to
do with Hel or demons. The image of Harper curled up in
his bed doing his homework just didn’t compute.
Her master fixed her with a smirk as she exited the kitchen.
She figured it was for her new hairstyle.
“You sure that Holy Water for the ward was good, not that
fake stuff?” he asked.
He hated her already, so the truth couldn’t make it any
worse. “I only checked the labels, not the Holy Water itself.
Father Harrison said it wouldn’t have made a difference,
that there were too many demons for the ward to keep them
out.”
She expected a blast of fury from her master. Instead there
was a thick huff of air.
“The priest’s right. No matter how careful Adler was putting
that stuff down, we were hosed.”
Adler. Usual y their master just cal ed him Saint because of
her boyfriend’s religious habits.
“But that don’t answer why your old man showed up,”
Harper said, eyeing her.
“He told me the demons were coming. He was trying to
save us.”
Harper’s attention momentarily flickered to the television.
“What about Adler?”
“He’s going to make it.”
Then his eyes swung back to her. “I told you to stay away
from that Geo-Fiend. Why in the hel didn’t you listen to
me?”
“It was the one who kil ed my dad.”
“Jonesing for revenge, were you?” He sneered. “You just
had to go up and introduce yourself?” He shook his head.
“Stupid move.”
That angered her. “It said it wouldn’t kil any of the others if I
gave myself up.”
Harper’s bloodshot eyes searched her face. “And you
believed the damned thing?” he chided. “God, you’re a
fool.”
“It was worth the risk,” she admitted. “After Simon…”
Harper slumped back in his chair, wincing at his cracked
ribs. “In the future, you listen to what I tel you.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled. “What do you want me to do until
you’re better?”
Her master rubbed his thick fingers over his chin stubble.
“Get yourself in here every morning. If there’re Grade Ones
to trap, you’l do ’em. If not, I’l find something to keep your
ass out of trouble.”
That she wouldn’t doubt.
“I’ve had enough of you for one day,” he said, running up the
volume on the television with the aged remote. “Get lost.”
If it were only that easy.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Beck hiked into Demon Central,
his trapping bag ful y stocked. He was eager for the hunt,
and he wasn’t too fussy about how many of the demons he
caught were stil alive when they were sold to the traffickers.
If the fiends gave him a reason, he’d kil them without
thinking twice, especial y after what went down at the
Tabernacle.
Beck knew he shouldn’t be in this part of town on his own,
but time was running out. When the demon hunters came to
Atlanta they’d kil every demon they could find, big and smal
. If he wanted to build up enough money to tide himself over
until the hunters cleared out, it was now or never.
There were two problems with his “catch as many demons
as possible” plan. First—he wasn’t in peak condition, not
with the healing leg wound. Second—no demons. He’d
usual y spot at least one or two fiends in Demon Central
during every visit, sometimes as many as five in one night.
Tonight al he’d seen was a mangy limping cat and a few
scraggly pigeons. Those were usual y scarce when the
Threes were on the prowl.
Demon Central was the trappers’ name for Five Points, a
section of south Atlanta that never got any breaks. Even the
casino they’d constructed a few years back wasn’t doing
that wel , not with the depressed economy. Time and
neglect had opened up numerous holes in Five Points’
streets and sidewalks over the old steam vents. Since the
city didn’t have the money to repair them, this area was
now home to Grade Three demons. The Gastro-Fiends
lived in the holes and ate everything they could gulp down,
even fiber optic cable. Didn’t matter if it was a stray dog, a
rat, or a trapper: If something looked like it could be eaten,
the Threes were al over it.
Beck pul ed his attention back to his surroundings:
daydreaming down here was a one-way ticket to a fiend’s
bel y. He wrinkled his nose at the stench from an
overflowing dumpster. To avoid paying the city’s exorbitant
col ection fees, people brought their trash here and
dumped it, even at the risk of becoming dinner for a
ravenous Three. The only plus was that the rotting garbage
was prime Gastro-Fiend bait.
But there were no demons to be found. At least not down
here. He’d heard scattered reports of sightings elsewhere
in the city, but they sounded like tal tales. Demons had
certain behavior patterns, and some of the stories were too
bizarre to be true, like how a Three who had broken into a
dress shop had eaten some of the mannequins, clothes
and al . Gastro-Fiends would devour anything, but they
didn’t usual y break into businesses for a quick snack.
As Beck hiked down a street littered with abandoned tires,
broken hunks of concrete, and boarded-up buildings, his
thoughts slipped to Riley. They did that a lot nowadays.
It troubled him that he hadn’t seen her today, despite his
early morning phone cal that had earned him an earful of
aggravation. He liked talking to her, even if she gave him
grief al the time. It wouldn’t hurt to cal her, would it? Check
in and see how she was doing? See if she needed any
help? That’s what Paul would expect him to do.
He wavered for a time, then flipped open his phone and
dialed. Maybe one of these days he’d feel good about
using that text thing.
“Hey, girl, how ya doin’?” he asked as soon as Riley
answered.
“I’m okay. What’s up?” Her voice sounded neutral, like she
wasn’t looking to pick a fight. Maybe they could keep it that
way.
“Wel , some of the funerals are tomorrow afternoon. I was
wonderin’ if ya could pick me up at my place and drive me
down to the cemetery. The services are at South-View.”
“Okay,” she replied. “You know how to get there?”
“Yeah.” He’d been there for another trapper’s funeral about
a year back. “Make it about one-thirty.”
Beck shifted the phone to the other ear, keeping an eye on
his surroundings. Just because it seemed quiet didn’t
mean he’d let down his guard. That was usual y when you
got nailed.
“How’s your leg? Is it healing okay?” Riley asked.
“It’s better. So what’d ya do today?” he asked, trying not to
sound like he was conducting an inquisition.
“A friend made me get my hair cut. It looks better now.
And I checked in with Harper,” she said. He heard the
sound of a car door closing. “He’s stil a jerk, but at least
he’s not drinking. I’m in Little Five Points. I’m going to talk
to Mortimer to see if he has any idea who took Dad.”
Beck opened his mouth to tel her that might not be a good
idea, then changed his mind. Riley needed to be doing
something useful, keeping her mind off Simon and al the
other bad stuff. Besides, she couldn’t get into too much
trouble in Little Five Points. It was mostly necromancer and
witch territory, and because of that the demons usual y
steered clear.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Let me know if ya learn
anythin’.”
There was a momentary pause, like Riley had expected a
lecture and was astonished when she didn’t get it. “So
where are you?” she asked.
“Demon Central. No luck so far.” He did another slow threesixty.
No threats.
“Someone with you?”
He smiled at the concern in her voice. “Nah. I’l be okay.”
“Beck…” she began, the worry clearer now. “You’re stil
getting over those demon wounds. You need someone
watching your back.”
“I’m fine, Riley. No action down here anyways. I’m about to
pack it in, maybe go to the lounge and play some pool.
Haven’t done that in a long time.” Not since yer daddy died.
Her deep sigh of relief caused his smile to widen.
“Tough life you got there, Backwoods Boy,” she jested.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch. Ya gonna be on holy ground tonight,
right?”
“You know, I don’t appreciate you ratting me out to Stewart.
I owe you for that one.”
“Happy to help out, as long as it keeps ya safe.” He did
another perimeter check. Other than a rat crawling along a
ledge of broken bricks about ten feet to his right, there
wasn’t anything to worry about. He noted she hadn’t
answered his question. “Yer at the cemetery tonight, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Damn, girl, don’t make me cal the Scotsman again.”
“You don’t have to. I’m staying at Saint Brigid’s, in your bolt
hole.”
“What? Oh. Why didn’t ya tel me that right off?” he
grumbled.
“Because you’d just bitch at me about something else.”
She had him there. “Wel , then, that’s al good,” he said,
pleased he’d not have to pul guard duty outside of her
apartment again. Last night hadn’t been that much fun, not
with his fever and feeling like death warmed over.
“Now do me favor: get out of Demon Central!” she ordered.
“And don’t you dare go down there until someone is
watching your back.”
“I’m fine with—”
“If you don’t leave right now, I’l cal Stewart on you. I swear,”
she threatened.
He grinned at how neatly Riley had turned the tables on
him. She was worried about him.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m outta here. Say hi to Mort for me.” He
flipped his phone closed before she said good-bye. He’d
always hated that word.
Beck adjusted the strap of the duffel bag and headed for
his truck. “Why the hel didn’t I think of her stayin’ at the
church?” he muttered. It was the obvious solution to the
problem. Stewart hadn’t thought of it, either. “Too much
goin’ on. We don’t have a handle on this, and that’s not
good.”
But for now, he’d gladly fol ow Riley’s advice: The best
therapy he knew was a few games of pool and some ice
cold beer.
NINE
Little Five Points sat east of the city, a strange mix of head
shops, tattoo parlors, and retro clothing stores. Unlike Five
Points, its downtown cousin, L5P’s natives wore crueltyfree
cotton, adored health food, and sported dreadlocks or
emo garb. They spoke of auras and ley lines and cosmic
karma. Riley liked this part of town. It felt good here, like
there was positive energy running under the streets.
Unlike downtown Atlanta, horses were welcomed here.
Like keeping a horse fed and stabled was somehow
cheaper. Of course every practical idea had its downside,
and in this case it was the outlandish coaches. It was a
status symbol thing: The more money a family had, the
more ornate the coach. There was even a television show
that went around the country showing the transportation
choices of the rich and famous.
From the looks of the open-top coach in front of her—
solid white with gold accents—this family had serious
bucks. The gold had to be paint; real gold was too
expensive to waste on a wagon, but the effect was almost
the same. The coach came with a uniformed guy in a blue
velveteen coat, short pants, white hose, and ruffled shirt. He
even had black shoes with big brass buckles.
That has to be embarrassing.
Two girls trotted up, and after helping them to the plush
burgundy seats, the uniformed servant placed their
packages inside the coach. Riley drummed her fingers on
the steering wheel in anticipation. This was the first parking
place she’d found in the last ten minutes, and she wasn’t
about to let it escape.
As she waited, she checked out the passengers. They
appeared to be about her age, but their clothes were
definitely not secondhand, and the plethora of brightly
colored bags at their feet spoke of a monumental shopping
experience. One was showing the other a new pair of
heels, the four-inch, ankle-snapping kind. They were bril
iant orange. Four inch heels weren’t her thing, but Riley felt
envious anyway. How long had it been since she could
shop and not worry about every penny?
Not since Mom got ill.
Her mom’s cancer treatment sucked up every spare dol ar,
and when that money was gone, her dad had taken out the
huge loan to cover the bil s. For Riley that meant no more
new clothes, no more new shoes, at least until the old ones
didn’t fit any longer. Every penny was hoarded, and it hadn’t
changed now that her father was dead.
It’s so not fair.
Riley winced, the envy waning quickly. Cool shoes and new
clothes would be real y nice, but she’d trade al of it to get
her mom and dad back.
The coach rol ed out of the parking spot, the fine black
horse clopping its way down the street as the fashionistas
engaged in purchase worship, extracting clothes from the
bags and comparing them. Riley pul ed into the parking
place and sighed in relief, happy the fashion show was
over.
It wasn’t a surprise that Enchanter’s Way was different from
any of the other streets around it. For one thing, there was a
copper archway at the entrance, and it was adorned with
the symbol of the Summoners’ Society—a jagged lightning
bolt striking a granite tomb. Underneath it were these
words:
Memento mori.
“Remember that you must die.”
Riley puzzled on that—not because of the depressing Latin
phrase but the fact the copper was stil there. Why hadn’t
someone stolen it? Any piece of metal that could be cut
down and sold for cash was history. Curious, she touched
the archway and immediately yelped in pain, snatching her
hand back. The copper was scorching hot, like it’d just
come out of a blast furnace, though there were no burns on
her fingers. A queer prickly feeling skittered up her arm and
across her shoulders, making her muscles twitch.
Magic.
If someone tried to tear it down, it’d make them believe
their flesh was roasting off their bones. Apparently
summoner magic wasn’t just for stealing corpses.
Enchanter’s Way was paved in cobblestones, and dried ivy
clung to the brickwork in twisted brown ribbons.
Doorways lined either side of the street, and some
displayed the distinctive summoner’s seal. Just ahead, on
the right, was a café with stained-glass windows and a
menu taped to its open door. A little farther down the street,
on the left, was a weathered sign—“Bel , Book, and
Broomstick.” She’d always wondered where the witch’s
store was located, the parent of the stal at the Terminus
Market. The closer she got to the store, the better she felt,
the prickles of magic no longer dancing across her skin.
Was that some kind of witch thing?
As she moved forward the street narrowed until a solid
brick wal blocked her passage. It was dotted with metal
mailboxes, which were set at random intervals ranging from
only a foot off the ground to near the top. Half bricks stuck
out of the edifice like a climbing wal . Apparently the higherlevel
boxes required their owners to ascend to claim their
junk mail.
Bet the postal dude loves that.
Every box was different. The one for Bel , Book, and
Broomstick had an iridescent fairy perched on the top
holding a miniature wand, while another box had a blackand-
white cat with a wooden tail and gleaming yel ow eyes.
Riley rubbed her temples to try to ease her growing
headache, then took a swig from her water bottle. Any other
time she would have enjoyed this weirdness, but she wasn’t
in the mood. As she sucked down the liquid, she pondered
the twin al eys that branched on either side of her. Right or
left? Mort’s card didn’t indicate which one. Riley had just
decided to ask for directions at the witch store when a
dead woman stepped out of the left passageway. She had
silver hair, curled neatly at the col ar, and was dressed in a
pale ivory shel and navy blue slacks.
The woman paused, then she moved forward, her pumps
clicking on the uneven stones. She popped open a mailbox
with a pinwheel on top and extracted the contents, but as
she turned away, a slick magazine escaped her grip and
landed on the cobblestones. Riley picked it up. It was a
Summoner’s Digest. The label said its owner was Mortimer
Alexander.
Found you.
The deceased woman attempted a smile when Riley
handed her the magazine, but the effort failed as the facial
muscles just didn’t work right. At best, Deaders were halfimagined
copies of their real selves. Some of their
personalities carried over, but none of the joy.
Dad’s like this now.
Riley waited a few moments before she fol owed the
woman to a bright purple door near the end of the al ey. To
the right of the door were two plaques: the Society’s
lightning bolt symbol and one that read: “Mortimer
Alexander, Summoner Advocate of Atlanta.”
Screwing up her courage, Riley knocked. Eventual y the
door swung open and the dead woman peered out at her.
“Yes?”
“I’m Riley Blackthorne. I need to talk to Mortimer about my
dad,” she said, displaying the business card the man at the
market had given her.
The dead woman waved her inside.
Now I just have to convince him to help me.
Because of Mort’s appearance—he was short, wide, and
wore a trench coat and a fedora—Riley had always
assumed he was unmarried and lived with his elderly
mother. This place didn’t have a silver-haired-mom feel
about it. The entryway featured a gleaming white tile floor, a
black ceramic umbrel a stand, and an old-fashioned
wooden coat rack. Mort’s coat and hat dangled from it.
“This way,” the woman said, moving noiselessly down a hal
way to the left. As she fol owed, Riley’s imagination fired
up. A summoner’s place should have al sorts of arcane
symbols on the wal s, huge oak bookcases ful of ancient
leather tomes, and at least one black cat skulking around.
Maybe even a cool wand and a pointy wizard hat.
Which wasn’t what she found. The room they entered was
total y round, at least twenty-five feet in diameter, with
painted white brick wal s that rose to a vaulted wood ceiling
and a series of skylights that offered a dramatic view of the
sky. From somewhere nearby water ran in a delicate
trickle, but Riley couldn’t find the source.
The space smel ed faintly of wood smoke. Not fresh
smoke, like something you’d expect out of a fireplace, but
an aged scent, like it’d been baked into the bricks.
I could so live here.
A redwood picnic table and two benches sat in the very
center of the room under the skylights. On the right side of
the table sat an ink pot and a black pen, the old kind that
you had to fil yourself. A neat stack of books sat to the left.
A quick scan of the titles revealed that Mortimer liked C. S.
Lewis and books with German and Latin titles.
Her escort made her way to a dark wood counter that
curved around one portion of the room, fil ed a kettle from a
faucet, and plugged it in to an electrical outlet. Then she left.
Riley took the hint and stayed put, tapping her fingers on
the side of her messenger bag to burn off nervous energy.
Near the picnic table she noticed smudged chalk marks
and rusty brown splotches dotting the plank floor. The rust
spots reminded her of dried blood.
He’s probably a serial killer. The nice ones always were.
“Riley?”
She turned and stared in astonishment as Mort seemed to
pass through the curved brick wal .
More magic. Riley didn’t appreciate the joke, but she
needed his help.
“You should see your face,” he said, exhibiting a
mischievous smile. Mort wore a crisp white shirt and blue
jeans, not at al what she’d expected. He seemed thinner
somehow, like the trench coat had added thirty pounds.
“I’m so relieved to see you’re in one piece,” he added.
“When I heard about what happened, I was afraid you were
gone.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” To change the subject, Riley
gestured toward the odd pieces of furniture. “Why do you
have a picnic table inside?”
“It’s easy to move when I want to do a ritual,” he explained.
“Big desks require strong backs, and my people aren’t that
sturdy.”
People? “You mean the Deaders?”
Mortimer grimaced. “I prefer ‘reanimates.’ Deader is so
disrespectful.”
“Sorry,” she said. He shrugged like it was no big deal, but
she could tel it was. “I’m here about my dad. He was
reanimated without my permission.”
“I heard. Word travels fast in our community.”
“Then you know who took him.”
Mort shook his head, then gestured for her to sit. As she
settled on a bench seat, a shril sound fil ed the room,
causing Riley to jump. Then she felt real y stupid: It was the
teakettle.
Mort dealt with the kettle and returned to the table with a
tray containing two china cups, a matching teapot, and a
plate ful of goodies. “Cookie?” her host asked, offering the
plate.
Riley took one to be polite, wondering if al murderers gave
their victims treats before they sliced out their livers.
She took a test nibble. Then a bigger one. The cookie was
real y yummy, homemade and chewy, the best kind.
“This is so good,” she said, around bites.
“Emalee makes them. She stays in the kitchen most of the
time because she’s rather shy. Right now she’s working on
strudel.”
He has dead people baking for him?
“About my dad…” she said, hoping to get something out of
this meeting besides the image of a dead woman puttering
around a kitchen in an apron.
Mort didn’t reply until he sat on the bench opposite her and
poured the tea. “I don’t know who summoned your father.
Nobody’s talking, which is odd, because if I’d pul ed off that
reanimation I’d be bragging up a storm, at least to my fel
ow summoners.” He took a thoughtful sip from his cup.
“Could it be Ozymandias?” she asked.
Mort shuddered at the name, making his tea slosh in the
cup. “Maybe.”
“So why would Mr. Creepy want him?”
Her irreverence caused a faint smile to appear. “Lord
Ozymandias doesn’t bother to tel us lesser mortals what
he’s up to. In general he treats us like we’re annoying pests.
It’s very irritating.”
More than irritating, if the death grip Mort had on the cup
handle was any indication.
“Why would a summoner want my dad? Is it so he can trap
demons?” she queried.
“I don’t think so. Master trappers have certain demonic
knowledge that would be of interest to a summoner who
doesn’t keep on the straight and narrow.”
“Huh?”
“A summoner might require a master’s expertise if he
intends to cal forth a demon.”
“Whoa. Get out of here. You guys summon demons, too?
Are you crazy?”
“I don’t go there,” Mort said flatly. “Too much downside.
Most of the time the summoner ends up being the fiend’s
lackey, not the other way around.”
Riley shuddered. “But Ozymandias does?”
“There are rumors to that effect.” Mort offered her another
cookie, and this time she took it without hesitation.
Oatmeal. With a hint of cinnamon. Nom. Even if a dead lady
made them.
“How do you guys do a summoning?”
The necromancer seemed to be weighing his answer
careful y. “Unless you are at the level of someone like Lord
Ozymandias, spel s require preparation. He can do them
on the spot, but then he’s not like the rest of us.”
“So how do you do it, the summoning spel , I mean?”
“I col ect something of the deceased’s—hair, clothing, a
favorite book, some part that I can focus on. If I can’t obtain
an item, it’s harder. Then I do a ritual invocation and
request that the dead person arise to rejoin the living.”
“Request?”
Mort looked chagrined. “Wel , I request. Most just order the
deceased to comply, which I think lacks respect.”
Respect was a big thing for this guy. Riley leaned an elbow
on the table, intrigued. “Which is why you only do legal
summonings?”
“Exactly. It’s bad enough to lose a loved one and then have
a pirate come along and rip that person out of their grave.
As you wel know, the heartbreak is unimaginable.”
The passion in his voice told her this was personal. “It
happened to you?”
Mort’s eyes lowered to his teacup. “My wife. She was only
twenty-five when she died, and within a week she was
serving as a maid at a rich household here in Atlanta. I
would see her sometimes, on the street.” He took a tortured
breath. “Then they moved to New York City, and I couldn’t
afford to fol ow them.”
“Can my dad’s owner do that?” she asked, horrified.
“It’s not against the law to transport reanimates across
state lines, at least not yet. Or sel them to someone else,
for that matter.”
“Were you able to get your wife back?”
“Not until her year was up,” he replied, his voice torn with
emotion. “By then she was just a … husk.”
God. It was hideous enough to bury someone you loved, but
to see them like that and have no way to help them pushed
Hel into a new dimension.
“It’s why I became a summoner,” he admitted. “In the case
of your father, I wil file a report with the Society of an
unauthorized summoning,” he said. “Unofficial y I’l ask
around and see if anyone knows who raised him.”
“If I can get him away from whoever bought him, can you put
my father back in the ground?”
“Break a summoning?” Mort executed a low whistle.
“That’s asking for serious trouble. We had a magical …
feud a few years back when two summoners interfered with
each other’s reanimates. It was a real y bad deal.”
“So al you can do is ask questions?” she demanded,
sharper than she’d intended.
“There is only so much I can do, Riley. Your father has no
civil rights,” Mort explained. “When the time comes for him
to be inhumed, we wil need his summoner’s assistance to
reverse the spel . If that summoner is angry at you…” He
spread his hands.
“What happens if my dad isn’t returned to his grave after a
year?”
“The body disintegrates while the living consciousness is
stil in it. That’s not what anyone wants to endure—him or
you.”
The cookies in her stomach were no longer playing nice.
“So you’re saying I’m pretty much screwed?”
“No,” he replied, sighing. “I’m saying you don’t have many
choices, but that shouldn’t keep you from trying to find him.
If whoever has bought him has compassion, they should let
you visit him during his term of service.”
“Like he’s in jail or something,” she said. That was a
depressing thought. “Is there somewhere they sel them,
besides at the market?”
“Yes,” her host said. He toyed with the half-eaten cookie in
front of him. “I’l go to the vendue and see if he’s there.”
“The what?”
“The vendue. It’s from a French word meaning ‘auction.’
The next one’s on Friday night.”
“I want to go with you.”
He shook his head instantly. “You won’t be welcome.”
“Don’t care,” she said, pushing her cup of tea aside. “I want
to be there.”
Mort’s eyebrows knitted together. “My fel ow summoners
are a testy bunch. They won’t like you asking questions.”
“I want to be there,” Riley repeated. Then she tried the
magic word. “Please.”
Mort sighed. “Al right, just as long as you know this could
get unpleasant.”
Only if I don’t find my father.
* * *
As Riley walked along the al ey to the street, she tried to
get a grip on her turbulent emotions. Did she real y believe
that once she’d talked to Mort that everything would be
okay? That her dad would be waiting for her, ready to return
to his grave? If she did find her father and the summoner
reversed the spel , she’d have to bury him again. Another
funeral.
Oh, God.
As she walked past the mailboxes, a figure caught her
notice, a boy spray-painting something on the brick wal
ahead of her. He looked about thirteen, and his hood had
fal en back to reveal a shock of hair the color of ripe wheat
slashed with black stripes. The smel of wet paint stung her
nose as he made broad swipes leaving dripping red letters
in his wake. When she moved closer he jumped in surprise,
giving her a panicked expression. When he bolted for
freedom, the spray can fel from his fingers, rol ing across
the uneven ground and bumping the toe of her tennis shoe.
The crimson paint began to change color, first becoming
pale red, then pink, and final y white. It slid downward brick
by brick, as if someone were wiping it away with a
squeegee. When it reached the ground it crackled and then
disappeared in a bright cloud of pale dust. More magic. It
took a moment to puzzle out what the guy had written, spel
ing errors and al .
Nekros suk!
“No argument there.”
TEN
“Home sweet bolt hole,” Riley said. She stood in the
doorway to the room in the basement of St. Brigid’s
Catholic Church. The room wasn’t fancy, but she hadn’t
expected it to be. Al of about fifteen by fifteen, there were
two stacked wooden bunk beds, a table, a pair of kitchen
chairs, and a mint green couch. There was a smal
television, a mini refrigerator, microwave, and a counter
with a deep sink. Down a narrow hal she saw a bathroom.
If not for the white wal s and the crucifix hanging by the
door, it would have felt like a bunker.
After dropping her messenger bag on the table, Riley
retreated to the undersized bathroom to change into her
favorite PJ’s, the ones with the frolicking pandas. The PJ’s
were total y dorky, but her mom had bought them for her
and they held good memories.
If Beck sees these …
But he wouldn’t, not unless something went real y wrong
and he had to take refuge here. In that case, panda PJs
were going to be the least of their worries. After scrubbing
her face and brushing her teeth, Riley placed her folded
clothes on one of the chairs. A blast of hot air ruffled her
hair from a vent in the ceiling. She glared up at it.
“Too warm,” she said. Hunting around for a thermostat
proved fruitless. That wasn’t good news. It was either freeze
at the cemetery or roast here.
After ensuring the door’s lock was engaged, Riley tried the
lower bunk. That rated a definite thumbs-up. After some
determined pil ow thumping to get it into the proper shape,
she lay on her back and stared at the underside of the
mattress above her.
The furnace turned off. Then on again. Then off.
She was dead tired, but sleep wasn’t in the same room
with her. It wasn’t the heat that was keeping her awake, it
was this time of day that things hurt the most. She’d replay
her dad’s voice in her head, then her mom’s. She’d
remember bits of Blackthorne family history.
Eventual y Riley sat up in bed, barely clearing the top bunk
by a mere two inches. Apparently tal people took the top
bunk. She hadn’t brought anything to read, sure that she’d
be asleep almost instantly. To kil time, she dug out her cel
phone and scrol ed through the texts. Brandy, her nemesis
at the new school, was wondering if she was going to be at
class on Friday. Riley ignored that one.
Three texts from Simi about a Gnarly Scalenes concert in
March and asking if she’d like to go. Maybe. Nothing from
Peter. She should text him, but what would she write? Stuck
in a church so demons won’t eat me. That wouldn’t work,
not with someone who’d always been there for her.
Instead, she dialed his number. “Peter?”
There was a lengthy pause. This isn’t a good idea.
“What’s up, Riley?” he asked. She processed his tone—
upset and exhausted.
“I needed someone to talk to,” she admitted.
“You know, so do I.”
Maybe this would work after al . She tucked the comforter
around her legs and leaned back against the wooden
framework of the bunk bed. It creaked in response.
She told him of her new location and what it looked like.
“Master Stewart wants me on holy ground at night. He’s
worried some demon wil come after me.” Actual y just one
demon in particular, but Peter didn’t need to know that.
“Is Beck there with you?”
“No. He’s shooting pool.” At least he’d better be.
Silence. She tried to wait him out, but final y she gave in.
“Look Peter, if you don’t want to talk to me—”
“It’s not that. There’s been … stuff going on here.”
She shifted positions on the bed, caught by the lost sound
in his voice. “Like what?”
“Mom and Dad are getting a divorce.”
It took time for that to sink in. “Oh, man, Peter, I’m so sorry. I
thought they’d worked through al that after your brother’s
death.”
“No. It was never the same. They’ve been acting like it was,
but Dad final y cracked. He just couldn’t take Mom’s Nazi
control tactics anymore.”
Her friend wasn’t exaggerating. After Matt’s fatal car
accident, Peter’s mom became The Warden, as he cal ed
her. She’d monitored al her kids’ moves like they lived in a
federal prison.
“She’s been doing the same with Dad,” Peter confided.
“If he’s a few minutes late, she freaks and hounds him with
phone cal s.”
“I thought they went for counseling or something.”
“They did. It didn’t help,” he said sadly.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Mom wants to go back to Il inois. She thinks Atlanta’s too
dangerous for her kids.”
Only if you drink and drive.
A tortured groan filtered through the phone. “They told us
the news tonight. Then they asked who we wanted to live
with.”
If her parents had asked her that question, how could she
decide? No matter who she chose, the other would be hurt.
“God, that’s brutal.”
“Total y. David said he’d stay here with Dad. I wimped out
and said I had to think about it. Mom was real y upset. I
guess she thought I’d just go with her automatical y.”
“What about the twins?” she asked, thinking of Peter’s two
little brothers.
“The ghouls go with her no matter what. Too young to be
with Dad.” There was a sigh down the phone. “So what are
you doing tomorrow?”
“I have to check in on Harper, then I need to visit Simon and
go to the funerals.”
“So who’s this Simon dude? Is he the guy I’ve seen on TV?”
“Yes. He’s an apprentice trapper. We’re … dating.”
“Cool.”
“It feels right this time, Peter.”
“Wel , that’s something, at least.”
More awkward silence. “I’m real y sorry for you.”
“Yeah, so am I. For a lot of things. Good night, Riley.”
She disconnected the cal .
“Don’t you dare move away, Peter King,” she whispered.
“You’re my best friend. I can’t make it without you.”
* * *
Ori leaned against his motorcycle across the street from
Ori leaned against his motorcycle across the street from
the church, arms crossed over his chest. Riley had chosen
her sanctuary wel : No demon dared tread on holy ground
and not pay the ultimate price. This church was old, and
even from here he could feel the raw power of the Creator
pressing against his skin, saturating everything around him.
He sucked it in as if it were a breath of tantalizing spring air
after a cruel winter.
“You are such an addict,” a craggy voice said.
Ori failed to curb his displeasure at having the peaceful
moment disturbed. “Sartael,” he said acidly. “Slumming,
again?”
A wry chuckle came from the angel standing next to him.
Unless you were Divine he appeared unremarkable, a plain
man who always managed to blend into the background. A
Divine would see the real Sartael—that dark hair, those
immense wings, and the sword strapped to his back, its hilt
protruding just above his shoulders. The blade was
dormant at the moment, but once he pul ed it free from the
bindings it would flame like the desert sun at midday. As
always, there was a hint of madness in the angel’s eyes.
I wonder if some say that of me.
“I do not like it in this realm,” Sartael replied, gesturing
contemptuously at the church.
“So you have mentioned, on more than one occasion.”
“Why are mortals so ignorant?” He shook his head in
supreme disgust. “They believe their faith is made of bricks
and mortar.”
This was an old argument between them, one of many.
“To them it is,” Ori replied earnestly. “Mortals need tangible
proof of the Creator.”
“They are tangible proof that He exists. How soon they
forget that little detail.”
“It is easy to become distracted when you’re not eternal.”
Sartael gave him a sidelong look. “Not only mortals have
that issue. You have a task to perform, and yet here you
stand gaping at an old pile of bricks.”
“I am going about my duties,” Ori said, stiffening at the
rebuke.
“Is that rogue demon no more? I have not heard its death
cries,” Sartael chided.
“The girl is alive, and she is the key to finding the rogue.”
“Ah, yes, Blackthorne’s child.”
Ori did not like hearing Sartael speak her name, but he hid
his frown. “Is there a point to your presence?”
The other angel turned to him. “Time passes and you are
needed elsewhere. Cease being amused by the mortals.”
“Is that His Order?”
“Not official y. However, He wil ask of your progress and I
must answer. I cannot believe you are unable to find a mere
weather fiend.”
“I believe it is being shielded by its demi-lord.”
“And who might that be?” Sartael asked, leaning closer, his
eyes lit by some internal fire.
“I have no idea.” He and Sartael had always been rivals, so
the admission stung.
“Ah, I see. You make excuses to cover the lack of
progress,” Sartael said, nodding his understanding. “To be
honest, I did not expect such weakness from you.”
Ori squared up with him, his anger growing. “Then do you
know who is behind this rogue demon?”
“That is not my problem. You know what is expected. Get it
done. Fail and there wil be a reckoning.”
“Advice noted,” Ori replied crisply, turning back toward the
church.
“And ignored, I wouldn’t doubt,” Sartael replied. “Oh, wel ,
it’s not my pretty head on the block.” At a wave of his hand,
the angel vanished into the night air.
“No, it never is,” Ori grumbled. “But some day it wil be yours
on the block, and I’l be wielding the sword.”
ELEVEN
Beck pushed open the twin flame-embossed wooden
doors that led to the Armageddon Lounge. As was his
custom, he paused a moment and gave the place the once
over. Old habits die hard, especial y when one of the worst
beatings he’d ever experienced was delivered by a jealous
husband in a pool hal .
But not this pool hall. The Armageddon Lounge was neutral
territory for him, and he meant to keep it that way.
For that reason he didn’t usual y pick up girls here. No need
to invite trouble.
The Armageddon Lounge’s décor was trashy, even for this
part of town. Garish flames decorated almost al the wal s,
except the far one with the black-veined mirror tiles.
Figures writhed in those flames, most of them female and
nude, someone’s idea of what the end of the world would
be like.
Fewer mirrors, more screamin’. At least that’s how Beck
envisioned it.
When he was assured that nobody was in the mood for
trouble, he headed for the bar intent on enjoying his first
beer of the day. A couple years back that wouldn’t have
been the case: By this time of night he would have already
gone through at least a six-pack. It was Paul who changed
that, early in Beck’s apprenticeship.
“There’s a time to drink and a time to trap Hel spawn,”
his mentor had advised. “You get those confused and
you’re demon food.” When Beck had protested he could do
both, Paul had summed it up with one question. “Is a buzz
worth dying for?”
The answer had been easy: Much as Beck loved a few
good beers he preferred to remain aboveground. He’d cut
back on his drinking that very night. He stil would get a buzz
on every now and then, but not as often now. It was a sad
fact that the booze wasn’t the solution; it just wanted you to
think it was.
Zack, the bartender, acknowledged him with a broad smile.
Stocky, his sandy hair was so short you could see his
suntanned scalp.
“Hey, Beckster, how you doing?” he cal ed out.
“Good,” Beck said, though that wasn’t the truth by a long
shot. By the time he reached the bar, the Shiner Bock was
waiting for him. He sighed, took a lengthy sip, and then
sighed again.
“Mighty fine,” he said, grinning over at Zack. The less he
drank the more he appreciated a good beer.
“Quiet tonight,” Zack observed, leaning on the bar.
“Usual y Saturday evenings are total y packed. I’m thinking
it’s because of what went down the other night at the
Tabernacle. Folks are scared.”
Beck nodded his understanding. There were only about a
dozen patrons in the lounge, and he knew most of them by
name, though none of them were trappers. Those were
probably on the streets trying to take down a demon or two.
And gettin’ nowhere fast.
“Lenny was in a while ago,” Zack added. “He said he’d be
back later.”
Lenny the Necromancer. He was one of the summoners
who’d been jonesing to pul Paul’s body out of the grave, so
he’d be a good one to pump for information.
“Heard ya had a Four in here the other day,” Beck
observed, leaning against the bar.
Zack snorted as he dried a highbal glass. “And some
trappers. Seems one of them broke a pool cue and didn’t
bother to pay for it. Real y pissed off the boss. Gave me an
earful about how al you guys are arrogant jerks.”
“He’d be right,” Beck replied, taking another sip. “At least
when we’re after demons.”
Another snort came his way. “Boss said the trappers had a
girl with them. You guys al owing that kind of thing now?”
“Yeah, we are. The world is changin’,” Beck said.
“Tel me about it.” Zack’s voice changed tone, went lower.
“So how are you doing after the other night?”
Beck turned back toward the bartender, hearing the
concern. “Breathin’,” he said. “Better ’n some.”
“That’s for sure. When I heard about it, I prayed for you
guys.”
“That’s good of ya.”
“Sounds like it’s getting ugly,” Zack remarked. “I had a
regular in here this afternoon tel ing me he saw a couple
demons downtown, right on Peachtree Street.”
“Is this guy on the level?” Beck quizzed.
“Yup. He’s a cop.”
Some of those crazy stories just might be true.
Using his bartender radar, Zack headed down the bar
toward a couple and refil ed their glasses the moment they
were empty. The girl was plain to look at, but they were total
y into each other.
Beck had been that way once. Her name was Louisa, and
they’d been in the same class in Sadlersvil e, their
hometown. The other kids had known not to mess with
them: It was always Den and Lou from the time they met in
ninth grade. Then Louisa decided she could do better than
a poor loser who had an alcoholic for a mother. He stil
remembered what it felt like to have someone think you
were less than human just because of your family. From
what he’d heard, Louisa moved from guy to guy after that,
never finding what she was looking for.
Beck gave himself a swift mental kick, annoyed at wasting
time dwel ing on the past. Picking up his beer, he toted it to
the back of the bar where one of the pool tables was open.
He selected a cue and took his frustration out on the bal s.
One by one they went into the pockets like remote-control
ed robots, just an extension of his hands and brain. When
he finished running the table, something he’d been able to
do since he was thirteen, he racked the bal s again.
Part of his frustration was Stewart’s insistence he talk to the
press and to the city bosses, that he learn the ropes before
he became a master. Beck knew those same ropes could
turn into a noose with very little effort. Then there was that
flame-haired babe he’d seen at the city hal . No surprise,
she was a reporter and she just had to talk to him.
She’d even gotten his cel phone number, courtesy of the
Scotsman. Beck had dodged her so far, but the master had
warned him to just get on with it. That it came with the
territory.
“Not a good idea,” Beck mumbled under his breath. He
knew what his mind was like when he had a pretty lady in
front of him: He said things he shouldn’t, but in this case
those words would end up in the newspaper, maybe even
on the Internet. One slip of the tongue and he might lose his
chance at becoming a master trapper.
The double doors pushed open and a man entered the
lounge. The newcomer was a little tal er than Beck, decked
out in black jeans and T-shirt. A gray duster hung from his
broad shoulders like a hero in an action movie. His
midnight-black hair and eyes gave him a screw-with-me-atyour-
own-peril look.
Trapper? Probably not. Freelance hunter? That was a
possibility. Stil , he should have some form of defense on
him and Beck didn’t see one. Their gazes met, sizing each
other up, then the dude headed to the bar. After a short
conversation with Zack, the bartender began pul ing a beer
from the tap.
Though this was more of a locals bar, every now and then
someone new wandered in. Beck’s mind chided him that
he was just being paranoid. When the newcomer settled
behind a corner table near the front of the lounge, Beck
went back to his game.
Lenny was the next one to arrive. The summoner’s biggest
sin was that he dressed like a pimp with a limitless credit
card. Tonight he was wearing a particularly unholy purple
velvet jacket, black leather pants, and a fril y black shirt. He
real y needed an adult to dress him.
“Let me get a beer,” the necro cal ed out.
Beck nodded, then racked the bal s, buying time until Lenny
joined him.
When the man returned, brew in hand, Beck asked, “Ya
playin’ for the exercise or the money?” Best to establish
that right up front.
“Exercise. At least when I’m playing with you,” Lenny
replied, stripping off his coat and careful y draping it over a
stool. His shirt glistened with silver threads. Beck shook his
head at the sight, but Lenny ignored him and chose a pool
cue. He tested the weight, chalked the end, and stepped
forward.
“Go ahead and break,” Beck said. It wasn’t going to matter
either way.
“So who’s the new guy?” Lenny asked in a lowered voice,
angling his head toward the action hero in the corner.
Beck shrugged. “No clue.” He could feel the guy’s eyes on
him since the moment the dude had entered the bar.
“Doesn’t look like a local,” Lenny said.
“No. Definitely not from here.”
The necro leaned over, lined up the shot, and then
straightened up again like he had something on his mind. “I
didn’t have anything to do with Blackthorne’s reanimation,”
he said, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “I wanted you to
know.”
“If I thought ya had, ya’d be in a world of hurt right now,”
Beck replied.
The summoner nodded and broke.
As Beck walked around the table to choose his shot, he
asked, “Any idea who did it?”
Lenny sagged against the mirrored wal behind them.
“No. I warned the others not to jack with Blackthorne’s
corpse. I told them you’d rip them apart if they did anything.
A summoner’s bones break just as easy as anyone else’s.
Not that you heard that from me.”
Beck grinned. He’d spent a lot of effort building that
reputation.
“Someone didn’t give a rat’s ass what I’d do,” he said.
“That’s for sure,” Lenny said.
Beck made sure not to sink the next bal . “What about
Mortimer?” he asked.
A chuckle came his way, along with a quick shake of the
necro’s head. “Mort’s total y by the book. He won’t
reanimate a corpse without the family’s written permission
… in triplicate.”
“How’s about Christian?” Beck asked, recal ing the necros
who’d been visiting Paul’s grave over the last couple of
weeks.
“Don’t think so. From what I heard, the spel was one
serious mother. Christian doesn’t have that much juice.”
“So who does?”
Lenny’s eyes rose to Beck’s then made a quick circuit
around the pool hal . He straightened up again, leaning on
the pool cue. “Only one summoner I know of.” He went back
to his shot and blew it.
“And does this bastard have a name?”
“He does, but I’m not saying it aloud.”
Now that’s interestin’. “Why would a necro want
Blackthorne?”
“It’s said your masters have hidden knowledge about every
kind of demon there is, even the Archangels and the Fal en.
That knowledge could be incredibly valuable if you wanted
to summon any of the above.”
Beck blinked in surprise. “I thought yer kind was just into
dead bodies.”
Lenny gave him a sour look. “Magic can be used for other
purposes, but most of us are smart enough to stay away
from the dark stuff.”
“But not him.”
His companion shook his head and leaned his pool cue
against the wal . “Another beer?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Lenny headed toward the bar. The necro
wasn’t tel ing him everything, but Beck had gotten more out
of him than he’d expected.
“Yer scared, aren’t ya?” he whispered.
And it had nothing to do with Beck’s badass reputation.
* * *
They were three games in when Beck heard the bar go
quiet behind him. He had his back to the door but felt a gust
of cold air strike the back of his neck. A faint tingling began
in his limbs, then a peculiar dizziness. No way. He took a
sip of his beer as a quick test and was rewarded with a
heady mixture of hops, grain, and alcohol, tenfold what it
should be. There was only one thing that could magnify the
senses like that.
His favorite pool hal had just rated another Grade Four
demon.
Beck careful y set his beer aside while scanning the room
through the uneven reflection in the mirrored wal .
Many of the other patrons stood slack jawed, eyes glazed,
except the dude in the corner wearing the hero clothes. He
was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his
head like he didn’t have a care in the world.
So what gives here?
When a low voice began to whisper to Beck, he hunted for
the source in the mirror and found it standing just inside the
lounge doors. “She” was dressed in thigh-high boots, a tan
leather micro miniskirt that barely covered her butt, a black
bustier, and red fake-fur jacket. Her hair was wavy brown,
and she looked barely sixteen. That would be what the
demon wanted you to think.
This was a Mezmer. They were known by a lot of names
—Jezebels, Tempters, Seducers—and they came in a few
different varieties, but al of them sucked out your life
essence and then took your soul if you gave them half a
chance. And as they did you’d thank them for every minute
of hel ish torment.
Beck wasn’t immune to her power, and raw desire struck
him head on then migrated farther south. He heard her
talking to him, promising delights that might be his if he’d
just let her do her thing. The tingling grew stronger as the
demon wove its spel , slowly encompassing al the men in
the bar. The three women in the place just stared around,
confused as to what was happening. One jostled her date,
but he didn’t react.
That was actual y good news. If the demon were more
experienced, al of the customers would be under its spel .
That meant this one was a younger fiend, less powerful,
and by casting such a wide net it was looking to suck up
energy to grow.
Beck began to hum under his breath, trying to break
through the al ure of the demon’s seductive message as it
trickled through his mind. The humming worked, al owing
the dizziness to ebb long enough for him to kneel like he
was tying a bootlace. Instead, he cautiously opened the
zipper to his trapping bag where it sat underneath the pool
table. When he rose, stil facing the mirrored wal , he had
both hands ful —a purple Babel sphere in the right and a
Holy Water sphere in the left.
When he turned toward the threat the demon’s eyes locked
on him immediately. He couldn’t see beneath the il usion,
not until he used the Babel sphere, but there was no doubt
this was Hel spawn.
Beck hummed louder, one of his favorite Carrie
Underwood songs.
The Jezebel wrinkled her face in what passed for demonic
annoyance. “You resist me,” she said.
“That’s for damned sure,” he said. That took his attention off
the song just long enough for her to send another message
to his brain, one that would make a prostitute blush.
“No way,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. He began to
sing to himself. The song was a sad one, about a love lost,
and it proved stronger than the fiend’s seductive message.
“Trapper,” she warned, moving closer to him. “Come to us.
…”
Beck waited until the last moment, then slammed the purple
sphere at the demon’s feet. It burst open, setting off a
fountain of flickering lights and scenting the air with
cinnamon. The magic inside the sphere veered toward the
demon, and the transformation began immediately. The
girl’s voice went from sultry to rasping, as her features
melted away and the body contracted. Smal er and smal er
she shrank, her clothes vanishing. Left behind was a short,
squat body that looked like it’d been coated in brown mud.
Hel fire red eyes gleamed at him, and a long barbed tail
thrashed back and forth. The claws were black and sharp.
The other patrons’ dul expressions rapidly changed from
seduced to shocked.
“Oh, my God, that’s a demon!” one of them spouted,
backpedaling.
“No shit.” Beck caught a glimpse of the bartender; Zack
was shaking his head in dismay. Beck shrugged and
turned his attention back to the fiend. It was gnawing on one
of its claws in agitation and glaring up at him.
“Wel done, trapper,” Lenny said.
“Thanks,” Beck said, pleased. “This one doesn’t have much
power to it.”
He didn’t have a proper container to put the thing in, but
he’d find a way of getting it to a demon trafficker, and then
he’d col ect his money. Not a bad deal: Shoot some pool,
drink some beer, and col ect four hundred dol ars for his
trouble. To think he’d wasted al that time in Demon Central
when the action was here.
A bizarre chuckle issued from the demon. Then it started to
laugh. That wasn’t right. It should be angry at being
captured, spouting off a bunch of curse words, offering a
boon for its freedom. Instead it was laughing like he was
the joke.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“Ah, trapper…” Lenny said, pointing toward the entrance.
Beck swore under his breath. Another figure stood in the
doorway clad in black leather with silver-white cropped hair
and a fortune in body piercings. In her right hand was a
whip, and she was grinning like she’d just won the lottery.
That was why the first one had said, “Come to us.” There
were two demons, and the younger one was the weaker of
the pair, an apprentice learning the ropes while the master
waited outside in case of trouble. Beck had proven to be
that trouble.
The older demon flicked the whip and al owed her barbed
teeth to show, causing some of the patrons to knock over
their chairs and scramble backward.
“Time to play, trapper,” it cal ed out.
Beck had no choice but to bluff so he raised the Holy Water
sphere. “Back off, demon. Ya don’t wanna go there.”
A sharp crack fil ed the air as the end of the whip caught
the orb and shattered it in his hand. Cursing, he pul ed his
steel pipe from the trapping bag.
He sized up the situation, and it sucked. “Lenny, get the
others out of here.”
“But I can—”
Beck shook his head. “Don’t try it. This one’s too
dangerous. Just get outta here.”
“If that’s what you want,” the summoner whispered, then
edged toward the others in the bar, urging them to fol ow
him to the rear exit. Beck wished he could join them.
“What the hel are you?” a man cal ed out, staggering
toward the demon. The way he was moving, the guy had
more booze in his system than blood. That made him prime
demon bait. “This is our bar, and we don’t take kindly to
some skanky bit—” He was on his knees a second later,
clawing at his throat for air. It was the only reason he wasn’t
screaming.
“Stop it!” Beck ordered. The Mezmer’s eyes swung toward
him. “This is between us, demon. The rest aren’t worth yer
time.”
The fiend took a step closer. “Trapper,” it said, sizing him
up. It scented the air and smiled. “You are nothing,” it said.
“Oh, but I am somethin’. I’m a journeyman trapper, not just
some apprentice.” He paused a moment for effect. “I was
Paul Blackthorne’s partner. My soul would win ya serious
points with yer boss.”
“Blackthorne?” the older demon hissed, and in response,
the whip began to grow flames along its length.
Apparently that was the magic word. The drunk started to
bel ow, his ability to breathe restored. Two of his buddies
pul ed him away toward the back of the building.
Beck kept his attention riveted on the more dangerous of
the two threats. As he watched, the female form had
vanished to reveal a Hel spawn as tal as he was with pale
beige skin, blazing crimson eyes, long talons, and a
wickedly barbed tail. Unlike the lesser fiend, this one had
horns.
Ah, damn. This demon was close to making the leap to
Archfiend. Some of them did that, working up through the
ranks of Hel , slaughtering rivals with every step. Those that
survived were the real y evil ones. That it would show him
its true form so easily told Beck he was in serious trouble.
“Kil ing you would be a pleasure, trapper,” it said, licking its
lips. “Harvesting your soul … priceless.”
Beck didn’t have the experience to tackle one of these
things, and right now there wasn’t a master in the city
healthy enough to bail him out. Not that any of them would
get here in time anyway. He swal owed his fear, like he had
so many times in battle.
“So, demon, ya gonna just stand there lookin’ damned ugly,
or are we gonna dance?”
Chil ing laughter burst from the fiend’s mouth. “You wil be
perfect for my amusements, trapper. I wonder who wil buy
your soul from me?”
Then it began to whisper dark words. Beck hummed,
louder this time, then started singing at the top of his voice.
Nothing had any effect. He could feel the demon sifting
through his mind, looking for his weaknesses. It uncovered
his hidden fears, his dreams, the future that could never be.
The fiend laughed, lower this time, knowing it had hit pay
dirt. “That future is yours. She can be yours.…” it purred.
Beck felt his wil cracking like an old piece of china exposed
to the bitter cold. It would be so easy to let this thing take
him. Why be a hero? He didn’t owe any of these guys an
ounce of his blood. He could have his secret wish.
Forever.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. Once Hel had him in its
grasp, it’d use him to destroy Riley. She would trust him
even as he was leading her to eternal servitude or death. In
a last-ditch effort to break the demon’s hold, he rammed
the steel pipe down on his own injured thigh, sending a
burst of agonizing pain through his body. Though the pain
made him cry out, it wasn’t enough to break the demon’s
spel .
“Your soul, trapper,” the fiend urged. “Swear it to me and I
wil make your dreams come true. I’l bring her to you, and
she wil be yours this very night.”
Beck knew he’d lost. He felt the words forming on his
tongue, the ones that would commit his soul to Hel for
eternity. The words that would doom Riley at the same time.
God, no!
There was more laughter, but it sounded different. It hadn’t
come from the senior demon, because it was hissing now,
low at first, then louder, like a cat threatened by a pack of
feral dogs.
“Interference,” it growled. “He is mine!”
Another voice cut through Beck’s fog, one he didn’t
recognize. It sounded male and very, very old. He couldn’t
understand the words, but whatever they meant the pul on
his mind snapped like an overextended rubber band. The
sheer force ricocheted him back on top of the pool table,
scattering bal s in al directions as his head pounded like
someone had clubbed it with a sledgehammer. Tears ran
down his cheeks.
When he final y opened his eyes, Lenny stared down at
him, concerned.
“You okay?” the necro asked. Around them Beck could see
other faces, al as worried as Lenny’s.
The blazing pain receded. “Don’t know,” he mumbled.
“What happened?”
“Something spooked the demons and they took off,”
Lenny reported.
“There was someone talkin’. Sounded real y weird. Ya
heard it, right?”
“No,” Lenny admitted. “At least you’re okay. Damn, I figured
you were history.”
Yer not the only one.
Beck closed his eyes for a moment and then smiled. He
might not understand how it al happened, but the bottom
line was that his soul was stil his. The bad news was that
Hel knew his greatest weakness now, and it was a safe bet
they’d use it against him every chance they got.
* * *
As the bartender and the guy in the garish clothes saw to
the prostrate trapper, Ori slipped through the double doors
in search of the fiends. Normal y he wouldn’t have
interfered, but the elder fiend had invoked Riley
Blackthorne’s name. That made it his business. Besides,
having the trapper’s soul in the clutches of Hel would only
complicate Ori’s job.
It didn’t take him long to find the pair—they stood in a
smudge of sulfured air in the parking lot, arguing.
“You had almost the trapper,” the younger one snarled in
that particularly convoluted Hel speak younger demons
employed once their true forms were revealed. Parts of that
form stil peeked out from around that of the young woman,
a nightmarish mashup of bared flesh, clothes, sagging
breasts, and talons. “Why us leave?” it demanded.
The older demon raised its hand for silence and sniffed the
air. “Divine,” it spat in warning.
Ori halted about ten feet away, not bothering to reveal his
true form. They knew what he was, and he could get to his
sword quicker than the Hel fiends could move.
The twin horrors spun to face him. Power ripped across the
skin of the elder fiend. A succubus rarely had the chance to
become this powerful, as the Archdemons kil ed them to
ensure they didn’t have any more competition. That meant
this one was particularly vicious.
“I thought I smelt you,” it growled.
“I’m surprised you could over the stench of the brimstone,”
Ori said, waving his hand to clear the air.
“Interfere you, why?” the younger demon demanded. It was
a mere pup, or the trapper wouldn’t have been able to shut
it out of his mind. And stupid, or it wouldn’t have chal enged
a Divine so openly.
Ori issued a casual grin in response, though al he real y
wanted to do was cleave these two in half for their
arrogance. “Who set you on the trapper?” he asked.
“Why want you to know?” the younger one asked. The older
one snarled and promptly cuffed it on the ear, causing it to
whine in fear.
“We work for the glory of Hel ,” the senior demon
responded, trying to regain the upper hand.
Too late. The younger Hel spawn had confirmed Ori’s
suspicions: Someone had deliberately targeted the trapper
in an effort to get to Riley.
Ori made sure his gaze met that of the older demon. It
winced at his power and averted its eyes. “Stay away from
Blackthorne’s child. If you tempt her, I wil execute you like
the cockroaches you are.”
The elder demon hissed again and stepped backward,
feeling the seething power of Ori’s anger. The younger
demon began to protest, but after another blow from its
superior, the pair hurried away, changing into human form
as they moved.
Ori watched them, curious as to whether they’d go back
after the trapper. To his relief they didn’t, but instead they
encountered a young man on the street. His eyes glazed
over as the elder demon put her hand on his heart and
began to drink his life essence.
Ori wasn’t about to interfere. They had their job. He had his.
And mine is the girl.
TWELVE
The sound of church bel s brought Riley out of her vivid
dreams. Waking up in a new place was always strange, but
the bel s cal ing the faithful to Mass sounded surreal. She
rubbed her eyes, yawned and sat up. Another yawn. The
bel s continued and they made her think of Simon. After a
quick trip to the bathroom, Riley crawled back under the
covers and dialed his sister.
Please let him be better. She’d uttered that prayer right
before she’d fal en asleep, along with requests to find her
father and one that Peter would stay put in Atlanta. The
prayer list was getting longer every night.
To her relief, the news was positive: Simon was improving,
though stil not talking much, and there was a chance he’d
get to go home in a day or two. Amy said it was a miracle.
She was right, but it had a lot to do with the fact that the
wounds were demonic and being treated by freshly blessed
Holy Water courtesy of Father Harrison.
Between Heaven’s intervention and the priest, Simon had
no choice but to survive.
Riley disconnected the cal with a broad smile. Once he
went home Simon would loosen up. His family would see to
that, and if not, his girlfriend sure would.
A cold morning greeted her as she stepped outside the
church. A few cars along the street exhibited a layer of
alabaster frost on their windshields. As she walked around
to unlock her ride, she found a pure white rose stuck in the
driver’s side door handle. She careful y pul ed it free,
mindful of thorns, and sampled its fragrance. It was
amazing. More surprising was the fact the hard freeze
hadn’t affected it.
Must not have been out here that long.
Riley’s first thought was of Simon, but he was in the
hospital. Beck didn’t seem to be the romantic type. That
only left …
Ori? But why would he give her a rose? After a quick look
around and finding no sign of him, she decided not to tax
her brain and just enjoy the gift. Maybe today isn’t going to
suck after all.
With no time for a trip home and oatmeal, she drove
through the closest fast-food place and bought what her
father used to cal “death in a bag.” High-fat, high-carb food.
She was completely awake by the time she walked into
Harper’s place where there was the scent of fresh coffee
layered on top of the old automotive smel s. Apparently
he’d felt good enough to use the coffeemaker.
As she entered the office, she braced herself. Harper liked
to yel at her just for breathing. No shouting this time, in fact,
he barely gave her a second glance. To her relief she found
he was stil sober. Despite that improvement, she kept out
of range and spent time cleaning up, washing dishes, and
emptying the trash cans, none of which had anything to do
with trapping. It was expected that an apprentice would
take care of the master, even if he was an asshat.
“Anything else?” she asked, hopeful she could blow out of
there.
He shifted in his recliner as if no position was comfortable,
which was probably the case.
“Get those Holy Water jugs out into the parking lot. A
recycling truck should be coming by to pick them up this
morning.” Another shift in position. “I want every one
accounted for. I’l need the money since I can’t trap.”
“Shouldn’t we keep some of the counterfeit ones for
evidence?” she hedged. “The ones I had were destroyed in
the fire.”
“Hold back five of them.” Then he frowned. “Why didn’t
Saint catch that those bottles were wrong the last time he
did the inventory?”
“Because none of them were. The screwed-up
consecration dates just showed up in the last three weeks.”
He chuffed in disgust. “I’d love to find the bastard behind
that scheme. I’d throw him to a Three and watch the thing
gut him.”
Riley shivered: She knew exactly what that looked like.
Harper caught her reaction, but he didn’t chide her about it
like she figured he would.
“There’s an order on the desk,” he said. “It’s a Magpie.
You’ve trapped them before, right?”
She nodded. Grade One demons came in two flavors—
Klepto-Fiends, who stole bright objects, and Biblio-Fiends
who chewed up books and swore like rappers. If she had
her choice of what to trap, the Klepto-Fiend was it. They
weren’t malicious, just obsessive and stealthy.
“When you catch it, sel it to that new guy … Dan What’sHis-
Name,” her master ordered. “Don’t go anywhere near the
fag, got it?”
The fag. That would be Fireman Jack, one of the demon
traffickers. Harper had a real hang-up about homosexuals.
“I understand. Where is this Dan guy’s place?”
Harper jabbed a finger at the desk. “His address is next to
the trapping order.”
Riley ignored the paperwork for the time being and
concentrated on moving the plastic Holy Water bottles to
the parking lot. After the first trip she devised a way to run a
piece of rope through the handles so she could carry more
of them at one time. As she made the trips back and forth,
she noted that Harper’s col ection of scrounged metal in the
fenced yard behind the building was diminishing.
Selling it off to pay the bills. The Guild’s disability fund
wasn’t very generous.
Once she’d finished the recount, Riley leaned against her
car and waited. As long as the bottle count matched the
paperwork, Harper would have no reason to bitch at her. At
least not about this.
Riley heard the truck from a block away as it ground
through gears and eventual y pul ed up near her car, brakes
screeching in protest. The truck bed had a substantial
mound of plastic containers held in place by tal wooden
racks on al four sides. A couple of guys hopped out of the
vehicle. She handed over the clipboard with the required
forms.
“Hey, I saw you on the TV. You know, at the Tabernacle,”
the younger of the two men said as the other one checked
the count. “Damn, that was one hel uva fire.”
“So what happens to these bottles after you guys get
them?” she asked, in an effort to change the subject away
from one that fueled her nightmares.
To her relief he took the bait. “These?”
“Yeah, those,” she said, indicating the bottles. That hadn’t
been a trick question.
“They go to the recycling plant,” the other man said, his tone
guarded.
“Then what happens?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he said. He counted out the
money, then dropped it and one copy of the paperwork into
her hands.
Riley pointed to the sheet. “Sign it, wil you?”
“Don’t need to,” the guy said, frowning now.
“Please?” she wheedled, turning on the charm. “Master
Harper wil be al over me if I don’t get it signed.”
The two men traded looks, and the younger one scrawled
something on the page and handed it back to her.
The signature was unreadable. Her thanks yielded no reply
as they backed out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust fumes
and tormented gears.
While Riley rearranged the paperwork on the clipboard,
something nagged at her. She stared at the driver’s side
door. There was no logo, no text, no nothing. Al the city
vehicles had Atlanta’s official logo on their doors, the
image of a phoenix rising from the flames.
So who just picked up those bottles?
* * *
Beck didn’t like hospitals. He’d spent some time in one
during his stint in the Army so he knew how they worked.
They harbored weird smel s and seemed too sterile for his
liking, so finding himself “makin’ the rounds,” as Master
Stewart put it, didn’t do a thing for his attitude. In Beck’s
way of thinking this was the priest’s job, but here he was
trooping around the different floors, talking to bedridden
trappers and their families, acting like al Hel wasn’t
breaking loose. Why Stewart had insisted he do this he
hadn’t a clue, but he could take orders like any good
soldier.
Beck had purposely made Simon his last stop, partly
because he felt bad he hadn’t kept the apprentice from
being hurt, and mostly because Simon was dating Riley. He
stil hadn’t sorted out his feelings about that. Not that he had
anything against Adler, but it just didn’t feel right to him.
Better’n some she could be seein’.
Like that Al an Something-or-Other, the abusive dude she’d
dated a couple years back. Beck knew he was to blame for
that: Riley had been total y hot for Beck when he’d returned
from the Army. Anyone could see it. That would have been
okay if she hadn’t been Paul’s daughter and only fifteen.
He’d pushed her aside, hard. On the rebound, she’d
immediately taken up with that abusive prick, a loser who
had her steal stuff for him. That relationship had lasted right
up until Al an had hit her.
But that’s the point, isn’t it?
Simon would treat Riley right. He wouldn’t beat her or talk
her into stealing things, but every time Beck tried to tel
himself that, it stuck in his throat. Did that mean he was
jealous?
He shoved that unnerving thought aside and entered
Simon’s room. He found the patient awake, watching
something on television. Beck’s eyes flicked toward the
screen; it was a talk show about what had happened at the
Tabernacle. Every now and then a picture of the inferno
would pop on the screen.
Just what ya shouldn’t be watchin’.
“Simon.” A weak nod returned as Beck slowly approached
the bed. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, keeping his tone
conversational. Just like a priest would.
A shrug returned.
“I hear the wounds are healin’ good.” A nod. It appeared
that Beck would have to do al the talking. “I’ve been visitin’
some of the others. Looks like they’re gonna make it,
though Barton needs more surgery on his leg.”
“Good,” the patient mumbled, his eyes not meeting his
visitor’s.
Beck hadn’t figured Simon was going to be al perky, but he
had to talk this out or it’d eat him alive. Beck knew about
that firsthand.
He tried another approach. “Did ya see the angels?”
Simon’s expression saddened. “No, I didn’t.”
“Wel , they were truly awesome. I’ve seen the ministerin’
kind before, but these were the big boys. They were
seriously kick-ass.”
“Jackson told me about them,” Simon replied. “He said they
had fiery swords and you could feel this sort of power
around them.”
“Ya shoulda seen the demons. They ran for it.”
Silence.
Beck leaned on the bed rail. “Ya know, it’s real hard after a
battle,” he said. “Ya can’t believe half of what happened,
and part of ya is too damned frightened to deal with it. Just
know, it’l take time.”
Simon swal owed heavily. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Same here.”
The apprentice’s eyes met his. “Were you frightened?”
“Hel , yes.”
“I shouldn’t have been. I knew God was with me.”
“That don’t keep ya from bein’ afraid. That’s natural,”
Beck explained. “Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”
“I saw on the TV that the demons are al over the city now.”
“I saw on the TV that the demons are al over the city now.”
“A few. They’re actin’ strange, but we’l get ’em; don’t worry.”
Simon frowned. “Why hasn’t Riley come to see me again?”
he demanded, his voice harsher now.
That wasn’t a question Beck had expected. “She’s helpin’
Harper out and she’s tryin’ to find Paul. I figure she’l be
along directly.”
“That’s no excuse. She should be here.”
Oh, lord. “I’l let her know yer askin’ for her.”
That seemed to mol ify the patient. When Simon spoke
again, his voice was quieter. “They’re going to blame me
for this.”
“No one’s blamin’ anyone,” Beck said. “There are too many
things we don’t understand yet.”
Simon’s eyes swung in his direction. “You mean like why
Master Blackthorne was there?”
“Surprised the hel outta me, that’s for sure,” Beck replied.
“We’re tryin’ to work it al out.”
The frown returned. “What’s to work out? Either the Holy
Water was counterfeit or someone broke the circle and let
the demons in.”
“Riley said the Holy Water was good. I trust her on that.
No one would break the circle. It’d just get them dead.”
“Not if they were dead already.”
Beck straightened up, knowing that the next words out of
the young man’s mouth would be condemning Paul. That he
wouldn’t tolerate. “I’d best be goin’,” he said.
Simon’s eyes closed, his mouth a grim line. “I think you
should,” the apprentice retorted.
He thinks Paul sold us out. That didn’t promise a rosy future
between Riley and her new boyfriend. She would stick up
for her father no matter what.
Ya sure know how to pick ’em, girl.
THIRTEEN
Peter hopped into her car and slammed the door the
moment Riley pul ed to the curb near the Grounds Zero. He
was in his usual jeans and sweatshirt, the one with the
picture of a guy taking a sledgehammer to a computer
keyboard. The caption said COMMENCE REBOOT.
He set his computer bag on the floorboard, then stared at
her. “Your hair. It’s different.”
“It needed a trim. It got real y frazzled in the fire.”
“I like it. It looks good.” Her friend handed over an insulated
cup. “Hot chocolate with whipped cream,” he announced,
then swiped at his own brown hair to get it out of his face.
“You brought me hot chocolate. You rock, Mr. King.”
“I do, and your timing’s excel ent. I’ve only been here a few
minutes.”
“You take the bus?” she asked.
“No, David dropped me off. He wanted out of the house as
much as I did.”
No doubt. “I’ve got a trapping run.”
Peter swiveled in his seat, eyes widening. “What kind of
demon is it?”
“It’s just one of the smal guys, a Grade One Klepto-Fiend. I
figured you’d want to stay in the car.”
“Why? This could be fun.”
This wasn’t the Peter she knew. He was always playing it
safe to avoid getting grounded by The Warden. Now, with
his parents divorcing, it looked like he had decided to
branch out a little.
Riley gave him a dubious look as she pul ed up to an
intersection. “You sure?”
“Yeah, unless that Five is going to be there.”
“It shouldn’t be.” Not during the day, at least.
At the next intersection a man stood in the middle of the
chaos clad in an orange vest and white gloves, like a cross
between a butler and a traffic guard. Since most of the
city’s traffic lights had been stolen by thieves, he was part
of the city’s new scheme of HTLs—human traffic lights. For
a little over five dol ars an hour he had the privilege of
standing in the intersection, trying not to get squashed.
As she waited for her turn to move forward, Riley asked,
“Is it getting any better at home?”
Peter slumped in his seat. “No. Mom’s stil guilting us, and
Dad’s not saying much at al .”
“Who do you want to live with?”
“Dad, for sure. He’s cool. He has rules, and some of them
are kinda stupid, but he’s nothing like Mom.”
“What wil happen if you tel her that?”
Peter shook his head in despair. “Cue total meltdown. If I tel
her the truth, she’l just throw Matthew’s death in my face.”
“Sounds seriously hideous, Peter.”
“It is,” he murmured. “Mom hasn’t been right since the twins
were born.”
Riley remembered the day her friend had announced that
his mother was pregnant. He’d been thirteen at the time
and majorly grossed out to think that his parents were
having sex.
“I feel sorry for the ghouls,” he said, his term for the twins.
“They just don’t get what’s going on and so they’re real y
fussy right now.”
A pair of cranky three-year-olds. No wonder her friend
wanted out of the house, even if it was to trap a Magpie.
“Wel , I’d just tel her and get it over with, Peter. It’s tearing
you up, I can tel .”
He nodded but didn’t reply.
At least my parents never stopped loving each other.
With a gloved wave from the human traffic light she edged
through the intersection and continued east to the jewelry
shop in Poncey Highlands. Peter’s sharp eyes spotted the
sign before she did. Riley glided to a halt in front of the
store, one of those mom-and-pop kind of places that
looked like it’d been at the same location for decades.
As Riley turned off the engine and scooped up her
messenger bag, Peter appeared to be having second
thoughts.
“Is this dangerous?” he asked.
“No way. These guys are al about stealth. That’s why we cal
them Hel ’s cat burglars. They’re just into bling.”
“What kind of bling?” he asked.
“The shinier the better.”
He thought that through. “Okay, I’l see what it’s al about.
If it gets weird, I’m outta there.”
That was fair.
Right before she exited the car, her cel phone pinged—
a text from Mortimer: The vendue was on, and if she real y
wanted to be there, she needed to be available tomorrow
night. Time and directions fol owed. A second message
arrived before she could reply: IF YOU ATTEND, DON’T
WEAR JEANS.
She was supposed to be on hal owed ground after
sundown. Did she dare risk it?
“Riley?” Peter nudged. “Something wrong?”
“No, just trying to decide something.” What if the Five came
after her at this vendue thing? Then she remembered who
would be there—summoners who wielded magic for fun
and profit. She couldn’t imagine a demon would take that
on when it could wait for another time when she wasn’t
protected. Besides, Ori would be on her tail. She sent Mort
a quick text tel ing him she’d be there.
Riley found her friend studying the contents of one of the
store’s display windows. It was ful of sparkle. “How do you
catch this thing?” he asked.
She dug in her bag, pul ed out a sippy cup, and handed it to
him.
“You’re joking, right?” he said. “You trap demons with cups
that have dancing bears on them?”
She glowered at him. “See the glitter in the bottom?
Klepto-Fiends can’t resist it.”
He held up the sippy cup and compared it to the exquisitely
cut diamonds in the store window.
“Wanna bet?”
And I brought him along why?
He returned the cup. “The ’rents can’t know about this—
ever.”
“Got it.”
Riley pushed open the reinforced door and looked around
for someone who might be in charge. The paperwork said
the complaint came from a guy named Abe Meyerson.
There were two employees, but the elderly man near the
watch case seemed to be the best choice. He had some
serious wrinkles and was probably at least eighty, if not
older.
After a deep breath to build her confidence, Riley put on her
professional “I know what I’m doing” face and approached
the glass counter.
“Mr. Meyerson?” she asked. The old gentleman nodded.
“I’m Riley Blackthorne and I’m here to deal with your theft
problem.” Her dad had always insisted that she not use the
words demon trapper in a retail store until the owner
indicated he was okay with his customers knowing what
was going on. In case the jeweler wasn’t making the
connection, she offered him the paperwork.
Mr. Meyerson took the trapping request out of her hand,
held it closer to his nose than would have been comfortable
for her, and then nodded again. Then he looked at her,
squinting. “Oy, they’re sending young ones now!” the man
said with a spry grin. He looked at Peter. “Are you a
trapper, too?”
“No, sir. I’m just watching, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine by me. These little thieves are just the nature of the
business, but this one isn’t kosher. It ignores anything
metal; only likes loose stones. I think it’s a little off in its skul
; you know what I mean,” he said, tapping his temple for
emphasis.
Not good. That meant this one would be harder to capture.
She so needed something to go right for a change,
especial y with Peter watching her every move.
“How long has it been here?” Riley asked, refusing to let the
disheartening news sidetrack her.
“A week.”
“Does it have any particular time that it steals stuff?”
“Just whenever it feels like it.”
She’d have to go through this place inch by inch to find the
fiend rather than just wait it out. With the funerals this
afternoon, she real y needed to make this happen. Taking a
deep breath, Riley recited the warnings and precautions
that came with removing a demon from a public location.
Mr. Meyerson had no questions, mostly because he’d been
through this numerous times over the years, and he readily
signed the form to indicate he knew the consequences.
“I leave it to you,” he said. “Let me know if you need
anything.” The old man puttered off to sit at a desk that had
to be as ancient as he was. Pressing a jeweler’s loupe to
his eye, he bent over a watch and began poking at it with a
little screwdriver.
Cue demon trapper.
Riley retreated to the door and began a visual tour of the
showroom, a technique her dad had taught her during one
of her first trapping assignments. Assess the surroundings.
Look for obvious hiding places.
“What are you doing?” Peter whispered.
“Trying to find where a three-inch-tal demon could hide.”
“Ah, that’s about everywhere,” he said. “I don’t think your
glitter-in-a-cup trick is going to work.”
Unfortunately, Peter was right. There were a lot of nooks
and crannies in a building this old. Her usual bait was
worthless with al those gems in the cases, each lit with their
own internal fire and by careful y positioned high-intensity
lights. She could put Holy Water at each of the exits and
along the windows to flush the fiend out. Problem was, then
it’d go nuts and tear the place apart. She already had a
reputation for trashing libraries; no need to add jewelry
stores to the list.
What am I going to do? She could cal Beck and maybe
he’d have an idea, but that would make her look like she
couldn’t handle things on her own. Cal ing Harper was so
not an option.
As she thought it through, Peter parked himself at a chair
near the watch case, laptop out, surfing an online gaming
site. She looked over his shoulder; he was checking out
pictures of dragons. He pul ed one of the images into a
program and then upped the size so he could see it easier.
It made the thing look huge on the vivid eighteen-inch color
screen.
Her eyes went to the closest glass case. The problem was
that al these jewels were about the same size. Nothing real
y screamed BLING! What she needed was a humongous
gem.
Peter’s dragon now sat on top of a mound of gold and
jewels, short puffs of smoke coming out its nostrils. It
looked menacing, but not the twenty-foot-tal , pul -her-dadout-
of his-grave kind of scary.
The idea that popped into her brain was crazy. She would
bet no trapper had ever tried such a stunt, but she was out
of options. Either she gave it a go or she had to cal Harper
and say she couldn’t handle the job.
No way. He’d never let me live that down.
Riley cautiously ran her lunatic idea past the jeweler, and to
her astonishment she received a vote of approval.
“Can’t hurt,” Mr. Meyerson said. He opened the vault and
returned with a large emerald. It was marquise cut and two
carats in weight, he said, though Riley had no idea what al
that meant. She took a picture of it with her cel phone, emailed
it to Peter, and then explained exactly what she
wanted him to do. To her relief, he didn’t tel her she was
total y wacked. As her friend worked, the jeweler returned
the emerald to the safe, made a quick check to ensure
there wasn’t a demon inside, and then locked it tight.
Luckily there were no customers at the moment, as it took
time to set the trap. The jeweler turned off al the interior
lights, including those in the display cases. There was stil
light coming in the front windows, but not so much as to ruin
her plan.
Peter positioned his laptop on one of the main glass
displays, clicked a key, and the image of the emerald
appeared on the big screen. He’d done something to it so
the image rotated, sparkled, and shone like it was lit from
within by a solar flare.
If the gem could talk, it would be screaming, STEAL ME!
“You think this wil work?” Peter whispered as they backed
away.
“It better,” Riley whispered in reply.
The jeweler and his assistant hovered by the front door,
watching the show. They seemed amused by her high-tech
trap.
“Such a thing I have never seen,” the old man said. “Kids
these days—so smart.”
Only if this works.
Time passed. Peter nudged her with an elbow. “And this is
going to happen … when?”
She gave him a dirty look. “Patience, dude.”
Then she heard it, that pitter-patter of boot-clad demon feet
racing across glass. A moment later the Magpie stood
transfixed in front of the computer, its bulging bag of loot at
its side. It looked like the one in her apartment—about
three inches tal —except this one wasn’t wearing a black
bandana. In the glow of the screen she could see its tiny
fingers twitch in nervous anticipation.
That’s right. It’s all yours. Just don’t move.
Riley slowly approached, making each step as quiet as
possible. If she spooked it, it wouldn’t fal for this ruse a
second time. The moment before it leapt at the screen she
caught the fiend. She dropped the demon into the
transparent sippy cup and slapped a hand over the top.
“Lid!” she cal ed out. Her friend just stared at the cup in her
hand, wide-eyed. “Peter! I need the lid. Now!”
“Sorry,” he cal ed out and hurried over. Between them they
sealed the cup.
“Wow. That’s real y a demon. I mean, you can see pictures
of them on the Web, but—”
The fiend in question rose on its feet, pointed at the bag,
and then began to wail, pul ing at its clothes like it was in
mourning.
“What’s he doing?”
“Freaking. He thinks I’m stealing his stuff.” Riley brought the
cup to nose level. “Hold on, I’l get it for you. I won’t take it
away,” she said.
Mr. Meyerson opened the bag’s drawstring, and the
contents slid across the glass countertop.
“Look at al that,” Peter said in awe. There were at least a
dozen loose diamonds and sapphires, but no emeralds.
They’d offered the demon the perfect bait.
The old jeweler separated out the merchandise with a
wizened finger. “That’s al of the gems. The rest is just glass.
Who knows where it came from,” he said with a toothy
smile.
Riley put the remaining loot back in the bag and, with
Peter’s help, dumped it inside the cup without losing the
demon. The Magpie clutched his horde to his chest and
sighed in profound relief.
“Wow, he is obsessed,” Peter said, staring at the fiend.
“Total y. Get rid of the emerald. He’s forgotten it for the
moment, but that won’t last.”
“Gone,” her friend said, punching a key. The image
vanished, and in its place was a thunderstorm rol ing over
Atlanta’s skyline.
“Wel done,” the old man said, beaming through a sea of
wrinkles. “Ingenious.”
Riley grinned. “Thanks.” She looked over at her friend and
shot him a thumbs-up. “Who knows, maybe this is the future
of demon trapping.”
“Tech rules,” Peter replied.
They left the shop with one demon in a sippy cup, signed
paperwork, and two free coupons for lunch at a downtown
deli courtesy of Mr. Meyerson. He’d also promised not to tel
anyone about Peter’s part in the job.
“Trapper scores,” Riley said, feeling real y good for a
change.
This is how it’s supposed to be.
FOURTEEN
It was nearly one thirty when Riley pul ed her car up to
Beck’s house in Cabbagetown. His place wasn’t much
different than its neighbors’, other than it looked better
maintained. The trim and porch railing were stark white,
and the house itself a pleasing shade of light green. She
could almost imagine him out there on a ladder slinging
paint al over the place.
How does he find the time? She was stil behind on her
laundry.
Beck sat on the porch in a wooden rocking chair clad in his
black suit. From the dour expression on his face, al he
needed was a shotgun and something to fil ful of holes, and
he’d be just fine.
She’d first heard about the new kid from South Georgia
over the dinner table when her father had told them about
this smart-ass sixteen-year-old in his history class, a
troublemaker sprinting ful speed toward a brick wal .
“Serious lemming potential” is the way he’d described
Denver Beck. Now her father was dead and the former
troublemaker had taken it upon himself to watch over her so
she wouldn’t go al “wild child” on him.
It was a plan doomed to failure.
As she parked the car in the driveway, Beck rose with
considerable effort. She didn’t think it was because of his
injuries: The Holy Water would have started to heal those.
What hurt was way deeper and most likely permanent. She
carried some of those same scars herself.
Beck climbed in her car, placed his trapping bag on the
seat behind them, and then clicked the seat belt without so
much as a “Hel o.” Like it was expected she’d haul his butt
around town.
Maybe he doesn’t want to be on his own.
She asked the question anyway. “Some reason I’m driving
you to the funeral?” she said.
“Don’t need a ticket.” At her puzzled look, he explained:
“After the service we’l go to the Six Under for the wake.
Don’t want to lose my truck if the cops pul me over on the
way home.”
Another trapper tradition: Bury your dead and then get
drunk. There were a lot of traditions, which led her to
believe they’d evolved over time. Anything that involved an
excuse to drink was automatical y trapper approved.
“I’l drive you home after the wake,” she offered, heading
back toward Memorial Drive.
“No, I’l walk. It’s not that far.”
“You could stil get arrested for that,” she said. “I’l drive you.”
He eyed her. “Yer not comin’ to the bar with us. Yer not
legal.”
“They serve soda. Besides, it’s only right: I was at the
Tabernacle when they died; I want to be there for their
wake.”
He ignored her from that point on. The silence held for
longer than was comfortable, and final y she relented. She
needed to talk to someone and Beck was the only option.
“The col ection agency jerk visited me yesterday. He said
they’l go after the life insurance money since they didn’t get
to steal Dad’s body.”
Beck huffed. “Don’t worry; they won’t get it.”
Easy for you to say.
More silence. She almost turned on the radio, but the music
she liked would only earn her hassles from her companion.
“Trapped a Magpie today. At a jewelry store,”
she said, figuring that was a safe topic.
“It go okay?”
“Real wel .” She was about to tel him how she’d pul ed it off,
then changed her mind. He might not like the idea of Peter
being there.
They made it through four more intersections before he
gave in. “Ya see Simon today?”
“No. I’m going to stop by tonight.”
“Good; he’s askin’ for ya. It’s gonna take him a while to get
over what happened.”
“Same for al of us.” She heard a grunt of acknowledgment.
Time to move to more sunny topics.
“Mort’s trying to help me find Dad.”
“Does he know who took him?” Beck quizzed.
“No. He thinks it’s odd that no one’s talking. I’m just hoping
it’s not Ozymandias. Ayden says he’s into dark magic.”
Beck looked pensive. “That must be the guy Lenny was
talkin’ about. I’l pay him a visit.”
“He’s not like Mort or the others. This one’s evil.”
“Evil I can do,” Beck said, as if the problem were solved.
“I’l go with you.”
“Not happenin’, so don’t even think about it,” he retorted.
Why is everything a battle with you? Why can’t you let me
make my own decisions?
In response to the tension, Beck began to rearrange the
contents of his duffel bag. From what she could tel , it didn’t
need the attention, but he focused on that rather than
talking. A nervous habit. She had a few of her own.
He final y stopped fussing with the bag. “There were two
Mezmers at the lounge last night.”
“What?” she said, giving him a quick glance before
returning her eyes to the highway. “Did you get them?”
“No,” he said. “I tagged the first one, but before I could get it
secured, the second one showed up. It was … more than I
could handle.”
She pul ed up to a stop sign, jamming on the brakes.
“Beck! You’re okay, aren’t you?” He nodded. “How did you
get away from it?”
Her passenger shrugged. “Don’t real y know. It was workin’
me over somethin’ fierce, and then both of them just took
off.”
“Did you tel Stewart?” she asked, more worried now that he
didn’t have a solid answer.
“Not yet. I wil , once everythin’ settles down.”
Riley could tel there was more here than he was admitting.
What if that thing had gotten his soul? Would she be able to
tel ? A sick knot formed in her chest. “Beck…”
she began, her voice quavering.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he ordered. “It’s over and I’m
stil in one piece.”
But you might not have been.
* * *
Beck had been planning his move from the moment the
funerals had ended. As Riley pul ed into the pub’s parking
lot, he hopped out of the car, hoping to avoid a
confrontation. “Thanks, girl. Cal when ya get to the church
so I know yer safe.”
There was no way he could ignore the expression on
Riley’s face. He knew it wel enough; it promised defiance,
so it wasn’t any surprise when she turned off the car, undid
the seat belt, and climbed out. Beck watched her walk
across the street toward the pub, her hair swinging back
and forth, boots clicking on the pavement.
Ya shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t dangerous or anything, but it
was a guy thing.
“We’re gonna get drunk, we’re gonna swear and tel a lot of
war stories,” he cal ed out. “That’s about it.”
Riley paused at the entrance to the Six Feet Under Pub and
Fish House. “I know. Dad told me about these things.”
“It’s no place for a … girl.”
“But it is for a trapper,” she said, and left him standing there
like a moron.
“Why do ya fight me on everythin’?” he snarled. He had no
choice but to let her have her way. Dragging her out of there
by the hair would just make both of them look stupid.
He found Riley at the bar, ordering a glass of Pepsi. Just
like he figured, the bartender was giving her the once-over.
“You’re new,” the guy said, turning on the charm.
“Uh-huh,” Riley replied, laying a five on the counter and
looking around. “Where are the trappers?”
“Oh, you’re here for that, huh? They’re upstairs, on the roof,”
he answered, pointing toward a set of stairs near the
entrance. Then he plunked the glass down and gave her the
change. As Beck approached, Riley picked up her drink
and headed for the stairs, acting as if he didn’t exist.
“Hey, man,” the bartender cal ed out. “I heard about the
Tabernacle. Sorry.”
“It was a bitch, that’s for sure,” Beck said. “Thank yer boss
for the flowers. The families real y appreciated them.”
“Wil do.” The bartender stacked a couple glasses as he
watched Riley climb the stairs. “Now that’s a total hottie.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Beck warned.
“Oh, sorry,” the guy said, raising his hands in surrender.
“I didn’t know she was spoken for.”
Beck realized he’d been a jerk. “No, not yer fault. I’m kind of
… wel … she’s a trapper. She’s Paul’s daughter.”
“I thought she was a groupie or something. Thanks for
setting me straight.” He went into bartender mode. “The
usual?”
“Yeah. Make it a pitcher this time, and start a tab.”
“You got it.”
* * *
The rooftop portion of the Six Feet Under was open to the
air, so Riley made sure to sit near one of the radiant
heaters. She selected an empty chair at the end of a long
wooden table. Three tables, actual y, al nosed together to
accommodate the trappers. As she sat, heads turned. A
few faces frowned. She was pleased to see not al of them
did.
“Hi there, Riley,” Jackson cal ed out. He was drinking
coffee instead of a beer, probably in deference to his
wounds.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Not bad. Hurts like hel , but the doc said I don’t need
grafts, so I’m not going to complain.”
“That’s real y good news.”
“Amen to that. Where’s Den?”
“Here!” Beck cal ed out as he walked up. He set his pitcher
and pint of beer on the table next to Riley’s glass.
Shooting her a snarky grin, he said, “Now don’t ya get
those mixed up, ya hear?”
Riley gave him a scathing look, which was a complete
waste of time. The group went quiet, except for Beck, who
took a long gulp of his brew.
“God, I love this stuff.” Then he looked down at the others.
“What’s the problem, guys?”
McGuire angled his head toward Riley. He was in his early
forties, tal with thin hips and thin brown hair that covered his
col ar. If the deep crease lines on his face were any
indication, a scowl was his default setting.
“Apprentices are always at these things. How else are they
gonna learn anythin’?” Beck asked.
“But she’s—”
“A trapper,” Jackson said.
“Not in my book,” McGuire replied.
“You can bitch al you want, but I saw her take down a Three
with a folding chair,” Jackson replied. “We would have been
burying Simon tonight if it hadn’t been for her, so I think
maybe you should just can it.”
“The hel I wil . First it’l be her, then there’l be more of them.
We’l have to take anyone who wants to be a trapper,”
McGuire complained.
“I’d say the more the better. We could use ’em right now,”
Beck said.
McGuire rose to his feet. “No disrespect to the dead, but I
can’t be here if she is.” He slugged down what remained of
his beer and then stomped off toward the stairs.
Riley shook her head. Another enemy. Like I don’t have
enough already.
One of the trappers pounded the table enthusiastical y.
“Good deal. McGuire’s such a downer.” He gave Riley a
hundred-watt smile. “I’m Lex Reynolds, by the way. Pleased
to have you here, miss.”
She nodded in reply. Reynolds had a ful beard and hair that
went below his shoulders. He looked like a surfer, muscled,
with a deep golden tan. He wasn’t a good ol’ boy, that was
for sure.
The trapper rose and lifted his glass. With a nudge from
Beck, she stood like the others.
“Rest in peace, guys,” Reynolds cal ed out, and then
everyone took a long drink. “You keep those Pearly Gates
open for us, and we’l bring the beer.”
“Amen!” a few of the trappers shouted.
Chairs skidded on the floor as the group returned to their
seats.
“Col ins owed me twenty bucks,” Jackson announced.
“I’m never going to see that, am I?”
“Twenty? He owed me fifty,” another trapper cal ed out.
“Y’al are screwed,” Beck laughed. “I bet he’s laughin’ his
ass off right now.”
“God, I miss him. He was so much fun,” Reynolds said.
“Remember when he went after that Four at Georgia Tech,
right after he became a journeyman?”
“I don’t know that story,” one of the trappers replied. He was
an older guy with an exquisite handlebar mustache.
“Wel , there was this Four eating up fraternity boys like
candy. So Col ins gets the job. He goes up to this chick and
she offers him a good time, so he drops a load of Holy
Water on her.”
Jackson chortled. Apparently he knew how this story played
out.
“You see, she wasn’t a demon.” Reynolds grinned. “She
was an undercover vice cop. Man, did they bust his bal s.”
Riley laughed along with the others.
“Sounds like somethin’ I’d do,” Beck joked.
A trapper named Thomas jumped in with a tale about
Morton catching a Three in a meat locker at a grocery
store. Then someone related the joke they’d pul ed on
Stewart involving a goat in Demon Central. It was only then
she realized the masters weren’t here.
When she asked Beck why that was the case, he replied,
“So the guys can say anythin’ they want and not worry they’l
get in trouble. They can blow off steam that way.”
Riley settled back in her seat, letting the stories surround
her. This wasn’t about remembering the dead but honoring
those that were stil alive. These trappers were the real deal,
and for a moment she felt a strong sense of pride at being
one of them. This was why Dad did this. It wasn’t just
bringing in the demons or earning a paycheck. It was about
being one of the guys.
But I never will be one of the guys. She didn’t have the right
equipment and that would make al the difference.
Even if she rose to the rank of master, she’d never real y
belong. Depressed, Riley finished off her drink and stood.
Al eyes went to her.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Jackson asked. “The night’s
young.”
“I need to get some sleep,” she admitted, then wondered if
that made her sound weak. It was a better explanation than
having to stay on holy ground after dark.
“’Night, Miss Riley,” someone cal ed out from the group,
though she wasn’t sure who it was. She cal ed out her own
farewel and headed down the stairs. Beck quickly fel in
step with her, fol owing her out to the car.
“I thought ya were gonna drive me home,” he chided.
“Changed my mind.”
“Glad to hear it.” He hesitated and then added, “I need help
with somethin’ tomorrow. Wil ya be home around noon?”
“Help with what?”
“Just somethin’.”
Okay, be mysterious. “I’l be home then.”
“Good. I’l bring barbecue for lunch.”
“That works.”
They’d reached her car. As Riley pul ed out the keys, he
said, “Cal me when ya get to the church.”
“Why do you do that?” she demanded, turning on her heels
to face him.
“What?”
“You go al old on me, like you’re a geezer or something.”
“Ya don’t understand,” he said, running a hand through his
hair.
“What don’t I get, Beck? That you had a craptastic
childhood? That you can’t change what happened to you so
you’re going to micromanage my every waking hour?”
His face hardened. “Yeah, that’s part of it. I had to take care
of myself since I was little. I know what it’s like.”
“You keep it up and you’re going to be like Harper, a sad
old guy who hits people and bitches about everything.”
“Ya don’t understand,” he repeated.
“Then tel me why you have to be like this. One good
reason.”
“Because…” He slumped against the car. “I don’t know any
other way to be.”
Finally the truth. And from the expression on his face, it
looked like she’d carved it out of his heart.
She leaned against the car next to him, hands crossed over
her chest. “Promise you’l stop going al senior?”
He looked over at her. “Wil you cal yer aunt?”
Here we go again. “I won’t be any safer in Fargo. If the
demons want me, they’l find me.”
Beck put his hand on her arm. “Please,” he pleaded.
Riley stared at him. That word just wasn’t one of his
favorites. For him to use it meant he was desperate. When
she didn’t reply, he removed his hand in defeat.
“I just need to know that there’s someone who’l take care of
ya … if … somethin’ happens to me.”
Without another word her companion walked back toward
the pub. At the last moment he looked back over his
shoulder. This time his emotions were unmasked and she
could read them easily.
Fear. For him and for her.
What aren’t you telling me? What really happened at the
pool hall?
FIFTEEN
It took some time for Riley to find Simon: He’d been moved
out of ICU. As she drew closer to his room, a man passed
her in the hal way. He wasn’t hospital staff, so for a moment
she thought maybe he was a priest, but he wasn’t wearing
a clerical col ar.
Probably a friend of the family.
Riley paused outside the room to gear herself up for this.
It shouldn’t be this way. She should be real y looking
forward to seeing Simon, but something wasn’t right
between them. I’m overreacting. He’s just scared like the
rest of us. He’ll come out of it.
She cautiously stuck her head in the door and found him in
the bed closest to the door. The curtain was pul ed,
shielding him from his roommate, who was watching
television.
Her boyfriend was staring at nothing, hands tangled around
a rosary, his face as pale as it had been the last time she’d
seen him. She moved to his side, set her messenger bag
on the chair and waited for him to acknowledge her. When
he did, he frowned like she wasn’t welcome.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, scowling. “I cal ed
your house over and over, and you didn’t answer.
Are you blowing me off on purpose?”
Riley counted to ten so as to not buy into his anger. He’s
just frustrated. He has to vent.
“I’m not home much anymore,” she explained. “Cal my cel .”
Then Riley remembered why that wouldn’t work. “I’l get you
the new number. My phone got toasted so I’m using Dad’s.”
If she expected that to mol ify Simon, it didn’t work. “Why
weren’t you here this morning?”
“I’ve been busy. I’ve had our master to take care of, a
Magpie to trap, funerals and a wake to attend. That doesn’t
leave much time for sitting around the house waiting for
your cal , Simon.”
“Wake?” he replied. “Why would you go to that?”
Because I’m a trapper? “Don’t start,” she replied. “I had to
listen to McGuire complain about me being in the Guild. I
don’t need to hear it from you.”
Simon looked away, but no apology was forthcoming.
“Look, I’m real y tired, so I’m kind of bitchy,” she said, trying
to salvage the conversation. “Let’s start over, okay?”
When he didn’t respond, she reached over one of the side
rails and touched his hand. Simon flinched and pul ed
away.
“What is going on with you?” she asked.
“I would think that would be obvious,” he replied, scowling
over at her.
No, or I wouldn’t have asked. “Look, just hang in there.
You’l be getting out of here soon. You’l be coming back to
work and maybe in a couple weeks we can go to a movie
or something. Spend some time together. I’d like that.” I
really need your strength right now.
“A date?” he retorted, his knuckles white as he clenched
the rosary. “How can you think about that? How can you be
oblivious as to what is going on in this city?”
Riley’s temper reared its head. “I know what’s happening,
Simon. I know better than anyone, but—”
“I never realized how shal ow you are,” he said, staring at
her like he’d just learned her darkest secret. “Don’t those
dead trappers mean anything to you?”
“Now look here,” she retorted, trying hard to control her
voice so as not to disturb his roommate. “Don’t give me this
‘You don’t care’ crap. I’m not oblivious, Simon.” I just want
to get things back on track with us.
“That’s not what I’m seeing,” he said, waving a hand
dismissively. “We have to find out what happened at the
Tabernacle. We have to find out who betrayed us.”
Betrayed? Riley forced herself to sound calm, though her
emotions were seething. “No one betrayed us, Simon.
You know that as wel as I do.”
“Do I?” he asked, a strange light in his eyes. “This is a
battle for our very souls, Riley. Nothing is like it seems. We
can trust no one until we know what happened.”
Riley gave up. She was too tired for al this drama. “Then
you work it out. I’ve gotta go.”
When she dropped a kiss on his cheek, Simon’s jaw
tensed underneath her lips.
“I’m not giving up on you,” she said, defiantly.
“And I’m not giving up until I find the truth.”
* * *
Instead of dragging herself into the solitude of the church’s
basement and listening to the furnace do its on-and-off
dance, Riley sat on the stone steps that led to the building’s
front entrance. It was after dark now, the streets alight with
cars and busy with pedestrians headed home for the night.
Right now the Five seemed a remote threat. A bigger worry
was Simon and what was happening between them. The
possibility of losing him weighed on her heart.
“Heaven can’t be that cruel,” she whispered.
A slight breeze made her tuck her coat tighter. She heard
the light footsteps before she saw him. Ori. He settled onto
the steps next to her, dressed in a black leather jacket and
jeans. He said nothing for a long time, as if he was
respecting her need for silence. Final y Riley knew she had
to say something.
“I didn’t see you fol owing me from the hospital,” she said,
looking over at him.
“I’m very good at what I do,” he replied. “Something
happened there, didn’t it?”
“It’s more what didn’t happen.” She twisted the strap on her
messenger bag in agitation, then realized what she was
doing and shoved it away. It was a stupid habit. “My
boyfriend’s gotten weird. I know he’s been real y il and al
that, but…”
“But?” Ori nudged.
“Simon’s changing. He used to be so sweet and kind.
Now he’s nasty, even to me, like it was my fault he got
clawed up.”
“Do you think it’s your fault?”
Riley rubbed her face in thought. “Maybe. What if the Five
brought those other demons just so it could get to me?
What if I’m the reason al those guys died?”
Ori gently placed his hand on her arm, giving it a gentle
squeeze of reassurance.
“If the Five wanted you, it just had to wait for the right time to
kil you. It did not have to orchestrate an attack on the
Tabernacle.”
Riley searched his face and found only compassion.
She needed that support right now. Simon certainly wasn’t
giving her any. “You real y believe that?”
Ori nodded. “The demons are not acting normal y.
Something, or someone, is driving them to this grotesque
behavior.”
“Lucifer?”
“No. Not his style. The Prince of Hel likes order above al
things.”
“But who—” Riley let it drop, too tired to try to work through
it. Stewart and the others would take care of it. She had her
boyfriend and her dad to worry about.
“I thought that Simon’s faith would help him through this. I
mean, he’s real y religious. I thought we’d deal with this
together, but he’s not moving on, al he’s doing is looking
backward.”
“While you’re looking forward?”
Riley nodded. “That’s what I do when it goes wrong. If I slow
down I don’t think I can handle my screwed-up life, so I just
keep moving, hoping it’l get better. It never does.”
Ori put his arm around her, drawing her close to his body,
which al owed Riley to rest her head on his shoulder.
She inhaled the crisp, cool scent that was him.
“Simon’s journey is his own,” he said. “If he’s foolish enough
to push you away, then that’s his loss. Don’t give up on him
just yet.”
“I hope he gets his head straightened out. I real y like him.”
“Then he’s a lucky boy.”
She straightened up, uncomfortable with how close they’d
become in such a short time. She knew so little about this
man, and it was a good bet once he caught the Five, he’d
be gone.
“Do you ever look back and regret things you’ve done?”
she asked wistful y.
Ori stared into the middle distance before he answered.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t have that luxury.” As
he rose, he looked down at her with a sad smile.
“And neither do you, Riley Blackthorne.”
* * *
In Ori’s experience it was quite easy to find a demon,
especial y the ones that ate everything. Al you had to do
was pitch your ears toward the snarls and home in. He’d
already found two of them, older, more feral ones, but they
hadn’t been helpful. He’d left their bleeding corpses in the
murky dark of this place the trappers cal ed Demon
Central.
Now he’d found another, a younger one who hadn’t
developed its second row of teeth yet. It was rounder, more
bulky. It almost looked harmless, but in a few months it’d
thin down and become a dedicated kil ing machine.
It had just caught itself a large rat. The rodent’s head was
already gone, but this fiend, unlike most of its kind, wasn’t a
gobbler. It seemed to be savoring the meal.
Ori moved quietly to a position about five feet from the
thing. Then he let it see his true form, wings, sword, and al .
It shrieked and jumped back in terror, clutching its bloodied
meal to its chest as its black hair stuck out like a porcupine.
After a quick look around, it realized it had no place to run.
“Hel spawn,” Ori said. “You know what I am.” There was a
whine of fear from the abomination. “And you know what I
want.”
The demon began to shiver. Gastro-Fiends, or Threes, as
the trappers so quaintly cal ed them, weren’t very intel igent,
al their brains geared toward acquiring food.
This one had enough smarts to know that if it pointed Ori in
the direction of another demon, that might mean its death.
Especial y when the other fiend was a weather worker
capable of kil ing a master trapper.
“Where is the rogue demon cal ed Astaring?” Ori
demanded.
The fiend’s face scrunched up in what passed for thought,
then it cautiously extended the rat toward him. A bribe for
its life, perhaps?
Ori sighed and shook his head. “No. That is not what I
want.” He took a menacing step forward. It got the reaction
he’d hoped for: The Hel spawn cowered in fear.
“Tel me, pitiful one,” he ordered, putting power behind the
command.
The creature began to babble in Hel speak. Most of what it
said was a list of complaints about how badly it was treated
by the other demons, but at the very end it gave Ori a
glimmer of information.
“Thank you. Enjoy your meal.” Final y he had a lead on the
rogue that had kil ed Master Blackthorne. Ori turned on a
heel and hiked down the al ey. He knew not to check on the
fiend; it would be down the closest hole by now.
A short time later, he stood in the middle of a street that
looked like a war zone. It wasn’t his doing, at least not yet.
His quarry was close. He sensed the thing. Felt its power.
“Show yourself, Astaring,” he shouted.
A second later he leapt upward to avoid the rush of bril iant
flames that blew out of the ground at his feet. He twisted in
the air, spreading his wings, sword ready for battle. The
flames vanished, leaving a crater rimmed with smoking
asphalt. If he had been a few seconds slower, he’d have
been a pile of smoking feathers.
“You’re a cunning one,” he said. “Now stop hiding like a sil y
child.”
A laugh cut through the air, cold and cruel, but the demon
did not materialize. “The war comes, Divine,” it said. “On
whose side wil you be?”
Then the fiend was gone, its power fading away in the night
air. Ori hovered in the air, studying his surroundings, trying
to determine if it was a trick.
“Coward,” he grumbled.
He floated downward, tucking his wings behind him as his
feet landed. Demons always spoke of war. They craved it.
Like they had a chance of winning against Heaven.
But this time, the fiend was speaking the truth. “The war
comes.”
SIXTEEN
The only reason Beck was out this early in the morning was
sitting in the booth near the restaurant’s front windows. At
7:00 AM the red-haired reporter had cal ed him and then
sweetly but firmly refused to let him off the hook. The
interview just had to happen this morning. Beck had final y
agreed so he could get this woman off his back.
When the reporter saw him, she smiled warmly. “Good
morning, Mr. Beck.” She had an accent he couldn’t place.
Something foreign, maybe French or Italian.
“Ma’am,” he said, sliding into the booth across from her.
He’d shaved and showered and put on the best work
clothes he owned, but he was stil uncomfortable. There was
no good reason for him to be talking to this lady, especial y
after the wake last night. He’d not gotten drunk, but it’d
been close, and now his body was making him pay for that
bar tab.
The reporter daintily offered a manicured hand across the
table. “I am Justine Armando,” she said. “I wish to speak
with you about Atlanta and her demons.”
Bottomless emerald eyes held his gaze.
He gently shook the hand and forced himself to relax.
This babe was a knockout, and the way she said deemons
was cute. She looked like a model, not a reporter, but then
that probably worked in her favor. Her olive skin glowed in
the morning light streaming in through the windows, which
also set fire to the gold highlights in her hair. It made him
wonder if she had chosen that location on purpose. He also
noted she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
As the waitress poured him a cup of coffee, Beck pul ed his
head back to business. “What can I do for ya, ma’am?”
“Justine, please. I am not old and gray,” she said, her green
eyes twinkling.
“Al right, then, Justine. What is it ya wanna know?”
“I want to tel the story of an Atlanta demon trapper. Your
Master Stewart said you were one of the best, that is why I
asked to interview you.”
She was shoveling the crap pretty high. He took another
slug of coffee to buy time to sift through the mixed signals
he was receiving. Usual y if you didn’t talk, the other person
would fil in the silence and you’d learn something. The
reporter was a pro: She sipped her tea and waited him out.
“Who do ya write for?” he asked.
“I am freelance. I sel my stories to newspapers al over the
world,” she said.
“Must be a nice job.”
“It has its benefits,” she replied, flicking a switch on a sleek
microrecorder that sat near a notebook and a gold pen.
Then she smiled, pointing at the recorder. “Shal we begin?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Let’s get this done. Not that he minded the
scenery.
“I have researched you, Denver Beck,” Justine said.
“You were born in Sadlersvil e, Georgia, moved to Atlanta,
and then you were in the military. You were awarded
medals for bravery in Afghanistan.”
“Yes, ma’am.” That was as far as he was going on that
topic.
“Why did you want to become a trapper?” she asked.
“Because of Paul Blackthorne,” Beck replied. “He gave me
a future.” He knew that sounded hokey, but it was the truth.
“He died recently. You were with him when that happened,”
the reporter said, her voice softer now. “I understand that
his corpse has been reanimated and that he was at the
Tabernacle the night the demons attacked.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She put down her pen and gave him a pleading look. “I real
y need more than just a ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Mr. Beck.”
“Just Beck. That’s what folks cal me.”
“Wel , then, Just Beck…”
He opened his mouth to tel her she’d gotten it wrong, but
then saw the corners of her mouth curve up in a smile.
She was pul ing his chain.
“Yer messin’ with me,” he said.
“I am. So why don’t you tel me what happened that night at
the Tabernacle, and I wil tel the world.”
“I think they already know.”
“But they haven’t heard your story,” she said, leaning across
the table. “I know it’s a good one.”
“Why?” he asked, frowning.
“I can tel by looking at you. You are not like the others.”
She’s right about that. He got another cup of coffee and told
her what he remembered about the demon attack, leaving
out a few details the world just didn’t need to know.
She listened intently, taking notes. Only when he’d finished
did she put more questions to him.
“How did the demons break through the Holy Water ward?”
“I think it was because there were too many of them.”
She seemed to accept that explanation. “Do you believe in
Armageddon, Beck?” she asked.
“I would have said no a few days ago, but after I saw those
angels…”
“Then they were real y there?” At his puzzled look, she
added, “The photographs and videos don’t show them in
detail, only a ring of intense light.”
“I was inside that light. They were angels alright.”
Justine seemed to shift mental gears. “Do you believe the
hunters wil have better luck in subduing the demons?”
“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously, knowing this would be
going on the record. “We know the city better than they do,
and from what I hear, once the hunters arrive more demons
wil show up.”
“More work for you,” she said.
He shook his head. “They’l cut us out of the picture.
We’re the locals, the hicks. We don’t have the money, or
the flash equipment.”
“But you can kil demons in certain circumstances,” she
said. He nodded. “Is this one?”
“Hel , yes.” They hadn’t received the official word from the
National Guild, but he didn’t care. Everything from a Pyro-
Fiend on up was fair game. If he could trap it, fine. If it
fought back, it was toast. He’d get paid either way.
“I have an appointment with the mayor in an hour,” she
explained. “I want to hear his side of al this, and then I wil fol
ow up with you if I have more questions.”
Beck grunted. “The mayor’s al talk, no sense.”
Justine grinned, revealing perfect white teeth. “May I quote
you on that?”
“Better not,” he said, shaking his head. He’d let his mouth
get the best of him.
The woman pushed a business card across the table.
Her name was written in a flowing script, and there was a
cel phone number beneath it. “Keep in touch, Beck. I’m
sure I wil have more questions.”
He looked into those deep green eyes and decided this
hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought. Actual y, a pretty nice
way to start his day. “I’l do that, Justine.”
As she strol ed out of the restaurant, he put the card in his
jacket pocket and signaled for a refil on the java.
“Not bad at al .”
* * *
To keep her mind off Simon and his infantile behavior, Riley
dug into the pile of bil s that seemed to have grown
overnight. Paying bil s was like doing laundry and grocery
shopping—never ending. With Beck’s help the rent had
been paid, along with a few of the other monthly debts, but
she would run short of cash again in about a week. That
made her eyes stray to the trapping bag by the door. It stil
had the claw marks from her last solo adventure.
“Been there. Done that,” Riley grumbled, scratching the now
healed demon wounds through her jeans. Instead, she
made a list of the debts so she could prioritize them. She
was nearly finished when a series of knocks echoed
throughout the apartment. It was straight-up noon.
When she opened the door, Beck held up a large bag from
Mama Z’s, his favorite barbecue joint. “Brought ya lunch, as
promised,” he said.
Her nose homed in on the piquant scent of spices.
“Yum,” she murmured, her mouth watering instantly.
As Riley set the table, she waited for his usual Spanish
Inquisition, in particular, “Have ya cal ed yer aunt in Fargo
yet?” But none of that happened. Instead he draped his
leather jacket over the couch and headed for the bathroom.
Water ran, then he was back and removing the food from
the bag, placing the sandwiches and the coleslaw on the
plates she’d pul ed from the cupboard.
He noticed the stack of bil s. “How ya doin’ for money?”
Riley rol ed her eyes. “I paid the cel phone bil , the utilities,
and the rent. There’re more bil s due in about a week and I’l
be short by then. Peter knows a place where I can sel a few
of my old CDs for cash.”
Beck nodded and then fel on his sandwich like he’d not
eaten breakfast.
Maybe he hadn’t. “How late did you stay last night?” she
asked.
“Until about one. I had to get up early and talk to some
reporter.”
“How did that go?”
“It went,” he replied.
Rather than ruin what was going to be a good meal with talk
that she might not like, she focused on her own sandwich,
savoring the amazing taste. Mama Z’s had the best
barbecue in the world. Mid-lunch her cel phone pinged in
response to a new text. She wiped off her hands and
checked it. Then grinned.
“Yes!” she crowed. “Simon’s at home now. They cut him
loose from the hospital.”
“That’s good news,” Beck said. “He sure healed quick.”
“On the outside, at least.”
Her visitor gave a huff of understanding. “Ya see him last
night?” At her nod, he added, “How’d that go?”
“It went,” she said, parroting his words about the reporter.
“Not good?” She shook her head. “Sorry.” He cleaned his
mouth with a napkin, crumpled it up, and dropped it in the
middle of the plate. “I’m hopin’ the food was a fair-enough
bribe for this.”
Here it comes. He’s going to use the meal to guilt me, I just
know it.
“Stewart wants me to fil out the papers for the National
Guild.” At her puzzled look, Beck added, “They’re for the
dead trappers. They’re forms so their families can get their
life insurance.”
“Oh.” Now it made sense why he didn’t want to do these
alone.
After she cleaned off the table, Riley dropped back into her
chair. Beck placed a thick pile of manila folders in front of
her. Each one had a name written in block letters.
“How many pages are there to these things?” she asked.
“The form’s only got two. The rest is their files.” She studied
the first folder and deemed it a blessing the name wasn’t
one she recognized.
The form was pretty straightforward: a notification to the
National Demon Trappers Guild that one of their members
had shuffled off this mortal coil, and a request to release
insurance funds to the listed beneficiary or beneficiaries.
Riley opened the folder and found a picture of the
deceased. It had been taken when he joined the Guild,
which according to the paperwork was six years earlier.
She didn’t know the man.
Her visitor opened a folder and issued a tortured sigh.
He’d know these guys—probably trapped with some of
them, drank with al of them at one time or another.
She let her eyes skim over the paper in front of her.
Russel Brody was forty-three, just about her dad’s age
when he died. He had a wife and two children. Riley forced
herself to pick up the pen and begin fil ing in the form,
though it was almost physical y painful. His family needed
the money and someone had to do this. She moved from
section to section entering name, address, social security
number, birth date, rank in the Guild, membership number,
and then the hardest part—how he’d died.
“Ah, what do I put for cause of death?” she asked.
“Hel spawn,” Beck replied. “They’l add the coroner’s report
when they send it in, so you don’t need to do more than
that.”
“Hel spawn,” she said, fil ing in the blank. It seemed too
black and white for her liking.
After she’d completed the first one, she took the next folder
and opened it. She didn’t know this trapper either.
The same thing happened with the next two files. He did
this on purpose. She thought to thank him, but he might not
take it right.
When she finished her fifth one, she set it aside and
stretched. Beck was stil working on his second form,
hunched over the paperwork like a gnome. When he wrote
a word, he did it slowly, forming each letter with a lot of
effort. Like he was having to think real y hard.
“You go much slower, and I’l end up doing al these,” she
said, not pleased at the thought.
“I’m goin’ as fast as I can,” he shot back.
“Fooled me.”
His eyes rose to meet hers and flashed in defiance. “I’m not
good at this, okay? But don’t ya dare say I’m dumb.”
Where did that come from?
Beck dropped the pen on the table. “Sorry. I’m tired and I’m
not good company today.”
Riley resisted the temptation to tel him he wasn’t good
company on most days.
“So what hot button did I push?” she asked, wanting to
know for the future.
Beck winced. “I don’t read or write good. Never had anyone
show me, not at home at least. Teachers tried, but they
couldn’t do much because I wouldn’t listen to ’em.”
“You listened to my dad.”
“He knew how to teach me. None of the others could.”
It slowly dawned on her why he’d asked for her help.
“Stewart doesn’t know about this, does he?”
“No,” Beck said, shaking his head. “I don’t dare tel him, not
if I wanna make master trapper. That’s why I came here.”
He’d put his inflated guy ego on the line, trusting she’d not
make fun of him. That made Riley feel real y good inside.
“That’s why you don’t send text messages, isn’t it?”
“Yup.” Beck looked down at the form in front of him. “I’m
better than I used to be,” he said. “The Army helped me a
lot. It just doesn’t come easy for me.”
“You get around town without any hassles. I’ve seen you do
it.”
“I know the city,” he said, his eyes meeting hers now. “I
don’t have to read the street signs to get where I need to
go. It’s when I’m doin’ somethin’ new I get into trouble.”
“Like these forms.” A nod. “You’ve been doing okay,”
Riley said encouragingly. “Your writing’s a lot neater than
most guys’, and you’re getting the stuff on the right lines.”
“I watched ya, so I know where it goes.”
She didn’t dare pity him. That would make him furious.
Riley spread her hands. “Hey, I had it lucky. Both parents
were teachers. It was hardwired in.”
“I had a—” He stopped short, but Riley knew what he was
thinking.
A drunken mom who didn’t care how you turned out.
“Do you read books?”
“Some of the kid ones,” he said. “I get ’em from the library,
that way folks don’t know what I’m readin’.”
So nobody will make fun of you. “How did you get through
the Trappers Manual?” she asked, intrigued.
Embarrassment formed on his face. “I didn’t. Yer daddy
read it to me.”
Which means al those hours Paul Blackthorne had spent
with Beck weren’t just about trapping demons or hanging
together. My dad was teaching him to read and write.
She’d always loved her father, but now she loved him even
more.
“How did you pass the journeyman exam?” she asked.
“I didn’t cheat,” Beck said, instantly defiant.
“Hel o?” she said, rapping her knuckles on the table.
“Did I say that?”
He half shrugged. “I knew al the answers, I just couldn’t read
the questions that good, so Paul had me learn ’em in
order.”
Which was okay since they gave the test questions out in
advance to increase the odds that the apprentice might
actual y pass.
“I couldn’t do that,” she admitted.
“What?”
“Memorize al the questions. That would be way hard.
You might not be able to read and write that wel , but you’re
smart in other ways.”
“Not sure of that.”
I am. That’s why her father had gone to such effort. Now it’s
my turn.
A thought twitched in her brain. “Do you have a computer?”
she quizzed. A nod came her way. “My buddy Peter has a
program that takes text and makes it into speech. You
could listen to stuff off the Web and read along. Newspaper
articles and things like that.”
“That sounds cool. Is it real y expensive?”
“I don’t think so. I’l ask him about it.” Beck instantly tensed.
“Without tel ing him why I want to know.”
“Thanks.” He looked down at the form and then back up
again. “I mean it.”
The next folder in the stack was Ethan’s. She took it.
“I’l do that if ya want me to,” her companion offered.
Riley shook her head, feeling the prickle of tears. She
flipped it open and studied the apprentice’s picture. He
wasn’t that old, and now he was gone. If things had been
different, Beck would be fil ing out Simon’s sheet. Maybe
even hers. She went to the bathroom to hunt up tissues,
wiped her eyes, and returned to the table.
Beck dropped another file into the completed stack.
“Only a few more,” he said. She could tel this was hurting
him as much as it was her.
Riley nodded and returned to the work. It wasn’t until near
the end of the stack that she actual y read the fine print on
the second page of the claim form. Under the name of the
beneficiary was a place for a signature and an address, so
the check could be sent directly to the person.
“Beck?”
“Hummm?” he said, not looking up as he painstakingly
formed a letter.
“Why didn’t I have to sign a form for my dad?”
He kept his eyes down, but he wasn’t writing any longer.
“Beck?”
He set the pen down deliberately and leaned back in the
kitchen chair, face pensive. “I signed it.”
“Why?”
“Because the money comes to me.”
“I’m not my dad’s beneficiary?” she asked, total y
sideswiped.
“If Paul left ya the money, the debt col ectors might take it.
With it comin’ to me, they can’t touch it. Don’t worry, I’l have
Fireman Jack figure out how to get it to ya.”
“Why should you? It’s your money. You can buy yourself a
new truck with it. Nobody could say a thing.”
Beck’s face twisted in hurt. “How can ya think I’d—”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Nothing is like I thought
it would be. I figured I’d get my license and then Dad and I
would be together al the time and—”
She spun out of her chair and found herself near the big
window, the one overlooking the parking lot. Below,
someone was lugging groceries toward the entrance. It was
proving difficult, as their poodle wanted to anoint every car
tire it passed.
Beck was right behind her now. “I won’t keep any of that
money, girl. It’s yers. Yer daddy wanted it this way, I swear.”
“He didn’t trust me.”
“No, he didn’t trust the debt col ectors. He didn’t want ya to
lose the only thing he could leave behind.”
Beck hesitantly put his arm around her shoulder and drew
her close. She could feel him shaking.
“I won’t let ya starve,” he whispered. “I’l do whatever it
takes. I promise that on yer daddy’s grave.”
Her father had trusted him. Why don’t I?
They stood there for a few minutes, just looking out the
window, neither of them talking. Final y Beck pul ed away
and returned to the table and the paperwork. Riley forced
herself to join him. They worked through the remainder of
the files in silence.
Once they were done, he placed the files in his duffel bag,
picked up his jacket, and offered his thanks. Riley locked
the door behind him, feeling she real y needed to say
something but wasn’t sure what it would be.
It wasn’t until later that she found the thick white envelope
tucked underneath the pile of bil s. The envelope was
stuffed with twenties, and she counted them into onehundred-
dol ar stacks. There were ten.
One thousand dollars.
Beck must have put it there when she’d gone in search of
the tissues. Riley bowed her head in despair. She’d
practical y accused him of stealing her money, and al the
while that envelope had been sitting there. He’d never said
a thing.
She remembered him standing at the window, deep in
thought. How defensive he’d become because he could
barely read and write. How her father had trusted him to do
the right thing.
Denver Beck was a hard guy to like and even harder to
understand. One thing was clear: His word was golden.
Why can’t I accept that?
SEVENTEEN
“What is it about this place?” Riley grumbled as she drove
past the Oakland Cemetery and then cut down one of the
side streets in search of a parking place. “Why do I spend
most of my life here?” The universe had no answer for her,
so she kept driving up and down the streets. This field trip
would be her first day back in class after the Tabernacle
disaster. Her classmates would want to know what it was
real y like, badger her with questions because she’d been
there when it al happened.
It wasn’t like talking about it made it go away. It was just the
opposite: The hel ish images were too fresh in her mind,
searing deeper every time she thought about them. If she
could hold her classmates off today, maybe something else
would have caught their interest by the next time. As long as
it has nothing to do with me.
The schools made these mandatory historical education
trips three times a year, dividing up the classes across
different days. There’d probably be two hundred kids here
today, and the school district didn’t bother with buses
anymore. Though the classes were designed to arrive at
thirty-minute intervals, that hadn’t lightened the number of
bodies tromping toward Oakland’s entrance like a herd of
wel -dressed zombies.
She final y found a place to park three blocks from the
cemetery. As she approached the brick archway that led
into the graveyard, a familiar face caught her notice.
“Peter?” she murmured. Her best friend stood by the main
gate, scanning the knots of students as they passed by. He
brightened up the moment he spied her, and waved.
“Hey!” he said as she joined him. “I was worried you’d blow
this off.”
“No way. Mrs. Haggerty wil take rol , and I don’t need
detention.”
He shoved a package toward her. “A reprint of your father’s
Holy Water research. I read it this time. Your dad was
amazing.”
“Yeah, he was,” she said, taking the package. “I think I
might have a lead.” She told him about the unmarked truck
that had col ected the recycled Holy Water bottles. “Maybe
if I fol ow those guys around I might be able to figure out
who’s stealing the bottles and refil ing them.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Peter said, nodding his approval.
“Let me know if you need someone to ride shotgun.”
Cool. “It’s a deal.” They passed underneath the brick arch
into the cemetery. “I thought you were supposed to be here
tomorrow.”
“I’ve been transferred to your class,” Peter replied, grinning.
When Riley stumbled to a halt, a student behind her swore
when he almost ran into her. “Sorry,” she said, then turned
back to her friend. “Do you mean that you hack—”
Peter clapped a hand over her mouth. “As I was about to
say, I’m happy to report that our educational overlords have
decided I shal be in your class.” He lowered his hand and
winked. “Imagine my surprise.”
Surprise. Right. Peter had managed to hack the computer
system that housed the student data and set up a transfer. If
he was caught he’d be expel ed, exiled to darkest Il inois
with his unglued mother.
“Are you insane?”
“Of course. It wasn’t that hard, not once I figured out I had to
transfer two or three others at the same time to cover my
tracks. It’s al about camouflage.”
“You moved other people to our class?”
“Sure did.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.
“Easier than I’d thought, actual y.”
“But—”
Someone stepped in front of them on the road, blocking
their way.
Oh, jeez. As if life wasn’t absurd enough, the obstruction
was her class’s vampire wannabe, the kid with the jet-black
hair and the alabaster skin. Today he had on a black frock
coat and a bloodred shirt with decorative lace at the col ar.
A cameo sat at his neckline. The face on the cameo
sported fangs.
You’ve got to be kidding.
“You are thtil alive,” he lisped, glaring at Riley, his dark
eyebrows furrowed. The fake pointed canines were
definitely causing the speech impediment.
“Yeah, I’m alive. And your point is?” she asked, annoyed at
the interruption.
“We wil not be vanquithed,” he replied. The lisp real y came
through this time, along with some spit.
Gross. “Can you move, please?”
The fake vamp didn’t budge but continued to glower and
display his plastic teeth. Riley strode around him, shaking
her head.
As they moved farther down the road, Peter asked, “Ah,
what was that?”
“That is our vamp wannabe. He drinks red soda and uses
the imperial we al the time. He’s harmless. Just ignore
him.”
Peter looked over into the graveyard. “Kind of hard to do,”
he said, pointing.
The kid darted among the graves, skulking behind trees
and the larger monuments. Every now and then he’d leer
out from behind a stone obelisk or angel.
“What’s he got against you?” her friend asked.
“He thinks I hunt vampires. I told him I only trap demons, but
he doesn’t believe me. He has this need-to-be-a-victim
thing going on.”
Peter gave her a confused look. “Ah, correct me if I’m
wrong, but that’s so not a vamp’s operating system, you
know? They don’t do victim.”
“Tel him that.”
“So what’s his name?”
Riley shrugged. “I was afraid to ask.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw her vamp stalker trip
over a headstone and do a total face-plant in the dirt, fake
teeth and al .
Why me?
* * *
Having a parent who was into the Civil War meant Riley’d
been to this section of Oakland Cemetery more times than
she could count. Her father had always found an excuse to
swing down to the Confederate graves when they visited
the family mausoleum.
“Soon al the flowers wil be in bloom,” she said wistful y.
“It’s so pretty then.”
Peter gaped at the rows of white markers. “Wow. Look at al
the gravestones. It’s unreal.”
“Never been here before?”
He shook his head. “It’s seriously awe inspiring.”
At least the first few times. After years of listening to her
father talk about the war, Riley could quote death tol s from
most of the major battles. She resisted the impulse. The
neat rows of bleached gravestones spoke eloquently
enough.
Peter was a numbers guy. “How many graves are there?”
he asked, looking over at her.
“Almost seven thousand, and there’re Union war dead here,
too.”
“I knew there were a lot of casualties, but you can’t real y
deal with it until you see it in person,” he said, waving a
hand to indicate the scene in front of them.
A piercing sound cut through the air as Mrs. Haggerty gave
a shril whistle. The class gathered around her under one of
the ancient magnolia trees.
“We’l be starting in a minute or two,” she advised.
Haggerty gave a stack of papers to the nearest student.
“Pass these out. These need to be completed and handed
in by the end of class.” That set off a round of grumbles. “I
know, but at least it’s not raining, okay? It could be worse.”
Once the paper distribution was in progress, Mrs. Haggerty
cal ed out, “Riley, are you here?”
Riley waved a hand from the edge of the crowd, wondering
what this was al about.
“Oh, good, glad to see you’re stil with us. I’m so sorry about
the other night, dear.”
Riley could only nod. There were a lot of eyes on her now,
and that bothered her.
The teacher returned her attention to the group. “I got word
this morning that we have new students in the class. I need
to see your transfer papers, people, so al of you come on
up.”
Peter grinned and then dutiful y headed for their teacher.
“Hey, Riley,” Brandy said, gliding up. The brunette was
dressed in black jeans and jacket and an unholy pink shirt.
Her entourage wasn’t with her. Instead they were a short
distance away laughing over a text message on one of the
girl’s cel phones.
“Brandy,” Riley said, testing the waters. When Riley had
first joined this class, Brandy had gone out of her way to
make the new kid feel right at home. Providing the new kid
liked sabotaged tires and defaced windshields.
“So who’s the new guy?” the girl asked.
“That’s my friend Peter. He just transferred in.”
“He looks like a nerd.”
“He’s smart but he’s cool. Give him a chance.” You pick on
him and I’ll be on you so fast you won’t know what
happened.
Her best friend returned and handed her the class
assignment. When he saw Riley wasn’t alone, he issued a
pleasant smile. “Hi, I’m Peter.”
“This is Brandy,” Riley said, more a warning than an
introduction.
“Oh,” he replied, the light dawning. “You’re the one who
vandalized Riley’s car … twice.”
Brandy blinked. Clearly she hadn’t anticipated the nerdy
guy to have a mouth. “Just playing with her head,” the girl
replied.
“I do that al the time, except I don’t flatten her tires.”
“We’re okay now,” Brandy added, giving Riley a meaningful
look.
Until you decide we’re not.
“Okay, folks,” the teacher cal ed out. “Work on the sheets
and turn them back in one hour. Off you go!”
Peter looked over at Riley. “Why don’t you tel me about this
lion statue,” he said, waving her toward a massive marble
sculpture. She gamely fol owed him to the metal fence that
divided the world from the Lion of Atlanta.
A few seconds later Brandy joined them. “Ah, I have to write
my paper on this. Can I listen in?”
Riley heard Peter’s muted chuckle. “Sure. Any problems
with that, Riley?” he asked, al innocence.
“No problem.” I love playing tour guide.
Riley pil aged through her memories and recounted the
statute’s history, courtesy of her father. “It’s cal ed the Lion
of Atlanta or the Lion of the Confederacy. It guards the
graves of the unknown soldiers, and it was modeled after a
statue in Switzerland. The dying lion is a symbol of
courage, and it’s lying on a Confederate flag.”
“You can almost feel its pain,” Peter said, his voice quieter
now. “It’s real y haunting.”
“This whole place is,” Riley replied.
“I don’t get why al this metal is stil here,” Brandy said,
gesturing to the fence. “I mean, why hasn’t it been stolen?”
“Don’t know,” Riley replied. That was a good question.
Brandy took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry about the other
night,” she said. “That had to be real y bad.”
Riley looked at her, shocked. She’d never expected the girl
to care about anything else outside of her own little world.
“I saw a picture in the paper of you and that cute guy who
was hurt so bad,” Brandy added. “Is he going to make it?”
“Yeah, he is.”
“That’s good.” A pause and then: “Is the TV show stil
coming to town? I mean, the demons didn’t scare them
away, did they?”
That’s more like it. This was the real Brandy, the one who
wanted Riley to get her an autograph of her favorite
Demonland actor while the film crew was in town.
“I haven’t heard anything about that.” What with the
Tabernacle fire, Riley had total y forgotten about the
television series wanting to work with the trappers while
they filmed in Atlanta.
“Wel , just remember, I want Jess Storm’s autograph.
And a photo would be awesome,” Brandy replied.
“If the show is in town, I’l get it,” Riley said. This was the
price of peace between them, and she was wil ing to pay it
to keep Brandy and her crew off her back. She real y didn’t
need any more hassles from her classmates.
Someone cal ed out her name, and she shivered in
response. The voice was familiar and not in a good way.
Riley turned and then stared in disbelief.
“Al an?” she said as a figure approached.
Peter scowled. Her friend knew the tale of her ex-boyfriend,
how she’d dated Al an and how he’d become the ex when
he’d punched her in the face when she refused to steal a
computer for him.
It’d been two years since she’d last seen him. Al an was tal
er now, wider, too. His body was footbal -player solid, and
his brown eyes were just as piercing. An arrogant smirk
seemed permanently chiseled in place. That much hadn’t
changed. As he drew near, her jaw throbbed like he’d just
struck her and she resisted the urge to touch it.
“I was hoping I’d find you,” he said, just like nothing bad had
fal en out between them. “I heard about your father.”
Not a hint of sympathy for her loss. Of course, her father
had paid his parents a visit after the hitting incident and had
warned them that if their son came near his daughter again,
he’d press charges.
And here you are, you jerk. But her dad wasn’t in the picture
anymore.
“Riley,” Peter began. She could hear the concern in his
voice. He was thinking she was going to repeat her
mistake, fal for this liar’s line of BS again.
“I’m good,” she said. Totally good. She knew Al an’s game
now. She turned her attention to the ex. “What are you
doing here?” she asked.
“Just checking out my new class.” He angled his head
toward Mrs. Haggerty. “I’m getting transferred in. The
paperwork should be done in about a week.”
Transferred in?
“Oh, God,” Peter said.
You moved him to our class?
If Riley said anything, she’d reveal Peter’s part in al this, so
she fired up the attitude, putting her hands on her hips and
glowering. “You just stay away from me, you hear? I don’t
want you in my face.”
“Why? You dating this nerd now?”
Riley had her hand on Peter’s arm before he could react.
If he went after her ex, he’d get pounded. She knew from
experience Al an had a wicked right hook.
“No. I’m dating someone else,” she said, though the creep
real y didn’t warrant an answer. “Let’s leave it in the past.”
He smirked. “You’re a lot prettier now. Hot, even. I’m glad
we’re going to be together again.”
“Not happening, so don’t even think it.” Riley spun on her
heels and stomped away, Peter in tow.
Behind her she heard Al an cal out, “See you later, babe!”
She made sure to go to the other side of the mil ing
students, as far away as she could get from him. When she
looked back, her ex-boyfriend was talking to Brandy. Riley
pul ed out her phone and sent a text to her clueless friend:
TOXIC. DO NOT TOUCH OR YOU WILL REGRET IT.
A little while later Brandy glanced down at her phone, read
the text, then went right back to talking with Riley’s ex.
“She’s not listening. That’s a big mistake.” She turned and
gave Peter a ful dose of the Riley Laser Eyes. “What were
you thinking?”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I just saw the last name and the first
initial. I had no idea it was him.”
Riley real y wanted to scream, just cut loose and shriek like
a banshee. But it wouldn’t do any good. Even if Peter
managed to get him transferred, Al an would know she
went to school in the old Starbucks on Fourteenth Street.
He’d continue to haunt her no matter what.
“It’l be okay. He just wants to spook me,” she said, trying to
reassure herself that the ex didn’t intend to pick up where
they’d left off in that parking lot two years before.
Peter peered over at her former boyfriend. “I’m not getting
that kind of vibe, Riley. I’m getting the ‘You’re going to pay
for this’ kind of feeling. Maybe you should tel Beck, let him
deal with the guy.”
“What?” she spat. “No way. I’l deal with Al an on my own.”
“Like you did the last time?”
Peter did have a point. “If it gets scary, I’l turn Beck loose
on him.”
“Good. Sometimes you need backup, and I’m thinking this
is one of those times.”
“No more transfers, you got it?”
“I swear it.”
“Unless you’d like to send Al an to like … Algeria or
something.”
“I wonder if that’s possible,” Peter pondered.
Brandy was smiling now, chatting up her ex. Hope your
parents have good health insurance, girl.
* * *
Simon’s family home was big, two stories and covered in
pale peach stucco. Curtains hung at every window, and
there were flowerpots ful of pansies on the steps that led to
the front door. Somehow they’d survived the winter frosts.
Riley adjusted her hair and clothes for what had to be the
fifth time. At least the black denim jacket she’d found at the
back of her closet fit. She’d forgotten it was there until the
blue one had been fried, sliced, and peed on. Black would
hide the stains better anyway.
She’d met Simon’s parents, so this shouldn’t be a big deal.
But it is. It was the first time she’d been in their house, the
first time she’d seen Simon since he’d left the hospital.
Would he be better now that he was home?
He just has to be. She visualized what Simon had been like
before the fire, before he’d been so badly hurt. The warm
smile, the loving kisses. That’s what she wanted more than
anything.
Mrs. Adler opened the door wearing a pair of sweatpants
and a worn Bon Jovi T-shirt. Her blonde hair was in a
ponytail, and sweat glistened on her forehead.
Riley had managed to catch her mid–exercise regimen.
“Come to see the fair-haired boy?” Mrs. Adler asked.
“If it’s okay.”
“Sure. He’s had a few visitors, but he certainly needs the
company.” She waved Riley into the house. The entryway
was paved in ceramic tile, and there were family photos
along both wal s. With a family as numerous as the Adlers,
they’d need al the wal space they could get.
Riley fol owed the woman through what looked to be a living
room into a smal room at the back of the house. The
shades were drawn giving the space a dungeonlike gloom.
There was a flat-screen television and the kind of chairs
you sink into and never come out of again. Simon was on
the leather couch.
“You’ve got a guest,” his mom cal ed out. She left Riley
standing at the door and headed toward the front of the
house.
Riley drifted to the couch and sat next to her boyfriend,
putting her messenger bag on the floor. Simon was in
sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The wooden cross
he always wore was missing. Had he lost it at the
Tabernacle? In his hands was the rosary, and he twisted it
back and forth like a set of worry beads.
“Riley.” The way he said the name didn’t convey any
meaning. No “Gee, I’m glad you’re here” or anything
personal. It was flat, just a word.
“So how are you doing?” she asked, trying to fathom where
his head was at the moment. If he was in the same crappy
mood as the previous night, there was little she could do for
him.
“I’m home.” Again that flat tone, like it didn’t matter.
Riley took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it.
“Simon, come on. What’s going on in your head? Talk to
me.”
His deep blue eyes met hers. “Not sure what’s going on.”
“Having trouble sleeping?” A nod. “Nightmares?”
Simon seemed surprised she’d know that. “I see the
demons and the blood and feel the flames.…” He kept
rubbing one of the rosary beads between his fingers. “My
dad says they’l get better, that they’re the mind’s way of
dealing with what happened.”
“He’s right. How are your wounds?”
“Almost healed. The doctors don’t know what to think of it.
They’ve never seen anything like it.”
Bet they haven’t. Not unless angels routinely make hospital
calls.
Simon’s hand gripped hers tighter then released it. “I knew I
was dying. I could feel it. I wasn’t afraid, I was just sad,” he
said. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Wel , pretty soon you’l be healed and we’l go trap some of
those demons. Teach them a lesson.”
She expected a PC version of “Hel yes, let’s kick some
demon butt.” There was no reply. Simon’s fingers continued
to worry his rosary as his blue eyes stared at nothing.
“You saved me,” she said. “The demon came after you
instead of me. I won’t ever forget that.”
“I did everything right,” he retorted, frowning now. “The
demons should not have been able to cross the ward.”
“Of course you did it right. No one’s blaming you.”
He wasn’t listening. “I put the Holy Water down in one
direction, then repeated it in the other. There were no gaps.
The demons should not have been able to get to us.”
“Father Harrison says there were too many of them, that
they overwhelmed the ward.”
“No!” Simon replied, shaking his head vigorously.
“Demons cannot cross the power of God.”
“But you told me that Holy Water absorbs the evil. If there’s
too much—”
“When did I tel you that?” he asked, confused.
“When we were at the Holy Water vendor in the market.”
“No, that’s not possible. If demons can destroy God’s
power, then what’s the point?” he argued. “We’re doing His
holy work, and He let us be ripped to pieces.” He took a
sudden breath, as if a memory had just hit him ful on. She
knew what it was: The demon’s claws ripping at him, the
smel of its rancid breath in his face. The certain knowledge
that he was going to die.
When Simon began to shiver, she tried to hold him but he
pushed her away. He ceased talking after that, refusing to
meet her eyes. Not knowing what else to do, she dropped a
kiss on his cheek and left him in the gloom. He had to find
his own answers.
Just don’t lose yourself when you do.
EIGHTEEN
It took Riley less time than she’d expected to drive from
Simon’s house to the old theater in Buckhead. By the time
she arrived it was just after dark and the bright lights of the
marquee had been easy to spot. She located a parking
place in the lot just north of the building, sliding in next to a
Mercedes with tinted windows. Then she just sat there
trying to work up the courage to take this next step.
What if her father was here tonight? Could she handle
seeing him again? It was one thing to say good-bye when
he was lying in his coffin but another to watch him wander
around like he was stil alive. He’d remembered her at the
Tabernacle, but what if those memories were gone now?
What if …
The keys made a harsh, jangling sound, her hands shaking
as her heart rate accelerated. Her vision tunneled as each
breath became more difficult than the last.
Panic attack. She’d had them after her mother had died
and thought she’d outgrown them. Riley forced herself to
conjure up images of frolicking puppies and days at the
beach, trying to think of anything but Simon, demons, and
her reanimated father. Then she began to sing to herself. It
was just nonsense words because she couldn’t remember
any songs at the moment, but it seemed to work. Final y her
heartbeat slowed and she could take a deep cleansing
breath. When Riley looked down, her hands were no longer
quaking.
“Let’s not do that again, okay?” she mumbled, as if her
body would actual y listen to her for a change. “It so doesn’t
help.”
As Riley pul ed herself out of the car, she paused. Was Ori
somewhere nearby? She let her eyes search the area and
quickly spied him leaning against a shiny black motorcycle
across the street, arms crossed over his broad chest. He
gave her a nod in acknowledgment.
My own personal bodyguard. That rocks. Bet Brandy
wishes she had one.
Which left Riley no excuse not to go to the vendue.
She sucked it up and headed for the front of the theater.
Mort was waiting for her clad in a necromancer’s cloak of
light brown, without his trademark fedora. The cloak halted
just above the tops of his polished shoes and seemed to
have an energy al its own, like magic was woven into the
fabric. It made him look mystical, which she suspected was
the desired effect.
“This isn’t going to be easy for either of us,” he warned.
“I know. What if my dad’s not here?” she asked.
“Then I’l ask around to see if anyone’s heard who
reanimated him. Just let me handle this.”
Riley hesitated. “What’s this like?” If it was like the Deaders
in the market, that wouldn’t be so bad.
The summoner puzzled over the query for a moment. “It’s a
cross between a fashion show, a Roman slave auction, and
a theatrical production.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No. If you’re a buyer, it’s one big party. If you’ve lost
someone recently, it’s pure hel .”
Riley sucked in a deep breath. “Does it involve hordes of
man-eating demons?”
Mort looked surprised at the question, then shook his head.
“Then it’s doable.”
* * *
The old theater’s marquee included running lights around
the edges and it announced the place was closed for a
private event. Private seemed to be the key word. There
was only one line to get in, denoted by a pair of red velvet
ropes like you’d find at one of the trendy Midtown bars. The
two men at the door looked like bouncers.
A woman at the head of the line was waved away. When
she protested, a third black-suited guy appeared out of the
doorway and herded her back toward the parking lot. He
held her arm tightly, and as they walked he was saying
something to her. The woman’s eyes widened. She shook
her head and then skittered off into the night, clearly
frightened by whatever he’d whispered in her ear.
Riley shot a questioning look at her escort.
“She’s probably looking for a loved one,” Mort explained.
“The management can spot those a mile away.”
“How can they tel ?”
“Her clothes weren’t expensive and she seemed il at ease.”
He nodded toward the favored ones in line. “They think they
own the world. That’s the difference.”
Riley looked down at her black slacks and scuffed shoes.
She’d worn the best she owned. “Then why wil they let me
in?”
“Because you’re with me,” he replied, though she heard
uncertainty in his voice.
Apparently necros had no DNA for queuing, because Mort
didn’t join the line, but walked right up to the door like he
owned the place. The moment they saw him, the bouncers
perked up. The heavier of the two beckoned them forward.
There were grumbles from the wel -dressed, but no one
outwardly chal enged them. Why annoy someone who could
drop a magical cluster bomb on your head?
“Good evening, Summoner,” the heavier bouncer said
politely. He eyed Riley. “Your companion is…?”
“An apprentice,” Mort replied. “We’re here on Society
business.”
That was smooth. She was an apprentice, just not with the
necromancers.
One of the man’s bushy eyebrows ascended. He turned
away, holding his hand to his ear, talking to someone
through a tiny microphone. When the man turned back
toward them, he was al false congeniality. “You are always
welcome here, Advocate.”
“Thank you.”
The two heavies parted to al ow Riley and her escort to
pass through the shimmering curtain that divided the real
world from the obscene. She let out a puff of air in relief
once they were inside. It was matched by one of Mort’s.
He didn’t think they’d let me in.
It began to dawn on her the risk the summoner was taking
on her behalf. Clearly bringing a reanimate’s daughter to
one of these things wasn’t business as usual, even though
he was the Advocate.
“Thanks,” she murmured. He didn’t seem to hear her.
The lobby wasn’t ful , but it felt that way, and it took Riley a
moment to realize why: Every person in the room acted as
if they were bigger, more important than their physical
bodies. As if every ego took up space of its own. Older,
immaculately dressed women stood near a portable bar,
chatting to each other. They glistened in the overhead lights
like aged fairies on a summer’s night. It was the jewelry. It
had such weight that on anyone else the bling would be
wearing them.
The next group was younger women in their perky dresses,
wedge sandals, and cascading hair extensions.
They sipped champagne from crystal glasses held in
manicured hands and laughed in high tones. It was a safe
bet they didn’t have demon claw marks on their legs or
have to worry if they’d be able to pay the gas bil this month.
Why did they have it easy and she had to struggle for every
dime? Why was she an orphan and they had everything?
Nobody would dare steal one of these princesses’ fathers.
They would have professional vigil sitters and armed
guards to ensure nothing happened.
Riley pushed aside the anger. It wouldn’t do her any good,
and if she tried to tel one of the princesses how she felt,
what it was like to lose her father to some necro, it would be
a waste of time. She’d just drawn a different life, and no
amount of envy was going to change that.
On the other side of the lobby a knot of men clustered
together. They ranged in age from young to old, from casual
y dressed to suit and tie. She heard words like gross metric
tonnage and FOB being thrown around. To her surprise, a
couple of the younger ones gave her the eye.
“How much money do you have to have to get into this
place?” Riley whispered.
“More than you or I wil ever see.”
Figures.
Mort beckoned her toward a set of highly polished wooden
stairs where a plush red runner greeted their ascent, as
brass banisters and ornate crystal wal sconces led the way
to the second level. He caught her elbow right before she
reached the top stair.
“Don’t do anything rash or we’re both in big trouble.”
The moment they reached the second floor she realized
why he’d delivered the warning. There were only
summoners up here, their voluminous robes ranging from
pale white to black. Most of them were male, though a few
females were present. One of the women wore a carmine
robe, which stuck out like a bright robin in a flock of dul
pigeons.
A necro spied Mort, smiled, and walked forward to greet
him. The greeting died on the fel ow’s lips when he saw
Riley.
“Sebastian, good to see you,” Mort said warmly, taking the
last few steps as if he hadn’t noticed the man’s reaction.
“This is Riley Blackthorne.”
“Ah…” Sebastian shot a look at her and then back to Mort
like he didn’t know what to say. He was older than her
companion, maybe in his late forties, with a gleaming
balding patch at the top of his round head.
Riley deployed the charm. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Sebastian frowned, then shook his head. “You real y do like
stepping on toes, my friend,” he said, addressing Mort.
“Riley has asked for the Society’s help. As Advocate, I am
obligated to assist her.”
“By bringing her here?” the man retorted. “Are you mad?”
“Her father was il egal y summoned,” Mort replied evenly.
“I think it’s best we solve this quietly before some reporter
gets hold of the story. The name Blackthorne is newsworthy
at the moment.”
Sebastian’s already pale complexion went a shade lighter.
“But he’s here tonight!” the man hissed. “By al the stars,
have you no sense? The Eldest wil not tolerate this
infraction.”
The pale and sweating necro had to be talking about
Ozymandias, and this time there was no protective circle
between Riley and that monster.
Ripples of goose bumps flooded across her forearms, fol
owed by the sting of magic. “Summoner Alexander?” a
smooth voice inquired.
Mort turned and gave a low bow. “Lord Ozymandias.
How good to see you.”
A dry chuckle returned. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Riley took a deep breath. She could cower or meet this
obnoxious asshat head on. If he was the one who took her
dad, she wasn’t going to let him do whatever he wanted just
because he was the most powerful of the body snatchers.
Riley turned toward the necromancer who had terrorized
her throughout her dad’s vigil. Ozymandias was in his usual
black cloak, but the oak staff was nowhere to be seen. That
funky tattoo on his forehead gave off a faint sheen like it
was radioactive. Now that she was so close, she could see
his eyes were pale green with odd brown flecks.
He won’t do anything here, not in front of the others.
That was her edge.
She gave a nod in his direction, trying to keep her fear in
check.
“Are you sober this evening, Miss Blackthorne, or can I
expect a repeat performance of your juvenile bel
igerence?”
he asked.
“No witchy wine tonight,” she said. “Just the real me.”
“And no little witch to guard you. You are foolish.”
Mort cautiously cleared his throat. “My lord, Miss
Blackthorne is seeking her father.”
“I heard he was among the walking again.”
“Did you yank him out of his grave like you said you would?”
Riley demanded.
A col ective gasp came from those around them.
Oops.
Ozymandias was suddenly closer to her, though Riley
swore she hadn’t seen him move. “So ignorant.” The tattoo
glowed brighter now. “The Society would never al ow you to
become an apprentice. You’re only fit for that col ection of
scum in the Guild.”
You … How dare he dis the trappers? Al these necros did
was rob graves and wear stupid robes. When she opened
her mouth to reply, Mort’s trembling hand on her arm cut her
off.
“I think it is time for us to find our seats. By your leave, Lord
Ozymandias.”
The High Lord of al things necromantic delivered a
gracious nod, but in his eyes she saw contempt.
Wait until I’m a master, you jerk. I’ll teach you some
manners.
As they entered the theater and walked down the ramp,
Mortimer grumbled, “Which part of ‘Don’t do anything rash’
didn’t you get?”
“No one disses the trappers, not even His Creepiness,”
she retorted.
“Sometimes being humble keeps you alive.”
“He’s not going to go after me here. Too many witnesses.”
“Who would say they never saw a thing.”
“You would.”
He eyed her. “Not if I’m dead.”
The expression on Mort’s face told her he was total y
serious.
Riley was stil seething when they reached their row, but at
least her escort had removed his death grip on her arm.
They’d no more than sat in the wide, plush seats when a
cocktail waitress in an extremely short dress and heels
hurried over to them. Riley wondered how she got up and
down the stairs without fal ing.
The waitress handed Mort a piece of paper. He glanced at
it and then stuck it under his robe.
“Champagne? Canapés?” she asked in a cheery voice that
sounded rehearsed.
“Ah, no, thank you,” Mort replied.
“What about you?” the woman asked Riley.
“No, thanks.”
Mort produced a ten-dol ar bil and dropped it on her tray.
“We’re good. You won’t need to check on us again.”
“Okay, thanks!” She headed off.
Riley took the opportunity to look around. No one was
sitting near them, and even Mort’s friend Sebastian was
pointedly keeping his distance. She didn’t bother to try to
locate Ozymandias. He was here: Those goose bumps
were stil in place.
There was the sound of someone settling in a seat behind
them: It was the woman in the carmine robe. She had wavy
dark hair that touched her shoulders, and laugh lines at her
eyes. The kind who could tel a real y good joke and not
screw up the punch line.
The necro leaned forward and placed her palms on Mort’s
shoulders. “You brought a reanimate’s daughter to the
vendue? I’m impressed. So what do you do for an encore?”
Mort noticeably relaxed. “Don’t know yet.” He al owed
himself a pleased smile, then seemed to remember they
weren’t alone. “Riley, this is Lady Torin, one of our senior
summoners.”
“Glad to meet you,” the woman replied. “Sorry to hear about
your father. I’m hoping Mortimer can find him for you.”
Riley studied the woman. She didn’t seem to be blowing
smoke just to be polite. The way her hands were resting on
Mort’s shoulders indicated she was fond of him. Or was
she giving him her blessing in some way, tel ing the other
summoners that she approved of Mort’s actions and that
screwing with him meant crossing her?
“Thank you,” Riley said. No matter what you’re up to.
“Just be very careful, dear Mortimer. You’re treading into
uncharted waters.”
Lady Torin leaned back in her seat, rearranging her cloak.
When the cocktail waitress appeared at her elbow she put
in an order for a Scotch, neat.
“Do al the necros come to this thing?” Riley whispered to
her companion.
“Don’t cal us that!” Mort pleaded. “At least not where they
can hear you. You don’t want one of us to download a spel
on you, trust me.”
“Okay, then the same question but with summoners.”
Mort shook his head. “You are only required to attend if you
have a reanimate in the vendue.”
“Then she…” Riley began, aware that the she in question
was probably hearing every word.
“… has someone on offer. Lady Torin doesn’t like this any
more than I do,” Mort replied.
“How do you get to become a lord or lady in your Society?”
“The rank is awarded according to magical ability.”
Which didn’t tel her much. Probably the point. Trappers
were equal y cautious about discussing their trade. Since
Mort and Riley were located in the front row of the balcony,
she took the opportunity to peer over the wood rail into the
rows below. There weren’t any. Instead it looked more like
a club than a theater. Tables sat at discrete intervals from
each other, covered in fine white tablecloths, and in the
center of each one was an iced bottle of champagne. A
tuxedoed waiter approached one table and replaced an
empty bottle with a fresh one.
“Champagne?” When Riley glowered at Mort, he had the
good sense to look embarrassed.
“The auctioneers know how to cater to those who have
money,” he explained. “Each auction has a theme. Tonight
it’s … Gothic. Better than the last time. That was a salute to
Hawaii. The luau was over the top.”
Riley groaned under her breath. This better not be totally
stupid, or I’m out of here.
The overhead lights flicked on and off a few times and then
darkened, causing the crowd noise to die down like this
was some popular Broadway show. A single spotlight
appeared center stage showcasing a man in a tuxedo and
a black satin cape.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a deep,
resonant voice, employing the same false smile as the
waitress. “Welcome to our second vendue of the new year.”
He walked a few paces, the spotlight fol owing him.
“Tonight we have a lovely col ection on view. Do not
hesitate to enjoy the refreshments, and remember that a
smal portion of tonight’s sales wil be sent to this month’s
designated charity. And now, without further delay, the
show,” he said, his hand gesturing toward the center of the
stage.
The spotlight faded to nothing as the curtain rose with a soft
mechanical whir. The low, ominous tones of a pipe organ fil
ed the space, causing Riley’s back teeth to hum.
As her eyes adjusted, other details began to reveal
themselves. A ful moon hung over the stage like a huge
silver eye. The skeletal branches of a gnarled oak tree
draped over tombstones that rose out of a white fog sea
like weathered teeth. A wolf howled and Riley shivered at
the sound.
Mort sighed deeply. “I’m sorry you’re going to see this,”
he said.
The fog parted in front of the largest tombstone as a man’s
head appeared like an oversize mushroom just above the
stage floor. Bit by bit the rest of him rose until he was
completely exposed. The guy was about her father’s age
and he held a skul in his right hand. He blinked his eyes
rapidly in the bright lights. After an awkward pause he
began to speak in a halting and raspy voice.
“Alas,… poor Yorick.”
Mort groaned.
“I knew him … wel …” the dead man intoned, misquoting
Shakespeare. His forehead wrinkled in thought, as if it was
taking every brain cel to remember the words. “A fel ow of
… of infinite … ah … jest. Ha! Ha!” Then he hoisted the skul
up into the air and glanced nervously at the tables closest to
him. Someone laughed and the poor guy heard it.
The master of ceremonies moved across the stage.
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is Herbert. In his previous life
he worked for the Internal Revenue Service as an auditor.
His knowledge of corporate tax matters is his biggest
asset. If you wish to avoid tangling with Uncle Sam over a
few mil ion dol ars, this is the reanimate for you.” Their host
paused and then cal ed out, “Do I have a first bid?”
“Ten thousand,” someone shouted.
“Eleven,” another said immediately.
They are really buying this guy. Riley had known this
moment would happen, but seeing it in person was too
much. When her stomach rol ed over, she gripped her
abdomen with both hands.
“Restroom?” she pleaded.
Mort pointed and she fled up the stairs. She could stil hear
the bidding as she pushed through the door to the women’s
room.
“Eighteen thousand!”
Riley’s stomach opted not to revolt, so she wet her face
with cold water and let it air-dry. As she examined her face
in the mirror, a gruesome thought hit her.
How would they sel her father? Own the city’s most
legendary demon trapper! Learn the secret mysteries of
Hell. Would they want him for his Civil War knowledge or
maybe as a tutor to their kids?
There was a thrum of organ music and a clash of thunder.
Applause fol owed. Herbert’s auction was over.
Riley made her way back to her seat, apologizing when she
stepped on Mort’s toes. The final sales price was displayed
on the tombstone in bright red LEDs. Eighty-five thousand
dol ars.
There’s always money to be made in death. The guy at the
Deader tent had been right.
“So who gets al that?” she snarled. “You guys?”
Mort shook his head. “The family wil receive eighty-five
percent, tax free.”
“They agreed to this? How could someone do that?”
“Herbert wanted it this way,” Lady Torin’s frosty voice said
from behind them. “He wanted to ensure his wife and
children had as much financial security as he could provide,
even after his death.”
“That’s what life insurance is for,” Riley retorted.
“Yes, but he wanted to go the extra mile. I just wish this
could have been a private sale. Far more dignified.”
“So what happens in a year? He ends up in a dumpster?”
The necromancer moved so close she caught the scent of
whisky.
“My
people do not end up in dumpsters, Miss Blackthorne. My
people are given al the respect they are due. Don’t you
dare accuse me of not caring, do you understand?”
Riley nodded numbly. “Sorry. I’m…”
“You’re not using your head, or you wouldn’t be chal enging
me like this.”
“Hey, why not? I already dissed Ozymandias. Why not
make it a ful sweep?”
What is it with my mouth tonight?
She tensed, waited for the searing blast of magic.
Maybe she’d end up with a furry tail. It would be a good bet
it wouldn’t be the same color as her hair.
Instead, there was a wry chuckle. “You do like to live
dangerously.”
The next reanimate was a young man just a few years older
than Riley. He held a sword like he had no idea what to do
with it and stomped around the stage misquoting more
Shakespeare. He went for five thousand, sold for his
gardening skil s. By the time they reached the seventh
Deader, Riley had begun to wish she was legal age.
Anything with booze in it would be great right now.
Three more Deaders crossed the stage, al sold for their
various talents. Riley fidgeted in impatience. “Is my dad
here?” she asked. She frowned when Mort shook his head.
“How do you know that?”
“The server showed me a list of those up for auction,” he
replied.
“So why in the…?” She counted slowly to five. “Why did you
make me sit through this?”
“Because you have to know what you’re up against.”
The current offering, a middle-aged housewife whose
rendition of a tune from The Phantom of the Opera had
scarred Riley for life, went for considerably less. Thankful y
the emcee cal ed an intermission.
“Now what?” Riley quizzed as she and Mort filed out of the
balcony.
“Now is when I get to ask questions.”
NINETEEN
The summoners didn’t hang with the moneyed elite, but had
their own reception room, complete with crustless
sandwiches and tuxedoed servers toting silver trays loaded
with drinks.
Mortimer made his way through the group, Riley trailing
behind. She knew everyone was staring at her. She was
easy to spot: Other than the waitstaff, she was the only one
not wearing a cloak.
Lenny walked up to them. “Miss Riley,” he said. His usual
pimp suit wasn’t in sight, hidden by a light gray cloak.
His cheeks were flushed red, probably because of the
cocktail glass in his hand and the empty he had in the other.
“How goes it?”
Lenny was pretty harmless, so chewing him out wasn’t
going to get her anywhere. Besides, he was friends with
Beck. “Not going that wel , Lenny. It’d be better if I could find
my dad.”
“Ah, I heard about that. Sorry, girl. I had three buyers lined
up, and you would have got the money. I warned you it could
get nasty.”
You did. “Any idea who took him?”
Lenny narrowed his eyes then announced, a bit too loudly,
that he needed to get his drink refil ed. She watched him
head for the bar.
“Better let me do the asking,” Mort counseled.
Riley had come to a few conclusions by herself. “The guy
who did this had a lot of power. That’s not Lenny, right?”
“Right. To conjure up that sort of il usion requires something
more than an entry-level summoner.”
“So where are you on the scale between newbie and Dark
Lord?” she quizzed.
Her escort didn’t reply, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Mortimer is about three-quarters of the way there,” Lady
Torin said as she joined them. She held a plate ful of
cheese wedges and crackers. “Of course, he won’t admit
that. He likes to appear harmless.”
Mort gave her a gracious nod and held her eyes a second
longer than was needed. Was there something between
these two? As if he realized he was showing more than he
wanted, Mort headed toward another summoner, one who
had made the mistake of getting caught with his hands ful
of food and drink and no place to run.
Riley turned her attention to the other necromancer. “So
how about you? How close are you to being Dark Lord?”
Torin’s mouth twitched in a grin. “I’m about seven-eighths of
the way. Except in my case, it would Dark Lady.”
“And Ozymandias?”
Torin’s eyes met hers. “He doesn’t even register on the
scale anymore.”
Whoa. “Who do you think took my dad?” Riley asked.
“Someone Mortimer’s level or above,” the lady replied.
“That’s his mistake, you see. He’s asking questions of
every summoner, rather than focusing on those at Theta
level and up.”
“But one of those lower dudes might know something.”
“A lower-level summoner is not going to tattle on someone
higher on the food chain.”
“Out of respect?” Riley asked, curious.
“Out of fear.” Torin finished demolishing the cracker.
Riley and the lady talked to five summoners before the
lights flickered and it was time to go back into the theater.
With absolutely no results. Mort joined them, and she could
tel from the expression on his face he’d struck out, too.
“You might as wel go home,” he conceded. “I’l talk to the
others, but most of them are too scared to say anything.”
“Thanks anyway,” she said, her heart sinking. As Mort and
Lady Torin began to converse in lowered voices, Riley
tromped down the stairs, her mood as dark as a senior
necro’s cloak. Ozymandias stood near the front door, like
he was waiting for her. There was no one else around
except for the bouncers outside. The only way to get to her
car was to pass by him.
She halted and stared up into his real y weird eyes. “If you
took my dad, just tel me. I have to know where he is.”
The summoner regarded her solemnly. “Stop hounding
Mortimer to find your father. You’re going to get him hurt if
you keep interfering. Is that what you want?”
“No. I just want what’s mine.”
Ozymandias raised a silvery eyebrow. “As do I.” He swept
back into the theater, but the magic stil danced across her
skin.
How is that possible?
Riley pushed her way out the door, past the bouncers, and
into the night. In the parking lot the woman who’d been
turned away looked over at her, forlorn, her hands ful of
tissues. Was this Herbert’s wife? Was she regretting his
decision to support their family by making the ultimate
sacrifice?
Riley had just made it to her car when her cel phone
chimed. It was Mort.
WAIT FOR ME. I HAVE AN IDEA.
After one particularly lengthy yawn, she spied the
summoner hurrying toward her, his cloak flapping behind
him. When he joined her, he gave a wary look back the way
he’d come.
“I hesitate to say this, but there is another way to find your
father,” he said. “It’s risky, but it might be worth a try.”
A sharp tingle of hope shot through her. Riley straightened
up. “Go on.”
“A certain type of summoning spel wil cal forth your father’s
spirit,” Mort explained. “If he appears, maybe he can tel you
who took him and where he’s located, providing he can
reveal that information.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Can you do this spel ?”
“I can…” he started, “… but I won’t. It wil put me on the
wrong side of the Society, and I’m already pushing the
envelope as it is.”
“What would they do to you?” she asked.
He sagged against her car, apparently not worried his
cloak would get dusty. “The Society doesn’t solve its
internal problems by kicking someone out. In my case, I’d
probably be found dead, just an overly large pile of ashes.
It’s not like I’d get a slap on the wrist.”
“Oh.” That was serious. “Okay, who else can do this
location thing?”
“Anyone who is a magical practitioner.” Their eyes met.
“Like a witch, for instance. But you didn’t hear that from
me.”
“Gee. I know one of those,” she said, grinning.
“I figured you might. Most trappers do.”
“So what keeps the Society from turning my friend into a
pile of ashes if she gets in their face?”
“For al their New Age beads and incense, witches pack
some serious power, and they protect their own. The last
magical war we had with them ended in a draw, so we’re
not eager to repeat that mistake. There’s stil bad blood
between us.”
Riley had seen that animosity firsthand when Ozymandias
had threatened Ayden and the witch had returned the threat
without batting an eye.
“Okay, Mort, I got this covered,” she said. Mindful of the
High Lord’s warning, she added, “You’ve done enough for
me as it is.”
“Just be cautious,” he said. “Whoever took your father isn’t
going to appreciate you nosing around, especial y if it’s
done with witch magic. It could get real y unpleasant.”
He looked toward the theater. “And if it’s Lord
Ozymandias…”
With that, Mort trudged back to the vendue. Now it was time
for Riley to move the bal forward on her own. She sent a
quick text to her friend Ayden with the unusual request.
Now she’d have to wait and see what the witch thought of
the plan.
As Riley turned to open her car door, she became aware of
someone standing near her. A second before she realized
it was Ori she gave out a squeak of surprise. And then felt
real y dumb. “Whoa, warn a girl, wil you?” she complained.
A stunning white rose came her way. “Wil this serve as an
apology?” he asked.
Riley stared at the offering. Why was he doing this?
“Where do you get these? They’re way expensive.” She
knew that because she’d bought one on the anniversary of
her mom’s death to place on the grave and it’d cost her two
weeks’ worth of hot chocolate purchases.
“I have my sources,” he replied.
She accepted it and inhaled its rich fragrance. It was just as
amazing as the previous one.
“Where to next?” Ori asked, lounging against the car.
“Shopping? The coffee shop?”
Al of that sounded good, but … “Time to go to the church, I
guess.”
“No reason to go there. I’m watching over you.”
“You’re just hoping the Five makes its move on me.”
“That, and I enjoy your company.”
Give this guy points for knowing the right thing to say.
“Thanks, but I am tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Your cal .” Ori straightened up. “Mind if I ride with you?”
“What about your bike?”
“I’l come back for it.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone wil steal it?”
“No,” he said. “No one wil touch it.”
He seemed so sure and Riley had no objections to the
company. Ori waited until she’d unlocked the passengerside
door and then slid into the car. She set the rose
between them, careful not to damage any of the petals. Part
of her felt guilty accepting it—she was dating someone else
—but it was so pretty and had the most intoxicating scent.
Besides, what would it hurt?
As she pul ed onto the street, she looked over at him and
frowned. “Seat belt, dude.”
“I’m sure you’re a safe driver,” he replied.
“Doesn’t matter. The city wants money, so the cops wil
ticket you. And me, for letting you be in the car that way.”
Grumbling under his breath, Ori fumbled with the thing then
clicked it home.
“Don’t you get tired of fol owing me al over the place?”
she asked, heading south into the city.
“No, you lead an interesting life. Today you went to class at
a cemetery, visited your injured boyfriend, and then came to
the theater and hung with a bunch of stuffy necromancers.
That’s not boring.”
“You have been fol owing me.” Everywhere. It bordered on
the creepy if she hadn’t known he was trying to kil the Five.
“But I thought the Geo-Fiend would only come after me at
night.”
“It’s strongest then, yes, but I don’t like to take chances.”
He turned toward her. “So what was it like, the summoner
thing?”
Riley told him how awful it had been. How her dad wasn’t
there and how afraid she was of never finding him again.
Tears blurred her eyes and she cursed under her breath.
As she blinked them away, she felt his hand on her arm,
warm through her jacket. He didn’t say anything, but just his
touch made her feel better. That’s what she’d been wanting
from Simon.
What is it about this guy? Why do I feel so completely
different when I’m with him? When Ori’s hand retreated, she
missed it immediately. Her passenger was frowning now,
and the temperature inside the car seemed to drop a
degree. “I thought I had a lead on the Five last night, but it
didn’t work out,” he admitted.
“What kind of lead?”
“I convinced a Gastro-Fiend to tel me where the rogue is
hiding. The sil y thing tried to bribe me with a half-eaten rat.
Absolutely pathetic.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, someone
else tipped off the Five and it disappeared before I could
find it.”
“Why would someone do that?” Riley asked, puzzled.
“Hel has its informers, just like Heaven.”
“So I’m stil bait?” she said glumly.
“I’m afraid so.”
TWENTY
Usual y Beck slept in until at least noon after a night of
trapping, but for two mornings in a row he’d had to crawl out
of bed early. Too early by his way of thinking. Now, as he
stood in front of the Atlanta City Hal , he muffled a yawn with
the back of his hand, earning him a bemused look from the
Scotsman. The bandage on the master’s forehead was
gone, replaced by a neat row of transparent strips across a
healing wound. He was dressed in a colorful kilt, which
seemed odd, but maybe there was a rule about what a
master wore when you met the hunters. Beck had opted for
a clean pair of jeans and a blue shirt, topped off with his
leather jacket. He felt naked without his duffel bag, but
Stewart had insisted he leave it in the truck.
Where they stood gave them an excel ent view of the street
below. The street itself was clear, but the sidewalks on
either side were jammed with people, eager to get a look
at the Vatican’s boys. It reminded Beck of the day after the
Tabernacle attack. Some of the same sign wavers were
back, and a new group insisted that Atlanta was doomed
because of the gays and the unbelievers. Another yawn
overtook him and this one he couldn’t stop.
“Late night?” Stewart asked.
“Trapped a Pyro near Lenox Station. It was settin’
dumpsters on fire.” He tried to convince the fiend to tel him
where to find that murdering Five. No luck. So he’d hauled
the thing to Fireman Jack and sold it. At least that part of
the evening was a success.
Beck zeroed in on the signs again. “I wonder if Jack knows
he’s one of the reasons this city is goin’ to hel .”
The master pointed toward a large sign with bold letters
and blood-red flames around the border: “Kil Every Demon.
Make America Safe for Our Kids.” He shook his head in
despair.
“What would happen if we did kil al the demons?” Beck
asked. He knew that was impossible because Lucifer had
an endless supply of the fiends. Stil , it was something to
think about.
“No demons and ya got no balance,” the master replied
solemnly. “I’l tel ya how it al works when yer ready ta
become a master.”
“Another year then,” Beck replied. At least.
Stewart gave him a sideways glance. “I’d say sooner.”
Before he could fol ow up on that comment, there was the
sound of sirens in the distance. Beck perked up.
Stewart grunted. “That’l be hunters. They do love a show.”
“So what’s gonna happen here?”
“In front of the cameras they’l be al friendly-like,” the master
replied. “Behind the scenes it’l get dirty. The Vatican knows
how ta pul strings with the best of them.
Comes with centuries of practice.”
“Ya sound like ya know them pretty wel .”
“Aye, lad. My family’s been trappin’ fiends for over eight
hunnerd years. The hunters are the reason for that.”
Beck looked over at him, confused. “What?”
“It’s a tale best told over whisky.” Stewart shifted his weight
from one foot to the other. “I want ya ta trap with Riley every
chance ya get. Where I respect Master Harper, I’m not fond
of his methods.”
“No way he’s gonna let me work with her.”
“As long as he gets a cut of the money, he’l be happy.”
Beck doubted that but decided not to argue the point. If they
did trap together he could keep a closer eye on Paul’s
daughter. Maybe keep her from getting hurt again. “Yeah, I
like that idea,” he said, but for an entirely different reason
than the master’s.
Sirens wailed and rose in intensity. The sound abruptly cut
off as two police cars turned the corner onto Mitchel Street,
lights flashing like they were leading a parade. Right behind
were four sleek vans fol owed in turn by a white limousine.
The black vans were identical and displayed the papal coat
of arms on the side doors.
“Where’d they get their rides?” Beck asked.
“Airlifted them in from New York City. Money isn’t a problem
for these folks, not like it is for us.”
The lead van halted in front of the building, the others
quickly lining up behind it. Flashbulbs lit up as bystanders
began to push against the barricades. Some were crying.
The lead van’s doors slid open and two men hopped out,
one on each side of the vehicle. Both were clad in black
military fatigues and combat boots and they carried special
y modified assault rifles. The men scanned their
surroundings then beckoned to their comrades. Five more
men exited the van, remaining on alert. Once the first
vehicle was empty, the third van in line fol owed the same
dril , then the fourth.
“Smart,” Beck said, impressed. These guys weren’t
mugging for the cameras, but eyeing the terrain for
potential trouble, human or demonic. They were a mixed lot
—white, black, Asian, and Latino. One thing for sure:
They’d al be Roman Catholic. That was a job requirement.
Only when the scene was deemed secure did the side door
on the second van slide open. A man stepped out. He was
tal er than Beck, six feet two or so, with a Mediterranean
complexion and a goatee. Inky black hair ended at his col
ar. He was wearing a dark navy turtleneck with epaulets,
navy trousers, and combat boots and was armed with a
pistol at his waist. Over his left breast was the demon
hunters emblem—Saint George slaying the dragon.
“Head dude?” Beck asked.
“Aye. That’s Elias Salvatore, the team’s captain,”
Stewart replied. “He’s thirty-two, the youngest leader
they’ve ever had.” Another man hopped out of the van.
“That’s Lieutenant Maarten Amundson, his second-incommand.”
Beck scrutinized the hunter, watching his body language.
He was older, beefier than his superior. “He doesn’t like his
captain. Not one bit.”
“How can ya tel ?” Stewart asked, intrigued.
“The way he looks at him. It isn’t respect; it’s somethin’
else.”
The master trapper nodded his approval at the
assessment. “Amundson figured he’d be top dog by now
and he’s none too happy about Salvatore takin’ his job.
What else are ya seein’, lad?”
“Their men are wel trained. They’re on alert, like they
expected to be ambushed. Can’t think that’s just for the
cameras.”
“It’s not. They were attacked in Paris by a pair of
Archdemons a few years back. Got five of them dead, and
they’ve not forgotten that humiliation. They’re tired, too. It’s
not jet lag but somethin’ deeper here. They’re bein’ pushed
too hard, I think.”
The master was right: Beck could see it in how the hunters
held themselves. They were stil deadly but not total y in
peak condition.
“If they were trappers I’d say they need some R and R.
Get drunk, get laid, get their attitudes adjusted,” he said.
Stewart chuckled. “Wel , that’s not gonna happen, and the
reason is in that limo.”
Beck hadn’t noticed the vehicle until the master pointed it
out. As if on cue, one of the hunters marched back to the
car and opened the rear door. A priest stepped out. He
was older, maybe sixty, his dark hair lined with silver and
his eyes sharp like a hawk’s. He was wearing a cassock.
As the priest approached a wave of tension passed
through the hunters’ ranks, as if a wolf had just entered into
their midst. “They can’t stand this guy,” Beck observed.
“He’s nothin’ like our Father Harrison. This one’s the
Vatican’s man—Father Rosetti. He’s here ta make sure the
hunters stay on the straight and narrow and don’t
embarrass the Holy See. He’s known ta be overzealous.
Even Rome thinks so.”
Beck turned to the Scotsman, astounded at the man’s
inside knowledge. “How do ya know al this?”
“I have contacts here and there. Comes with bein’ a master.
It opens up al sorts of doors.”
The captain and his lieutenant had their photo op with the
governor, the mayor, and a few of the city council members,
al eager to be shown with the Vatican’s team.
Then it was the trappers’ turn to meet the men who might
turn this city into a war zone.
To Beck’s surprise, the lead demon hunter made the first
move, striding past the mayor and the governor, extending
his hand toward the older trapper. “Grand Master Stewart. It
is a pleasure. I’ve long wanted to meet you.”
“Captain Salvatore. Welcome ta Atlanta.”
Grand Master? Beck had never heard of that title before.
He’d have to ask Stewart about that sometime.
Hel , he had a lot of things to ask, once everything died
down.
“I believe you met my father many years ago,” Salvatore
said.
“Aye, I remember it wel ,” Stewart replied. “It was in Genoa.
He’d kil ed an Archfiend that day, and you’d just been born.
We shared a bottle of whisky ta celebrate.”
“He recal s that occasion very fondly.” Salvatore’s face
sobered. “The hunters are truly sorry about your men.”
“Thank ya for that.” Stewart looked over at his companion
and gestured. “This is Denver Beck, one of our journeymen.
He’l be yer contact while yer in Atlanta. He knows the city
and her demons better than anyone.”
Flustered by the compliment, Beck shook hands with the
captain and murmured his greeting. The priest didn’t look
happy. Was it because Salvatore was being too friendly
with the good ol’ boys? Father Rosetti said something in
Italian that caused the captain to stiffen like a dog at the
end of a leash. Salvatore said something back and the
priest frowned.
“Gentlemen, if you’l excuse me,” the lead hunter said.
He returned to the podium, where the mayor, never one to
miss an opportunity, shook the captain’s hand again
knowing it would set off a flurry of flashbulbs.
“The citizens of Atlanta wil sleep easy in their beds tonight
knowing the Vatican’s Demon Hunters are here,”
Montgomery proclaimed.
Beck ground his teeth. Funny how the citizens hadn’t
realized they’d been sleeping easy al these years thanks to
the trappers. As the mayor droned on, Beck’s eyes
skimmed over the crowds at street level. It was funny how
you can’t resist trying to find someone you know in a pack
of people. The red hair caught his notice immediately.
Justine waved and smiled. He resisted the urge to wave
back. Then suddenly it was al over: The hunters loaded
back into the vans, and the motorcade drove off.
Stewart didn’t budge. “A wee word of advice, lad. Be verra
careful with the hunters. They’re not a bad lot, but it’l get
ugly if they think they’re bein’ made fools of.”
Beck nodded his understanding. “What do ya want me to
do?”
“Just try ta keep them from burnin’ the city ta the ground.
That’s al I ask.”
For a moment Beck thought the master was messing with
his head. Then he saw the expression on the Scotsman’s
face.
Oh, God, he’s serious.
* * *
“I do believe this qualifies as torture in most civilized
countries,” Peter groused. He was hunched up in the
passenger seat of Riley’s car, staring mournful y at the
other side of the street where the recycling guys were
loading Holy Water bottles into the back of a truck.
Riley speared him with a look. “Remember the Al an
transfer disaster?” she retorted. “You. Owe. Me.”
“I know. I just thought there’d be more excitement.”
Riley took another lengthy slurp of her soda. “Yeah, this is a
snore, but I have to know how this al works.
Somewhere there’s a break in the chain.” Which was why
they’d been fol owing this one col ection truck al over the
city for the past two hours.
“You sure the counterfeit-water dudes aren’t just buying new
bottles?” her friend quizzed.
“I don’t think so, not with a tax stamp on them. Those are
special y made, and you can’t buy them anywhere but from
the city.”
Peter gave her a dubious look. “How do you know that?”
“I went to the city’s Web site and checked it out.”
That response earned her a nod of respect. Any interaction
with the Internet was righteous, according to Peter. “Can we
get food after this?”
“Sure.” She wasn’t hungry, but her buddy seemed to eat his
weight every day. Apparently he was in another growth
spurt. She wondered how his dad could keep enough food
on the table with two boys in the house.
Bored, Riley checked her phone for something to do.
Not a word from Simon. She had the volume as high as it
would go so she wouldn’t miss his cal , but that only worked
if he actual y made the effort.
“He’s not talking to anyone,” she grumbled.
“Your dude?” Peter asked.
“Yeah. He’s al caught up in himself.”
“Maybe you’re not giving him enough time to pul his head
together,” Peter said. “You can be impatient, you know.”
Harsh as it sounded, her friend was correct: She was
expecting things to happen faster than they did in the real
world. Maybe she was pushing Simon too hard. He’d
admitted he’d never had any serious trials in his life, and
then he’d landed a huge one. He needed time to get a grip
on it al . But his mom wants me to get him talking. Riley
typed out a text message to her boyfriend: THINKING OF
YOU!
If he replied, she’d back off for a while. If not … There was a
resounding lack of a response as the minutes crawled by.
Riley growled under her breath: Simon the Silent was
definitely getting a visit this afternoon. She would not let him
stew in his pool of depression any longer. It was time to
move forward, even if he was confused and scared. We
can be that way together.
“Ah, here we go,” Peter said with exaggerated relief.
When the recycling truck pul ed into traffic, Riley fel in two
car lengths behind. Being big and loaded with plastic
bottles made it easy to fol ow.
“So how many stops was that?” she asked.
“Four. No, five,” Peter said, consulting his notebook.
“The thing’s ful .” So either they go to the plant or …
But they didn’t go to the Celestial Supplies plant. Instead
they fol owed the truck to a large brick warehouse near
East Point.
“So what just happened here?” Riley demanded as she
maneuvered the car onto a side street. “This isn’t the Holy
Water plant. That’s up in Doravil e.”
“Seems to be some sort of recycling center,” Peter said,
unbuckling his seat belt. “I’l go get a closer look.” Before
she could protest, he was out the door and hiking up the
street.
This is a waste of time. Even my dad couldn’t figure it out,
and he was way smarter than me.
Her cel phone pinged. A text from Peter: IN POSITION.
She rol ed her eyes. At least her friend was enjoying
himself. Then another text: I’M GOING INSIDE.
NO! she typed back.
I’LL BE OKAY. JUST HANG TIGHT.
It was a long fifteen minutes. Riley thought of sending him
another text, but that might ruin whatever he was up to.
Every minute increased her worry.
“I shouldn’t have brought him with me. He’s going to get into
trouble, and his dad is going to go nuclear and…”
Every possible scenario ended with Peter hurt or exiled to Il
inois.
When her friend sauntered back to the car in no particular
hurry, he sported a pleased expression on his face, which
meant he’d learned something.
The moment Peter climbed into the car, Riley unloaded:
“You’re crazy, you know? You shouldn’t have gone in there
on your own. Who knows what they might have done to
you.”
“Crazy? This from a person who traps demons for a living?”
“This isn’t about me!” she retorted. “So give it up. What did
you find out?”
“I told the guard I had a report to do for school. I made sure
to look like a nerd so he wouldn’t think I was any threat.”
Channeling a nerd wasn’t real y hard for Peter. “And?”
“This place is the city’s only official recycler, at least for the
Holy Water bottles. They col ect them, strip off the labels
and tax stamps, clean them out, then load them into trucks
and haul them to the Celestial Supplies plant to be refil ed,
where they’re relabeled and stamped before they’re sent to
the distributor.”
“Then they’re being stolen from here?” she asked, hopeful
y.
“Don’t know yet. The guard says they count every bottle that
comes in and out. But if someone can find a way to
smuggle a few out before they’re cleaned and stripped, al
they’d have to do is put a new label on them and fil them
with tap water.”
“And as long as the new label has the original batch
number and it matches the tax stamp number, it al looks
kosher.” Then she shook her head. “But they’d have to fake
the paperwork to make up for the missing bottles.”
“That’s the problem with this theory,” he admitted. “I can’t
imagine they’re ripping off the bottles during the day, so
we’l have to do night surveil ance.”
“You’d do that with me?”
“Sure.” Peter interlaced his fingers and cracked his
knuckles. “Tech rules. I’l find a way.”
Her friend was beginning to plumb new depths of selfassurance.
“You’re real y awesome, you know that?”
“I may be awesome, but I’m hungry.”
“I’l buy you lunch, how’s that?” She saw him open his mouth
to protest, but cut him off. “I have money.” Then she
explained how she’d gotten it and just how much.
“Beck left you a thousand bucks?” Peter said, astonished.
“And you think he’s a butthead because…?”
He gestured for her to fil in the blank.
“Don’t start.”
Her companion checked something on his phone.
“There’s a Vietnamese restaurant four point three miles
north of here. I want pho.”
“Noodles it is, dude.”
TWENTY-ONE
Though they’d been “invited” to meet with the hunters at the
Westin, Beck and Stewart were stuck in the hal way,
ignored. The longer Beck waited, the more pissed he
became. When it appeared they weren’t going to be
ushered into the hunters’ presence anytime soon, Stewart
sweet-talked a maid into finding them two chairs, gave her
a tip for her service, and then settled back in one.
“Sir…” Beck began.
The Scotsman waved him to a chair. “Don’t let them psych
ya, lad. It’s al on purpose. We’l give them five more minutes
and then we’re outta here. Then I’l be talkin’ ta the
Archbishop.”
They’d just risen to leave when one of the hunters appeared
in the hal way and waved them inside. To Beck, the hotel
room seemed huge, like three rooms in one.
There was a gal ey kitchen to the right, a smal bathroom to
the left, and a big open area in front of them. In that area
was a conference table and six chairs.
The smel of fresh coffee caught his nose, reminding him he
was a few cups short for the day. Next to the coffeemaker
was a plate of donuts. It appeared the hunters liked the
frosted ones with the little sprinkles.
Sitting in padded chairs around the table were three men—
Captain Elias Salvatore, Lieutenant Amundson, and the
priest. Behind them was a massive window—Atlanta from
a bird’s-eye view. And another hunter. His eyes weren’t on
them but on the city below, an assault rifle in hand.
Vigilant bunch, that’s for sure.
Captain Salvatore rose from his chair. “Grand Master
Stewart, please excuse the delay.” His tone told Beck he
wasn’t happy about it, either.
“No trouble, Captain,” Stewart replied, choosing a chair at
the end of the table near Salvatore. The priest gave them a
cursory glance and then returned those dark eyes to the
paperwork in front of him.
“Gentlemen, this is Father Rosetti and my second-incommand,
Lieutenant Amundson,” the captain said,
unaware that Stewart had already given Beck a complete
rundown.
Amundson delivered a crisp nod, but the priest pointedly
ignored both of them. That didn’t sit wel with Beck. He
could understand the priest blowing him off; he wasn’t
important, but Stewart deserved respect. To his credit, the
Scotsman ignored the slight like he’d expected it. Uneasy,
Beck sat next to him, which put the priest on his right.
“I’m actin’ in Master Harper’s stead,” Stewart explained.
“We’re here ta help ya in any way we can.”
Without looking up, the priest thumbed open a thick file
folder stuffed with documents. “We have opened an
investigation into the events at the Tabernacle,” he said, his
English heavily accented. “In particular what roles Paul
Blackthorne or his daughter played in that tragedy.”
Stewart frowned but didn’t reply.
“Tel us what happened that night.”
As the master delivered the report, Beck could hear the
increasing tension in his voice. Al the while Father Rosetti
made notes on a sheet of paper.
“Who is the necromancer that reanimated her father?”
the priest asked.
The Scotsman looked over at Beck.
“We don’t know that yet,” he replied. “The summoners
aren’t talkin’.”
More notes went on the paper. Beck found it interesting that
Rosetti was asking al the questions while Salvatore and his
lieutenant watched from the sidelines. That meant he was
real y in charge of the operation, not the captain.
Wonder how that sits with Salvatore.
“You are convinced the Holy Water used at your meeting
was genuine?” Rosetti quizzed.
Stewart hesitated momentarily, then nodded. “Aye.”
“I was not aware the Guild admitted females to their midst,”
the priest remarked.
“It’s a recent change,” Stewart admitted.
“This girl, what is she like?”
“I don’t get your meanin’,” the master replied.
“Can she be trusted?”
“Absolutely,” Stewart replied, his tone prickly now. “The
Guild is investigatin’ the problem, and I’ve kept the
Archbishop in the loop. It’l take some time, but we’l find the
source of those bott-els.”
“That is not important at the moment,” the priest said
dismissively.
“On the contrary, it is verra important. The public must trust
the Holy Water wil keep their homes safe. If not, there’l be
citywide panic.”
The priest put down his pen. “The more I look into this
matter, al I see is one person in the very center of it al —the
girl, Riley Blackthorne. Her father’s papers only indicate he
felt something was amiss, yet she claims the Holy Water is
not genuine.”
Beck jumped in. “She tested the bottles. Some of them
didn’t react.”
The priest studied him, then flipped a page. “Yes, and for
that test she employed the claw of a demon. A symbol of
Hel .”
How did ya know about the claw? Who told ya? “Why not? It
came from the Three she caught. On her own, too.”
Rosetti’s eyebrow rose. “You cannot possibly have me
believe such a young child could capture such a Hel spawn
by herself.”
What’s goin’ on here? All of this was about Riley, not about
how to stop the demons.
Apparently Stewart was thinking along the same line.
“So what is the official agenda, Father?” the master
demanded.
The pen went down again. “We are here to take control of
the city’s Hel spawn problem. We cannot al ow Lucifer to
obtain a foothold in our world. To that end, if we find that
anyone has sided with our enemy in this battle, they wil be
arrested and tried. That includes Paul Blackthorne’s girl.”
“Now wait a minute—” Beck began.
“Easy, lad,” Stewart said. Then he addressed the priest.
“Why are ya so interested in her?”
“Often there is a nexus, a specific individual that Hel uses to
lay its plans. Often that is someone young and
impressionable. In this case, perhaps it is Riley
Blackthorne, especial y since she was at the Tabernacle
the night of the attack.”
“She had nothin’ ta do with that,” Stewart replied.
“Either way, we need to speak with her on these matters.”
“Not unless her master agrees,” Stewart said, drawing the
line in the sand.
“Master Harper’s approval has little to do with the matter.
We will talk to the girl,” the priest replied, his face set.
“Not unless Harper agrees,” Stewart retorted. “We don’t
throw our people ta the wolves.”
The priest tensed. “You are impeding our investigation,
Master Stewart. I shal be filing a formal complaint with the
mayor … and the National Guild.”
“Ya misunderstand me, priest. We came here ta offer our
assistance, not have ya make one of our own a
scapegoat.”
“Your protest is noted,” the priest replied. He shuffled his
papers in an agitated manner. “We have nothing further to
discuss.”
That was as cold a dismissal as Beck had ever heard.
“Mind you,” Stewart added, his voice rougher now,
“somethin’s afoot in this city and it would be a mistake ta
think it’s al Hel ’s doin’.”
The priest studied him gravely. “Which is exactly what I
would expect a trapper to say. Come now, Master Stewart,
we both know who guards your kind, where your loyalties
lay. That was so plainly evident the other night.”
“That’s not the issue, and ya know it,” Stewart retorted.
“We’l not have this city destroyed just ta make yer boss
happy.”
The priest bristled. “This is about evil, Master Stewart, not
currying favor with His Holiness.”
“Just as long as ya remember that.”
With a curt nod to the captain, Stewart rose to leave the
room, Beck in tow. Amundson had taken a position near
the door. The master passed without incident, but the
hunter purposely bumped Beck hard, bouncing him off the
doorframe. Beck whirled, eager to take on this jerk, but
never got the chance as Stewart’s cane shot up between
them.
“Stand down, lad!” With an oath, Beck stepped back,
furious that he’d lost control in the first place.
Stewart stared up at Amundson’s gloating face.
“Another time, hunter. Mark you, that time wil come, and I’l
be damned happy ta turn this lad loose on ya.”
Beck seethed al the way down the hal , wanting to hit
something. He tried to chil , but the anger wouldn’t fade.
There was a showdown coming with the hunters—it was
going to be bloody—and he was going to be in the middle
of it.
As they waited for the elevator, the Scotsman cal ed Riley’s
master and related the news. “Aye. I agree.” He hung up,
stil frowning.
“Sir…” Beck began. “Harper isn’t goin’ to give her up, is
he?”
“Not without a fight, that’s for sure.” The elevator dinged its
arrival. “Let’s head ta my place. It’s time ya know what’s
real y goin’ on.”
* * *
As Beck waited for the master to climb out of the truck, he
checked out the man’s house. It was three stories, fancy in
an old-fashioned sort of way, and painted in different
shades of blue. It even had a smal tower off the front. His
host led him into a room near the back. Beck liked this
place. It felt like a home, from the big fireplace to the little
crocheted things on the backs of the chairs.
Stewart took a position near a large cabinet and studied
his extensive liquor col ection. It encompassed three
shelves. From what Beck could see of the labels, most of it
was Scotch.
“Ya got a favorite?” his host asked, peering at him over his
shoulder.
“No, sir. Never drank much whisky except for my
granddaddy’s.”
Stewart hovered a hand over a bottle, then moved to the
one next to it. “Aberlour a’bunadh, I think. Ya’d not take
kindly ta the peat right off.”
“Pete?”
“It adds a smoky flavor to the whisky. We’l build ya up over
time.”
The master poured a hefty amount in a tumbler, then
something for himself from a different bottle. “Have a seat,
lad,” he said, handing off the liquor.
Beck settled into a red stuffed chair near the fireplace.
Once the master had taken his place in a matching chair
across from him, Beck gave the whisky a cautious sniff. Not
bad.
“Slàinte mhath!” the Scotsman proclaimed.
Beck had no idea what the man had said, but he smiled
and raised the glass anyway. The first sip told him he liked
this stuff a lot, which meant it cost more than he could
afford.
“Suit ya?” Stewart asked after taking a long pul from his
own glass.
Beck nodded. “Real smooth.”
The master propped up his left leg on an ottoman. After
another lengthy sip, he smacked his lips in appreciation.
He seemed in no hurry, though he’d been the one to issue
the invitation.
Beck realized he’d have to get the bal rol ing. “Paul told me
yer family had been trappin’ since forever.”
“We weren’t the first trappers, but we’re some of the best,”
Stewart replied. “The Blackthornes were the same until they
came ta America and got too much inta earnin’
money rather than trappin’ the beasties. At least Paul came
back ta the fold.”
“That took some doin’, I imagine,” Beck said, hoping to
hear a bit more about his mentor.
“Paul had the Blackthorne tradition ta uphold, though he
didn’t see it that way. In times past, his family would send
their sons ta Scotland and we’d train ’em.”
“He never said a word about that.” But then there was a lot
Paul hadn’t told him. “So what’s this ‘Grand Master’
thing? I’ve never heard tel of it before.”
“It’s just a title we use in Europe. It means I’m one of the
more senior masters.”
Bet there’s more to it than that.
“It made for hard feelings with Harper when I first came
here,” Stewart confessed. “Ten years ago, he was barely
holdin’ his own against some of the other masters here in
Atlanta. They were a bad lot. Takin’ bribes in a protection
racket. If ya didn’t pay their price, they’d set a Pyro-Fiend
loose ta burn yer place ta the ground.”
“What?” Beck spouted, horrified. “That’s damned evil.”
“Aye,” Stewart said, nodding sagely. “One of the masters
went after Harper and cut him up. That’s how he got that
wicked scar. While he was healin’, the National Guild
asked me ta come over and clean house.”
“So that’s how he got to be senior master—by ya kickin’
out al the others?”
“Pretty much. Truth be known, he wasn’t happy when I
showed up. Felt like the National Guild hadn’t given him
enough time ta straighten things out.”
“And now?” Beck asked.
“We’ve learned ta tolerate each other,” the Scotsman said
with a wry smile. “I tried ta recruit Paul when I first came ta
town, but he turned me down flat. Then his teachin’
job was gone and he was wil in’ ta listen.”
The master rose slowly from the chair and refil ed his drink.
“More?” he asked.
“Not yet, thanks.” No way he’d keep up with a Scotsman.
Stewart recapped the bottle with a thwack of his palm, then
returned to his chair. “Back in the day, most demons were
dealt with by the church. The priest would exorcise them.
Some began ta hunt them, mostly as sport. The bishops
encouraged that, partly because those men could be used
as muscle when the Church felt the need.”
Another long sip of the whisky. “As time passed,”
Stewart continued, “the hunters gained a reputation for
bein’ damned ruthless. There was a dispute between one
of my ancestors, a Malcolm Stewart, and one of the local
hunters. Somethin’ about a bit a’ land. The hunter claimed
that Malcolm and his family were conspirin’ with Hel , so the
local bishop gave orders ta solve the problem.”
“Solve it, how?” Beck asked. He suspected it didn’t involve
a lot of praying. These were Scotsman: They settled their
disputes with lethal steel.
“A team of hunters descended on Malcolm’s home in the
wee hours and butchered everyone they could find. Hacked
them ta death, even the bairns. Malcolm they burnt at a
stake, claimin’ he was a warlock.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Beck said, his gut twisting at the thought.
“Aye,” Stewart replied. “Malcolm’s son, Euan, had the good
fortune ta be in Edinburgh that day. Knowing he’d be next
for the stake, he came up with a bril iant scheme. He
ordered the rest of the family ta trap demons and deliver
them ta their priests, as many as possible in the shortest
period of time.”
“Smart,” Beck said, seeing the plan clearly. “The Stewarts
couldn’t be workin’ for Lucifer if they were trappin’
demons.”
Stewart nodded. “Euan was a canny one. After he’d trap a
demon, he’d leave a few coins behind. Word got around.
It was better ta get some brass for yer demon rather than
havin’ the hunters burn yer house and put yer family ta the
sword.”
Beck couldn’t stop the grin. “Way smart.”
“Aye. Because of that, the trappers became verra popular.
That’s why there’s always been demon trappers in our
family, even when some went Protestant.”
Beck retraced to the beginning of the story. “What
happened to the hunter who led the raid?”
A wolfish smile fil ed his host’s face. “He vanished a short
time after the massacre. They found him up in the heather. It
took four men over an hour ta gather enough pieces ta
bury.”
“Righteous,” Beck replied. He took another sip of the
whisky, surprised at how things were playing out. Stewart
wouldn’t be sharing this knowledge unless Beck was going
to make master. That stirred a rare feeling of pride.
“So that’s why the hunters don’t like us much,” his host said.
“That hasn’t changed in over eight centuries. If anythin’, it
got worse once they came under the Vatican’s thumb.”
Beck’s cel phone rang. He swore at the interruption and
flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“It is Justine,” a light voice said.
He didn’t bother to hide the smile. “How ya doin’?”
“Very wel , thank you. Is it possible for us to meet tonight?”
He shot a look at Stewart and then said, “I’m kinda busy.”
“I am about to finish the article, and I have a few more
questions.”
Beck gave in. There was a triumphant lilt in Justine’s voice
as they worked out a time and a place to meet.
After the cal ended, the Scotsman eyed him intently.
“More whisky?”
“Yeah. I think I’m gonna need it.”
TWENTY-TWO
Riley was met at the door by one of Simon’s younger
brothers, but which one she wasn’t sure. Like his elder
sibling, he had the trademark blond hair and deep blue
eyes of the Adler clan. He said “the grump” was in the den
and that no one could watch the television because of it.
“Have some of the other trappers been here?” she asked.
Maybe they could get through to Simon, help him get back
on track.
“A few. You just missed one guy, but I don’t think he was a
trapper,” the boy said.
“Who was it?” Riley asked, curious.
The boy shrugged. “He visited him at the hospital, too. I
wish he wouldn’t come here: Simon just gets weirder after
he talks to him.”
“What’s this guy look like?” Another shrug. Maybe it was
McGuire. He’d make anyone grumpy. “So Simon’s stil not
himself?” Riley asked. She got a sul en shake of the head.
“Then it’s time to change that.”
“Good luck,” his sibling muttered and then disappeared into
the kitchen to raid the refrigerator.
Riley took a moment to check herself out in the hal mirror.
She’d spent extra time on her hair and makeup and wore
the nicest sweater she owned. It was bright blue and did
good things for her complexion. She paused again outside
the room, unusual y nervous.
Please let him be better. She’d do anything to see that
golden smile, know that everything was right between them
again.
To her relief she found he had the lights on and the curtains
open, but a tense frown settled on his forehead as she
entered the room. In his lap was a Bible, its pages dogearred,
thin strips of ribbon bookmarking different sections.
On the table next to her boyfriend was his rosary, an
uneaten sandwich, and a can of soda. A bright red afghan
sat over his lap, the fringe tickling the carpeted floor.
Probably his mother’s handiwork.
“Hey, Simon,” Riley said, “I brought you cookies from the
coffee shop. I thought you might like some.” She placed the
bag on the couch near him. He ignored it as his blue eyes
flickered in irritation.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “No one is tel ing me
anything. I want to know what the Guild is doing.”
So much for the “How are you, I’ve real y missed you”
part of this conversation. Riley gave in and delivered the
news bul etins. “Beck and I did the paperwork so the life
insurance policies wil be paid. Harper is healing pretty wel .
He’s wondering when you’re coming back to work. Oh, and
the demon hunters arrived today. Downtown traffic’s a
mess because of it.” She’d have been down there, too, just
out of curiosity, but Simon took precedence.
“That wasn’t what I asked,” her boyfriend retorted. “I want to
know how the demons got through the Holy Water. I want to
know what the Guild is going to do about it.”
Back to that again. She’d tried to explain this before and
he’d blown her off. One more time. “Father Harrison says
there were too many of them, that they overwhelmed the
ward. It’s been known to happen.”
“He told me that, too. I don’t buy it.”
He doesn’t believe his own priest? “You saw them; they
kept pushing until the ward broke.”
“I didn’t see that. I saw them swarm us. I saw them kil
and…” He looked down at the Bible in his lap, his hands
quivering now.
She knew how that was. Did he get panic attacks, too?
His blue eyes rose to meet hers. There was no tenderness
in them, not like in the past.
“Why did the Five come for you?” he asked in a low voice.
Simon had been too badly hurt to see the Geo-Fiend
himself. So who told you it was after me?
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s the same one that kil ed
my dad and tried to destroy the library. It must have this
thing for Blackthornes.”
There was a long pause as Simon shifted in his chair, his
face suddenly flushed. He leaned over the side of the chair
and picked up a pint water bottle, but he didn’t take a drink
from it. When he final y spoke, his voice was acidic, ful of
accusation. “Lucifer has sent his devils after you.
What have you done, Riley?”
“Huh?” she spouted. “I haven’t done anything.” Except save
your life.
“You’re lying. Hel has you in its sights. Why else would your
father be at the Tabernacle?”
“Whoa, what are you saying? My father has nothing to do
with Hel .”
“Your father was summoned by evil magic. That you can’t
deny. He was researching Holy Water. Why? Was he trying
to find a way to break the ward for his unholy master?
Did he tel you how to do it?”
Riley gaped at him, astounded at the venom coming from
her boyfriend’s mouth. “You’re accusing my dad of kil ing
those trappers? How can you say that?” She sucked in a
hasty breath. “I don’t even know if he made it out of that
furnace.”
He sneered. “Why would it matter? He’s dead, or have you
forgotten that?”
Riley’s mouth fel open, astounded at his cal ousness.
“What is wrong with you? You were never like this before.
You actual y cared about people. Now you’re just … mean.”
“I’m seeing things for what they real y are. You, for
instance,” he said, his hands gripping the water bottle
tighter. “If you’ve sold your soul to Lucifer, just admit it.”
Sold my soul?
Riley pointed an accusing finger. “You know, I’ve cut you a
lot of slack, but are you listening to yourself? You’re, like,
total y paranoid.”
“He said you’d say that.”
“Who has been talking to you? Is it McGuire?”
“It doesn’t matter. Al I can think of is what you told me
before the meeting started.”
“What did I say?” She just remembered the kissing.
“You said it was al part of your cunning plan. Now I’m
thinking that’s real y true, that Lucifer is destroying the
trappers from within, using you and your father as his
weapons.”
She’d only been joking with him that night; there was no
plan other than fal ing in love with this guy. Now he was
trampling on her heart, grinding it under his feet.
Riley grabbed the bag of cookies off the couch. “I’l keep
these. You’l probably try to exorcise them or something.
When you decide to be the old Simon again, give me a cal
.”
He shook his head, resigned. “That Simon is gone. My
eyes have been opened to the battle that lies before us.
You have sold your soul, or you’re a…” He took a
shuddering breath that hitched at the end. “I have to know
the truth.” A second later she was drenched in water,
launched at her from the bottle Simon held in his hands.
Riley shot to her feet, stunned, liquid dripping off her face,
chest, and hands. It tingled in a way she knew so wel .
“That’s Holy Water!” He’d just tested his girlfriend to see if
she was a demon.
Immense sadness fil ed Simon’s eyes, like he knew he’d
crossed a line from which there was no return, but he wasn’t
wil ing to admit the mistake. “It’s best we don’t see each
from now on. I can’t be with someone I don’t trust.”
“What?” He’s breaking up with me? He can’t do this. I
saved his life. Maybe if she told him about Martha, about
the deal she’d made. He’ll never believe me.
He waved her away. “You need to leave now, Riley.
You’re not welcome here anymore.”
Tears broke loose and she didn’t bother to wipe them away
as they threaded down her already damp cheeks.
Dropping the bag of cookies, Riley fled the house.
The demons had kil ed more than just trappers that night.
They’d destroyed her future with the boy she loved.
* * *
Beck worked on his second cup of coffee, trying to burn off
the Scotch before he met Justine in an hour. He had one
final question to put to the old trapper before he left, the one
that had been nagging at him since the meeting with the
hunters.
“What did the priest mean?” he asked. “Who guards our
kind?”
Stewart was silent for a long time. Final y, he nodded to
himself. “It’s only right ya know.” He took a lengthy gulp of
his liquor. “More history,” he said. “Sorry.” Another long sip,
like he was preparing to deliver bad news. “Some of the
angels weren’t happy when man was created, not likin’ the
competition for God’s affection. Lucifer, in particular,
refused ta bow his knee ta somethin’ made of clay.”
Beck nodded encouragingly, hoping to keep the man
talking.
“God doesn’t like someone chal engin’ Him, so He cast out
Lucifer and al of the Divine who’d opposed man’s creation.
I’ve heard it was over a third of them; some say over two
hundred; others believe it was in the mil ions.”
Beck whistled. “That’s a lot of damned angels.”
“Aye. The demons first appeared when Adam and Eve
gained the knowledge of good and evil. Not too many ta
start with, but as we moved ta the cities they came with us
and grew in number. The fiends serve a purpose, they’re
part of God’s plan.”
Stewart shifted his weight in the chair, gathering his
thoughts. “Back at the beginnin, God told Lucifer, ‘If ya think
these humans are so awful, then test them for me, winnow
out the wheat from the chaff. Find those whose faith is
unshakable.’ So He made Lucifer His Adversary, His
hasatan. It’s the Prince’s job ta test our love of God, like a
prosecutin’ attorney, and he uses the demons for just that
purpose.”
Beck took a deep breath to try to clear his mind. It had to
be al the whisky. Stewart couldn’t be saying that Lucifer
was on the level, could he? “But he’s the Devil.”
“There’d ya’d be wrong,” Stewart said. “Now mind ya, there
is a Devil and he’s damned evil, but Lucifer is under God’s
thumb … more or less.”
Beck worked on his coffee for a time, thinking things
through. This was so confusing and made his head buzz
worse than the whisky. “Then what did the priest mean?”
There was another lengthy silence as Stewart stared into
the fire. “Even Harper doesn’t know this, and it’s best none
of the others do, either.”
“Know what?” Beck asked, his patience wearing thin.
Would this man ever answer the question?
“Hel didn’t want us ta die the other night.”
“No way,” Beck retorted.
“It’s al part of the Grand Game, the one that keeps
everythin’ in balance. Hel does somethin’; Heaven
retaliates. Back and forth across eternity. The trick is not ta
push the other too far, or there’s war.”
“But—”
Stewart held up his hand for silence. “Neither God nor
Lucifer want Armageddon. They both know it’l go badly and
the balance wil be upset. Now a few of the Archangels and
the Fal en, they’re hot ta fight. So there’s always tension, in
Hel particularly.”
Beck ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “I respect ya
and al , but there’s no way ya can say Hel wasn’t tryin’ its
best to slaughter us.”
Stewart locked eyes with him, his face somber. “Those
angels, the ones that kept us alive. Who do ya think sent
’em?”
Damn silly question. “Heaven, of course. Who else would
bother savin’ our butts?”
“No, lad,” Stewart replied, his voice almost a whisper.
“Those warrior angels were sent by the Prince of Hel
himself. I swear it on the Stewart name.”
The old man is serious. He really thinks Hell saved our
butts. Beck’s mind fought against the obvious question: If
those were Lucifer’s folk, then who sent the demons?
TWENTY-THREE
Driven by some internal autopilot, Riley found herself at St.
Brigid’s. She parked and turned off the car’s engine.
Blowing her nose again, she flipped down the visor. Her
mascara had realigned itself into vertical smudgy trails
down her face. She mumbled a caustic swear word and
mopped off as much as she could with a tissue. Hopeful y
the stuff would come out of her sweater. Not that she’d
probably ever wear it again: It’d just remind her of him.
“I was such a fool.” She’d daydreamed of their future, what
it would be like if she and Simon had married, how many
kids they’d have. She’d fal en hard for him, and now al that
was gone, washed away by his irrational paranoia and a
lukewarm bottle of Holy Water.
“You self-righteous hypocrite. How could you do that to
me?” He’d real y cared for her, she knew it. She’d felt it
when they were together, and yet he’d thrown it al away as
if it were nothing.
Once inside the room, she sat at the table. This was her life
from now on. Once Ori kil ed the Five she wouldn’t have to
spend it on hal owed ground, but not much else would
change. She would never find a boyfriend who would
understand what she did, what she had to do. Beck had
been right: There was a huge price for keeping Hel in line,
and she was going to pay it for the rest of her life.
The twin roses sat in a glass in the center of the table—
the one she’d found on her car and the one Ori had given
her the night before. She pul ed the glass closer and tested
the fragrance. Stil strong. The scent seemed to calm her.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember Simon before
he’d been injured, but the memories were there but too
painful to address.
Her cel lit up. If it was Mr. Righteous and he thought he was
going to apologize …
It was Beck. “Yeah, what?” she snarled.
“I just got a cal from Simon. He’s carryin’ on like a crazy
person; says yer workin’ for Hel . What’s goin’ on?” he
demanded.
Oh, no. She hadn’t wanted Beck to know her love life had
imploded.
He didn’t wait for her reply. “Here’s the deal, girl: I got too
damned much on my plate as it is. I don’t need this sil y kid
drama right now.”
Kid drama? “Gee, you’re al heart.”
“Yer boyfriend issues are not my problem. Ya steer clear of
him.”
How’s that’s going to work? We have the same master.
And right on cue, her cal er added, “Maybe now’s a good
time to cal yer aunt.”
Riley hung up on him. To her relief, he didn’t cal back.
* * *
There was more crying over the bathroom sink, choking
sobs that felt more like she was standing in front of Simon’s
coffin than just breaking up with him. Then the doubts came
to cal , dark, insidious, like nightmares that never give you a
moment’s peace.
Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe if she’d done something
different and—
“Stop it!” she shouted at her reflection. “It’s not your fault.
You did what was right. You saved his life.”
And lost him forever.
Riley crawled into the bed, her nose stuffy from crying.
Simon’s ugly words kept throwing themselves at her like
missiles. How could he turn away from her so quickly?
Her phone rang, vibrating across the table and bumping
into the drinking-glass vase. She ignored it. It rang a few
minutes later. She turned to face the wal , unable to talk to
anyone right now without melting down into an emotional
mess. Then a text came through. Then another.
Maybe it was something real y important. Maybe something
had happened to Beck.
It was Peter. His final text message read: CALL ME
NOW! I HAVE TO TALK TO SOMEONE!
That sounded ominous, so she gave in and dialed his
number. “Peter? What’s wrong?”
“Hold on.”
There was the sound of footsteps across wood, a door
opening and then closing.
“Okay, I’m outside now.” His voice was as rough as hers,
like he’d been crying.
Peter was never like this, and it scared her. “What’s
happened?” she asked.
“I final y told Mom I wasn’t going with her and the ghouls to Il
inois.”
Riley winced as she climbed back into the bunk bed.
“She total y lost it. She cried a lot and accused my dad of
brainwashing David and me. They had a big fight. It was
total y nuclear here.”
“That sounds absolutely ugly.”
“Yeah. Maybe I was wrong, you know? Maybe I should go
with her and…”
Her friend sounded so confused. “Where do you think you
should be?” Riley asked.
There was a long pause. “With Dad. It’s way less tense
when I’m with him.”
“Then you made the right decision. Your mom is going to
have to straighten herself out, and you aren’t going to be
able to help her do that.”
“Dad said the same thing. He wants me to stay here. He
says it’s time I had space to make my own mistakes.”
“Wel , if you’re anything like me, they’l be stel ar,” she
muttered.
He sighed heavily into the phone. “This is the part where
you’re supposed to tel me it’s going to work out just fine,”
he said.
“No way I’m saying that. Not with Simon and…” Her sigh
matched his. “He … we broke up this afternoon.”
“But I thought you two were doing real y wel .”
“We were until he lost his mind.” She blurted out al the gory
details, including the “you sold your soul to Hel ”
accusation.
“Damn,” Peter said. “Is there, like, something in the water?
First my mom goes crazy, now your … ex-boyfriend.”
“Seems like we’re the only sane ones,” she said.
“Always have been,” he agreed. “Don’t worry, someday
you’l meet some cool dude and he won’t be an asshat.”
Her mind drifted to Ori, but she yanked it back immediately.
Two roses did not equal someone who wouldn’t break her
heart.
“You hold it together, okay?” she urged. “Your mom wil be
better once she’s with her family. Maybe they can get her
help.”
“That’s Dad’s hope. Cal me in the morning, wil you?”
Peter asked. “My uncle is going to be here with a U-Haul,
and I’m helping Mom pack. I’l need the sanity break from
the serious guilt trip she’s going to lay on me.”
“I’l cal . Don’t worry; you did the right thing, Peter.”
“Then why does it hurt so much?” he murmured.
* * *
Beck pushed open the doors to the Armageddon Lounge,
did his perimeter check, then moved toward the bar. If he
was going to talk to the press, it would be on his home turf.
As a peace offering, he placed a quart jug of Holy Water on
the counter.
“That what I think it is?” Zack asked, drying his hand on a
bar towel.
“Sure is. Put a line outside al yer doors. It’l keep the evil
things out. I’l bring more when ya need it.” He didn’t like the
expense, but he didn’t want to have to change bars. Not
when he had this one broken in.
Zack nodded his gratitude and asked, “Shiner Bock?”
“Soda,” Beck said. That earned him a raised eyebrow.
“Been hittin’ the whisky heavy tonight; don’t need to put
beer on top of that.”
“You go sober on us and we’l have to close.”
“Ha, ha.” Beck leaned against the bar, waiting for the
beverage. “What did your boss say about the other night?”
“He swore a lot. Thought about banning trappers from the
bar.”
“Not our fault they were here. Maybe he should change the
name of the place, ya know?”
“I suggested that. This”—Zack tapped the jug with a finger
—“wil help settle his nerves.”
Beck paid for his soda and took it to a booth. An open pool
table cal ed to him, but he ignored it. A couple of the
regulars gave him nods and he returned them. They
seemed at ease with him here. He stil couldn’t wrap his
mind around what had happened with those Fours. He’d
have to tel Stewart about them once al the other hassles
died down. Maybe between them they could take the fiends
out.
Beck sipped his icy soda, deep in thought. He respected
the old master a lot, but the Scotsman’s claim that Hel had
saved the trappers’ bacon was just too far-fetched. Stewart
had said the rest of the tale would have to wait for another
time, which meant Beck had no clue who was fielding those
demons. Gotta be Hell. The old guy must have hit his head
harder than we thought.
At least the thing between Riley and Simon was over.
He’d been hard on her, but right now his head was ful of
more important issues that her boyfriend hassles.
Beck groaned. That’s no excuse.
He remembered what it’d felt like when Louisa had ditched
him and now he’d been stone cold with Riley when she was
going through the same thing.
Sorry, girl.
If he could talk her into visiting her aunt for a while, maybe
Simon would get his head together. Not that she’d ever go
back to him: Once you dissed a Blackthorne you were done
for life. Simon had been al lined up and he’d managed to
throw away the best girl he’d ever meet.
“What a dumbass,” Beck muttered. “No way I’d have done
that.” Like I’ll ever have a chance.
The twin doors to the lounge pushed open, and al his
thoughts about Riley evaporated.
“Wel , damn,” he said. Justine scanned the room, then her
eyes lit on him. Her smile appeared genuine, like she real y
wanted to be here.
As she headed for the booth with long, sure strides, every
eye riveted on her. It was easy to see why: Justine was
dressed in a pair of skintight blue jeans, a cream sweater
that hugged her breasts, black boots, and an ankle-length
black leather coat that flapped open as she moved.
Mighty fine. He rose. “Justine.”
“Good evening, Beck,” she said.
Remembering his manners, he helped her out of the coat,
admiring the rear view as he did. It proved just as enjoyable
as the front one. After stashing the coat on the bench seat,
Justine slid in and placed her phone on the table.
Beck realized he should buy the lady a drink. “What would
ya like?” he asked.
“Something fruity,” she replied. “With alcohol.”
He wasn’t particularly sure what that might be, but he went
to the bar and put in the order anyway.
“So who’s the hottie?” Zack asked, keeping his voice low
enough so the lady in question wouldn’t hear him.
“A reporter.”
“Niiice,” the bartender said, then jammed a slice of orange
on the rim of a tal glass and slid it across. Beck paid for it,
grimly noting that the more fruit in the drink, the more it cost.
As he approached, Justine delivered a smile that would
have knocked a lesser man to his knees.
“Thank you,” she said. A quick sip of the drink, a nod of
approval, and then the notebook, pen, and digital recorder
appeared on the table.
Those implements of torture brought Beck back to earth.
“So what do ya want to know?”
“I have talked to some of the other trappers,” she said.
“Is it true that you remained inside the Tabernacle longer
than any of the others? That you saved lives that night?”
Beck felt an uncomfortable twitch crawl over his shoulder
blades. “Not real y.” No need to have people thinking he
was better than any of the other trappers. “I just did what I
had to do.”
“Some might cal you a hero.”
He frowned. “No. Don’t go there,” he retorted with more
force than he’d intended. “I know what heroes are like; I
fought beside them in the war. I’m not one of ’em.”
Justine dipped her head in concession. “Then I wil not use
that word in my article.”
“Thank you.” He let his tension drain away. “Sorry. Sore
subject.”
“No, I understand.” She took a long sip of her drink. “Why
do you think the demons are acting this way?”
“Maybe Lucifer’s testin’ our defenses. He does that every
now and then.” That made more sense than Stewart’s
weird-assed notions of some game between Heaven and
Hel .
“You have met with the hunters. What is your impression of
them?”
Beck hedged, sensing a trap. “They’re pros,” he said.
That was a safe reply.
“Is that al ?” she pressed, smiling at his discomfort.
“Yup.”
“They have an impressive track record.”
“And one hel uva body count,” he said before he could stop
his tongue.
“Can I quote you on that?” she asked, pen posed over the
notebook.
There was no safe answer, so he decided to take the
plunge. “Go ahead.”
Justine took another long suck on her straw. He found
himself watching her more closely than was warranted.
Might as well ask. “Yer accent isn’t anythin’ I can place.
Where are ya from?”
“I was born in Italy, raised in Ireland, France, and then
America. I’ve been al over the world, so I’m a bit of
everything. My Irish friends say I sound American. My
American friends say I sound like I can’t make up my mind
what I am,” she said, a ful smile gracing her lips. “What
about you?”
“Good old Georgia stock,” he said. “Lived here and in the
Middle East and that’s about it.”
“At least you know who you are.” The reporter looked down
at her pad and then up again. “Master Blackthorne’s
daughter is a trapper now. Does it bother you to have a
female in the Guild?”
Sure does. He’d served with women in the Army, knew they
could hold their own like any of the guys. He didn’t care if a
female wanted to be a trapper. His problem was that it was
Riley.
“Not real y,” he lied.
Justine studied him intently. “You put a lot of thought into
that.”
“She’s young and I’d hate to see her hurt.” Which wasn’t a
lie.
“Are you two…?” she asked, delicately raising an eyebrow.
Damn, yer nosy. “No, there’s nothin’ between us. She’s too
young.”
“So you like your women … older?” she asked.
The come-on slid across the table so smoothly he almost
didn’t catch it. Maybe there was more going on here than
he’d figured. “I like women who know what they’re doin’,” he
said.
Justine began to run her slim fingers up and down the side
of her glass in a way that made his head spin. “You’re
staring at me,” she said, a touch of a smile at the corners of
her mouth.
“Just enjoyin’ the view,” he said.
“So am I. I don’t usual y get to say that.”
He reluctantly pul ed his mind back to work. “Can ya tel me
what the hunters are gonna do here?” When she didn’t reply
right off, he added, “Come on, I’ve been answerin’ al yer
questions.”
“True,” she replied. She reached over and clicked off the
recorder. When their eyes met, he nodded in
understanding. This was off the record. “They begin by
surveying the most infested areas of the city.”
“Demon Central, then,” he said. “That’s where the Gastro-
Fiends like to hang out.”
“Where is this Demon Central?” she asked.
“It’s cal ed Five Points. It’s got lots of holes and abandoned
buildin’s. The Threes love those.” He leaned closer,
pushing his soda aside. “What wil they do after this
survey?”
“Once they know the types of demons and their locations,
they’l move in and clear them out.”
“And if folks get in the way?”
She shrugged. “They try to minimize the col ateral damage,
but sometimes that isn’t possible.”
“So who’s this Father Rosetti?” he asked. “Are al Rome’s
priests such tight asses?”
A red eyebrow arched. “Father Rosetti was original y an
exorcist for the Vatican. And no, the other priests are not as
ardent in their duties. I find it odd: He usual y doesn’t go out
with a team but remains in Rome.”
“Then why is he in Atlanta?” Beck quizzed.
“I asked that question, but I did not receive an answer.”
The lounge doors swung open and four guys entered,
stepping right over the top of the stil -wet line of Holy Water.
Not demons, then. By the noise they were generating, they
already had a significant buzz on. Beck frowned. These
guys weren’t regulars so they wouldn’t know not to jack with
him. Since he was with the hottest woman in the place, this
might not go wel . Especial y with four of them.
He caught Justine’s eye. “We gotta go. Now.”
To his relief she didn’t argue but scooped up her
belongings. As they reached the doors, one of the guys cal
ed out from his place at the bar.
“Hey, where ya goin’, babe? Come back here. I’l buy ya a
beer.”
Justine kept moving, Beck right behind her. When they
reached his truck, he set his trapper’s bag on the hood.
“Sorry about that,” he said, his eyes stil on the lounge’s
entrance. The quartet was stil inside, the lure of more
booze stronger than chasing tail.
“I am accustomed to it,” Justine said as she ran her hand
over the demon decals on the side of the truck. “What do
these mean?”
“A trapper gets one every time we take down a Three.”
She counted them. “Very impressive. Hel must hate you.”
He chuckled. “I do my bit. Can I drop ya somewheres?”
She turned toward him, and he could smel her perfume
now. Something flowery. When the reporter leaned forward
and kissed him, it set his blood on fire. He didn’t need a
steel pipe to the head to see how this night might play out.
Why not? Al he’d done recently was fret over Paul’s
daughter and work long hours to pay the girl’s bil s and the
only thing he’d gotten was grief in return.
I deserve some fun.
“I am thinking,” Justine began, running a hand through his
hair, “it would be nice to talk to you about something other
than … demons.”
Beck didn’t hesitate: He pul ed her tight against him,
enjoying the feel of her body close to his. She felt even
better than she looked. “I’m game as long as this talk is off
the record.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she purred.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was never a good sign when your ex-boyfriend’s mom cal
ed you at seven in the morning and asked to meet you after
Mass. Though Riley was stil enduring Category Five
breakup grief, she didn’t have the heart to turn Mrs. Adler
down. Rather than just trudging around to the front of the
church to meet the woman after services, Riley set the
meeting at the Grounds Zero. She needed food and knew
that standing on the church stairs talking about how Mrs.
Adler’s son was a crazed religious lunatic probably
wouldn’t be good for anyone.
Riley ordered a salmon-and-cream-cheese bagel, took it to
a booth, and ate it without much enthusiasm. Food didn’t
taste good now, and though this coffee shop made the best
hot chocolate, she hadn’t ordered it as it would bring back
too many memories of Simon. Like the night he’d said he’d
wanted to date her. Riley closed her eyes, trying to erase
that moment, but it didn’t work. She could stil hear his
gentle voice, feel his hand stroking hers. How great it had
felt to know someone cared for her.
“Riley?”
She found Mrs. Adler standing nearby. Her purple dress,
matching coat, and hat looked real y nice, but the outfit
didn’t disguise the dark circles under her tired blue eyes.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Mrs. Adler said, sliding into the booth.
Her purse clunked on the seat next to her. “I wanted to talk
to Father Harrison after Mass.”
Al the pain and brutal rejection from the day before
slammed into Riley like a shock wave. She bit her lip, not
wanting to shout her fury aloud, reveal to the world how
badly this hurt.
How could you let him do that to me? Why can’t you
convince him he’s wrong? That he made a mistake?
Riley felt the prickle of tears and brushed them away with
the back of her hand. “Why is he doing this?” she said, her
voice cracking. “He used to be so nice. That’s why I liked
him so much.” Why I was falling in love with him. “Now
he’s…”
“Lost,” Mrs. Adler replied, her eyes drifting down to her
folded hands. “Father Harrison is finding us a therapist, one
familiar with post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe we can
help Simon get past this.”
There was only a slim thread of hope in the woman’s voice.
“You don’t think he’s going to get better,” Riley said before
she could stop herself.
Mrs. Adler jammed her lips together while fumbling for a
tissue from her purse. After she wiped her eyes, she took a
deep breath. “Simon has always been different than the
other children, so serious about everything. When he met
you, he started to…” She struggled for the right word.
“Lighten up?” Riley suggested.
A weary smile came back at her. “That’s it exactly. He
smiled more and talked about you at dinner. He’s never
spoken of his girlfriends before. That’s when we knew you
were right for him.”
“Not anymore,” Riley said, feeling the tears massing for
another assault. “He thinks I’m evil now, that I’m part of a
grand hel ish conspiracy.” She sniffed and rubbed her
nose.
“I thought if he had time to get over what happened, he’d be
better. He’s just gotten worse.”
Mrs. Adler reached across the table and gently took Riley’s
hand, much like her son had done the night he and Riley
had begun dating. The woman’s skin was cool despite
having been in contact with the coffee cup and its heated
contents.
“We didn’t know what Simon had done to you until last
night. He didn’t tel us. Then some men showed up at our
house. One of them was a priest, so I thought maybe Father
Harrison had sent them.” Mrs. Adler’s hand retreated. “They
were from the Vatican, and Simon had cal ed them. He told
them that … you and your father were the reason al those
trappers died.”
“He cal ed the demon hunters down on me?” Riley cried.
Heads turned in their direction. She lowered her voice, but
outrage stil owned her. “How could he do that to me? What
is wrong with him?”
Mrs. Adler shook her head, more tears in her eyes now.
Don’t yell at the psycho-ex’s mom. It’s not her fault.
Riley counted to ten very slowly. She made sure her voice
was steady. “My dad had nothing to do with the ward failing.
Neither did I. There were too many demons.
Period.”
“I know,” Mrs. Adler admitted, “but my son is fixated on this.
He needs someone to blame instead of God.”
That pretty much summed it up.
“Did the hunters believe him?” Riley asked. Please say they
think he’s nuts.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Adler admitted. “I thought you ought to
know about them.”
Riley mumbled her thanks, but her mind kept screaming:
He called the hunters! This was way bad news for both her
and the Guild. Her attention snapped as Mrs. Adler rose
from the booth, clutching her purse tightly.
Mournful eyes blinked tears away. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”
The woman swal owed heavily. “Please pray for Simon,
pray that he might see the truth and be himself again.”
Riley watched as her ex’s mom made her way out of the
coffee shop, each step laden with worry. But I did pray for
him. Then everything went wrong.
* * *
Justine was already up and in the shower by the time Beck
came to ful consciousness. It took some time to realize he
was in a hotel room at the Westin. He didn’t remember
much sleep overnight, but that was okay. It hadn’t bothered
him that when they weren’t going at it, she’d asked him a lot
of questions about Atlanta and her demons and about the
demon traffickers. Some girls did that. It meant they were
interested in more than what he was packing in his jeans.
He rol ed out of bed and used the toilet. Luckily it was one
of those separate from the shower because the running
water was getting to him. He moved to the sink and
splashed water on his face. Then smirked. Justine had left
marks on his neck.
Yer a fireball, that’s for sure.
Beck dressed. He’d just finished tying his boots when
Justine entered the room wrapped in a large white towel.
Her hair was stil damp. She came to him immediately,
cupping his jaw in her smal hands. Then she kissed him,
tasting of toothpaste. He let his arms go around her waist,
pul ing her closer.
“Are you leaving already?” she asked, reproachful y.
“Got to. I’m meetin’ with Master Stewart.”
“Wil I see you tonight?” she whispered after the next kiss
ended.
He’d be with her whenever she wanted, but he just couldn’t
admit that right out. He had his pride to think of.
“Maybe.”
“So it’s demons first, then me?” she teased as she sank
onto the bed next him.
“Yes. No…” Ah, hell, I don’t know. He kissed her again.
Final y, he let go of her, but it took a lot of wil power.
Claiming his jacket from a chair, he headed for the door.
“Beck?” He turned at the sound of her soft voice. She was
curled up on the bed, sending him invitations he didn’t dare
accept. “If you speak to Elias Salvatore, don’t mention
you’ve been with me.”
“Why?” he asked, curious.
“Elias and I were once lovers,” she said matter-of-factly.
“He is very jealous. It could go badly for you if he finds out
about us.”
I slept with the top hunter’s woman? Part of him was jazzed,
but the other part wasn’t happy at the news. Without
knowing it, he’d done the one thing Stewart had warned
him against: He’d made a demon hunter look like a fool.
* * *
Students streamed out of the old Starbucks, cal ing out to
each other and hopping into their rides. “Feels strange not
having to run home and check in with The Warden,” Peter
said as he and Riley walked toward her car after class.
Riley unlocked the driver’s side door and dropped her
messenger bag onto the front seat. “You’l get used to it.”
“I cal ed the city today to find out who picks up their empty
Holy Water bottles, in case the guard at the recycling place
was lying.”
“Any luck?” Riley asked.
Peter leaned against the side of the car. “I got blown off.
The secretary chick said it would be a breach of security to
tel me that information, because someone might want to
sabotage the shipment.”
“Why would someone sabotage a shipment of empty
bottles?” Riley asked.
“I pointed that out, but she wouldn’t budge.”
“That sucks,” Riley grumbled.
“Don’t worry, we’l find a way to get the info. I’l be able to
help more now that I don’t have to be chained in my room.”
Riley eyed her best friend. “Think you’l be able to cope?”
“Total y. It’s like I’ve been pardoned from a life sentence.
I’m worried someone wil realize they’ve made a mistake.”
“They didn’t.” Neither did you. “So what are you doing
tonight?”
“The house is just going to be a dead zone. I was thinking
of going to the library, start on my homework. What about
you?”
“No, I’m doing witchy stuff,” Riley said. “A friend of mine is
going to summon my dad’s spirit so maybe we can figure
out who stole him.”
“Wow. Ah, can I come along?” Peter asked, his face alight.
“It could be kinda weird,” Riley hedged.
“I’m good with weird. Come on, how about it? I need a little
excitement right now.”
“I’m not so sure, Peter. If something goes wrong…”
Maybe she was being selfish, but Riley wanted him to
come along. Stil , he had to know what he was getting into.
“When I say weird, I real y mean it.”
He debated for a moment, then extracted his cel phone.
“I have to let Dad know where I am. It’s part of our
agreement. So how late and where?”
What would Ayden think if she brought him along?
Riley gave in. “Little Five Points and”—she consulted her
own phone for the time—“I’m thinking we’l be done by
eight.”
“You’l drop me home?” When she nodded, he stepped a
few paces away and dialed his father. As Peter pleaded
his case, which did not include mentioning that they were
going to visit a real live witch, Riley took that opportunity to
check her text messages. She’d heard one arrive during
class but she knew not to check it. Mrs. Haggerty was not
into modern technology.
It was from Ori: MEET ME AT THE MARKET AT NINE?
Her fingers sent a YES before she had time to think.
Peter gave a thumbs-up. “Good to go,” he announced,
rejoining her. “Dad says I shouldn’t get arrested or I wil end
up in Il inois sharing a bed with the twins.”
“That’s a brutal threat,” Riley replied.
“Total y brutal. The ghouls have been known to wet their
bed.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Riley had expected she’d have to do a lot of explaining
about Peter’s presence, but Ayden only arched one
eyebrow when they were introduced.
“Cool phoenix tattoo,” Peter said, admiring the colorful
artwork that spread from the witch’s neck downward into
her cleavage. Unlike Simon, he did al ow his eyes to linger.
Phoenix? “Ah, what happened to the dragon tattoo you
had?” Riley asked.
“I changed it,” Ayden replied, stil studying Peter intently as if
she were weighing his soul. “It’s easy when you wield
magic.” She shifted her ful attention to Riley. “You sure
about this summoning?”
“I’m good. It might get some of my questions answered.
If this doesn’t work, I’m out of options.”
“So be it.” The witch led them on a journey through the
interior of the Bel , Book, and Broomstick, where they
walked past displays of crystals, spheres, and al sorts of
metaphysical goodies. The store reeked of incense. It was
hard to pick out which scent was stronger than another, so
it al became a nose blur. Once they reached the back
room, Ayden loaded them up with boxes of candles and
other paraphernalia. Peter got to carry a sword, which
pleased him immensely.
“Is this like a real one?” he asked, gripping the scabbard
tightly.
“No point in owning any other kind,” Ayden said, her head
deep in a closet. Out came a velvet cloak in rich purple.
She draped it over her arm and then herded them toward
the rear door. As they exited the building, their escort
flipped a switch, il uminating a large courtyard with
floodlamps.
“Do you know Mortimer Alexander?” Riley asked as her
eyes adjusted to the garish light. “He lives down the street.
He’s the Summoners’ Advocate.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Ayden replied. “Witches and
summoners don’t socialize.”
“Because of the magical war?”
Ayden gave her a look. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Mort mentioned it. He said there’d been bad blood
between you guys.”
“Stil is. Some of the necros are pretty decent, but their
leaders have their heads up their butts. But then so do
some of us witches.”
Peter had wandered ahead and now stood transfixed by a
circle of stones. There were twelve of them—old, stark
white, and sticking upward about two feet out of the red
Georgia clay. The whole circle was about thirty feet in
diameter and included a fire pit and a stone altar.
“This is so unreal,” he explained. “Like out of a movie or
something.”
While Ayden laid out her gear, Riley took the opportunity to
check out the courtyard. The windows in the building to the
left were bricked up, the roof too steep for anyone to climb
up and see what the witches were up to. The buildings to
their right and in front of them did have windows. Not a
private site, but stil better than most inside the city. A wal of
concrete blocks, probably about six feet tal , surrounded the
entire courtyard. Three-quarters of the wal was covered in a
giant mural.
Riley wandered over to the closest section and studied the
images. At first it just looked like an ordinary forest scene,
then she spied the figures.
“Fairies!” she said. “There’s like a zil ion of them!” There
were tal , stately fairies riding magnificent horses with
flowing silver manes and tiny fairies peeking out from under
mushroom caps and leaves. Some held swords, and
others, chalices fil ed with golden nectar. Everywhere she
looked there was a little face peering back at her. They
were al unique. Farther down the wal the scene changed to
marshy grassland. She soon found the fairies among the
grasses and reeds, though they looked different than the
ones in the forest scene.
Peter joined her at the wal and she pointed out her
discoveries. “Aren’t they amazing?”
“You real y think they exist?” he asked.
“They do,” Ayden replied as she placed a goblet and a
ritual knife on the altar.
“You’ve seen them?” Riley asked.
“Sure,” Ayden replied, in the same tone of voice as if Riley
had asked if she’d ever seen a UPS truck.
“No way. They’re just make-believe.”
The witch cocked an eyebrow. “You mean like demons?”
“Oh.” Maybe there was a lot more to this mystical-world stuff
than Riley realized. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was one
of her favorite Shakespearean plays, mostly because of the
fairies.
“Are they real y cool? I mean, like Oberon and Titania
cool?”
Ayden didn’t reply until the brazier came to life, flicking pil
ars of flame into the air. “The Fey are a lot like us. They can
be arrogant and vindictive or kind and helpful, if they’re in
the mood. The problem is you never know which mood
they’re in until it’s too late.”
“Are we going to see any of them tonight?” Peter asked
hopeful y.
“Not likely. If we were out in the country, maybe.”
“Who painted this mural?” Riley asked, trailing her
fingertips over the painted wal . The images almost
seemed alive.
“I did, along with a couple of the others in my circle.”
“Your circle?”
“I’m a High Priestess,” Ayden replied.
You never told me that.
“So what’s going to happen here?” Peter asked as they
moved to join the witch in the center of the circle.
“I wil set a circle and cal up Paul Blackthorne’s spirit.”
“So no big deal, huh?”
“It could get lively,” Ayden replied.
Peter chewed on that for a time. “Define lively, please.”
Ayden continued her preparations, setting a green candle
on the ground, then about ten feet away she put down a yel
ow one. “It al depends on what type of magical landmines I
trigger.”
“So we could get hurt?”
“Perhaps, but if you remain inside the circle you should be
okay.”
“Should…” Peter frowned. “If you were me, would you stay
or take off?”
“Depends on your freak factor,” Ayden said, rising to her
feet and dusting off her hands. “If you can handle creepy
stuff, then I’d say it’d be worth staying. If not, best to wait
inside the building. It’s warded so you’l be safe there.”
“Warded,” he murmured to himself.
“Peter, you don’t have to do this,” Riley said.
He screwed his face up in thought. “Yeah, I do. Count me
in.”
“Then let’s get this done,” Ayden replied. “First, I wil honor
the four elements, lighting the candles that represent those
elements.” The witch adjusted the white tapers in the center
of the altar. “Then I’l light two that represent the God and
Goddess.”
“Is that where we do the ritual sacrifice?” Peter joked,
uneasily.
“Volunteering, are we?” Ayden asked. Peter clamped his
mouth shut.
The witch turned and frowned at the building behind them
like she’d forgotten something. “Could one of you turn off
the outside lights? The switch is just inside the door.”
Riley took care of the problem. As she returned to the
circle, her nerves kicked into high gear. Her very best friend
in the whole world was here. What if something went
wrong? What if Peter got hurt?
“It’l be okay,” she whispered as she crossed through the
stone circle. “It has to be.”
Ayden wore the velvet cloak now, her russet brown hair
flowing over her shoulders. A circlet nestled among her
curls, braided silver with delicate leaves. In a fluid
movement born of practice, the sword slid out of its
scabbard. The witch raised it reverently toward the sky like
an ancient queen from an Arthurian tale. The light of the
brazier threaded a thin, molten line of fiery gold along the
blade’s edge.
Ayden turned, pointed the tip of the sword toward the yel ow
candle at one of the four corners. In a clear voice, she said,
“I cal forth the Element of Air. Protect al within this circle
from those who would do us harm.”
Riley blinked when the candle burst into life. Ayden hadn’t
struck a match. She couldn’t with the sword in her hands.
How did you…?
Peter waggled his eyebrows and mouthed “Cool!”
Maybe it was good she’d brought him along. He hadn’t
acted this happy about anything for a long time.
The witch turned toward the south and the red candle. “I cal
forth the Element of Fire. Guard us and warm us in our
journey.” That candle blazed. When Ayden completed the
invocation with the remaining two candles, there was a
weird popping sensation, like they’d been enveloped by
some sort of force field. Riley knew how this worked: It was
like when she’d set the candle circle at the cemetery to
protect her father’s grave.
Ayden careful y laid the sword on the altar then lit the two
white candles with a match, invoking the presence of the
deities in a clear voice. If Simon were here he’d be having
kittens by now. Raising her arms in the air, the witch cal ed
for protection, for wisdom, and for knowledge. Then she
waved Riley and Peter forward.
Edging close to the altar, Riley shot a quick look up at the
window above them. Gazing down at them was a whitehaired
lady, her elbows resting on the windowsil .
“She likes to watch,” Ayden explained.
“Is she a witch?”
“No. Just curious what kind of mischief we might be up to.”
Knowing Ayden, there wouldn’t be any. She took this stuff
way serious.
“I’m going to cast the spirit summoning now. I want you to
visualize your father. Try to pick a happy memory. That
might make it easier to cal him.”
Riley’s mind returned to one of the last moments they’d
spent together. They’d been in the car after the emergency
Guild meeting. They’d talked about a movie night, just the
two of them. It wasn’t the best memory, but the strongest
right now. A sharp pang of loss cut through her, but she
pushed it aside, focusing on her father’s voice, his smile.
How good it felt when he was around and how much she
missed him.
As she held that single memory close to her heart, she
could hear Ayden chanting something. There was the smel
of aromatic herbs, then more chanting.
The air around them shifted as a strange prickle danced
across her face and hands.
“We ask that Paul Blackthorne’s spirit come to us,”
Ayden cal ed out. “Come to his only child so that we may
know that he is safe.”
The prickling sensation increased, almost to the point of
discomfort. Riley blinked open her eyes to find the stone
circle around them glowed a soft white. Peter’s eyes were
wide in amazement, and his mouth had dropped open.
“Riley?” a voice said. It glided across her mind like a soft
breeze.
“Dad?” she cal ed out.
Paul Blackthorne stepped out of nowhere, like through a
hole in the air. He wasn’t in the suit he’d been buried in but
in his Georgia Tech jacket, jeans, and a sweatshirt—the
clothes he’d been wearing the night he’d died.
“Welcome, spirit of Paul Blackthorne,” Ayden said
solemnly. “You are much missed.”
He gave a grave nod, then turned those sad brown eyes on
his daughter. She was trembling now.
“I miss you, Riley,” he said, his voice dry and thick.
This was as bad as when Beck had come to her door to tel
her she was an orphan. “I want to get you back, Dad. I need
to know who took you. Was it Ozymandias?”
No reply.
Maybe he doesn’t understand. “We’re being blamed for
breaking the ward at the Tabernacle. The hunters are in
town now. You’ve got to tel them the truth.”
“Not yet,” he replied.
“Is there anything you can tel us?” the witch urged.
Her father’s eyes flicked to Ayden and then back to his
daughter.
“I love you, Riley. You’re stronger than you believe. I’m sorry
for what has happened and for what wil happen. It is my
fault.”
Then the spirit of Paul Blackthorne began to fade.
“Wait! No, don’t go!” Riley shouted. After all this and he’s
taking off?
Ayden chanted again and the vision stabilized. The air just
behind Riley’s father began to boil in a red and gold
maelstrom. Then something materialized in that very spot.
Towering over them was a dragon, at least twenty or more
feet high. It was probably the one from the cemetery.
“Oh, my Goddess.” Ayden latched on to Riley’s arm and
then did the same with Peter’s. “Don’t move. Don’t break
the circle!”
There was a screech of shock, and their spectator
slammed her window shut, as if a single pane of glass
would be any protection against this monstrosity.
“Can you make it go away?” Riley whispered.
Ayden didn’t reply, murmuring under her breath. Riley
caught the word protection more than once.
A low growl issued from the thing’s cavernous mouth,
sending a trickle of bril iant iridescent flames into the night
air. “Cease!” the creature bel owed, and the witch fel silent.
Ayden clamped her eyes on the beast. “What do you seek,
dragon?” she asked, her voice firm and level.
The creature ignored her, its glittering eyes only on Riley.
“Blackthorne’s daughter,” it said. “Do not fail us.”
“Who are you?” Riley demanded. “Why did you take my
dad?”
It wrapped its powerful forelegs around her father’s form.
“To protect him from those who would use his knowledge
for their own gain.”
“I love you, Pumpkin,” her dad cal ed out. “I’l see you soon.”
The summoning vanished with a loud clap of thunder that
reverberated throughout the neighborhood, rattling windows
and setting off car alarms.
“That was a bit over the top,” Ayden grumbled, releasing
her grip on Riley’s arm.
“Oh … dammit!” Riley shouted. “We didn’t learn a thing!”
She had failed. Again. It was like her life was cursed.
She felt the panic attack coming but couldn’t stop it. Her
lungs col apsed, and she began to shake, her vision
constricting to the section of the courtyard where her father
had disappeared.
Her friends began whispering to each other, but she didn’t
understand what they were saying. Darkness crept in from
the corners of her vision like twilight in a forest. The next
breath hitched and she struggled to pul air inside her chest.
The next breath was worse and she slumped to her knees.
“Riley?” It was Peter. He was close to her now, touching her
hand. His fingers were trembling. “You remember the first
day we met at school? How you didn’t have a pencil so I
loaned you one? Do you remember which one it was?”
Why is he asking me this? My dad is dead and that thing
has him and I have to stop Armageddon and—
“Come on, Riley, you should remember this. It’s easy.
You gave me crap about it for ages,” Peter urged. Then she
knew what he was doing: he was recal ing a good memory,
trying to exorcise the fear that rode her like a ful y armored
warrior.
“Gol um,” she panted, pul ing her eyes to meet his.
Peter smiled through his worry. “Yup. You told me that any
guy who had a Lord of the Rings pencil just had to be your
friend for life.”
Between the shal ow breaths, she tried to match his smile.
“I’m afraid, Peter. God, I’m so afraid.”
“So am I,” he whispered, then his arms went around her and
he embraced her.
She hadn’t lost everything. She stil had her friends.
Sometimes they were the only thing that kept you going.
Her breathing eased and Peter noticed. He loosened his
grip.
“You promised me weird,” he said.
And I delivered. He only let go of her when she took a deep,
ful breath. “Thanks.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything that would make it
harder for her. Ayden gave a relieved sigh then turned
toward where the dragon had been. She stared at the spot
for some time, unmoving.
“Ah, Ayden?” Peter asked.
“Give me a moment,” she said. She took a deep breath like
she was scenting the air, then blew it out a few seconds
later. “And the verdict is: not a necromancer.”
“What? It has to be,” Riley blurted as she scrambled to her
feet.
The witch turned toward them, perplexed. “That’s what
you’d expect, but it’s not the case. I’m sensing older, more
… primeval magic. Necromantic sorcery has a certain feel
to it. This magic I’ve never felt before.”
“Which means?” Riley asked.
“Which means there’s a new player in the game.
Remember what the dragon said: Your father was raised
from his grave for his protection.”
“But from who?”
“Whom,” Peter corrected automatical y. When Riley gave
him a glower, he shrugged his shoulders in apology.
“Ozymandias is my favorite candidate,” the witch replied,
“but who wields the kind of power needed to cross the
Eldest of the Summoners?”
Riley had no clue.
“I don’t want to be a buzzkil here,” Peter began, “but are you
sure it was your dad?”
“It had to be,” Riley said. “He cal ed me Pumpkin. I always
hated that nickname, but he thought it was cute.”
Ayden was stil pensive, her brows furrowed. “So what is the
takeaway message here?”
“Dragons are damned scary, even if they are made of
magic?” Peter quipped.
Ayden’s frown diminished. “I’m beginning to like you, Peter
King.” He grinned in response.
“Do not fail us,” Riley said. “Whatever I’m supposed to do,
I’d better not blow it.”
Riley and the witch traded looks. Then Riley shook her
head: No way was she going to tel Peter about her bargain
with Heaven. His life was complicated enough without him
worrying about the end of the world.
Silence fel between them as Ayden released the magic
and broke the circle. They helped her pack up the witchy
supplies and tote them back into the store. When Ayden
had stowed away al the gear, she unlocked the front door.
They al stood there, awkwardly, like no one knew what to
say.
Peter sniffed. “Food. I’l … catch up with you in a moment.”
Without waiting for her response, he headed down the al ey
toward the café.
“He eats like there’s no tomorrow,” Riley observed. And he
might be right.
“He is a good friend to have,” Ayden said. “Tel him what’s
going on. He has a role to play.”
Riley gaped at the woman. “Was that, like, a prophecy or
something?”
“I just know things.” The witch looked in the opposite
direction, down the al ey that led to Mort’s house. “You
should talk to the summoner tonight.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. “You think he knew what we were up
to?”
“He’d have felt the magic. I’d be interested to hear where
he thought it came from.”
Mort’s housekeeper admitted her to the house without
comment, like Riley had been expected, and led her to the
circular room that smel ed of wood smoke. Mort was at his
desk, stacks of books mounded around him like a fortress
of words. A plate of strudel sat at his elbow.
He rose. “What the hel was that?” he demanded.
The evening had been so outlandish, so scary, that Riley
couldn’t help herself: She started to laugh. What else could
she do? When she final y regained control, she said, “I have
no idea. My witch friend doesn’t, either.”
Mort sank back onto his bench, his fingers tented in a
thoughtful pose. “What I felt was old magic, so old the
summoners don’t have a name for it. Tel me what
happened.”
Riley sat opposite him at the table. “Wel , we got a dragon,”
she began and then related the rest of the tale.
Mort didn’t interrupt. “I’ve run out things to try,” she said.
Mort nodded in sympathy. “Ozymandias has a reward out
for your father’s corpse, but no one has come forward to
claim it.”
“Everybody wants my dad,” she said bitterly.
“So it seems. A loan company has filed suit against the
Society, claiming we’re preventing them from reacquiring
their asset, one Mr. Paul Blackthorne. Apparently you owe
them money,” Mort said.
Riley groaned.
“Just so you know, I’ve issued a magical invitation. If for
some reason the summoner loses control of your father’s
spirit, I’ve invited the spirit to take shelter here.”
Riley stared at him. “You mean my dad might make a break
for it?”
“Sometimes that happens, but in this case whomever
conducted the summoning seems quite powerful, so I doubt
we’l have any luck.”
And if it wasn’t a necromancer …
Riley stared down at her hands. There was dirt under her
fingernails, probably from when she was having her panic
attack in the courtyard. “What if I never find him?” she
asked.
“Then in a year we’l just hope he’s back in the ground and
at peace.”
That wasn’t the answer she wanted. No, she wanted her
dad’s kidnapper to bleed, to hurt as bad as she did. After
thanking Mort for al his help, Riley left the way she’d come.
Behind her, she could hear the summoner mumbling under
his breath, the thump of books fal ing open. He hadn’t given
up, no matter what he’d said.
Neither will I.
* * *
Her friends waited for her in front of the witch shop. Peter
handed over a paper bag.
“Food. You need it. You get any skinnier and you can model
in New York.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled. Riley opened the bag and found it
contained a turkey sandwich and a supersized chocolate
chip cookie. Yum. “Thanks,” she repeated, this time with
more enthusiasm.
Ayden lightly touched her shoulder. “What did the
summoner say?”
“He had no clue who it was.”
“As I figured. I think it’s best you remember what your father
said: You’re stronger than you believe. That’s important.
Spirits don’t usual y lie.”
The witch had spaced on the other thing her father had
said: “I’l see you soon.” Since it didn’t look like Riley was
going to retrieve him from whomever ripped off his corpse,
that meant only one thing.
This might be the last cookie I ever eat.
TWENTY-SIX
The sensible part of Riley knew she should be at the
church, but she was tired of hiding like some scared little
kid. Everyone reached their breaking point, and she was
way past it. If Ori was right, her being out like this might lure
the Five closer, and he could kil the thing.
Then I’ll be free.
She heard someone cal her name and found the freelance
demon hunter striding across the open field at the edge of
the market. No way around it, Ori was made of awesome—
yummy on so many levels you just didn’t know where to
start. Simon was handsome, but Ori redefined the word.
Just thinking the name of her now ex-boyfriend made her
wince like someone had jammed spikes under her
fingernails. This should be Simon hanging with her,
laughing and being with her. But it isn’t.
When Ori reached her, she murmured her hel o, trying to
sound upbeat. He examined her for a moment, as if he
were trying to see behind her mask.
“You were up to something tonight in Little Five Points.
Very noisy. And magical. I almost thought it was the Five for
a moment.”
“A witch friend of mine summoned my dad’s spirit. I thought
we could find out who stole him.” She hitched her
shoulders. “Not so much. He wouldn’t tel us anything.”
“I’m truly sorry about that,” Ori said. “I know how much you
miss him.”
“This whole thing has been an epic failure. I promised him
I’d keep him safe in his grave. Didn’t do that. Promised him
I’d find his body. Blew that one, too.”
“Wel , you’re not the only one failing,” he admitted, his tone
darker now. “The Five is hiding, biding its time.”
“So someone real y is helping it?” Riley asked, puzzled.
“Hell is known for its al iances. Archfiends make pacts with
lower-level Hel spawn, gathering in souls and power.
The Five could owe its al egiance to another, one who
wanted your father dead and is now sheltering his kil er.”
“Great. The manual never mentioned that whole ‘dealing in
souls’ part.”
“I’m thinking there’s more weight on your shoulders tonight
than just your father. What else is troubling you?”
Might as well unload it all. “My boyfriend and I broke up.” On
impulse, she told him the gruesome story. Including the part
with the Holy Water.
Ori glowered. “Paul would not have harmed his fel ow
trappers. It was not in his character. Or yours, either.”
Riley felt a surge of joy that someone believed in her dad.
Believed in her. She slowed her pace, then stopped
altogether. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
To her astonishment, Ori cupped her face with his hands
and careful y placed a kiss in the very center of her
forehead. The merest brush of his lips sent heat racing
through her veins.
“I wil destroy that Hel spawn, and then you wil not have to be
afraid ever again,” he said, his midnight-black eyes inches
from hers.
“You would do that for me?” she whispered.
“For you … and your father,” he said, then removed his
hands. Before she could think of what to say, someone else
cal ed out her name. Riley knew that voice anywhere.
“Oh, no! What’s he doing here?”
A familiar figure tromped toward them, the scowl on Beck’s
face promising trouble.
Riley hated to suggest it, but … “That’s my dad’s trapping
partner and he’l be furious if he finds out you’re here with
me. He won’t understand.”
“That would be his problem,” Ori replied simply. “I’m going
nowhere.”
Riley groaned. She took a deep breath and waited for the
trapper to reach them.
“Beck.” Don’t make a scene, please?
That unspoken plea was wasted. “What are ya doin’, girl?”
Beck demanded. “The sun’s down. Why aren’t ya at the
church?” He ground to a halt a short distance away, his
hand knotted around the strap to his duffel bag. She could
see his knuckles whiten.
His ful attention moved to Ori. “Wait a minute; I know that
face. Ya were at the Armageddon the other night.”
Ori hangs out at a pool hall? He didn’t seem the type.
“I remember you,” her companion replied. “You were
playing pool with a summoner. You were letting him win.”
The trapper puffed up. “Who are ya? What are ya doin’
with Riley?”
“Beck!” Riley retorted. That was just rude.
Ori moved closer to her, like he was claiming her in some
way. His hand gently touched her elbow and gave it a
reassuring squeeze.
“I asked ya a question,” Beck said.
“The name is Ori, and I’m her date for the evening. Why is
any of this your concern?”
Date?
Beck blinked a couple times before his eyes narrowed.
“I’m the guy ya have to deal with if ya think yer goin’ out with
her.”
“You didn’t tel me you had a brother,” Ori said, looking over
at Riley. When he winked, she had to struggle to keep the
smile off her face.
“Look, dumbass,” Beck growled. “I don’t know what yer
game is, but yer not playin’ it with her.”
“Hey!” Riley said, stepping forward and snapping her
fingers in front of Beck’s face. “I’m not invisible. If I want to
go out with someone, I’l do it, and you don’t have any say in
the matter.”
He scowled. “Like yer a great judge of character. Yer first
boyfriend was an abusive bastard, and the last one was a
self-righteous dick.”
“So where do you fal on that scale?” Ori inquired.
Riley almost choked.
In response, Beck’s shoulders tightened like he was ready
to charge into battle. “So what’s your story?”
Ori’s good humor disappeared. “I’m a freelance demon
hunter.”
She was surprised he’d let that one slip.
“Figures.” Beck smirked. “Lancers aren’t welcome here,
not unless ya decide to become a trapper and join the
Guild, do honest work for a change.”
“You’re very cocky for someone who almost lost his soul to
a Mezmer in a pool hal .”
Beck’s face went pale. “Now look here, ya son of a—”
“Did he tel you about that?” Ori cut in. “Apparently not.
I’d be ashamed, too.”
Riley cringed. “Enough, guys,” she said, tugging on her
escort’s arm.
“Girl…” Beck said, his voice a low growl.
She stepped between them again, though it was a
dangerous place to be with al the testosterone in the air. “I
don’t care what you think, Beck, so just leave me alone. It’s
time I made my own decisions.”
“Then don’t come cryin’ to me when it al goes to hel ,”
Beck replied.
“Deal.”
She turned her back on him and walked away, Ori at her
side. Behind them she could hear Beck swearing in both
English and Hel speak.
“Colorful fel ow. Do you think he’s watching?” Ori
whispered.
“Oh, definitely.”
Ori ran his arm around her waist and pul ed her so close
their hips bumped. “Good. I hope he gets an eyeful.”
“You’re wicked,” Riley said, grinning up at him.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Ori replied.
* * *
When the adrenaline from the encounter wore off, Riley
found herself more tired than she’d expected. It’d been a
long and pretty much fruitless day. The only positive part
was walking next to her. She felt good around Ori, much
like she had when she’d been with Simon. She wasn’t sure
what that meant.
Abruptly her companion slowed his pace, then he stopped
and scanned the area around them.
“Is Beck fol owing us?” she asked. A shake of the head.
“Is the Five?” Would it come for me here? Of course it
would. Being in the market wouldn’t mean a thing to a
demon.
“No.” He mumbled something under his breath and then
began walking again, faster now, forcing Riley to catch up
with him.
What’s got him spooked?
As they turned the corner toward the road where she’d
parked her car, someone bumped her from behind. Her
head spun for a second, and then her vision cleared. When
she looked around, whoever had bumped her was gone.
A sharp stinging sensation came from her left hand.
“Ouch,” she said, shaking it to clear the discomfort. There
didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it, but it stil stung.
From the way it felt, she’d expected to see a big welt or
something.
Ori swore in Hel speak.
“I’m okay,” she said, rubbing the sore area. That only
seemed to make it worse.
“Let me see.” He took her hand in his, and the pain eased.
“Wow, how did you…” Riley looked up at him as she spoke,
then al the air fled her lungs.
Ori shimmered in a harsh, pulsating light. She might have
been able to ignore that, but the immense wings behind
him pretty much sealed the deal. They sat tight against his
back and were pure white, each feather shimmering in the
lights from the tents around them. As she stared in wonder,
a woman walked by them toting a basket and humming to
herself, failing to notice that Riley’s date glowed like a
supernova.
I’ve been holding hands with an angel? Having hot thoughts
about one of Heaven’s peeps?
“You’re an—”
Ori shook his head in dismay. “Not here,” he said. He
flicked his hand and the scene changed.
* * *
Riley found herself surrounded by a deep green carpet of
grass, blades bending in the faint breeze. Nestled within
the green were bluebel s, and in the distance, white clumps.
The clumps moved.
“Sheep?” she asked, surprised.
Every now and then one would raise its wool y head, move
a few steps, and start grazing again. They didn’t have
sheep in the market, and there wasn’t grass like this, or a
big blue sky.
“What is al this?” A scent tickled her nose and she placed it
immediately. Watermelon.
Riley found Ori under a broad oak tree that had to be at
least a century old, his wings hidden now. A dark blue
blanket lay on the ground, along with a wicker picnic
basket. On the blanket was a white china plate with slices
of succulent watermelon, the black seeds dotting the firm
red flesh.
“I thought we needed privacy,” he explained.
It was al so real. “Where is this place? How did we get
here?”
“Just accept this as a gift from me.” He waved her closer.
A picnic with an angel? Her mind final y completed its
reboot. And went suspicious.
“You’re not here to have me stop Armageddon or anything,
are you?”
“No,” he said smiling.
“How do I know you’re not a demon playing games with my
head?”
“You don’t,” he said. “You just have to trust me.” He smiled
and beckoned to her again. “Come on, the watermelon is
real y good.”
Riley groaned to herself as she hiked up the hil . She
paused at the edge of the blanket, arms crossed over her
chest. She stil wasn’t buying al this. “Why haven’t I been
able to see your … angelness until now?”
“Because the timing wasn’t right,” he replied.
“Unfortunately, one of the other Divines thought it would be
amusing to alter that situation in the middle of the
marketplace.” From the low rumble in his voice it was clear
he wasn’t pleased by the prank.
“You mean I got bumped by an angel?”
A nod. Ori gestured toward the plate of watermelon.
“Your favorite, I believe.” He knelt next to the picnic basket
and retrieved a bottle of red wine, fol owed by two crystal
glasses. Then a plate of cheese, sliced peaches, and frosty
grapes.
“How do you do that?” she quizzed.
Ori’s face lit with a smile. “Divines are al owed smal bits of
creation,” he said, as if it were nothing.
She took another look around, inhaling the fresh air.
“This isn’t smal , Ori. This is amazing!”
Final y Riley gave in to the moment. What else could she
do? It beat being bored to tears in a church basement.
Besides, the smel of the watermelon was getting to her.
He fed her sliced peaches by hand, then the wine and the
watermelon. They laughed as the juice rol ed down her chin.
The taste was extraordinary, like it was the best ever.
“Why does it feel different when I’m with you?” she asked
dreamily. “Is it because of what you are?”
“That’s it exactly.” He seemed at ease here, not tense like
he’d been at the market.
“So are you like my guardian angel or something?” That
would totally rock.
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh,” she said, sincerely disappointed. “But you kept the
Five from kil ing me.”
“It wasn’t your time to die,” Ori said simply.
Which meant he knew when her time was up.
She couldn’t ask that question. “So what do you do as an
angel?”
“You mean besides giving pretty girls roses?” he said.
“Yes, besides that.”
“I’m a problem solver. I handle difficult situations.”
“Like…” she quizzed, beckoning with her hand for further
information.
“Like that Geo-Fiend who kil ed your father. It’s a rogue
demon. It must be destroyed.”
“So that’s what you do al the time?” she said, sneaking
another piece of watermelon.
“I told you I was a demon hunter,” he said, brows furrowed.
“I didn’t lie.”
“You just shaded the truth, a lot. You so didn’t mention the
‘I’ve got wings’ thing.”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he said, his voice softer now.
“Do you always hang around pool hal s?” she jested.
“Not usual y. It was lucky I was there that night, or the
Mezmer would have had your friend’s soul.”
Riley stil ed. “Was it that close?”
“Yes. He was at the breaking point. I made sure it didn’t
happen.”
She let out a whoosh of air in relief. “I wasn’t sure if he was
okay. Beck wouldn’t say much about it. Pride and al .”
“He is his own master. Pride and al .”
Riley cocked her head. “Why did you save him?”
“Because he’s important to you, so that makes him
important to me.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then realized it would be
futile. “I do like Beck, at least when he’s not being a jerk.”
“I thought so,” Ori said, then popped a grape into his mouth.
“Besides, you’ve lost too much already.”
“Like my dad,” Riley said. “Do you know who summoned
him?”
“No, I don’t. It might shock you to know that Divines aren’t al
-knowing.”
“Of course. That would be too easy.”
Ori put his arm around her, drawing her close. Initial y she
wasn’t sure if she wanted that, but eventual y she snuggled
next to him. She knew from the post-Al an experience that
rebound romances weren’t a good idea. A rebound with an
angel? That didn’t even register on the cosmic scale of “not
a good idea.”
“I disagree,” Ori said. He delicately tipped her chin up with
a finger. His eyes told her what he intended. And then he
kissed her, without waiting for her verdict on the subject.
Like the wine and the watermelon and everything else
around them, the kiss was beyond what it should be. Every
nerve in Riley’s body tingled, a Simon-level kiss on
steroids. They kissed again, this time more deeply. Her
body began to hum, like it was lit from within by a strange
erotic fire.
Riley pul ed out of his arms, her head swimming. “Too
much wine,” she said, though she’d only had one glass.
Ori graciously al owed her the fib. He leaned back against
the tree, one foot propped up. A scoundrel with that black
hair skimming over his shoulders and those bold, dark
eyes.
Get a grip, girl.
“Why are you are doing this? Spending time with me, I
mean. You could have just fol owed me and I would have
never known you were there.”
“I feel alive when I’m with you.”
She barely subdued the snort. “You’re an angel. You hang
with God and al those other divine guys. I’m just …
me.”
“You’re Riley Anora Blackthorne,” he replied, as if that
settled the matter. “You deserve better than what you’ve
had.”
Her mind traitorously returned to Simon and how he found
more comfort with his rosary than he did with her.
And Beck, the constant annoyance in her life. What would
they think if they knew she was hanging with an honest-to-
God for-real angel?
Riley felt a faint touch on her arm.
“Neither of them can know the truth.”
“Okay, that’s way freaky,” she replied. “You know what I’m
thinking.”
“Only when there’s a lot of emotion behind the thought.”
Then Ori was near her again, looking into her eyes, his lips
barely brushing her cheek.
“One more kiss,” he said, “then I’l take you home.”
They took their time, and when they final y broke apart Riley
could feel her heart hammering. Amazing.
“Amazing?” he said, that wicked grin blossoming.
He’d read her mind. Again. “Stop that,” she chided.
“You’l get used to it.”
“Only if I can hear your thoughts.”
“Maybe that’s possible. Let’s find out.”
The angel pul ed her close. His skin felt warm, toasty even.
There was nothing at first, then the silent brush of wings
against her mind.
Hello, Riley.
She yanked herself away, blinking in surprise. “I heard you!”
He nodded, satisfied. “It is said if a mortal can hear an
angel’s thoughts, they were meant to be together.”
Together?
He pul ed her close again, putting his forehead against
hers. She heard him as plain as if he’d spoken the words.
You will be my downfall, Riley Blackthorne.
She surrendered to another kiss, one that seemed to stir
something deep inside her, like a flower unfolding in the
glorious sunshine. For the first time wild, impossible futures
began to form in her mind.
“Good night, Riley,” he said, and then she was standing
next to her car just outside the market, keys in hand. Ori
was nowhere to be seen, but she could stil taste his kisses
on her lips, the brush of his fingers on her cheek, the
warmth in her bel y.
Then it al faded, like a dream. Even the watermelon on her
tongue was gone.
As if it never existed.
* * *
Beck felt like an idiot. He’d been sitting in his truck for the
past hour, playing the same Carrie Underwood song over
and over until it sawed across his nerves. It was now close
to eleven, and Paul’s daughter wasn’t at the church yet.
“Where the hel are ya?” he snarled. “If yer…” He clenched
his teeth, trying hard not to think of what might be
happening between that slick bastard and Paul’s little girl.
One moment Beck knew what he was doing was right, then
the next he felt like a damned stalker. She wasn’t a kid,
even if he tried to act like she were. He’d not been fair
when he said al her boyfriends had been jerks. There were
a couple boys between Al an and Simon who had treated
her decently. But deep in his gut he was sure this Ori guy
was a bad move.
During his hour’s vigil he’d come to one conclusion: He was
losing his mind when it came to Paul’s daughter. He was
jealous. No way to deny it. When he’d seen that man put his
arm around her, he’d wanted to rip the guy to pieces.
I gotta get a grip on this. Can’t keep goin’ down this road.
Beck blew out a lungful of air in relief when Riley’s car pul
ed to the curb and she stepped out. She had a strange look
on her face and wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings,
so he tracked her until she entered the church and the door
closed behind her. At least he knew she was safe.
And alone.
He started his truck, then just sat there. After a moment’s
consideration, he headed toward the Westin. Justine might
know something about this Ori guy, and besides, she had
her own brand of magic, the kind that would help Beck
forget the one girl he’d never have.
* * *
Ori found his nemesis in the old cemetery near the master
trapper’s empty grave. The earth had been returned to the
hole now, but it had settled, causing cracks to form along
the edges where it met solid ground. He made no effort to
cover his approach but landed squarely in front of Sartael,
wings unfurled and prepared for battle.
“What were you playing at?” he shouted, his hands fisted.
“Why did you reveal me? You nearly ruined everything.”
Sartael observed his anger with cool detachment. “You
know why.”
Ori’s fists unclenched and he ruffled his wings in agitation.
“The rogue demon wil come for her and I wil kil it. That’s
been my plan al along.”
Sartael eyed him gravely. “I have heard al this before.
He is not pleased with your progress. If that does not spur
you on, then you are a fool.”
“I wil speak with Him—”
“That is not necessary. You are to use your special talents
this time.”
Ori studied his foe, unsure if he could trust him. “Is that His
order?”
“You would question Him?” Wings beating in unison,
Sartael rose into the sky, sending decaying leaves bil
owing underneath him in a whirlwind. “If you do not prevail, I
shal . And I promise, you wil not like the outcome.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
As the morning newscast droned on the television in
Harper’s office, Riley worked on the record keeping. It put
her in the unpleasant position of having her back to her
master, but he seemed less likely to leave bruises these
days, what with his injured ribs.
“Done yet?” he asked, muting the sound.
“Yes, I got it. Between the money for the demons we’ve
trapped, the disability payment from the Guild, and the
scrap metal sales, you’ve got one thousand, two hundred
and eighty-seven dol ars coming in over the next three
weeks.” She turned in the squeaky office chair. “Is that
enough?”
Harper gave a slow nod. “Better than I thought it’d be. I’l be
able to take you and Saint out next week sometime. In the
meantime, you trap with Beck.”
Trapping demons with Beck? That had been okay in the
past, but after last night she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be
anywhere near him.
“Okay,” she replied. There wasn’t any other answer she
could give.
The front door to the warehouse pushed open, causing
Riley to take a deep breath and hold it. Was it the hunters?
What would her master do if the Vatican came cal ing?
“Master Harper, good morning,” Simon said, moving slowly
into the office. She noticed he didn’t bother to include her in
the greeting.
“Saint. How you doing?” their master cal ed out.
“Better.”
“Simon,” she said. Only then did his crystal-blue eyes move
in her direction.
“Riley.” His voice was as cold as a tray of ice cubes
dumped down her back.
More drama. Just what I don’t need.
She moved out of the chair and let her former boyfriend
sink into it. His face was as pale as his white-blond hair,
and he had one hand placed on his abdomen like he
expected his intestines to fal onto the floor at any moment.
The fact that he was up and moving at al was astounding.
Heaven real y did deliver on their promise, even if it did
have unintended consequences.
“You sure you’re good enough to be here?” Harper asked,
rising from the recliner.
“For a little while. Thought I could do the paperwork.”
“Give him the reports, then,” Harper said and shuffled off
toward the bathroom.
Riley moved the stack of papers in front of Simon. “I haven’t
gotten to these yet.”
A nod. Then he picked up a pencil and began to work
through the trapping reports. The moment Riley heard the
bathroom door shut, she knelt down until her eyes were
level with his.
“You sicced the hunters on me,” she accused, keeping her
voice low.
Simon’s eyes bored into her like fiery blue lasers. “If you’re
innocent, no problem,” he said level y.
“How could you do that? I thought we had something,
Simon.”
“We did, until you showed your true colors.”
“I haven’t changed,” she said. “You just think I have.”
“Don’t try to reason with me,” he retorted. “I know what you
are, and I know who you work for.”
“And just how can you tel that?” she demanded. “Is there
like some mark on my forehead or something?”
“I just know,” he said, his voice less sure now. “I’m not the
only one who’s figured it out. He told me al about—”
When Harper exited the bathroom, she lurched to her feet.
“If you don’t need anything else, sir,” she said, wanting to
put distance between herself and the cold-hearted monster
sitting at the desk. This time it wasn’t her master.
Harper waved her off. “Keep your phone on. If a cal comes
in, I’l need you to take care of it.”
As she left the building, she could hear them talking. She
bet Simon would waste no time tel ing their master al about
her “deal with Hel .”
And Harper will believe every word of it.
* * *
With time to kil before class, Riley flopped onto her own
bed and stared up at the ceiling. She’d managed to cross
off one item on her To Do list—groceries. The real y big
things were stil undone, looming over her head like some
ancient curse.
Though the tenant upstairs was vacuuming the floor and
every now and then there would be a thump as the vacuum
bumped into a piece of furniture, it felt good to lay in her
own bed. The sounds of domesticity comforted her. The
ache in her chest was stil there, aggravated by seeing
Simon in al his cruel and unrepentant glory. He real y did
believe she was evil. Maybe Heaven hadn’t healed him as
wel as they thought. Maybe the lack of oxygen to his brain
did do some damage.
Either way, Riley knew from past experience that this loss
would eventual y contract to a hard knot but never
disappear. She stil had one for Al an and one for Beck after
he’d blown her off a couple years before. Simon’s would be
the biggest.
The vacuuming ended and there was relative silence.
Riley’s eyes closed, and for a brief moment she swore she
could taste watermelon on her tongue as the soft brush of
wings in her mind lul ed her to sleep.
The knock at her door roused her out of a total y X-rated
dream that involved a certain hunkalicious angel, no
clothes, and much heavy-duty horizontal exercise. “Oh
wow,” she said, fanning herself. It was good she was at
home. Having that kind of dream at the church was
probably a mortal sin.
Another series of knocks. “Miss Blackthorne?” It was a
female voice, one with a strange accent.
Riley relaxed. It wasn’t the demon hunters; they didn’t have
women on their crew. Maybe they’d decided it wasn’t worth
the hassle to check her out.
And I’ll be winning the lottery any day now.
She dragged herself out of bed and cautiously opened the
door, leaving the safety chain in place. Her visitor was tal er
than Riley, probably five nine or so. She was a complete
package: a sculpted nose, perfectly arched eyebrows, and
thick hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a red riot. Her
suit had to be custom-made the way it molded to her figure.
It was green tweed with an asymmetrical col ar, and the
pants ended at just the right point above her sleek black
heels. Her fingernails matched her hair. Even worse, the
vivid green eyes weren’t from contacts.
Riley instantly disliked her, an automatic response from one
female to another when the other looked this good.
Especial y when Riley had opened the door clad in stained
and ripped blue jeans and a T-shirt that had been tie-dyed
by demon pee.
“Miss Blackthorne?” the woman asked. Her eyes flickered
across Riley’s clothes. To her credit she didn’t gag.
“If you’re here from the col ection agency, don’t bother.
My dad’s long gone and I have no idea who has him.”
“I am not from any col ection agency,” the woman replied.
Something floral wafted into the apartment as she offered
up a business card with a delicate hand. “I’m Justine
Armando.” She stated the name as if everyone would
recognize it instantly.
Riley studied the card: FREELANCE JOURNALIST. “I don’t
talk to the press,” she said automatical y. That was one of
the first lessons dril ed into an apprentice’s brain: Talking to
the media was a big no-go.
“I am aware of that, but Beck said it would be fine,” the
woman replied.
That didn’t sound like Backwoods Boy. “I doubt that.”
“On the contrary, I’ve already interviewed him …
extensively,” the woman added.
The words interviewed and extensively had a certain weight
to them, like the reporter meant something entirely different.
Riley eyed her visitor again, assessing the package.
“Stroke his ego, did you?”
Ms. Armando’s mouth curved into a knowing smile.
Ah, jeez. You’re knocking boots with a reporter? Come on,
Beck. That’s just wrong.
“I thought it would be wise to hear your perspective on
trapping with the men,” the woman explained. “That cannot
be easy for you.”
As much as Riley would love to tel her side of the story, if
she talked to the press without Harper’s permission, he’d
be al over her. She just didn’t need the hassle.
“Sorry, I can’t do it, not without my master’s okay,” she said,
and shut the door before she lost her nerve.
The reporter knocked again, cal ing out, but Riley ignored
her, double-checking that the chain lock was engaged. She
curled up in bed, trying not to conjure up the image of
Backwoods Boy and the reporter chick doing what she and
the angel had been up to in her dream. She thumped the
heel of her hand against her forehead, hoping that might
dislodge the slide show. It didn’t work. In fact, the images
only became more graphic.
“Euuuuu!” she said, grimacing. “La la la la la…”
If they were hooking up, there was only one reason that
woman would pick Beck as a lover: The red-haired stick
chick was using him to further her career.
“I mean, look at her. She’s so not your type.” Not that she
knew what Beck’s type would be, but Riley suspected it
would be someone into country music and who liked to
hang at the Armageddon Lounge and shoot pool al night.
That was not Ms. Perfect Size Eight.
Riley final y drifted into an uneasy sleep. Seconds later, or
so it seemed, someone pounded on the door. She sat bolt
upright, glowering. It was like there was a neon sign on the
top of the apartment building that said “Riley Is Trying to
Sleep. Visit Her Now!”
“If this is the stick chick again…”
This time it was al guys, two of which were in military garb,
wearing sidearms and sporting a special patch on their
vests depicting a dude slaying a dragon. Behind them was
a priest, clad in solid black like an aged crow. It wasn’t
Father Harrison.
Simon’s cal to the demon hunters had borne fruit.
“Miss Blackthorne?” one of the men asked, his accent thick
and hard to understand. He was tal , Nordic blond, and
pretty scary. “We are demon hunters, here by special
permission from the Vatican.”
Here being Atlanta, she hoped, rather than on her doorstep
in particular.
“I can only talk to you if my master is present.” It was a good
response to about anything she didn’t want to do.
“Those rules don’t apply to us,” the man insisted.
“They do for me.”
“We have the power to detain you for questioning,” he
replied, his voice taking on a harder edge. “We wil use that
power if needed.”
I so don’t need this right now. “This is because of Simon
Adler, right? What he said about me?”
The priest nodded. “Mr. Adler has concerns about your
loyalties.” He moved closer to the door at this point. Maybe
he thought he had a better chance of convincing her to play
along.
“Did he tel you we used to date?”
“He stated that you had coerced him into a romantic
relationship.”
“Co … erced?” she sputtered. Simon had been the one to
ask her out, not the other way around.
“We need to speak at length about this issue, Miss
Blackthorne,” the priest replied. “Please let us in.”
“I don’t know what else Simon told you, but I didn’t break the
ward. Neither did my father, who is dead and has been
reanimated, just in case you haven’t heard. I have no idea
why the demons came after us, and I have class in an hour,”
she said in a rush of words. “That’s al you’re getting from
me unless my master is present.”
“These charges are serious: You have been accused of
working for Lucifer,” the priest replied.
“Not a chance. Now good afternoon,” she said, pushing the
door closed.
The big blond man slammed his palm against the wood,
straining the chain lock. With only a little more effort the
chain would snap and they’d be inside.
Panicking, Riley backed off, grabbing her cel phone from
the coffee table.
“You stay outside or I’l cal the cops,” she warned,
brandishing the phone like a weapon.
“You let us in and the door stays in one piece,” the big man
replied.
She had no other option but to dial Harper, gambling that
he hated the hunters more than he hated her. As the phone
rang there was rapid-fire conversation between the priest
and the Nordic guy, al in a language she didn’t understand.
When her master answered, she unloaded the situation in a
breathy voice.
“What do I do?” she asked, crossing the fingers of her free
hand behind her back where the hunters wouldn’t see it.
Please don’t make me do this.
“Let me talk to the priest,” Harper ordered.
Riley handed the cel phone to Father Rosetti through the
wedge of open door. There was a brisk exchange, and then
the phone came back to her.
“Sir?” she asked, her fingers stil crossed.
“You’re not to talk to them unless I’m with you. If they arrest
you, cal me and we’l take it from there,” Harper said.
“And don’t think you’re out of it. If you’re working for Hel , I’l
kil you myself.” The phone went dead.
Oh goody.
The priest issued an order and the big man backed off.
“You wil talk to us eventual y,” the cleric said, giving her a
thin smile. If it was supposed to reassure her, it did the
opposite.
“The Guild won’t let you touch me,” she said defiantly.
“They wil if we find evidence of your guilt. They wil throw you
to us just to clear their name. It is better to plead your case
now. Unlike God, our mercy is not limitless.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she insisted. “So just go away
and leave me alone.”
Riley pushed the door closed, then leaned against it,
stomach churning. There was the thump of combat boots
on the stairs and then silence.
They want a scapegoat and I’m it. The next time I won’t be
able to stall them.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The big blue tent at the far edge of the Terminus Market
seemed an unlikely place to hold a trapper’s meeting, but
according to Jackson nobody else in the city would rent
them space.
“Can’t blame them,” the trapper said as he parked himself
in a folding chair next to Riley inside the tent. His arm was
stil bandaged, but he seemed able to move it without much
pain.
“Do you want me to do the Holy Water ward?” she asked. It
was usual y Simon’s job, but she doubted he could handle it
right now.
“One of the others is doing it.”
And Riley knew why. “You don’t trust me to do it right,”
she said, more hurt than she cared to admit.
“If it was me you’d be doing the ward, but Stewart
suggested a journeyman handle it for the time being. That
way if anything happens, you won’t be blamed.”
“So wil it always be this way? Nobody trusting me, that is?”
Riley demanded.
“I honestly don’t know,” Jackson replied.
“We didn’t do anything to the ward.”
“I know that. Sometimes the truth is harder to accept than a
lie.”
Jackson was trying to make her feel better, in comparison
to other trappers who kept frowning and muttering
“Blackthorne” under their breath like it was a curse word.
Asshats. How could they believe she’d let the demons in?
Al her father had done was protect his daughter.
When Jackson moved to the front of the tent, she looked
over at her master. Harper hadn’t said a word to her about
her phone cal this afternoon, like his apprentices were
visited by the demon hunters every day. Which meant he
thought she deserved their wrath. So did Simon, who sat
next to him, grim. When one of the trappers said hel o the
apprentice only nodded, his mind stuck in some dark mire
of conspiracy theories.
Why is everything so wrong now?
Someone cal ed out Beck’s name, and a moment later he
appeared at the tent flap. He looked like he hadn’t slept in
days.
Bet it wasn’t because you were hunting demons. Not with
the arrogant smirk on his face.
He took a seat next to her, placing his trapping bag on the
ground. “Girl.”
The faint hint of something flowery caught her nose and she
reacted instantly. “How’s the reporter chick?”
Beck gave her a startled look. “What do ya mean?”
She took an exaggerated sniff. “The reporter chick, the one
with the red hair? Unless you’re letting your inner girl show,
you smel just like her.” When he began to protest, she
waved him off. “She was at my apartment this afternoon
trying to interview me, so I remember her perfume.”
“Did ya talk to her?” Beck asked, suddenly worried.
“Was I supposed to?”
“No way. Ya know that. Everythin’ goes through Harper or
Stewart.”
The stick chick lies like a pro. “You’re always giving me
advice; here’s some for you: She’s playing you. She lied to
me, told me you said it was okay if I talked to her.”
“That’s what reporters do,” he said, but his frown told her he
wasn’t happy with the news. “I thought ya knew that.”
“I know a lot of things, Beck, and she’s not your type.”
“Ya sayin’ I’m not good enough for her?” he said, his voice
harsher now.
“No. I’m saying she’s not on the level.”
A scowl formed on his face. Riley knew what was coming.
“Ya cal ed Fargo yet?”
“No, I’ve been too busy trying to destroy the Guild and
corrupt Simon’s soul. Being evil is a ful -time job.”
Beck snorted. He angled his head toward where her exboyfriend
sat at the other side of the tent. “No need to hang
around for him anymore. He’s moved on. That sure didn’t
last very long, did it?”
Ouch. Riley knew they should step away from this before
someone went too far, but the need to retaliate became
overwhelming.
“I’m not staying at the church from now on,” she announced.
“Ori’s watching over me. He won’t let anything happen. He’l
get that Five, you wait and see.”
A chuff of disgust came her way. “Bul … shit. Pretty boys
like that don’t know jack when it comes to demons.
They’re just flash.”
Riley leaned closer to her father’s favorite trapping buddy,
eager to spear his insufferable arrogance in its heart. “Ori
was the one who saved me from the Five at the
Tabernacle.”
“What?” Beck spouted.
“You heard me.” She let three seconds pass before
delivering the verbal knife-thrust between his ribs. “He was
there for me when it counted, Beck. So where were you?”
The trapper’s mouth flopped open in astonishment.
Jackson’s timing was perfect: He cal ed out for silence.
As trappers settled into their chairs, Beck continued to
stare at her in disbelief.
“I’m cal ing this meeting to order,” Jackson said, waving his
hands to gain attention. “We lost the gavel in the fire, so
we’l just have to deal. The masters have asked me to be
acting president until we have an election. Is that okay with
you folks?”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Fine. First thing, Pritchard is the only one stil in the
hospital. He’l be going home in a couple of days, but he’s
done trapping. That’s a mixed blessing, but at least he’s stil
alive.”
“Thank God,” someone cal ed out. Riley thought his name
was Remmers or something like that. He was the only other
African American in the Atlanta Guild.
“I second that,” another said.
“The remainder of the funerals wil be out of the area, so I
need volunteers to attend those services.” Hands shot up
and Jackson made note of the names. “Thanks, guys.
Master Stewart, you want to give a report on the demon
hunters?”
The Scotsman rose from his chair, leaning heavily on his
cane. “As we expected, they’re goin’ ta do their own thing.
My advice is ta stay outta their way. They’l kil a few demons
and then leave, if we’re lucky.”
“And if not?” Jackson asked.
“Then it could get ugly. We don’t want any more casualties,
so don’t cross these guys. Just back off and live for another
day.”
“We should just let them do whatever they want?”
someone cal ed out.
A wily grin settled on the Scotsman’s face. “No, I’m not
sayin’ that. Ya have a problem with them, cal me or Beck.
We’l get it sorted.”
“Anything from the Archbishop about the Holy Water
problem?” Jackson asked.
“Not yet. He’s checkin’ his sources, but so far the city
claims there’s no problem at al .”
Riley held her tongue. No reason to let the others know
she’d been investigating on her own, at least not until she’d
figured out the whole scam. Then she’d be happy to drop it
in their laps.
“Anything you want to say, Harper?” Jackson asked.
Riley’s heart began to thud. What if he tells them about the
hunters? What if he demands they toss me out of the Guild?
The older trapper shook his head. “Not right now.”
What? He’d had the perfect opportunity to ruin her career
and he’d passed on it. What’s he up to?
“On to other business, then,” Jackson continued. “It seems
like we’ve got more press in this city than we have demons,
at least that’s what it looks like. Be careful what you say to
these folks. We need to present a solid front.”
“Better tel Beck about that,” a trapper cal ed out. Riley
didn’t recognize the voice.
Her companion shifted uneasily in his seat. “I know how to
handle ’em.”
“So we noticed,” was the swift response. Crude jests flew
through the tent, fol owed by laughter. Even they think you’re
sleeping with her.
Jackson shuffled papers. “The National Guild is requesting
trappers to come to Atlanta to help us out, at least in the
short term. They’re also trying to line up a master for us. It’l
be a while before that happens.”
“What about that television show?” Reynolds asked.
“They stil coming?”
“I haven’t heard anything to say they’re not,” Jackson
replied. “Let’s talk about what happened the other night,”
Jackson added, opening the floor to whoever wanted to
have their say.
There were different schools of thought: the Holy Water was
neutralized or the bogus Holy Water was to blame. The
third explanation cut too close to home: Someone had
purposely broken the ward.
“Riley?” It was their temporary president and he was
looking right at her. “Could you tel us what your father said
to you that night?”
She rose, nervous when al eyes turned to her. “He said I
should run, that they were coming. That there were too
many of them.”
“And he was inside the ward, wasn’t he?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. He was right behind me.”
Voices erupted from the back of the tent as she sank into
her seat.
“I told you he did it!” McGuire shouted.
Harper rose, a hand pressed against his sore ribs.
“That’s not what I saw. The ward was stil up when
Blackthorne was talking to his kid. It didn’t break until it was
overrun by the demons.”
Harper doesn’t blame my dad? She had to be dreaming.
“What’s yer theory on al this?” the Scotsman asked Harper.
“Same as yours—too much evil in one place,” her master
replied and sank back into his seat.
As Simon rose to his feet, al eyes went to him. “How can
you…” He paused to suck in a tortured breath. “How can
you believe that God’s Holy Essence can be destroyed?”
“Not destroyed … neutralized. There is a difference,”
Stewart replied.
“Not to me,” Simon shot back. “Either you believe Heaven
has ultimate power to destroy evil, or you believe that
Lucifer can win this war. There is no middle ground.”
The silence within the tent became oppressive. No one
wanted to chal enge him, not after what he’d been through.
It was Harper who final y spoke. “No one is claiming that
Heaven can’t kick Hel ’s ass. What we’re saying is that the
Holy Water did what it was supposed to do, but there was
just too much evil.”
“I refuse to accept that,” Simon replied, glaring at Riley as
he lowered himself into his chair. “Hel had help that night.
That’s the only explanation.”
She lurched to her feet, eager to tel him how wrong he was
about her dad, about her. How much Simon had hurt her
and how that agony would never go away.
“Anythin’ ya want ta say, lass?” Stewart asked.
Her anger made her visibly tremble, and she cursed herself
for that weakness. “My dad loved being in the Guild,” she
protested. “He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you,
Simon. Or any of those guys.”
“So if it wasn’t him,” McGuire cal ed out, “how about you,
girl? Did you break the ward?”
She turned toward her accuser. “And get myself eaten by a
demon? Do I look stupid?”
“Maybe they said they’d let you go. Hel makes some
powerful deals.”
“Talking from experience, McGuire?” she snapped.
“Riley, he’s a journeyman, and yer—” Beck warned.
“I know. I’m just a damned apprentice,” she retorted. “I’m so
tired of people blaming me for everything. I’m tired of the
lies, the sick jokes, al of it. I should just … just…”
Quit. The word teetered on the tip of her tongue. If she just
pushed it out, it’d be over. No more harassment, no more
fingers pointed in her direction. She could be Riley
Blackthorne again, high school student and hot-chocolate
enthusiast, not some demon trapper wannabe.
Just tell them I’m out of here. She bit the inside of her lip,
drawing blood. If I do, they win. The next female wil have it
twice as bad.
Riley swal owed the words. “But I’m not giving up,” she
said, staring right at McGuire. “I’m a trapper, from a family
of demon trappers. And Blackthornes don’t quit.”
“You tel them, sister,” Remmers cal ed out.
Her anger exhausted, Riley folded into her chair,
intertwining her hands in her lap so no one could see how
badly they were shaking. Her muscles had knotted from the
tension, and she had a dul headache thumping right behind
her eyebal s.
Harper rose again. “If we fight each other, we can’t beat the
demons,” he said simply. Then he shot a look at McGuire
and some of the others at the back of the tent.
“And just for the record, if anyone’s going to run
Blackthorne’s brat out of the Guild, it’s me. Got it?”
There were murmurs in the crowd: Message received.
“Okay, so let’s move on,” Jackson said, clearly relieved that
was over. “Anyone know a church where we can meet?”
“The Tabernacle was a church,” someone protested.
“Hel uva lot of good it did.”
“It’d been desanctified,” Stewart replied. “No services had
been held there in years.”
“We could meet in a cemetery,” Beck suggested.
Riley groaned. There’s a plan.
“We’l work it out,” Jackson replied. “Let’s get together
Friday night at eight. We’l hold elections, try to get back on
track.”
“We meeting here?” Remmers cal ed out.
“Sure,” Jackson replied. “Look at this way: At least the
rent’s cheap.”
Riley waited until Beck was deep in an animated
conversation with Master Stewart to make her escape. It
felt cowardly, like she wasn’t brave enough to face him.
She’d just stepped outside the tent when she heard her
name. Harper.
“Sir?” she asked, turning toward him.
The moment her master exited the tent a piece of paper
came her way. “Need some food. Drop it by my place. We
have to talk … tonight.”
“Ah, I’m supposed to be on holy ground after dark.”
“Won’t take long.”
At least Ori would watch over her. “Why didn’t you tel them
about—”
“Later,” her master retorted, cutting her off abruptly. “Now
get going, brat.”
Confused at his behavior, Riley studied the list as she
walked to the car. There was nothing out of the ordinary,
just food and supplies, al of which could have waited until
tomorrow morning. Which meant he wanted to talk about
the hunters and their interest in Paul Blackthorne’s
daughter.
Jamming the list into a pocket, she rubbed her temples to
ease the headache that had struck her the moment she’d
unloaded on Beck. Guilt. That was what she was feeling.
Industrial-strength guilt. She’d acted mean and childish, just
as nasty as Simon, and Riley knew how that felt on the
receiving end.
Why did I do that to him? Why did I cut Beck down like that?
There was an answer and she didn’t like it one bit: The
stick chick. Justine Armando just made her feel mean. It
wasn’t jealousy, not the usual kind anyway, it was because
the reporter was so not in Beck’s league. He was simple,
plainspoken, no-nonsense. The kind of guy who always
watched your back. The reporter was al flash and abundant
money. And she was real y pretty. No wonder Beck had
homed right in on that.
She’s going to hurt you, Backwoods Boy.
For al his bluster, Denver Beck had deep insecurities, and
Justine was using those to get what she wanted. When she
final y threw him away he wouldn’t know how to deal, not
with his history of one-night stands. It’d cut him deep.
Riley knew how bad it felt, and no matter how much he
annoyed her, she didn’t want to see him hurt. He’s too good
for that.
TWENTY-NINE
When her headache didn’t improve, Riley gave in to the
craving for mood-altering chocolate. The moment she
pushed open the door to the Grounds Zero she was
instantly cocooned in the lusty aroma of fresh-brewed
coffee. The place was busier than usual, and she noticed
that some of the patrons wore name tags; apparently there
was a woodworkers’ convention in town.
A couple was just leaving “her” booth, and Riley hurried to
claim the space with her coat. Then she joined the line
behind two old guys discussing orbital sanders. Simi was
at the counter and gave Riley a wide grin. Tonight her
friend’s hair was bril iant orange, with black spikes.
“Wicked,” Riley said. “I bet they can see it from space.”
“That was the plan,” the barista replied. “The usual?”
Riley nodded. Simi always made sure the hot chocolate
was topped with loads of whipped cream and chocolate
shavings. Unfortunately, it would remind her of Simon, but
the craving had to be fed.
“So where’s the boyfriend, the one with the gorgeous blue
eyes?” the barista asked. “He’s totally hot.”
“Simon’s history.”
“That sucks. How about the trapper?”
After what I said to him? “Also history.”
Simi gave her a concerned look. “You’re going through
these guys like I do coffee filters, girl. Better slow down.”
When Ori came to mind, Riley made sure to hide the smile
from her friend.
Simi set the cup of hot chocolate on the counter and rang
up the purchase. Riley automatical y dropped the change in
the tip jar: That would earn her a refil if she wanted one.
The trip to the table wasn’t easy with al the conventioneers
wandering around, but she made it without a spil and slid
into the booth. While she waited for the drink to cool, Riley
nibbled on some of the chocolate shavings.
I so deserve this.
A chiming sound came from her bag, barely audible in the
midst of the boisterous coffee house. She dug out her
phone, accessed the text message, and promptly smiled.
Ori.
MISSING YOU. SEE YOU LATER?
She typed the YES before she could stop herself.
What could it hurt? Maybe he’d take her on another angelic
picnic. Unlike Martha, he hadn’t expected her to save the
world or anything. As she watched, his text disappeared
like it’d never existed.
How does he do that? Angel mojo apparently. She didn’t
even think Ori had a phone, but then sending a text without
it was no big deal to someone with his job description.
Making it disappear—just as easy.
Riley put her cel on the table and tested the hot beverage.
The whipped cream deposited a white mustache on her
upper lip, resurrecting good memories.
The coffee-house run was a Blackthorne tradition. Riley
would always have hot chocolate, and her dad would drink
coffee, but in a real cup: He couldn’t stand the paper ones.
Now as she sipped she could visualize his mussed brown
hair, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, that shy
smile. This booth was his favorite, in the back, quieter than
others. She wouldn’t share this spot with anyone, not even
Ori.
Riley closed her eyes, al owing the background noise to
recede and in its place she heard the clink of a spoon
against a ceramic cup as her dad stirred his coffee. She
could smel his aftershave, hear him talking about his day,
about her mom, about anything. It didn’t matter. She could
feel his presence, and that comforted her. As long as she
could hold that moment, preserve it, he would always be
part of her, even if he was slaving away for some rich
creep.
The bench seat across from her creaked and she heard
someone say her name. Riley’s eyes flew open, her heart
wanting to believe in miracles. It was Beck. A quick look
around told her they’d have to stay put: There were no other
places available.
He peeled off his Atlanta Braves cap, dropped it on the
table, and ran a hand through his hair to tame it. It was
longer now and it looked good on him. For an instant she
saw something in his eyes, but whatever it was
disappeared in a heartbeat, like he’d realized he was
showing more than he wanted.
“I figured I’d find ya here.” Then a nod of approval came her
way. “Ya look pretty tonight. I like yer hair that way.”
Riley hadn’t expected the compliment, and she fought the
blush. She’d just put on makeup, nothing special.
“Thanks.”
“It’s for him, isn’t it?” he replied, his tone darkening.
She knew who he meant, but she decided not to go there.
“Harper? No way.” That got her a puzzled look. “I’m going to
his place after I finish my cocoa. He wants to chat.”
“About what?”
Riley did a coin flip and this time Beck won. She told him
about Simon’s involvement with the Vatican’s boys and
how they’d shown up her place this afternoon.
“The little bastard,” he said, shaking his head. “Do whatever
Harper says. He won’t let the hunters hurt ya, no matter
what.”
“Glad you’re so sure about that. I’m not.”
“I’l talk to Simon,” he offered. “Let him know just how much
a prick he’s been.”
“No, don’t bother. It won’t do any good.”
Beck pried the lid off a cup and stirred the contents with
one of the little sticks. It looked to be coffee, no creamer.
“This stuff costs twice as much as it does at the Stop-and-
Rob. I just don’t get it.”
You wouldn’t. “What are you doing here, Beck?”
“Ya ran out of the meetin’. I wasn’t done talkin’ to ya.”
That sounded for real, but she could never tel with him.
One minute he was total y worried about her, giving her
money to live; the next he acted like she was a brainless
child.
You have to be angry at me. Why aren’t you yelling?
That, she knew how to handle. Instead he seemed morose.
Lost even.
“You need to stop worrying about me,” she said. “I’m doing
okay.”
“Then yer doin’ better than me,” he murmured. “I miss Paul
real bad.”
His stark honesty caught her off guard. She felt tears
forming and blinked to keep them in check. “I keep thinking
Dad wil be in the kitchen when I get up in the morning,” she
admitted. “He always made me breakfast. His way of
showing how much he cared, I guess.”
Beck took a hoarse breath like something stabbed him
deep inside. “I miss trappin’ with him. He was always so
cool. He never yel ed at me. Wel , only once.”
“What did you do?” she asked, curious.
“I flipped off a cop,” he said, shrugging like it was no big
deal. “Paul gave me ten kinds of hel for that. Said I had a
problem with authority.”
“Duh.”
Beck eyed her. “Yer the same or ya wouldn’t be givin’
me al this grief, girl.”
He’d done it again. Just when she’d gotten a peek of what
lay beneath that protective armor, he’d blown it.
“Girl?” he pressed.
“The name is Riley,” she shot back. “Learn it. Use it!”
Beck’s nostrils flared. Backwoods Boy never could stand
being dissed. “I asked around. Seems no one knows this
Ori guy.”
“Ori’s a Lancer.” And an angel. “End of story.”
“Seems too handy,” Beck said, his face furrowed in
thought. “Guys say anythin’ to get laid.”
“He’s not like that.”
Beck leaned over the table and lined his eyes up with hers.
“Get a clue, Riley, we’re all like that. We see a pretty young
girl and we’ve got only one thing in mind. It’s just a matter of
pushin’ the right buttons until we get ya naked.”
“Like you and the reporter chick?”
He gave her a feral grin as an answer.
Riley felt her cheeks flame. “She’s gonna screw you over;
can’t you see that?”
“And this Ori guy is any different?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Then he’s a damned saint,” Beck grumbled, leaning back.
Weary of the sparring, Riley shoved her way out of the
booth and headed toward the counter.
“Refil ?” Simi cal ed out as she approached.
“Make it to go.” She’d had more than enough of Beck for
one evening.
When the barista handed her the cup, Simi angled her
head toward the booth. “He real y likes you.”
“Beck? No way.” Where did she get that idea?
“Oh, yeah. I can tel by the way he looks at you.”
“If that’s the case, why is he such a jerk?” Riley asked.
“Some guys don’t know any better.”
Riley wasn’t buying it. She wasn’t surprised that the instant
she returned to the booth, Beck started in again just like
she’d never left.
“Ya have to be careful. This guy could be a Mezmer.
They’re way clever.”
Riley shook her head. “Ori’s not Hel spawn. He stood up to
a Geo-Fiend.”
“So? A lower-grade fiend wil back off from a top-level
demon.”
“He sat on the church steps with me, Beck. He’s not a
demon.” She knew the problem and it had nothing to do
with Ori. “You’re just pissed because that Four didn’t get
into his head like it did yours.”
Beck’s scowl deepened. “Yeah, and I wanna know why.
Until then, I don’t want ya seein’ him. He’s out of yer life, as
of now.”
“You’re just bul ying me to feel important. It’s not working.”
His face went crimson. “Cal yer aunt or I wil .”
“You don’t have the number.”
Beck grew a grin: It wasn’t a nice one. Then he pointed at
her phone. “I do now.”
Riley’s jaw dropped. He’d gone through her cel phone
address book while she’d been at the counter. “How dare
you?” she growled, trying hard to keep her voice lowered.
People were already staring at them.
“I promised Paul I’d keep ya safe,” he said. “If that means
packin’ yer ass out of town so it doesn’t get humped by a
smooth-talkin’ loser, that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
Stunned at the menace in his voice, Riley pul ed herself out
of the booth. This was a different side of Beck, and it
frightened her. Scooping up her phone and the drink, she
pushed her way out of the coffee house. As she hurried
toward the car, a street vendor cal ed out to her, but Riley
ignored him. Al she wanted to do was run away.
Beck fel in step with her within a half block. She didn’t dare
look at him. Maybe he’d leave her alone if she ignored him.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm.
Riley yanked herself free and kept going. It wasn’t until she
reached the car that she realized he was stil fol owing.
Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t fit the key into the
lock. Drained, she slumped against the car door.
In the distance she saw Ori leaning against his bike, on the
alert, probably trying to figure out if the trapper posed a
threat. Riley shook her head and he nodded in return, stil
vigilant.
Unaware she had backup, Beck halted a few feet away
from her. “Riley, please listen to me.”
“Why are you doing this? You’re scaring me, Beck.”
He recoiled, like she’d punched him in the face.
He sagged. “I don’t know why I’m like this. Too much is
happenin’ I don’t understand.” She waited, knowing there
was more. His eyes rose to hers, pleading. “I can’t face
losin’ ya, Riley. Yer al I got left in this world.”
That brutal honesty again. He’d peeled away more armor,
and this time he’d exposed his heart.
“Ori’s not the bad guy here,” she said wearily.
Beck opened his mouth to argue, then shook his head in
defeat. “That might be true, but that doesn’t mean he won’t
hurt ya.”
“It’s stil my choice,” she said. “Just like Justine is for you.”
“I know,” he admitted. He took a few steps away, then
turned back toward her. “I’m sorry it didn’t work between
us.”
What? “Beck, I—”
“No. We’l leave it at that. Just be careful, girl.”
As he walked away, his shoulders slumped like he’d taken
a vicious beating. Gone was the overbearing bul y in the
coffee house, the arrogant man who thought the world
should dance to his tune. In his place was someone she
hardly knew.
* * *
It was late when Beck headed deep into Demon Central in
search of the hunters. He’d already talked to his buddy Ike,
the old war veteran who lived down here, and had learned
the team was scouting the area. There was gunfire now,
which meant the Vatican’s boys had grown tired of scouting
and were now reducing Atlanta’s demon population one by
one.
Beck adjusted his course through the darkened streets,
keeping his eyes on the surroundings. It was hard to
concentrate: He kept thinking back to what had happened
between him and Paul’s daughter tonight. The harsh words
that had been said between them.
No matter what he did, Riley only pul ed further away.
Beck knew it was wrong to push her so hard, but he just
couldn’t stop himself. He cared too damn much. He hadn’t
lied: He was afraid of losing her to a demon. Or to
someone else.
“This sucks.” But as he saw it, there wasn’t much he could
do but run interference for her. Besides, he had his own
problems: Elias Salvatore for one. If Beck was lucky, no
one had told the hunter who his ex-girlfriend was hooking
up with. If someone had, hopeful y the hunters weren’t
looking to add a trapper to their kil stats tonight.
Beck could just see the news report: “Journeyman trapper
dies in tragic accident in Demon Central. Vatican issues
formal apology.”
Now that would real y suck.
He caught up with them on Broad Street. There were six of
the Vatican’s crew al decked out in their commando gear,
and there’d be more in the surrounding streets. From the
five furry bodies lying in the street, they’d been busy. A
single shot to the Threes’ skul s did the trick, at least when
the bul ets were hol ow points loaded with papal Holy
Water. Fifteen hundred dol ars’ worth of demon carcasses
had bled out on that pavement, and no trapper was going to
get a bit of that money.
“What a damned waste,” he grumbled.
Beck had expected to be chal enged right off, but he was
waved through the perimeter by one of the hunters.
Captain Salvatore stood near one of the high-tech black
vans. There was a map spread out on a portable table, and
he was talking to his second-in-command.
“Good evenin’,” Beck said politely. He got a nod from the
captain and a glower from his subordinate.
“What are you doing here?” Amundson demanded.
Beck set his trapping bag down by the van. “Wanted to see
how the big boys work.”
Amundson opened his mouth, probably to order him to take
a hike, but his superior waved him off. “It’s okay, Lieutenant.
Go check on Chavez and Rimsky.”
From his frown, Amundson didn’t like the order, but he
obeyed and headed down the street, assault rifle in hand.
Beck pointed at the line of dead demons. “Ya know, if ya
don’t have to kil those things…” he said, just to stir up
trouble.
Salvatore careful y refolded the map. “If we don’t kil them,
they’l just come back and eat more of your people.”
“I thought y’al had that handled. Somethin’ to do with monks
and a lot of prayin’. I heard the demons just disappear.”
“They do disappear,” Salvatore replied, leveling his gaze
with Beck’s. “Then they return to this realm and start kil ing
again. Hel has the ultimate recycling plan.”
Beck wasn’t sure if the guy was messing with him or not.
“Yer jokin’, right?”
The captain shook his head. “If we kil them, they don’t
bother us again.”
“That don’t track,” Beck argued. “Hunters have been wastin’
demons for centuries and we’re not runnin’ out of
’em. Maybe Lucifer gets ’em either way, livin’ or dead.”
The captain gave the theory some consideration. “That’d
be a bitch, wouldn’t it?”
Beck cracked a grin. Maybe this guy isn’t such a tool after
all.
“So why are you here, Beck? It’s not to see how we do our
work.”
Busted. “It’s about Riley Blackthorne. I heard that one of our
apprentices told ya a wild tale about her and her dad
workin’ for Hel . That’s not true.”
“Of course you’d say that,” Salvatore replied. “You wouldn’t
turn on the man who trained you, or his daughter.”
Beck frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to another.
“I would if they were shil in’ for Hel , in a heartbeat. I saw too
many of our guys ripped apart that night to let somethin’ like
that slide.”
Salvatore gave a cautious nod. A gunshot in the distance
was fol owed by a low, mournful wail.
“And another one bites the dust,” Beck muttered.
“You sure the Blackthornes are on the level?” Salvatore
asked.
Beck nodded. “Paul was a straight arrow. Same with his
daughter.”
“Grand Master Stewart says the same thing. So if Riley is
not the nexus of the demonic power in this city, who is?”
“Don’t know. The demons have changed their tactics,
gotten bolder. They’re actin’ weird now.”
“Not the first time,” Salvatore replied. “In Moscow in
’ninety-three—”
The earth began to shake beneath their boots. It paused
and started up again, triggering car alarms that howled into
the night like electronic wolves.
“That’s a Five,” Beck said, his throat tightening. He
grabbed his duffel bag and began scanning the area. There
were shouts from the streets around them as the hunters
sprinted back toward their captain.
Salvatore stepped to the van’s open side door. “Where did
that come from, Corsini?”
A dark-skinned man stuck his head outside the vehicle,
holding some sort of electronic device. “Southeast of here,
Captain, nearly two kilometers.”
Two kilometers. That was near Harper’s place.
Beck turned on his heels and sprinted up the road, his
trapping bag slapping into his side. Behind him, he heard
the captain cal ing out his name, but he kept running as if
his life depended upon it.
Because it does.
THIRTY
To Riley’s relief there were no demon hunters waiting at her
master’s place. Harper was in his office, in his recliner,
eyes closed. The television was off. That had to be a first.
She set the grocery sack on the desk. “I found the soup you
said you liked.”
No reply. She took that as a hint and put away the food.
When she returned to the office, Harper’s eyes were open.
She’d expected a smirk, but there was none. That made
her more nervous. What if he trashed her apprenticeship
because of Simon’s al egations? She had no way to prove
her innocence.
Instead Harper went in a direction she’d not anticipated.
“Saint’s going to be a problem,” he said in a gravely voice.
“I don’t trust you any further than I can spit you, but I will not
have an apprentice who is working with the hunters.”
For some bizarre reason, Riley felt the need to defend her
ex. “Simon is real y confused right now and—”
“Don’t alibi for him!” Harper shouted, his voice echoing off
the open rafters. “He sold you out, cal ed the hunters down
on one of his own. What the hel is he thinking?”
“He’s not. That’s the problem.”
She got a grunt of agreement. “His crisis of faith is
chapping my ass,” Harper said.
“Not doing much for mine, either.”
Another grunt. “I’l be talking to him about this in the morning.
Then as soon as possible we’l go trapping. We’l catch a
Three and see if we can get Saint back on track. I don’t
want to lose him.”
“You think Simon can handle that after what he’s been
through?” she asked, unsure.
“He has to or he’s done. It’s that simple.” Harper eyed her.
“Then it’l be your turn.”
Riley figured that was coming. Could she face one of those
slavering monsters again?
“I’ve seen this before,” Harper conceded. “Until Saint
settles his argument with his God, he’s going to doubt
everything and everybody.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t blame my dad for what
happened.”
“Blackthorne knew what was going down or he wouldn’t
have warned you.”
Riley frowned, putting her hands on her hips. “Oh right, he
gave me, what, five seconds to be out of there before it
became a death trap? If he real y wanted to kil al of you,
he’d have made sure I wasn’t near that building.”
Harper’s face sagged. She could see that simple fact was
bugging him. “I talked to Rosetti right after they left your
place. They’re going to keep digging, seeing what they can
find on you and your father. If you have sold your soul to Hel
, you wil bring down the Atlanta Guild, do you understand?”
he demanded.
Riley shivered at the thought. She didn’t like a lot of the
guys in the Guild, but destroying it would put them al out of
work and put the city at risk.
“Got it.”
Harper sighed. “Stewart thinks something else is up. I don’t
buy much of his mystical crap, but he usual y knows what
he’s talking about. We’l get with him and see what we can
do to settle things down. I want the hunters out of this town
as quickly as possible, for al our sakes.”
That was the longest conversation they’d ever shared.
Since her master seemed to be listening to her for a
change, she decided now might be a good time to tel him
about her fruitless fol owing-recycling-trucks-al -over-Atlanta
investigation. Maybe he’d have some suggestions.
“I’ve been working on that Holy Water problem.” The man’s
eyes swiveled in her direction. At least they weren’t
bloodshot like before. She told him about the unmarked
truck and how the drivers hadn’t been good with her
questions. “I checked out the recycling place,” she said,
cautiously editing out Peter’s part of the investigation. “The
bottles go there for stripping and cleaning, then they’re sent
to the Holy Water plant. I think they’re being stolen
somewhere along the way.”
Though Harper’s brow furrowed, the smackdown didn’t
come.
“You might be right,” he said. “Used to be the city would
send their own truck to col ect the bottles, then I’d have to
wait for the check. Now they’ve made some deal with a
recycler to pick ’em up and pay me right then and there in
cash.”
“When did that change?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“Just about the time the consecration dates went weird.”
She knew that much from the paperwork she’d had to
complete. When Harper’s previous apprentices fil ed out
the forms, al the bottles had proper consecration dates.
“So if I want to steal a bunch of empty bottles that just
happen to have the city’s tax stamp on them,” she mused, “I
make a deal with the city to col ect them, skim some off the
top, fudge the paperwork, and no one knows the bottles are
missing. I fil those with tap water and sel them just like
they’re the real thing.”
Harper gave her a hard look. “You’ve got a twisted mind,
brat.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “So we just have to talk to the
distributor, see if any bottles are missing.”
“Might not be that simple. The distributor could be kosher,
but someone is stealing from them or getting their bottles
from some other place. Buying new ones, maybe.”
“But they’d have to have a tax stamp.”
“No reason someone inside the city isn’t sel ing them under
the table.”
Riley hadn’t even thought of that. “Now who’s got a twisted
mind?” she said. A second after she’d made the comment,
it hit her what she’d said. Harper didn’t seem upset. “The
Holy Water vendor in the market is in on it too, I swear.”
“We need to take control of this situation. Too much is
getting by us,” Harper said. “I’l talk to Stewart and—”
The ground shook, a tremor so light Riley could almost
believe she’d imagined it. Harper sat up in his chair,
flipping down the footrest, on alert.
Riley held her breath. Please God, not here. Another tremor
fol owed almost immediately, rattling the plates in the
kitchenette. She had to hold on to the desk for support, as
items jittered across the top and tumbled to the floor.
“Oh, hel ,” Harper said, jumping to his feet. “It wouldn’t
dare…”
A blast of straight wind rammed into the front of the
building, shattering the windows in the two overhead doors.
“Down!” Harper bel owed. A second later the doors
exploded, converting the wood to lethal missiles.
Riley barely hit the floor before debris speared the room,
burying wooden shards deep into the back wal s like
jagged arrows. Then came the laughter. Low, chil ing, and
total y demonic.
The Geo-Fiend had come for her.
Where is Ori?
Rol ing waves coursed across the ground, causing the
building’s remaining window glass to shatter and its
masonry to crack. Dust poured down in a choking fog.
“Pit!” Harper shouted, catching her by the arm and
dragging her out of what remained of the office. Another
tremor slung them to the ground. Harper crawled back on
his feet, hampered by his injury. Above them, the metal
supports shrieked in protest as the joints began to fail.
“Help me!” he cal ed, scrabbling at something with his
fingers. Through the swirling dust, Riley realized he was
trying to pul up a piece of plywood covering a section of the
garage floor. Putting her back to the wind and dust storm,
she dug into the crevice between the concrete and the
wood, attempting to gain leverage on the warped plywood.
Lifting it proved impossible with the force of the gale, so
with incredible effort they shifted it sideways.
Grimacing in pain, Harper pushed her into the pit. It stank of
old oil and dirty rags.
“Cover your head!” he cried. Above them the building
twisted on its foundations as concrete blocks ground into
each other then dislodged themselves to tumble to the
earth.
Riley beckoned for him to join her, but her master shook his
head. “Stay here!”
With his trapping bag in hand, he wove himself through the
fal ing debris, then crawled out a gaping hole in the side of
the building.
What is he doing? The demon will rip him apart.
The other trappers would come to help them, or maybe the
hunters would. He could not take on a Five by himself.
Harper had told her to stay here. That’s exactly what she
should do. Riley hated him, hated how he treated her and
her dad. She remembered every bruise he’d given her,
every insult.
But he’s my master.
With a cry of anguish, she hauled herself out of the pit and
ran to join him.
The moment she exited the ruined building the wind died,
causing an eerie silence to beat against her ears.
She found Harper in the parking lot thirty feet from the
towering Geo-Fiend, guarding his injured side, his face
coated with a thick layer of dust like a coal miner.
The demon was the one from the Tabernacle. The thing
was tal , deep black skin stretched over a thickly muscled
chest and bulky arms. Muscles rippled in its bul -like neck
and horns adorned the sides of its head, tapering upward
into wicked points. Bril iant crimson flames seethed inside
its maw.
The demon observed her with blazing crimson eyes.
“Blackthorne’s daughter,” it cried.
Harper turned, then glowered at her. “Get back in there!”
Riley shook her head, taking her place next to him. This
was the demon who had kil ed her father; she would not
hide from it.
Without asking permission she reached into the trapping
bag hanging off her master’s shoulder and retrieved two
grounding spheres. When she handed one to Harper, he
studied her for a moment, then nodded grimly, his pale scar
stretched tight.
“You know what to do?” he croaked.
“Yes.” Her fear felt so real she swore it was pouring out of
her skin like water from a faucet.
Harper angled his head, indicating she should move to the
right. As she took the first few steps, she heard the demon
chuckle in amusement.
Where is the angel? Or Beck and those damned hunters?
Why is it just the two of us?
“Now!” Harper shouted, but his command came too late.
A solid wal of air hit them like a jackhammer, causing Riley
to tumble backward. As she rol ed, she cradled the sphere
so it wouldn’t break. Hail and rain slashed at her body like
needles, the wind coming in unpredictable gusts so there
was no way to brace herself against the onslaught. Through
the torrent she saw Harper regain his feet. He didn’t wait for
her but threw his sphere toward the old mangled fence.
Enough of it was metal that the sphere caught hold and
began to run its blue magic toward the demon.
Lightning slashed out of the sky and struck the ground near
Riley’s feet. She yelped and jumped back, scorched earth
fil ing her nose. She launched her sphere at the stretch of
fence to the right of the fiend.
Abruptly, the wind shifted direction, coming from behind her
now. It slammed her onto the ground, then relentlessly
pushed her toward the demon. Riley skidded along on her
bel y, gravel imbedding itself into her knees and palms.
She saw the demon’s outstretched hand, pul ing her toward
it.
Wicked spikes extended from the fingers, spikes that
would impale her before the fiend ripped her in half.
“Die, you bastard!” Harper yel ed and threw another
sphere. It was luminescent gold and it exploded with an
earsplitting concussion underneath the Five. The demon
roared and then began to flail in agony. The wind propel ing
Riley vanished. She clamored to her feet and cheered.
Below the demon the gold magic spread across the
ground, separating it from its source of power. The fiend
struggled and rose higher in the air. Then it waved a hand,
bel owing in pain, and a deep pit yawned open. The
spreading gold sank into its depths. With a mighty effort,
the demon forced the hole closed, sealing the magic
beneath the earth.
They had failed.
Enraged, the fiend turned its fiery eyes toward Harper.
“Die, trapper,” it bel owed, and with a flick of a wrist, a blast
of wind flung Harper backward toward the demolished
building, rol ing him over and over in the gravel. When he
final y came to rest in a crumpled heap, the master didn’t
move.
There were sirens in the distance, but the cops wouldn’t get
here in time, not that they could do anything with a Geo-
Fiend. There were no hunters, no angel, and no Beck. It
looked like her dad was right: She’d be seeing him real
soon. At least she’d be able to tel him she’d done her best.
The demon turned its Hel fire eyes on Riley.
“Blackthorne’s daughter,” it cal ed. “Your time has come.”
Hands quaking, Riley armed herself with two Holy Water
spheres. They would do no real damage, but at least she’d
make a fight of it.
No way I’m dying without knowing why.
“Is this because of the Armageddon thing?” she asked.
The demon’s reply was a roar that rivaled a jet engine. It fil
ed her with such terror that her body went numb and the
spheres tumbled from her hands to smash at her feet. The
wil to stand drained away and she slumped to her knees.
“Why?” she demanded. “Tel me why!”
“You stand in the way,” the demon replied. With great effort,
she forced herself to look at the fiend. It was closer now.
She could feel heat radiating off it, and the acrid stench of
brimstone made her gag.
“I’d better take it from here,” a voice said.
Ori?
He stood a few feet to her left, clad in light silver armor that
seemed to generate its own light, his wings arched behind
him. With a deep laugh that spoke more of revenge than
mirth, he unsheathed a sword from the scabbard at his
waist. The blade ignited in white-hot flames, crackling in the
night.
“Omigod,” she whispered.
Riley pul ed herself to her feet and hurried to her master’s
side as the angel and the demon squared off.
Harper was stil breathing. She smiled, despite their
turbulent history. He was like her—hard to kil .
* * *
The demon laughed in derision, rising higher in the air,
gaining strength as winds whirled around it. “You chal enge
me, Divine? Your bones break as easily as any mortal’s.”
“So do yours, Hel spawn.”
The demon sneered, revealing razored teeth among the
flames. “We shal destroy al of you at the End of Days.”
Ori sighed. They were always like this—al Hel fire and
retribution. He didn’t understand how Lucifer tolerated
them. “You have violated the Eternal Oath. You know the
punishment, Astaring.”
The demon snorted flames at the use of its true name. “I
shal feast on your corpse, Divine, then I shal destroy
Blackthorne’s child.”
“Not tonight,” Ori said, raising his blade. “Not ever.”
With a tremendous shout that even Heaven would have
heard, the angel charged into battle.
A ferocious wind caught him mid-leap, but Ori used it to his
advantage and spun in the air, landing a slicing blow to the
fiend’s left shoulder. It shouted in pain, then slashed at him
with its claws. One caught the trailing edge of a wing,
ripping deep into the feathers and tendons.
A second before the other claw would have hooked him,
Ori spun out of its reach. A sudden downdraft pul ed him
toward the earth. His wings acknowledged it, but the injured
one didn’t have enough lift to counteract the plunge. As he
fought to regain altitude, the demon cast a torrential
rainstorm against him, drenching his wings and driving him
hard into the red clay and gravel. Ori managed to scramble
away to avoid being flattened by the fiend’s taloned foot.
Kil ing a weather-worker should have been nothing for a
Divine, yet this one had more power than he’d ever seen.
“Who is helping you?” Ori panted. “Name your demi-lord!”
“I shal tel you as you draw your last breath,” the demon
promised.
A bolt of lightning sheared down from the sky, hitting Ori’s
blade. He reeled back from the blow but did not drop the
weapon. Instead, he channeled the power of the storm
upward, gathering the wind, the rain, the hail, and the
lightning into one massive strike. Then he threw it at the
demon with every ounce of power he possessed.
As the fiend fought against the onslaught, Ori drove his
blade deep into the beast’s chest. He carved through the
ribs until its heart burst free, smoking black like hot tar. The
demon’s eyes widened in fear.
“Boon…” it cried. “Boon I grant thee.”
“Death is thy boon,” the angel replied.
Ori unsheathed his sword from the demon’s chest and fel to
his knees only a few feet away from his foe. The rogue was
whispering, gathering in power, probably trying to heal
itself.
The power around the demon shifted, grew stronger.
With a final dying breath, it cast forth that energy in a shock
wave that blew across the parking lot like a hurricane’s
winds. Ori cried out a warning, but it was too late.
* * *
Riley awoke in someone’s arms as a soft voice told her she
was safe, that the demon was dead. She blinked, trying to
clear her vision. It didn’t work. Everything was fuzzy, like she
was looking through gauze.
“Hold very stil ,” Ori said. He gently touched a finger above
one eye, then the other, and a tingle spread across her
face. Riley blinked again and everything became clear.
Then the angel took her hands in his and performed the
same miracle. The gravel embedded in her palms
dislodged as the wounds healed. He repeated the healing
with her knees.
“That’s serious angel mojo,” Riley said, trying to smile.
“Better be.”
She forced herself to sit up. “You’re hurt!” His one wing
bled, a bril iant blue fluid leaking from between the feathers.
“It is already healing. Do not worry,” he said. As she
watched, the wing did knit together and the feathers grew
back in place.
“Wow,” she said. That was the only word that seemed to
apply. She turned to look at where the demon had been.
There was just a smoking crater now. “Please tel me it’s
dead.”
“Dead and buried, just as I promised.” He paused, as if
hearing something she couldn’t. “Time for me to go. Your
master kil ed the demon. Do you understand?”
“Why should I lie?”
“It’s for the best. They cannot know what I’ve done here.”
“But when wil I see you again?”
“At the cemetery, tonight. Come to me when you can.”
“But what about—”
He touched a finger to the middle of her forehead and white
light sent her into oblivion.
THIRTY-ONE
Someone held her, cal ing Riley’s name. The voice
sounded so worried, frantic even.
“Ori?” she asked. When she opened her eyes she realized
it wasn’t the angel. From the expression on the man’s face,
he wasn’t happy she’d cal ed him someone else’s name.
Especial y that name.
“Beck,” she said. His worried expression diminished.
“Thank God,” he said. “When I felt the earthquake, I thought
ya were done for.”
Not yet. “Harper?”
“Bitchin’ up a storm. He’l be okay.” Beck looked around.
“Must have been a hel uva show,” he said, his voice thick.
“Sorry I didn’t get here in time.”
She swal owed and then grimaced. Her mouth felt like it
was ful of dirt.
“Water?” she croaked.
He laid her back down and dug in his duffel bag. Then she
was back in his arms sucking down the cool liquid. It felt so
wonderful. She struggled to sit up, cradling the water bottle
between her hands.
“Easy,” Beck warned.
She nodded, but sat up anyway. Her palms tingled. She
inspected one: The skin was pink but there was no sign of
the gravel burn.
No doubt about it. Angels are awesome.
She drank more of the water to clear her throat. “Harper
went after it,” she said. “He told me to stay in that pit thing
inside the building.”
“But ya didn’t stay, did ya?”
She shook her head. “I had to help him.”
A tortured sigh. “Wel , yer alive and ya got the bastard. I just
wish I’d been the one to take it down,” he said.
She realized it was more than just scoring a Five; it was al
about Beck extracting revenge for her father’s death. “If
you’d been here, you would have; I know it,” she said.
He gave her a nod, tel ing her he appreciated the gesture.
A paramedic knelt next to her. “How about you lay back
down and I’l check you out, okay?” the woman said.
Riley did as ordered, though she didn’t think anything was
broken. She answered the paramedic’s questions until the
woman was satisfied there were no serious injuries.
“I think it would be wise if you went to the hospital, just in
case.”
Riley shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Your cal .” The woman repacked her case and took off.
Riley sighed in relief and sat up again. Beck was near what
was left of the building, talking to Jackson and a couple of
the other trappers. Firemen mil ed around, and there were
a few cops as wel .
Her eyes skimmed across the parking lot to the smoking
hole where the Five had been. Ori said he’d get the thing,
and he had. He’d kept his word. But why did he wait so long
to show up?
She heard Harper’s voice, sharp and sarcastic. He was
sitting upright, holding an ice pack to his head, growling at
the paramedic who kept fussing with him.
You’re just a tough old bird, aren’t you? But when the time
had come, he’d protected her. That she hadn’t expected.
When Riley stood her head spun, so she waited until she
regained her balance and then walked across the debrisstrewn
parking lot to her master.
He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Brat,” he said.
“Master Harper.”
His paramedic tried the same “You should go to the
hospital” spiel with him and failed just as miserably. Once
the fel ow had cleared off and they were alone, Harper eyed
her.
“So where the hel ’s the demon?” he asked so quietly only
she could hear him.
She knelt next to him. “Dead,” she said. “You kil ed it.”
Please don’t ask me how.
He frowned. “I don’t remember doing that.”
Time to change the subject. “You could have let that thing
flatten me, but you didn’t. Why?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
She was too tired to edit her mouth. “You’re my master. I
couldn’t let that thing kil another trapper, even if I think he’s
a total asshat.”
Harper looked at her for a long time then cracked a toothy
grin. “And you’re one mouthy bitch, but you’re my
apprentice. I don’t need the reputation that my people die
because I don’t protect them.”
That was fair.
He slowly turned toward the building, and the grin fled.
She fol owed his gaze. The back wal was stil intact, but the
front was a mound of concrete blocks and protruding metal.
Steam rose from a couple of the piles, curling up into the
air. Papers fluttered in a light breeze, and the office chair’s
legs stuck up into the air like an overturned turtle.
“Damn, I real y loved that place,” Harper murmured.
How could anyone love an old smelly garage?
“My dad was a mechanic,” he replied, as if he’d read her
mind. “I used to hang around and watch him work on cars.
He could fix anything.”
“So this place reminded you of him?” Riley asked,
intrigued.
“Yeah.”
“Was he a trapper?”
A nod. “He died taking down an Archdemon when I was
sixteen.” Harper swal owed and then coughed, hard. He
looked up at her, no hint of arrogance in those ancient
eyes. “It’s why I became a trapper.”
He’d suffered a loss just like hers. She never would have
guessed.
“Riley?” Beck cal ed out.
She welcomed the interruption. It felt strange having a
regular conversation with Harper, and she suspected his
next move would be to destroy this touchy-feely moment
with a caustic remark.
Riley rose. When her balance faltered, Beck caught her
elbow. They both turned as four black vans pul ed into the
parking lot, one after another, throwing gravel as they
screeched to a halt.
“Took them long enough,” Beck grumbled. One of the
hunters stood out immediately: His body language told
Riley he was in charge. He ordered his men to fan out, then
headed her way.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Elias Salvatore. He’s their captain. Just be careful what ya
say to ’em.”
That was a given. At least the priest wasn’t here tonight.
“Next time, tel us where you’re headed,” Salvatore growled,
his frown aimed at Beck. “We could have been here
sooner.” Then he turned his attention to Riley. “You okay?”
She nodded. “So what happened here?”
“It was a Geo-Fiend,” her master replied, looking up at the
man, his face stern.
“Grounded?”
“Dead,” Harper said. His eyes met Riley’s and the
message was passed. No matter what real y happened,
the hunters weren’t on their side.
The captain signaled to two of his men. “Check out the
crater.” He turned back to the master trapper. “Any other
demons besides that one?”
Harper shook his head. “That was enough.”
“You have my admiration, Master Harper,” the captain said,
tilting his head in respect. “They are very difficult to kil .”
Harper coughed up more dust. “So I noticed.”
Salvatore crossed the lot to join his men near the smoking
hole, talking back and forth in what sounded like Italian.
There seemed to be some debate going on, with lots of
gestures.
Harper dropped the ice pack and then extended a hand to
Riley. “Get me up off this damned ground.”
Once she and Beck helped him up, he hobbled into the
rubble, his shoulders bent and his gait uneven. Jackson
joined him and they talked quietly among themselves. Then
Harper pointed at something. The other trapper began to
unearth it.
“So where the hel ’s yer fancy boy?” Beck asked. “Why
wasn’t he here keepin’ ya safe?”
She wasn’t going to take the bait.
“Whatever,” she murmured. It didn’t matter what Beck
thought.
Any doubts she had about the angel had perished with the
demon.
* * *
It was close to eleven when Beck final y made it to
Stewart’s place. Harper had refused to leave his scrap
metal col ection unguarded, so they’d loaded it into one of
the trapper’s trucks and stored it in Beck’s garage. The rest
of Harper’s stuff was in the back of another truck headed
for a storage unit. At least they’d been able to salvage his
filing cabinets and business records, though his personal
belongings were pretty much history.
Exhausted, Beck sank into the same chair he’d occupied
during his last visit.
“Scotch?” Stewart asked.
“Yes, but not much.” He didn’t need to get drunk, he needed
to sort out his feelings. When he’d seen Riley lying in that
parking lot, he was sure she was dead. He’d run to her,
praying to a God that he wasn’t sure existed, praying for a
miracle. Then he’d cradled her body in his arms.
When her soft breath had touched his face, he’d almost lost
it in front of her and the other trappers.
“Lad?”
Beck jerked out his thoughts. A tumbler half ful of amber
liquor sat on an end table next to his chair. He took a long
suck on the whisky.
“Yer not lookin’ good,” Stewart said, settling into one of the
chairs. “What’s wrong?”
Beck shook his head. He wasn’t ready to talk about it.
“Where’d Harper end up?”
“He’s upstairs, in bed.”
“No, I’m not,” the older trapper replied. He shuffled into the
room and chose a seat near the fireplace. The way he
eased himself into it told Beck the man was hurting.
“What would ya like ta drink?” Stewart asked. Beck noted
he’d not offered the man liquor.
Harper fumbled in a pocket and produced a bottle of pain
pil s. “Water.”
Beck did the honors, though it took some time to hunt
through the kitchen cabinets to find a glass. Once he was
back in his chair, they al stared at their drinks. None of
them wanted to talk about what had happened tonight.
No choice. “How’d ya kil the Five?” Beck said.
The master shook his head. “I didn’t. The last thing I
remember is being rol ed across the parking lot like a
bowling bal . The Five was stil kicking when I went down.”
“But how…”
“Riley know how ta take down a Geo-Fiend?” Stewart
asked.
Beck and Harper shook their heads at the same time.
“Then it appears we have a mystery, gents.”
More silence.
This wasn’t going to be easy, but Beck knew it was time to
come clean. “I think I know who took out the demon.”
The eyes of both masters shifted to him.
“There’s a Lancer in town named Ori. He’s been hangin’
around Riley. She told me he was the one who saved her
from the Five at the Tabernacle. Maybe he was the one that
kil ed it tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t she just say so?” Harper asked.
Beck shrugged. “Don’t know. This one’s an arrogant
bastard, and I think he’s got more on his mind than just kil
in’ demons.”
“Which means yer opinion of him might be biased,”
Stewart replied, a slight smile on his lips now.
“Yeah, maybe,” Beck admitted. Just tell ’em. If it kills my
chances at bein’ a master, so be it. “This guy was at the
Armageddon Lounge a few nights back. A couple Fours
came in, workin’ as a team. The older one had me dead to
rights. Next thing I know the demons blew out of there like
their tails were on fire.”
When Stewart scowled, Beck knew his next question.
“My soul’s stil my own. But this Ori guy just sat there and
watched the whole thing go down. They didn’t seem to
bother him at al .”
“Why didn’t ya mention this earlier?” the Scotsman
demanded.
“Too much hittin’ the fan. And I wasn’t proud I’d almost been
taken down. That’s the truth of it.”
The master took a big jolt of whisky. “Next time, ya tel me,
ya hear?” he said gruffly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did those demons know he’s a Lancer?” Harper asked.
“Don’t think so,” Beck replied. “They didn’t act like they
knew he was there.”
“A pair of Fours, and this guy doesn’t make a move on
them? That’s not right,” Harper said. “Freelancers are
always after money on the hoof.”
“Same thing tonight: If he’d kil ed that Five, he’d have
stayed behind to make sure he got credited with the kil ,”
Beck replied. And to make me look bad in front of Riley.
Stewart’s face was pensive now. “Push yer personal
emotions aside, lad, and do a gut-check about this fel a.
What are ya feelin’?”
Beck tried, but it was difficult. Too much of Paul’s daughter
was tangled up inside of him now.
“This guy’s real y smooth, but somethin’ about him’s not
right, and it’s not just because of … her.”
“Could it be another Four?” Harper suggested. “Is that why
the Mezmers ignored him?”
“I’m thinkin’ not. A Geo-Fiend wouldn’t back down from a
Four,” Stewart murmured.
“Riley said he’d been on holy ground. He’s not a demon,”
Beck added.
Stewart sat straighter in his chair as if he’d realized
something. “Is Riley stayin’ at the church tonight?”
“No, she’s at home now that the Five is dead,” Beck
replied.
“Cal her and have her come here.”
“But…”
“Just do it,” Stewart ordered, his voice unusual y crisp.
As Beck dialed the number he saw a look pass between
the two masters.
“What are you thinking, Angus?” Harper quizzed.
Stewart gave a quick shake of his head. Which meant he
didn’t want to talk about it in front of Beck.
The cal rol ed over to voice mail. Same thing with her home
phone. “She’s not answerin’.”
“Find her. Bring her here.”
“I’l have to give her a reason.”
“She doesn’t need one,” Stewart said curtly. “She’s stayin’
here until we know exactly who this Ori fel ow is.”
“What’s goin’ on, sir?” Beck asked. “Why ya so worried?”
“Just an old Scotsman’s paranoia. Get it done, lad.”
Beck left his whisky behind, heading for the front door.
Behind him he heard muted voices—Stewart tel ing the
other master just why he was paranoid. Beck couldn’t catch
the words, and part of him didn’t want to.
THIRTY-TWO
True to his word, Ori leaned against the red brickwork of
the cemetery gate, arms folded over his chest. He looked
like he had the first time Riley had seen him: His hair
slicked back into a ponytail, and wearing that black leather
jacket. No sign of those wings, no hint that he took orders
from Heaven. Just a hunky guy hanging around a
graveyard.
Waiting for me.
It seemed sil y, but after she’d cal ed Peter to let him know
she was safe just in case CNN covered the Harper thing,
she’d showered and put on makeup again. She’d worn her
best pair of jeans and her favorite shirt. She’d tried to tel
herself it was just something you did, but that’s not the way
it felt.
As she climbed out of the car, Riley’s finger brushed her
mouth, remembering Ori’s kisses, how they’d made her
feel. Those had been real. Maybe Simi was right:
Sometimes you needed to be a little wild, even if it was with
an angel.
Moving toward the gate, everything else but Ori faded from
view, his lazy smile drawing her in. She offered him one of
her own.
“Riley.” His smile widened as he took her hand, twining his
fingers with hers. They were warm, though he wasn’t
wearing gloves.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” she said, then regretted it.
It sounded needy. “I mean, you’ve probably got better things
to do now that the Five is dead.”
“I have no other task but you at the moment.”
As if to reassure her, the angel slid his arm around her
waist, pul ing her closer. She hesitated for a second, then
nestled into his side as they walked into the graveyard.
Leaves skidded along in front of them. As they passed the
empty guardhouse, a gust of wind pushed against her,
whipping her hair forward. Ori paused and looked back
toward the main gate, his brows furrowed.
“What is it?” she asked, turning.
A slight frown crossed his face, then vanished. “Just
someone trying to tel me how to do my job. It’s nothing.”
“I didn’t figure angels had that sort of thing.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Ori squeezed her hand and they began moving again, but
she could feel his tension. It hadn’t been there when she’d
first arrived.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “It feels weird not
having to worry anymore.”
“Enjoy your freedom; you’ve earned it,” he said.
“That was an awesome battle. I just wish you hadn’t been
hurt,” she said.
“Part of my job,” he replied. He wasn’t looking at her now,
like he had something on his mind. “I should have been
watching you closer. I am truly sorry about that. I was …
detained.”
Then he fel silent, like that topic was off-limits. The only way
to find out more about this guy was to ask questions.
She decided to start with one of the simpler ones.
“What do angels do al day?”
That pul ed his attention back to her. “Divines are given a
number of tasks,” he replied. “For example, this cemetery
has its own angelic caretaker who ensures that everything
is as it should be. Most places have their own Divine.”
“Are you talking about Martha?” she asked, surprised.
“I know her by another name, but yes, that’s her. Have you
never wondered why al this metal is stil here?” he said,
gesturing to encompass the graveyard. “She makes sure it
doesn’t get stolen.”
“So that’s why.” She looked up at him hopeful y. “Al Martha
told me is that I was to stop Armageddon. Do you have any
idea how I’m supposed to do that?”
“If I did know, I couldn’t tel you.”
“Surprise,” she murmured. “What she didn’t tel me is that
my boyfriend would go al nuts.”
“Would you have let him die if you knew what was going to
happen between you?” Ori questioned.
“Ah … no,” she replied. “Simon has a family who loves him.
I’l get over what he did to me.” In a few centuries.
“Maybe sooner,” the angel promised. A lock of dark hair
had fal en forward on his face, making him look like a bad
boy. A tingling sensation lodged in her chest.
Totally hot. And he’s with me. Even if it was only for a short
time.
She realized he’d probably read her mind, so she changed
topics.
“What’s Heaven like?”
Ori put a single finger to her lips. “So many questions.”
He gently caressed her cheek. When he drew her in for a
kiss, Riley’s world col apsed to only those points where
their bodies met.
When the kiss ended, she swore she could see infinity in
his dark eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
“Kissing you?” he asked, smoothing back a strand of her
hair. “Because I want to. Because I find you so amazing.”
Amazing?
She took a step back, though it proved harder than she’d
anticipated.
“You’re frowning. Are my kisses that bad?” he teased.
“No, it’s just…”
“You do not think yourself worthy of love.”
“No, it’s just that I’ve not had a great track record.”
“Then why blame me for the others?” he said, his voice
cooler now. “I have been nothing but honest with you.”
“Mostly because you haven’t told me that much.”
“So if I told you exactly how the cosmos works, how long an
angel can withstand a star going supernova, and that I was
there when it was al created, you would trust me more?”
Riley shook her head. “Then I’d think you were lying.”
“Exactly. Accept that I enjoy being with you. Accept that
when I’m with you I see Heaven in your eyes.”
“It’s hard for me to believe that.”
“I know.”
They’d reached her family’s mausoleum. Things had been
too heavy between them, so she asked, “Where are we
going tonight? On another picnic?” That would be so cool.
“Tonight we shal stay here.” He waved his hand, and the
mausoleum’s twin doors swung open on their own accord.
No key needed when you were an angel. Riley stepped to
the threshold and gasped. The interior was lit from within by
a myriad of candles, like a great cathedral. The flames’
reflections flickered off the stained-glass windows, igniting
the vibrant colors of blood red, royal blue, yel ow gold.
Ori pushed by her and settled into the niche at the back of
the mausoleum. Riley hesitated: Something felt weird,
which didn’t make much sense. He was one of Heaven’s
own. He’d saved her life. If you couldn’t trust an angel,
things were real y bad.
He studied her with those deep eyes. “I wish you didn’t
know what I am. It has changed things between us.”
“No. It’s not that.”
But it was. He’d probably met God in person, polished His
throne or something. It was like one of those books she’d
read when she was a kid: The girl would meet an immortal
guy, fal in love, and then everything would go wrong until
they saved each other from a hideous fate. The books
always had a happy ending, but she knew that was bogus.
There was never a happy-ever-after in real life.
With a sigh, Riley closed the heavy bronze doors, troubled
by her conflicted emotions. Behind her there was a
whooshing sound. She turned and couldn’t stop the gasp.
Ori’s leather jacket and T-shirt were gone, revealing his
muscled chest. A pair of white wings hung in the air behind
him. They weren’t ful y extended—the mausoleum was not
large enough for that—but stil they were incredible. There
was no evidence of the damage he’d sustained in the
battle.
Entranced, Riley walked toward him. Each iridescent
feather glowed as the candlelight touched it. She careful y
ran a finger down the length of one. It felt like fine silk.
Pul ing her to the floor, Ori laid her head on his shoulder,
curving a protective wing around her. Outside, the wind
gusted around the building and leaves pattered against the
metal doors. Al she heard was her heart beating in time
with his.
“I could stay here forever,” he said.
“But you won’t,” she replied.
Ori tilted her chin upward, looking deep into her eyes.
“Maybe I wil .”
She wanted him to kiss her, keep kissing her until nothing
else mattered. When his lips delicately touched hers, they
felt like the brush of a dove’s wing. The second kiss was
more insistent. A fire ignited in her bel y. She felt his fingers
brush her neck, gently grazing an ear as he leaned closer
and kissed her cheek.
As good as it felt, she was roasting. “Your wings are real y
warm,” she said. He helped her out of her coat. She felt
naked in front of him, exposed in ways she didn’t
understand. The fire in her bel y burned hotter.
Taking her hand, Ori placed it on his naked chest. Riley
could feel his heart beating underneath her fingertips. “You
stir my blood,” he whispered. “It’s been a long time since
that has happened.”
When they next kissed, she found herself leaning into him,
wanting him to touch her. Then she pul ed back and shook
her head.
“This is … crazy. This kind of thing only happens in books.”
“You’re sure of that?” he asked, wrapping her in those
magnificent wings again.
“Angels can’t, like…”
“Of course we can,” he whispered into her ear.
At his urging, she skimmed her fingers through his dark
satin hair, pul ing it out of the ponytail. The pool of heat in
her bel y spread downward. Without thinking, she kissed
his ear. He murmured in appreciation, drawing her closer.
Another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue playful y touching
hers.
Riley felt his fingers locate the top button on her shirt. He
looked deep into her eyes, seeking permission. When she
didn’t protest, it came open. He worked his way down the
shirt, button by button. As the last one gave way, he gently
pushed it back, then brushed his fingertips across the lace
covering her right breast. Riley hummed in response. The
sensations were almost too much for her to bear.
This wasn’t Simon or one of the other boys at school.
This was for real.
Too fast. With a groan, Riley pul ed out of his arms. She
needed time to think this through, to let her head clear.
“I’m not sure I’m … ready for this,” she said. It was a huge
step, even with a mortal. She couldn’t be the only woman
he’d been with al these ages. What would keep him from
getting tired of her?
“It doesn’t matter. I’m with you now,” he soothed. “I have a
duty to protect you, Riley, and the best way to do that is in
my arms.”
His tenderness calmed her fears, and she settled back into
his embrace. It would be so easy to let him make love to
her. Like in my dream.
Ori gently pushed a strand of hair off her face. “It’s your
choice.”
He’d read her mind again. He was right: This was her
choice. “I’ve never…”
“I know.”
He knows I’m a virgin? What doesn’t he know?
“How to win your trust,” he replied. He gently kissed her
forehead. “So much sadness for one so young.”
Riley curved into the hol ow of his wing, feeling his breath
across her skin like a whispering breeze. Outside, the wind
skittered dry leaves across the gravestones.
“Tel me what you want,” Ori urged.
Riley teetered on the edge. She was seventeen, not some
kid. She could be with him, but what would happen after
that?
“You wil set our future, Riley. I surrender myself to you, body
and soul.”
His next kiss was surprisingly tender. It felt like a lover’s
kiss.
“Tel me what you want,” he repeated.
Her final doubts melted away. “You,” she whispered. “I want
you.”
“Then I am yours, Riley Anora Blackthorne, and you shal be
mine.”
Ori curved his wings around her, lifting her face, her body to
melt against his. Raw desire surged between them.
It surrounded her. Overwhelmed her.
Love me. Forever.
Nothing else mattered.
* * *
Riley awoke sometime later, covered by a wing that was
toastier than any blanket. When she rol ed toward Ori, he
stirred, those dark eyes searching her face.
“You look content,” he said.
“I am.”
Did she feel different? Not real y. Other than an intense
heat that surged through her veins, she hadn’t changed.
Other girls had told her what it was like their first time, but
hers hadn’t been like that. There’d been no fumbling, no
uncertainty. Ori was a born lover, and now he was hers.
“I want this forever,” she said, tracing one finger across his
ful lips. Then she sighed. “But that’s a very long time, and I
haven’t even finished school yet.”
Ori chuckled. “You worry too much, Riley Anora, my valiant
light.”
She snuggled next to his body, mindful they were both
nude. Underneath them was some sort of padding, almost
like a sleeping bag only far richer in texture and comfort.
More angel mojo.
Ori bent over her, running a line of tiny kisses down her
forehead to her nose. “Morning comes soon. Let’s not
waste the night with talk.”
“What happens in the morning, with us I mean?”
His answer was a breath-stealing kiss.
THIRTY-THREE
When Riley awoke again she was lying on the floor of the
mausoleum ful y clothed. The comfy padding was gone; so
were the candles and the angel. For a few seconds she
wondered if it had just been a dream.
No dream could have been that good.
Then she saw the rose. It was blood red, lying next to her.
She sampled its fragrance and, like Ori, it was heavenly.
After some time, Riley final y moved into a sitting position.
So where was the angel? Doubts seemed to crowd her
when he wasn’t near. She wanted him here, holding her, tel
ing her she’d made the right decision.
How long can this last? What would Heaven say if they
found out?
She pul ed on her jacket and then combed out her hair.
A quick check of her pocket mirror generated a sigh of
relief. Her makeup wasn’t trashed. While she reapplied her
lip gloss, Riley tried to recal every moment with the angel,
but it seemed too magical to capture in mere memories. It
hadn’t been like she’d thought: It hadn’t hurt that first time,
and when she’d voiced her worries about becoming
pregnant, he’d assured that wasn’t possible, not with him.
Stil , something kept nibbling on her like a tenacious bug;
she couldn’t quite sort it out. Riley gave up and pushed
open the mausoleum doors.
She found her lover a short distance from the mausoleum.
His wings were tightly cramped against his back, a
barometer to his mood. Something was wrong.
“Ori?” she cal ed.
He turned toward her with an expression so sad it almost
brought tears. He beckoned her over, but when she asked
what was wrong, he shushed her.
“Enjoy the moment,” he said, intertwining their fingers.
They faced east. The sun had just poked over the horizon,
and it made the feathers on his wings glow as if they were
absorbing the light.
“I always love the sunrise,” he said. “It reminds me of
Heaven.” Then a tremor ran the length of his body.
“Ori, what’s going on?”
He turned toward her again, taking both her hands in his.
His expression was even sadder now. “You have a
decision to make, dear Riley. It wil be the hardest of your
life, and I am so sorry you must make it.”
He was spooking her. “What are you talking about?”
The angel hesitated. “I need you to pledge yourself to me. If
you do, then I can keep you safe for as long as you live.”
For a second she swore she felt the earth shake, but it was
just her body.
“I have made my commitment by being with you,” he
explained. “I have placed my future in your hands, Riley. Do
not think that was a light decision. In the past, any angel
who lay with a mortal woman was punished.”
“Punished? But isn’t God al about love?” she asked. “I
mean, wouldn’t He want us to be together?”
“There are rules.” Ori let go of her hands. “Your soul is …
in play, as we cal it. It happened the moment you made the
arrangement with Heaven. That agreement attracted notice
in the lower realms.”
“That makes no sense,” she said, stepping away from him.
“The demons have always known my name. You’re saying
that just because I agreed to help Heaven, now I’ve got al of
Hel after me?”
“Not al , only those who are truly ambitious.”
Riley drifted up the path toward the mausoleum, troubled.
She hadn’t expected this, not after the night they’d spent
together. She turned to face her lover. “What is this
decision I need to make?”
Ori sighed deeply, his expression stil troubled. “The
fundamental measure of a mortal is his or her soul. Yours is
very powerful, Riley. That is why you must pledge it to me.
That is how Hel wil know we have a bond, one that is lasting
and true. Only then wil you be safe.”
He wants my soul?
“Yes,” he said, reading her mind. “Nothing less wil do.”
He was a few feet from her now. The wings were gone and
he looked like any mortal. Harmless, if you didn’t know what
lie beneath.
Riley hesitated, so many questions pounding at her at
once. Why would an angel want my soul? Martha didn’t.
“That was different,” Ori responded.
“It doesn’t make sense. You’re saying Hel ’s after me, but
the Five tried to kil me before I did the deal with Heaven.”
“The rogue wasn’t after your soul, Riley. It just wanted you
and your father dead.”
“Why?”
Ori stepped closer, offering his hand. “Please trust me. I
only do this to keep you alive.”
He sounded so sincere, but she took a step back anyway. “I
have trusted you. I slept with you, remember?”
She’d given him something truly precious—her virginity.
You could only do that once. Did Ori think so little of her that
it meant nothing?
Something stirred inside her. Riley wasn’t sure what it was,
but it seared like a live coal in the pit of her stomach.
She’d felt this before, in the parking lot with Al an right after
he’d punched her.
“What does this soul pledging mean to me?” she asked.
“It means that we are bound together.”
“That was a vague answer,” she muttered. “You seem to be
real y good at those. Does that talent come with the
wings?”
Ori frowned. “This is best for both of us. I’m the only one
who hasn’t hurt you.”
“Give it time,” she said, surprised at her bitterness. What
was feeding that? Maybe the fact that almost every guy had
lied to her.
Ori began to pace in front of the mausoleum, his moves
disjointed, a mirror to his turbulent emotions. “I kil ed that
demon for you, Riley. I have saved your life more times than
you know. What else can I do to earn your trust?”
The coal in her stomach was a blast furnace now. She felt
the tears slip down her face, and she swiped them away
with the back of her hand. “Tel me the truth. How many
mortals have you been with? Am I the first? The tenth, the
thousandth?”
“This is for your own protection,” he retorted. “You have no
notion of how much danger you are in, from both Heaven
and Hel .”
“So God’s going to smite me, too?” she replied. “If that
happens, how am I supposed to stop the end of the world?
You guys real y need to get your stories straight.”
“If you deny me, others wil come for you, others more evil
than you can imagine. Please, Riley, I am your only hope,”
he insisted.
“They can’t get my soul unless I give it to them,” she said,
crossing her arms over chest.
“Oh, Riley,” he murmured, “there are countless ways to lose
your soul, most of them genuinely noble.”
“You’re lying. Why did I ever believe you?”
His wings reappeared, snapped tight against his back,
vibrating with anger. “Clear your head, girl!” he shouted, his
fist clenched now. “I am your last chance! Do not deny me!”
“Oh, dear, now you’ve upset him,” a smooth voice said.
“That is never a good thing.”
Riley jerked in surprise to find a figure leaning against one
of the gravestones clad in a black shirt and slacks, his col
ar-length ebony hair shot with silver. His eyes were
bottomless midnight blue.
Ori started, then gave a deep bow. “My Lord, I did not
expect you.”
My Lord?
The newcomer laughed at the angel. “Of course you didn’t.
No one ever does.” Those eyes fel on Riley again.
They had a depth to them beyond anything she’d
experienced.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“I’m his boss,” he said, angling his head toward Ori.
He sure didn’t look like her idea of God.
The figure straightened. “You work it out, Blackthorne’s
daughter. You’re a very smart girl.”
Blackthorne’s daughter. Demons cal ed her by that name.
Maybe Heaven did, too. They were on holy ground, so no
way this could be Hel spawn. Ori had cal ed him “my Lord,”
which meant he was an angel, at least.
“You have that right,” the figure replied.
Great. Mr. New Guy could read her mind just like Ori.
“I’l give you a huge clue,” the newcomer said.
Something flared in the air, and then a crimson doorway
appeared next to him. The air seethed inside the portal,
buoyed by unseen currents. Something waddled to the
threshold, bouncing and giggling. It was round, black and
white like a soccer bal , and about three feet tal . It had two
feet tipped with claws, horns that spouted out of the top of
its head, and pincers at the end of its arms. The moment it
stepped across the portal and its clawed foot touched the
hal owed ground, it shrieked and disappeared in a puff of
black, acrid smoke. The unmistakable scent of brimstone
stung her nose.
The newcomer rol ed his eyes, snapped a finger, and the
portal vanished. “Demons are so stupid.”
“Omigod, you’re…” she began, “… HIM?”
“Oh, indeed. I’m Lucifer,” he said. “You’d be surprised how
many mortals insist on using the S word. Or the D one for
that matter.” He shook his head in disgust. “I am neither.
I am the Light Bearer, the Prince of Hel , the Chief among
the Fal en, and the Adversary. Accept no substitutes.”
Oh, shit.
“That’s a very common reaction,” he replied.
“You can’t be here!” Riley protested. “This is hal owed
ground. This has to be a trick.”
“Hal owed ground is death to my Hel spawn but not to one
who was created by the Light. Fal en can tread here as
easily as you, child.”
Another one of those things someone forgot to tel her.
Lucifer wandered over to the other angel, eying his servant
intently. “So how goes it, Ori?”
“My Lord, I am fulfil ing my tasks, as you commanded,”
Ori murmured. “Al ow me more time, I beg of you.”
“Tasks? And what were those?” his superior quizzed.
“Refresh my mind.”
Ori swal owed uneasily. His wings were no longer pure
white but showed a thin line of ash gray at the tips. “I was to
utterly destroy the rogue demon, which I have done.”
“And?”
“I was to secure this girl’s soul by any means necessary.”
“About that second task,” Lucifer said, “I note you have not
fulfil ed it. Losing your touch?” When he didn’t reply, the
Prince leaned closer. “Or is there some other reason?”
“You lied to me,” she shouted, pointing an accusing finger
at him. “You said you loved me.”
The fire in Riley’s stomach grew hotter, spreading into her
chest now, threatening to consume her heart.
“I said I cared for you and that was not a lie,” Ori said,
stepping closer to her.
“Right. Try that one again,” she snarled. “You’re just sucking
up to him.”
“Besides being one of the most arrogant of my servants,”
Lucifer began, “Ori is incredibly talented at seducing
mortals. Male, female, doesn’t matter. They’re al the same
to him.”
“My Lord, please,” Ori began, like he was embarrassed to
have his sins paraded in front of her.
“Yes, this one is different for you,” Lucifer chided. “But she
is stil at risk, unless you finish what you started.”
Riley shook her head. “No go on the soul,” she said. “No go
on any of this.”
“He was not lying,” Lucifer replied. “Your soul is in play now.
You can blame Heaven for that. We offer security. If you do
not pledge your soul to Ori, others wil seek it, and they wil
use every means to secure it.”
“You can just tel them to back off, right?”
“I can, but that is no guarantee. Demons and Fal en are al
owed to make their own mistakes. Like my servant Ori,
here.” He clapped a hand on the angel’s shoulder, causing
her seducer to grimace. “But we’l get back to that in a
moment.”
“Why is this about me?” Riley demanded.
She saw a flash of anger in the Prince’s eyes. “Do not
assume you are the very center of the universe,
Blackthorne’s daughter. There is more at stake than just
your pitiful life.”
“You know, I don’t care anymore. I do one good deed and it
al goes to—”
“Hel ?” Lucifer quipped. “That’s often the case.”
“It’d be family tradition,” Ori said in a bitter voice.
The Prince gave him a sharp look, fol owed by a frown.
“Tread careful y, my servant.”
“What do you mean, family tradition?” Riley demanded.
“Why do you think your father lived as long as he did?”
Ori questioned. “Luck?” The smirk on his face made her
queasy.
“My dad was an excel ent trapper,” she retorted. “One of the
best.”
“He was good, but he wasn’t invincible. When that
Archdemon was about to rip out his heart, Paul Blackthorne
begged to stay alive. How could I ignore such a heartfelt
plea?”
“No, you’re wrong. My dad kil ed that thing. That’s how he
became a master.”
“He did, after we made the deal,” Ori said. “From that point
on, no Hel spawn could harm him. In exchange, he would
remain alive until you had become a master trapper.”
These were more lies. That’s what these monsters did:
They twisted the truth until you couldn’t tel day from night.
Lucifer bent over and picked up a withered leaf, examining
it like he’d never seen one before. “Your father feared you
being an orphan,” he explained. “A very noble gesture,
which cost him his soul.” He blew on the leaf and it turned
green, alive from the top to the stem. The moment it left his
hand it returned to the dead, shattered fragments floating to
the ground.
Ori started to say something, but his master waved him
silent.
The lies had a kernel of truth to them. Her dad had changed
after he’d captured the Archfiend. Quieter, more thoughtful.
He hadn’t shown any fear of demons from that point on.
“You understand now.”
She did. Her father, the man she loved so much, had sold
himself to Hel for his only child.
“I wil do the same deal for you,” Ori coaxed. “No Hel spawn
wil harm you. You’l do wel in this life, and at the end there’s
just a smal payment.”
Like I believe that. “And what about you? Do you get a
reward or something?” she chided.
Ori wouldn’t meet her eyes, so it was Lucifer that answered.
“If he does not take your soul, his power is diminished.
Power and status are everything in Hel , much like Heaven.
He wil suffer for his failure.”
If she agreed, she could trap and not get hurt anymore.
She’d be as good as her father, and none of the other
trappers could best her. She probably wouldn’t even miss
her soul. There was one glaring problem: “So if this is such
a great deal, why is my dad dead?”
The Prince of Hel shrugged. “Shit happens.”
Riley adjusted the messenger bag on her shoulder,
dredging up the last bit of courage she possessed. It was
pathetical y smal compared to the evil arrayed in front of
her. “Wel , this Blackthorne isn’t playing bal . You had me
once,” she said to Ori, “you’re not having me again. I’m out
of here.”
With her body shaking so hard it was difficult to walk, she
turned her back on the two Fal en Angels. This is insane.
How many steps would she take before they kil ed her?
Five? Ten? Would they let her think she’d reached safety
and then rip her apart? Throw her to a bunch of demons so
they could eat her alive?
“Riley, stop!” Ori cal ed out. “Your soul has to be mine. If you
align with one of the others, there wil be—”
“Enough!” Lucifer commanded.
A shril cry of protest fil ed the air, and then silence.
When Riley stole a look over her shoulder, Ori was gone.
Lucifer leaned against the base of a statue, grinning that
maniacal grin of his. Her eyes tracked up the plinth, then to
the statue. At the top was a stone angel clad in blue jeans,
his bare chest exposed to the air. Wings stretched behind
him, and both fists were raised toward the sky in righteous
anger.
Ori. In sculpted marble.
Lucifer cleared his throat, bringing her eyes back to him.
“My order to my servant was for one task only—destroy the
rogue demon.”
“But he said there were two tasks.”
“Indeed. He made the mistake of trusting another, one who
lied to him. One who told him what he wanted to hear.”
It hit her. “Ori wasn’t supposed to sleep with me, try to take
my soul?” she said.
“No.” A pensive frown settled on Lucifer’s face. “Ori had no
idea he was being used, and now he is paying the price.
As are you.”
“Did you turn Simon against me?”
“That was the other’s doing, not mine. However, it did push
you into Ori’s arms, which served my purposes.”
One by one the pieces fel into the convoluted puzzle.
She’d been herded like a sheep and never had a clue. “You
test angels, too?”
“It is my job,” Lucifer said solemnly. His expression
changed to one of determination. “If you agree to act on our
behalf, I wil give you certain assurances.”
“You’re not getting my soul. That’s just not on the table, no
matter what you do to me.”
A shrug. “Right now, you’re more valuable as a free agent,
though it does put you at greater risk.” Lucifer peered up at
the stone statue. “If you wish to keep those you value safe,
you wil owe me a favor. Should I set Ori free, he wil not
remember you with love and tenderness, not after this
disgrace. He has pride, one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and
you have damaged his reputation in Hel .”
Lucifer pul ed a face. “Now just who would he destroy first?
Maybe your little friend Peter, or how about that annoying
trapper who takes my name in vain so often. You know, the
one who loves country music so much?”
Beck.
“I’l even sweeten the deal,” the Prince of Hel added.
“You do what I want, and I’l grant you one wish. Oh, and I
can’t bring the dead back to life, so don’t bother with that
one.”
It al came back to her dad and his sacrifice. “Who
summoned my father from his grave? Ozymandias?”
A snort came her way. “A dabbler in the dark arts?
Hardly.”
“Then who?”
“Me, of course,” the Fal en said, beaming. “Who else would
be the dragon?”
It’d been right in front of her al the time. Even the hunters
had the dragon on their patches symbolizing the battle
between good and evil.
“Why did you summon my dad?”
“To keep him out of the hands of those who would use his
knowledge against us.”
“Where is he—”
The Prince waved her off. “Do we have an agreement?”
he demanded.
The fight went out of her. “What do you want me to do?”
“A little task when the time comes,” he replied. Al pretense
of good humor vanished. “Fail me,” Lucifer said, jabbing a
finger upward at the marble Ori, “and I’l set the avenging
angel free. Trust me when I say that his wrath has been
known to level cities.”
My friends’ lives. Atlanta. That’s what hung in the balance. It
was no longer just about her or her father. “No on the soul;
yes on the deal.”
Lucifer’s blue eyes sparkled. “Excel ent. Don’t worry, it
balances out the one you made with Heaven, and just might
keep you alive.”
A second later the Prince of Hel vanished in a flash of bril
iant light, fol owed by an overly dramatic clap of thunder.
Riley slumped against the nearest gravestone. Her eyes
took the tortuous journey from the bare toes to the
handsome face of the enraged angel who had betrayed
her. God help her, but she stil half believed what Ori had
said, that he real y was trying to protect her. How much of
what he and Lucifer had told her were lies? How much was
the truth? And why hadn’t Heaven warned her she was in
danger?
Riley had gone too far now to walk this back, not after she’d
slept with a Fal en and made a deal with the Prince of Hel
himself. The longer she looked at it, Lucifer had set up his
tests to ensure she’d fail. How else would he get her on Hel
’s payrol ?
Harper was right, she was twisted.
“Just like my father.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Riley sat on the wooden rocker on Beck’s front porch,
working up her courage. It was ironic she’d come to him for
help, but she had no place else to go. He wasn’t home, but
if the number of cal s on her cel phone was any indication
he’d frantical y been trying to find her, at least until about
four in the morning. The messages had a common theme:
Stay away from Ori.
“Too late.” She hadn’t heard her phone ring last night, but it
was a safe bet the angel made sure no one could find her
until he’d finished with her.
Beck answered on the first ring and he sounded sleepy.
“Riley? I’ve been cal in’ ya al night. Where were ya?”
“At the cemetery. I stayed in the mausoleum.”
“Ya weren’t there. I looked. I walked al over the damned
place.”
More angel mojo courtesy of Ori. “It doesn’t matter now,”
she said. “I’m at your house, on the porch.” She blinked
away tears as the final admission came forth. “I need your
help, Beck. Something bad’s happened.”
When he asked what was wrong, she refused to tel him.
No way she’d tel him over the phone. He gave her the alarm
code and told her where to find the spare key. “I’l get there
as soon as I can,” he said and then hung up.
Once she was inside and had turned off the alarm, Riley
stood rooted in the entryway. If things played out like she
suspected, this might be the last time she’d ever be al
owed in this house.
The morning sun poured in the front window, sending
beams of light onto the wooden floor. The house smel ed
like fried chicken. Probably takeout. Riley made it to the
couch, tucked herself into a bal , and pul ed the crocheted
afghan over her, even though she was too warm. The
afghan’s faint pine scent reminded her of its owner’s
aftershave. She tucked it closer to her chin. Of al the people
she could have run to when things went bad, she had come
to Denver Beck, even though she knew he’d be the one
most hurt by the news. From this moment on, nothing would
ever be the same. She had made the ultimate mistake; now
she needed to find a way to survive it.
Al along Beck had watched out for her. “He warned me.
Why didn’t I listen?”
Because Ori said all the right words.
Riley ground her teeth in frustration. It would be easy to
blame it al on angel mojo, but that wasn’t right. She’d been
so desperate for someone to love her, not to chal enge her
every decision, she’d walked right into the Fal en’s featherlined
trap. She could blame the angel for what happened—
and Ori was good for a lot of it—but that would be lying to
herself. She’d done the same rebound thing after Beck had
returned from the Army and ignored her. That had earned
her Al an’s abuse.
Why do I do this to myself? Am I stupid or what? Why was it
so important someone love and care for her? It wasn’t like
she’d come from a broken home. She’d been loved, knew
what it felt like. And that made her want it even more.
The minutes crept by like a furtive mouse skulking along the
baseboards. Soon Beck would pul into the driveway and
she’d tel him what had happened. Tel him al of it.
Wel , not everything. He didn’t need to know she’d made a
bargain with Lucifer to keep him alive, or that her father’s
soul belonged to Hel .
Riley adjusted the afghan, sending another wave of its
owner’s woodsy aftershave into the air. There was a further
reason she’d gone for Ori, and she couldn’t deny it any
longer.
I was so jealous. Beck’s new girlfriend had turned Riley
total y green from the moment the reporter had knocked on
her door. That envy had colored almost every decision from
that second on. Simon’s betrayal had opened the wound,
and Justine had poured acid into it.
Now I’m in a world of hurt and I have no one else to blame.
She heard a truck door slam and the sound of boots
pounding up the front stairs. Her heart clenched, knowing
what was to come. Beck was through the door and at her
side in only a few steps. His duffel bag clunked down on the
wooden floor, and then he was kneeling in front of her, his
face wreathed in worry.
“What’s wrong? Are ya sick? Should I cal Carmela?” he
panted.
“No.” He’ll hate me when he knows what I did.
“Riley? Tel me what’s happened. Yer so pale.” He reached
out to touch her face. The tender gesture pushed her over
the edge.
Tears burst out of her in torrents, her body shaking to its
core. He wrapped his arms around her, and that made it
even harder. Ori had stolen so many precious things from
her, and Beck’s friendship was one of them.
She heard him murmuring in her ear, tel ing her it would be
okay.
No, it’s only going to get worse.
Final y, when she’d cried herself out, she pul ed back.
Beck was stil kneeling in front of her. There was a wad of
tissues in her hand, and she had no idea how it got there.
She blew her nose, wiped her tears, and then cleared her
throat. “Ori…”
Beck’s face went stony. “That bastard? Did he hurt ya,
girl?” When she didn’t answer, he demanded, “Did he
force…” His voice faded and she could see the dread in his
eyes.
Riley shook her head and laughed bitterly. “No. He didn’t
force me. I gave it to him.”
The thick intake of breath told her she’d been right. Beck
was going to hate her for this.
“Oh, God,” he muttered. “Ya let him.… Why the hel would ya
do that? I told ya he was no good.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “He said I was special. He said
that he loved me.” Even now, as she spoke the words, she
could hear how weak they were. “He said…”
“Ya were one of a kind, that he always wanted to be with ya.
We al use those lines, girl.”
And we always believe them.
“Goddammit!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. His sudden
motion frightened her, and she cringed back against the
couch. “Why him? Why not … someone who cares about
ya?”
Someone like you.
She had never considered that Beck might be interested in
her in that way, but from the expression on his face, it was
true. It was knowledge gained too late.
“So why the hel are ya here? Ya pregnant?” he snapped.
Am I? Had Ori lied about that, too? “That’s not the
problem.”
Beck dropped into the chair across from the couch like he
had no more strength in his legs to keep him upright.
“Then why come runnin’ to me?”
“I made a mistake, I know that, but there’s more to it. I need
your help because Ori … isn’t human. He’s an angel.”
“Angels don’t fuck mortals, girl. He’s lyin’ to ya again.”
She grimaced at the raw language and the barely
contained fury behind it. “He showed me his wings.”
Beck smirked. “Bet that isn’t al he showed ya.” Then a
frown came. “Why would an angel want ya?”
Riley had asked herself that a hundred times, but now she
knew the answer. “Because I’m Paul Blackthorne’s
daughter. Because he wanted my soul.” So he’d have a
matched set.
“Angels don’t want souls. Only Hel spawn pul that kinda
—”
She could tel the moment the truth hit him.
“Sweet Jesus, he’s a Fal en?” Beck retorted. “How could ya
be so stupid?”
Her anger final y stirred. “I made a mistake, okay? I trusted
him. You’re doing the same if you believe everything the
stick chick tel s you.”
“Leave Justine out of this,” he said, his face growing
crimson.
“Ask yourself why she wants you. Is it because you’re good
at knocking boots, or is it because of something else? You
sure she’s not after your soul, too?”
Beck grabbed up his duffel bag and surged to his feet, a
feral snarl erupting from his throat.
“I’m not gettin’ lectured by some dumbass girl who puts out
for demons,” he shouted. “I always thought ya were different
than the others. I was such a damned fool.”
He was out the door in only a few steps. Seconds later his
truck roared to life. She stepped to the window, knowing
this was the last time she’d see him. She’d have to go to
Fargo now, get out of Atlanta. Leave Denver Beck, the
Guild, al her friends behind.
The truck peeled rubber out of the drive and onto the street.
As Beck drove away, he was talking to someone on his
phone, gesturing toward the house. Probably tel ing
Stewart how badly she’d screwed up.
Her mistake, her BIG mistake was already rippling outward
like a tsunami. Her apprentice license was gone.
No way they’d let someone who’d been with a Fal en stay in
the Guild. Beck would hate her for life. That hurt the worst.
Damn you, Ori, you’ve ruined everything. And I let you.
* * *
Riley bent over the sink in Beck’s smal bathroom, splashing
her face with cold water. No matter what she did, she felt
like she was burning up inside, as if the lump of coal in her
stomach had spread heat throughout every single cel of her
body. Was it because she’d been with a Fal en? Would it
ever stop? She stared up at her reflection in the mirror.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her face was flushed,
despite the cold water.
God, I look old. As if one night with Ori had subtracted three
decades of physical payment. The dark circles under her
eyes were more pronounced now, and her skin seemed
translucent, but not in a good way. Riley plucked at a silver
strand of hair that poked out at her temple. She was only
seventeen. How could she have gray hair? She yanked it
out, glowered at the strand, and washed it down the drain
with extreme prejudice.
A sharp rapping noise brought Riley upright. Someone was
banging on the bathroom window. It wouldn’t be Ori.
He’d just appear out of nowhere, grab her, and disappear
them to a remote location where he could torment her. Like
Hel , where those stupid soccer-bal demons lived.
The banging continued, more frantic now, and she thought
she heard a familiar high-pitched voice. Riley pushed aside
the window curtain and started in surprise.
The Magpie from her apartment was gesturing frantical y,
jumping up and down on the sil .
“What are you doing here?”
He shrieked something.
“Settle down. What are you trying to say?”
“Deeemon hun … ters!” he shouted.
“Where?”
“Here!” the Magpie shouted back. “Coming for you!”
Omigod.
Riley bolted from the bathroom, grabbed her messenger
bag, and fled out the back door. A few seconds later she
was in her car and speeding down the back al ey. As she
slowed to make the turn onto the street, she saw a black
van rol into Beck’s drive. Then another. Their side doors
opened and armed men burst out of them, heading for the
front and back of the house in a coordinated assault.
How could they know about Ori? How did they know I was
here?
The answer struck her like a brick to the forehead. Beck
had been on the phone when he’d driven away. He hadn’t
cal ed Master Stewart—he’d cal ed the hunters down on
her because she’d chosen Ori over him.
Riley’s hands shook so hard she found it difficult to drive.
The bile rose in her throat, but she forced herself to swal ow
it down. He had said he’d always look after her, honor her
father’s memory, but once his guy ego got bruised, Beck
was al about payback.
Her phone rang. It was him. She tried to ignore it, but the
fury was too much.
“Riley?” Beck said as she answered the phone. “I—”
“You sold me out, you hick bastard!” she shouted.
“You’re no better than Simon or that damned angel. I should
have known you’d screw me over.”
“What are ya—”
Riley jabbed the button on the phone, cutting him off.
When it rang seconds later, she turned it off and threw it
into her bag. With her luck the hunters could track her by it.
Who knew what kind of crazy technology the Vatican
possessed.
The shakes caught up with her seconds later, causing her
to pul into an abandoned parking lot and lean her head on
the steering wheel. This time her lungs didn’t constrict,
didn’t fail to pul in the air she needed. If anything, they
expanded. The anger fueled her desire to survive. She
would never let anyone hurt her again. Never.
But where could she hide? Her apartment? No, they’d look
there for sure. She didn’t dare go to either of the masters;
that would just make trouble for the Guild. Same with Ayden
and the witches. Peter wasn’t an option without causing a
bunch of hassle with his dad. She had to disappear, make
them think she’d left town until she had time to do just that.
There was only one person who might be able to help,
providing he was wil ing to accept the risk.
THIRTY-FIVE
It took only a few minutes to make it to Little Five Points. It
took longer to locate a parking place. Final y she stashed
the car behind a health food store, away from the main
street. Maybe that would buy her time in case the Vatican
was working with the local cops.
Paranoid much?
It seemed that just about everyone was out to get her.
Wel , except the Five, and that was because Ori had kil ed
it. Or did he?
Absolutely everything she’d believed was up for grabs.
She’d thought Simon was the perfect boyfriend, that they
had a future together, but that relationship had gone down
in flames. She was certain that Beck would always be there
for her. Not so much. The only thing she could be sure of
was that her dad was dead and that she’d slept with a Fal
en. The rest was pretty much smoke and mirrors.
Riley hurried down Enchanter’s Way, moving past the café,
the witches’ place, and then left into the al ey that led to
Mortimer’s house. She kept turning around every few steps
to see if she was being fol owed. After she knocked on the
necromancer’s door, she fidgeted with the strap of her
messenger bag.
What if he won’t take me in? Then she’d have nowhere to
go.
The door slowly opened. She had expected Mort’s
housekeeper. Instead it was the summoner himself. “Hel o,
Riley.” His smile looked genuine. “It’s good to see you.”
Then he frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I…” She looked around nervously. Any minute armed men
might storm down the al ey to arrest her. “I’m in deep
trouble. The demon hunters are after me.”
Mort’s eyebrows rose in tandem. For a second she was
sure he’d slam the door in her face, but to her amazement,
he beckoned. “Then you’d better come inside.” He shut the
door behind her, bolting it. “What’s happened?”
Riley couldn’t tel him everything, but at least she could give
him the short version. He deserved that if he was going to
help a fugitive.
It came out in a rush. “I’ve got a Fal en Angel who wants to
steal my soul, I owe Heaven a big favor, and the demon
hunters want to arrest me because they think I’m working
for Lucifer. I need a place to hide until I can get this worked
out.”
“That’s al ?” the summoner asked, quirking a smile.
Riley stared at him. How could he be so calm about al this?
“What are the hunters up to?” he asked.
“They’re raiding Beck’s place. They could come here, too.”
“Wouldn’t do them any good,” he stated. “They won’t find
you, even if they come inside the house. Magic has its
benefits, you see.”
“You could get in big trouble taking me in,” she cautioned.
“Most certainly. Where did you park?” She told him.
“Give me your keys. I’l hide the car.”
Riley handed over the key ring, along with the vehicle’s
description, knowing she just had to trust him.
Mort pointed down the hal way toward the circular room.
“I’l have my housekeeper bring you some food. You look
like you could use it.”
“Thanks. I real y mean it. I didn’t have anywhere else to go,”
she admitted.
“I don’t get to play the good guy very often. It’s fun.”
Not if the hunters arrest you.
Mort opened the front door then looked back at her. “He
said you’d come.”
Before she could ask who he meant, the necro was gone.
Riley walked down the hal way and into the big room, each
step feeling like it was a mile long. The smel of wood
smoke tickled her nose as she dumped her messenger
bag on the picnic bench. She issued a heavy sigh. It was
answered by an odd sound, like the shifting of dry leaves. It
reminded her of Ozymandias’s il usion at the graveyard.
Had Mort sold her out, too?
Then she saw the figure as it rose awkwardly from a chair
in the corner, a thin scarecrow in a suit and red tie. It slowly
moved into the brighter part of the room, a strand of brown
hair dangling across its forehead in a way that was so
familiar.
“Pumpkin?” the figure cal ed out.
“Daddy?” she cried.
Riley flung herself at her father, nearly knocking him over.
As they embraced, the scent of cedar chips and oranges fil
ed her nose.
“My beautiful daughter,” he murmured, hugging her tight.
“I’ve missed you so much.”
“It’s al gone wrong, Dad. I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“It’l be okay,” he soothed. “We’l get through this …
together. I won’t let you down.”
She was with her father again. The whole world might be
searching for them, but that didn’t matter now.
As Riley’s tears soaked into his suit coat, she made one
final vow:
I swear that Hell will not have this man. Even if it means I
take his place.
Read on to see a
SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT THRILLING
DEMON TRAPPERS NOVEL!
Coming Winter 2012
Copyright © 2011 by Jana Oliver
ONE
2018
Atlanta, Georgia
Riley Blackthorne’s tears were no more. She’d cried herself
dry, but remained in the arms of a dead man. If given the
chance, she would stay there for the rest of her life.
When she looked up, sad brown eyes gazed back. Her
father, Master Trapper Paul Blackthorne, was a reanimated
corpse now, summoned from the grave by none other than
the Prince of Hel . Like the day he’d been buried, her dad
was stil wearing his suit and his favorite red tie. The one
she’d given him as a present.
“I never thought I’d find you,” she whispered.
“I always knew you would,” he said, smiling. The smile
wasn’t quite right, like a cheap imitation.
Riley laid her head on his chest, but it wasn’t like it should
be. His heart was dormant now. The essence of her father
had been silenced.
Reluctantly they broke apart. With the Vatican’s demon
hunters searching for her, she’d taken refuge in Mortimer
Alexander’s house; she had nowhere else to run. She
hadn’t expected to find her missing parent waiting for her.
Her father took her hand. “Come with me.” She fol owed
him down a hal way, then outside into the morning light at a
pace that was just above a shuffle. They entered a wal ed
garden. Cardinals and blue jays flitted around a bird feeder.
Water cascaded from the hands of a nude stone nymph
perched in the center of a broad fountain. She was
laughing, flicking water off her fingers as if her world was
only this smal courtyard. Riley and her father settled on a
stone bench stil covered with frost.
Too many questions careened inside Riley to be held at
bay.
“What’s it like?” she asked, her voice barely above a
whisper.
“Very … peculiar.”
That wasn’t an answer. “You can’t tel me, can you?”
“No. Not like I thought,” he murmured.
The next question was just as hard. “You didn’t get to see
Mom, did you?” she asked.
There was a minute shake of his head as those eyes went
even sadder, if that was possible. Her mother was dead
and now that her dad had made a deal with Lucifer, he
wasn’t headed to Heaven. He’d never get to see Riley’s
mother again.
“Dad…” His eyes met hers. “Lucifer told me what you did.
How you gave up your soul for me.”
The truth stil hurt: A few years before, her dad had faced
death at the hands of an Archfiend and had pleaded for his
life—for her sake. He’d pledged his soul to Hel in exchange
for staying alive until his only child made master trapper, so
Riley wouldn’t be on her own, wouldn’t starve or become a
ward of the state.
“Did Mom know?” A nod. “Why didn’t you tel me?” she
asked.
“You were too young.”
“That’s crap and you know it,” she retorted. “I was old
enough. What else haven’t you told me, Dad? What else is
waiting to fal on my head?”
He didn’t reply, his eyes not meeting hers now. Which
meant there was more.
Her father pul ed her into a tight embrace. Every time he
moved there was a crinkling noise, like old paper.
Something to do with being reanimated.
“I did what was best. My soul isn’t important.”
It was so important that Lucifer wanted it. Even though he
hadn’t wanted Riley’s.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of oranges and
cedar chips, trying to find the good in al this. There was
very little, other than she was with her father for a little while
longer. Right now every second counted.
Soon you’ll be in Hell with all those demons. How do I live
with that?
* * *
To Denver Beck, there were many ways to welcome a new
day—spread-eagled on his own lawn, wrists secured by
flex-cuffs wasn’t the best of them. Not to mention the rifle
barrel jammed into the back of his head.
“What the hel is goin’ on?” he bel owed into the dirt.
The response was the sound of combat boots tromping
around inside his house as their owners’ voices cal ed out
to one another in Italian. When there was a sharp shatter of
glass, he swore, trying to lift his head to see what was
happening. The rifle barrel only pressed harder, jamming
his face back into the ground.
Beck closed his eyes to keep the dirt out of them and
forced himself to relax. If he fought back, the demon hunter
behind him might feel the need to put a bul et in his skul .
I’ll be damned if I die like this.
His only choice was to remain here until the Vatican’s elite
team finished their search. Which, from al the commotion,
involved tearing the house apart in the hopes of finding
something.
When he heard a name in the midst of the voices flowing
around him, he sighed into the dirt. They were searching for
Riley Blackthorne, the seventeen-year-old daughter of
Beck’s dead trapper buddy, Paul.
The day had sucked even before this paramilitary-style
raid, one Beck was sure his neighbors were enjoying with
their morning coffee. Just after dawn Riley had arrived on
his doorstep, weeping and shel -shocked. Through tears
and sobs she’d admitted her blackest sin: She’d spent the
night with a Fal en, one of Lucifer’s own.
Beck had known this Ori guy was bad news from the first
moment he’d seen him with Riley, but he’d never expected
the bastard to be a Fal en angel.
Why him? Even now he could see her huddled on the
couch, weeping, as he’d shouted that very question at her.
After al Beck had done for her, she’d taken up with that …
thing.
When he’d spat wicked slurs at Paul’s daughter, she’d
responded in kind. Fearing how bad it might get between
them, Beck had bolted from the house. When he’d returned
a short time later, he’d found his front door wide open and
the Vatican’s team on the prowl.
More rapid-fire conversation bounced around him now:
Beck didn’t need to speak the language to hear the
frustration. Since Riley wasn’t lying in the dirt beside him,
this raid made the hunters look bad. They would need a
scapegoat and Beck would do just fine. A new voice cut in
—it was the hunters’ captain. Apparently he’d final y
decided to join the party.
Without warning, Beck was hauled roughly to his knees.
Once he was up, he tried to wipe his mouth on a shoulder: It
proved impossible with the flex-cuffs in place. The demon
hunter with the rifle circled around to the side now, the
weapon pointed at Beck’s chest.
The captain of the unit squatted in front of him, his dark
eyes flinty. Elias Salvatore was thirty-two, a decade older
than Beck. He had a Mediterranean complexion, black hair,
and a sleek goatee coupled with an athletic build. His navy
turtleneck sported epaulets and the demon hunters’
emblem—St. George slaying the dragon. Crisply pleated
trousers tucked neatly into polished combat boots.
“Mr. Beck,” he said evenly.
“Captain Salvatore. What the hel is goin’ on?”
“We were informed that Riley Blackthorne was here.”
Who told ya that?
“She was here a while ago. Must of left.”
The man’s eyes narrowed farther. “Where is she?”
“No idea.” It was a safe bet one of the neighbors had heard
them shouting at each other, so he went with the truth in
case the hunters bothered to check. “We had words.”
“About what?”
“That’s none of yer business,” Beck said. A second later he
was facedown in the dirt, a heavy boot pressing on his
back.
The captain issued a crisp command and Beck was hauled
up again. He gave a look over his shoulder and found that
the boot belonged to Lieutenant Amundson, the captain’s
second-in-command. He was a tal man, Nordic, and not
known for his manners.
Beck spat dirt. “Get these damned cuffs off me.”
Salvatore gave a gesture. There was the snick of a knife,
then the cuffs fel away. Amundson had made sure to cut his
palm in the process.
Beck wiped his hands on his jeans, revealing the blood.
The captain delivered a penetrating look over the
prisoner’s shoulder, then gestured for his lieutenant to
move away. “I apologize.”
Beck clamped down on his fury. Throwing punches wasn’t a
smart move right now. Instead he ran his uninjured hand
through his hair to dislodge some of the dirt and to buy him
time to think this through.
Did the hunters know about Riley and the Fal en? They
have to. Why else would they be looking for her? Stil , he
didn’t dare make assumptions.
“So what’s this al about?” Beck asked.
The captain rose. “Let’s go inside.”
Beck stood, dusted off his jeans, and retrieved his trapping
bag where it lay near the driveway. He felt the bottom of the
canvas and was relieved to find it wasn’t wet, which meant
none of the glass spheres inside had shattered when he’d
been tackled by the hunters.
After ensuring there was no one else in the house,
Salvatore closed the front door behind them. Beck had
expected the place to have been turned inside out, but that
wasn’t the case. The only damage appeared to be a glass
that had been knocked off the counter. He ignored the
mess on the floor and dropped onto the couch in the same
place that Riley had occupied when she’d delivered her
devastating news.
Where are ya, girl? If she ran to her apartment, they’d find
her there. If she was smart she’d go to Angus Stewart, one
of the two master trappers in the city. Stewart would watch
over her.
The captain sat in a chair across from him. He moved as if
he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. “We must find
Riley Blackthorne as quickly as possible.”
“Why?”
“There’s a Fal en angel in Atlanta. His name is Ori. We
believe he has targeted Paul Blackthorne’s daughter.”
Beck made sure he appeared shocked. It wasn’t hard.
He stil couldn’t believe that Riley had been with one of
Lucifer’s al ies.
“Why would one of those want her?”
Salvatore shook his head. “We don’t know. There is a
strange pattern of events in this city, and that usual y means
there’s an epicenter, a focus to that activity.”
“If yer sayin’ that Riley’s the reason for al this—”
“What other conclusion can we draw?” Salvatore retorted.
“She was nearly kil ed by a Grade Five demon.
The same fiend pressed its attack during the trapper’s
meeting at the Tabernacle. That ambush alone cost you a
third of your Demon Trappers Guild.”
“I know the numbers, hunter,” Beck replied sul enly. “Why a
commando raid on my house? Ya could have knocked on
the door like anyone else.”
“But you weren’t home,” the captain observed. “Which
leads to another question: Do you usual y leave your house
unlocked?”
Beck hesitated. “No. Why?”
“Both the front and back doors weren’t bolted and your
alarm wasn’t engaged. The back door was partial y ajar,
indicating a hasty departure, perhaps?” The captain leaned
forward, elbows on knees. “Did you cal Riley and warn her
that we were coming?”
By now they’d have gone through his phone and know he’d
cal ed Riley after they’d quarreled, so he opted for the truth.
“I didn’t know ya were comin’ here.”
“But you spoke to her.”
“Yeah. We argued about this Ori guy. He’d told her he was
a freelance demon hunter and I told her to stay away from.
She wasn’t listenin’ so we had words. I cal ed her to…” Why
had he cal ed her? Certainly not to apologize, that was for
sure.
“Where is she now?”
Beck shook his head. “I don’t know. Now I’m done talkin’
to ya unless the Guild’s lawyer is watchin’ over me.”
The captain sighed. “Look, I respect your loyalty to the girl’s
father. Paul Blackthorne trained you, brought you up through
the Guild. You were there when he died at the hands of the
same demon that tried to kil his daughter. I know what
you’re feeling, but we need your help.”
“Bite me.”
Salvatore scowled. “So be it.” He triggered a radio on his
shoulder and Italian fil ed the air. He’d barely finished giving
the order when two hunters were through the front door.
The captain rose from the chair, his face set. “Denver Beck,
as representative of the Holy See, I arrest you for
obstructing justice, additional charges to be filed at a later
time. You are duly warned that if you are found to be aiding
Hel in any manner, the ultimate penalty is death.”
“Go figure,” Beck muttered.
TWO
“Syrup?”
“Thanks,” Riley said. Her father pushed a tal plastic bottle
across the table like it weighed a hundred pounds.
She stifled a sigh as she squirted a thick line onto the stack
of steaming buttermilk pancakes. Riley should have been
thril ed: she was having breakfast with her dad one more
time. How many mornings since he’d died had she wished
for this very thing? Now that it had come to pass she wasn’t
so sure.
They were seated at a picnic table in a circular brick room
that smel ed of wood smoke. Mort had told her that the
table was easier to move when he wanted to conduct
rituals. The whole building had a different feel to it, one that
Riley couldn’t quite grasp. Something to do with Mort’s
magic, perhaps.
Her dad watched her eat in silence, not joining in the food
or the banter they would have enjoyed in the past. A stray
lock of brown hair curled onto his forehead like always. But
something was missing—the part that made him so cool.
Instead he was a human placeholder, a bookmark in a lost
life.
There was a soft shuffling at the doorway that announced
Tereyza, their host’s reanimate housekeeper. That’s what
came with hiding in a necromancer’s house—dead
servants. The woman looked at Riley, at the plate ful of
pancakes, and then up at Riley again. Pancakes made by
Emalie, another reanimate who never left the kitchen.
Great. Even the dead are guilting me now.
Riley obediently picked up the fork and dug in.
Apparently that was enough for the housekeeper, as she
returned the way she came. Though the food was excel ent,
after two mouthfuls Riley put down her silverware.
“Does Beck know about your deal with Hel ?”
Her father shook his head. “You should eat. You’re so thin,”
he replied.
Too much had happened in the last few weeks for her to
have much of an appetite: her dad’s death, the attack that
had kil ed so many trappers, her boyfriend Simon’s
betrayal. Then there were Ori and Beck. Even more
betrayal. Could she ever trust a man, or an angel, again?
But I am. She was hiding in Mort’s house, trusting him not to
turn her in to the hunters.
“Eat,” her father repeated.
Riley returned to the pancakes. They were stil warm.
How could that be? After the first couple of mouthfuls, she
began to eat in earnest. She needed comfort food and a
nap. Then she’d figure out what to do. Where to go. Who
else she could trust?
By the time she finished eating, Riley was so tired she
couldn’t think. When their host offered her a place to rest,
she readily accepted the kind gesture. She found the
bedroom bright, decorated with cream wal s and peach
accents. A girl’s room. Maybe he has a younger sister. Or a
niece.
As she yawned, Riley pul ed the curtains to reduce the light,
then did a test bounce on the bed. Definitely workable. Pul
ing off her shirt, her long hair fel over her face. With it came
the unmistakable scent of crisp night air.
Ori’s scent.
“Damn you,” she swore, flinging her clothes in al directions.
Riley fled to the shower, adjusting the temperature as hot
as she could stand. As the water ran, the night before
rushed through her: meeting the angel at Oakland
Cemetery, and how handsome he’d been. How right it had
felt to let him make love to her for her first time.
Then this morning had arrived, bringing betrayal and a
broken heart.
“Al lies,” she said. He’d had only one reason for being nice
to her, claiming she was special. Her soul. Riley couldn’t
scrub away the taint, the feeling that somehow she’d been
violated by her own heart. At least she could mourn where
no one would hear her.
* * *
While some would argue that the Westin wasn’t a jail, the
earnest demon hunter parked near the hotel room’s door
told Beck he wasn’t free to come and go as he pleased.
Since it looked like he was here for the time being, he took
himself to the bathroom, used the toilet, and then washed
his face and hands. Running a wet facecloth over his hair
took most of the dirt out of the blond strands. Al of this was
busywork while he tried to unravel the knots in his life.
Riley’s selfish actions had brought the hunters to his
doorstep. That angered him, not only because of what
she’d let that Fal en do to her, but because he’d promised
her father he’d keep her safe. Stil , Beck’s wounded pride
was the least of his worries: What would the hunters do to
Paul’s daughter when they caught her? Would they put her
on trial? Lock her up? Or worse?
Knowing that his questions were not going to be answered
by staring into the bathroom mirror, Beck returned to the
bedroom. The hunter was stil there, vigilant as ever.
Dusting himself off, which left a trail of dried grass on the
carpet, Beck unlaced his work boots and dropped himself
on the king bed. It was one of those fancy ones you find in
expensive hotels. He’d learned to sleep anywhere during
his stint in the Army, so something this soft made him
uncomfortable.
By his count there were two hunters guarding him: one in
the corridor and one in the room with him. He could try to
escape, but it’d probably buy him a bul et. Captain
Salvatore had promised to cal Master Stewart, and for
some reason Beck trusted him to do just that. If he was
patient, the Scotsman would get him out of here.
The guard in the room was Hispanic with dark, intense
eyes and a fighter’s bulk. He kept his attention riveted on
his prisoner’s every move.
“Can ya not do that?” Beck growled. “Yer drivin’ me crazy.”
The guy gave a shrug, then settled back in the rol ing chair,
his attention a few feet to Beck’s left. That was some
improvement.
“How long is this gonna take?” No reply.
Knowing he wasn’t going to be told anything of value until
his captors were damned wel ready, Beck pul ed himself
off the bed and went through his exercise regime to blow off
steam. Fifty push-ups fol owed by fifty sit-ups. Then another
fifty push-ups, some one-handed. As he worked up a
sweat, he tried hard to block the memories: Riley crying in
his arms, the knowing smirk on that Fal en angel’s face.
How disappointed Paul would be if he knew his daughter
had been touched like that.
Dammit. I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never
enough.
He lost count of the push-ups and final y slumped to the
carpet when his arms grew too weak to support him and his
back felt like it had been scorched by molten lead. The pain
did as he’d hoped, blocking things he didn’t want to think
about. Muscles quivering, he returned to the bed, tucked his
arms behind his head, and stared up at the pebbled ceiling.
Someone had known Riley was at his house this morning
and that list was pretty short, unless his neighbors had
decided to spy for the hunters. Master Stewart knew she
was there: Beck had cal ed him the moment he’d left her at
the house, seething in anger at what had fal en out between
her and the angel.
Then there was Justine Armando, the woman he’d been
with overnight. Justine was a new addition to Beck’s life, a
freelance journalist who’d arrived in Atlanta at the same
time as the hunters. She trailed after their teams as they did
the Vatican’s wet work across the world, writing up
newspaper reports on their exploits. Beck had been
interviewed by her … twice. Then they’d taken it a step
further and he’d landed in her bed. That’s where he’d been
this morning, in this same hotel, when Riley’s panicked
phone cal had reached him. When he’d heard that terrified
voice, he’d bailed out of Justine’s arms and bolted out the
door, sure Paul’s daughter was in grave danger.
Had he told Justine where Riley was? He had to admit he
wasn’t sure. Al Beck could remember was the petulant
frown on his lover’s face as he bent over to kiss her goodbye.
Couldn’t be her. He wasn’t wil ing to accept that, though he
knew Riley would believe it in a heartbeat. He could stil
hear her warning him about Justine and how he was going
to get hurt. If Riley had taken his advice, she wouldn’t be in
a world of hurt.
Ya wanted that damned angel, then live with that mistake.
Forever.
His words were at war with his heart. Everyone made
mistakes, and most didn’t end up with Hel or the Church
breathing down their necks.
When there was a knock at the door, the guard cautiously
checked the peephole, then opened it to reveal Lieutenant
Amundson. The second-in-command held Beck’s cel
phone in his hand.
“Your master wants to speak to you,” he said in his heavily
accented English, plain he wasn’t happy about it.
He tossed the phone on the bed, unconcerned if somehow
he disconnected the cal .
Jerk. Beck sat up and took the phone. “Sir?”
“What is goin’ on, lad?” Stewart’s Scottish brogue held
none of its usual cheeriness.
“I’m”—Beck shot a surly look at his captors—“enjoyin’
the hospitality of the hunters. It has somethin’ to do with
Riley.”
“So I gather. Any notion of where she is?”
“No, sir. Not a clue.”
“Wel , then, let me talk to the Viking again.”
Viking? Figuring he meant Amundson, Beck passed the
cel phone back. After a short burst of conversation, the
hunter ended the cal , but kept the phone.
“You’re here until we have her,” Amundson announced.
“If that’s the case, how about some breakfast?”
There was a grunt from the lieutenant and then the door
shut behind him. The guard resumed his post in the chair
as Beck stretched out on the bed again. Staring up at the
ceiling, al he could think of was Riley. Her tears and his
unrelenting fury. How sick he’d felt when she’d told him what
she’d done.
How could you let him touch you? Was I just a meal ticket
for ya, girl?
It was best he had no idea where Riley Blackthorne was
hiding. The way he felt right now, he’d hand her over to the
demon hunters himself.
ALSO BY JANA OLIVER
The Demon Trapper’s Daughter
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations,
and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SOUL THIEF. Copyright © 2011 by Jana Oliver. All rights
reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175
Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.
10010.
www.stmartins.com
ISBN 978-0-312-61479-9
First Edition: September 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-8425-6
First St. Martin’s Griffin eBook Edition: August 2011