by Jana Oliver
The room was as crowded as it had been the last time, approximately forty-five or fifty summoners present. The twin fireplaces—one at each end of the room—blazed away, and this time the string quartet was playing something by Vivaldi rather than Bach. The décor still channeled the Victorian era. Or in this case, the Civil War South.
Riley’s eyes tracked immediately to Lord Ozymandias. He had a small crowd of summoners around him, but she noted they kept a respectful distance. Ozy was no one’s friend. He was just too powerful for that.
A bar sat nearby, with necros lined up to buy a drink. There was even a table of hors d’oeuvres. It dawned on her that the Society would probably expect her to pay dues, just like the Guild, except she’d have no money coming in from any magical activities. She certainly wasn’t going to reanimate corpses for a living, not after what happened to her dad.
Riley wove her way through the crowd, looking for Mort. A few summoners gave her a frown as she passed, but she kept moving. Since she was one of the rare few not wearing a robe, she stuck out.
After a slow trek around the room, including a brief chat with Lady Torin, one of the nicer summoners, she located Mort back where she’d started—standing next to Ozymandias, though the rest of the group had wandered off. Ozy was in his usual midnight-black robe. To her surprise, Mort’s was black as well.
She walked up, nodded to the high lord, and pointed at Mort’s robe. “When did this happen?”
“Last week,” he replied. “I passed another magical level.”
“A big one apparently.” One he hadn’t mentioned during their studies together. “Congratulations! That’s awesome. Does this mean I have to call you Lord Mortimer now?”
“No. I’m not at that level yet.”
“I have been urging him to take the test for some time, but he kept holding back,” Ozymandias said. “Now that Mortimer has an apprentice, he has no real reason not to don the black robe. A lordship will be coming soon enough.”
Mort seemed embarrassed by the praise, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks.
Ozymandias’s strange eyes went to her pendant. “It was wise not to wear the witch’s amulet tonight, but you do have a great deal of chutzpah to wear a demon claw to a summoners’ meeting.”
She smiled. “You guys display your level of magical ability by the color of your robes. This claw indicates my abilities as a trapper. Same thing.”
To her surprise, Ozymandias’s mouth tipped up into a matching smile. “Well said. Not all of us here will agree, but you have every right to claim that trapping. Especially since you almost died performing it.”
“Exactly,” she said, unnerved that he knew so much about the incident. Looking out at the room, she asked, “How does this go down?”
“General business first, then they’ll call you and the other potential initiates to the front. The assembly will decide if you’re worthy to join us,” Mortimer explained.
“So I can get voted off the island, then?” she asked.
“You can. I doubt you will, though.”
“Why?”
“Wait and see,” Ozymandias said.
For the next quarter hour she and Mort circulated around the room, introducing her to the summoners and making small talk. All the while, she thought of Beck in the truck, reading his book. Hopefully he wasn’t getting too cold, blanket or not. Knowing him, he wouldn’t turn on the truck’s heater.
When it came time for the meeting, uniformed waiters quickly set up the chairs, all facing a podium. Mort guided her to a seat in the front by two other summoners, each sitting next to a would-be apprentice. One was a young man, the other a woman in her thirties. They peered at Riley with open curiosity. Like her, the newbies weren’t wearing robes.
“Do I have to sacrifice anything to join this group?” she whispered to Mort. “Kittens, puppies? Virgins?”
He shook his head, barely holding back a grin. “Just take a pledge that’s remarkably similar to the one Ayden and her people use: An ye harm none, do what ye will.”
“That, I can handle.” She hesitated, then added, “You and the witches have a lot in common. Why are you always at each other’s throats?”
“Old prejudices. Silly, if you ask me, but then I’ve fought next to one and she kept me from becoming a demon’s meal. That colors my thinking.”
As it should.
What would it be like if the trappers, summoners, and witches all worked together? Was there any way to make that happen?
Not as long as they hate each other.
She suspected Lucifer would be happy if those prejudices never changed.
Chapter Eighteen
Under the able direction of the summoners’ leader, Lord Barnes, the meeting went quickly. In many ways, it reminded Riley of the trappers’ meetings, only with less swearing.
“First, we need to acknowledge a new black robe.” Lord Barnes gestured toward Mort. “Please stand, Senior Summoner Alexander.”
Mort did, but this time there was no embarrassment noticeable.
“I am honored to have reached this level. I thank Lord Ozymandias, in particular, for pushing me along.”
Ozy dipped his head in acknowledgment from his position farther down the row. Mort returned to his seat, as Barnes shuffled papers on the podium.
“We have three new candidates for acceptance into the Society tonight. Let us begin with Summoner Gold.”
Riley watched the process unfold. First Gold stepped forward, gave a brief bio on the newbie, who was an EMT in the real world. Only then did the applicant take his place in front of the assembly. Questions were posed, which the summoner, not the applicant, answered. The vote was taken and the EMT was in.
The next summoner and his applicant went through the same process, and the woman was voted in. Then it was Riley’s turn. Mort took his place up front, but to her surprise, he gestured for her to join him. It appeared her vetting was going to be different.
“I have come before this body to propose membership for this talented young woman. For those of you who do not know her, Riley Blackthorne is a demon trapper, the daughter of Paul Blackthorne, who was a master trapper until his death earlier this year.”
Murmurs began, as Riley knew they would. Her name carried a lot of baggage. While Mort talked, she made sure to keep her eyes off the crowd, firmly affixed on the exit sign at the other side of the room. When a piece of wood popped in one of the fireplaces, she barely managed not to jump.
“Riley has been studying with me since the first part of November. She wishes to learn magic, not for the purposes of summoning, but for protection,” Mort continued. He sounded fully confident, though she suspected he was as nervous as she was.
Was the timing of his upgrade in robe color significant? Had he taken that magical test so that when he presented her application, they’d see a very senior summoner pleading her case? It sounded like something he’d do, especially if Ozy was guiding the process.
Mort laid out her other qualifications: a journeyman demon trapper who had killed two Archfiends, was studying Latin, etc.
When it came to the questions, Riley’s mouth went dry. This was almost as bad as the night she’d first been presented to the local trappers’ Guild, except that her dad had been there to guide her.
A thin, dark-haired summoner rose from his seat. “Is it not true that she summoned a demon in Oakland Cemetery earlier this year? If so, what keeps her from doing it again?”
Since that was a huge no-no in the Society now, it was a valid question.
Ozymandias rose. “With Summoner Mortimer’s assistance, Ms. Blackthorne summoned that fiend at the behest of the Vatican and the Demon Hunters, in an attempt to break the spell that allowed Hellspawn to be on holy ground. A spell that I was forced to lay because of a Fallen angel. My arrogance threatened the lives of everyone in this city. Ms. Black
thorne and her father were instrumental in helping break the rogue angel’s plan. That is one of the reasons I am so vigilant against such a thing happening again.”
The summoner who’d asked the question looked over at Riley. “Do you intend to summon demons if given the opportunity?”
She shook her head. “The last thing we need is any more of those things. Besides, if I try, I will have not only the Vatican and the grand masters after my head, but also Lord Ozymandias. No demon is worth that risk.”
Ozymandias retook his seat, apparently pleased by her reply.
“What benefit does she bring to our society?” a female summoner asked.
“Riley will serve as an intermediary between us and the trappers,” Mort said. “Given the dangers presented by Hellspawn in this city, and recent unfortunate events involving us summoners, it is vital we have a conduit to them.”
“Is it true she is also in contact with the witches?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Yes. She has been studying with one of them.”
“Why?”
Mort looked over at Riley now, and she realized he expected her to answer.
Okay then . . . “Because witches and summoners conduct their spells differently. I want a firm grounding in both types of magic.”
“What do you need to be protected from?” a man asked, rising. He wore a navy blue robe, which meant he was fairly senior in the organization.
“Go on, let them know what,” Mort said. “All of it.”
After clearing her throat, Riley told the group about Summoner Fayne and how she tried to call up a Fallen angel using Riley’s blood in Edinburgh.
“Surely not. Sacrifice is anathema to us,” the man replied.
“It is, except when one of you—or any magic user—goes off the rails. That’s why I want to learn how to protect myself.”
“Is this true?” the man asked, looking toward Ozymandias.
“Yes. Every word.”
Silence now. It seemed the news that one of their own had very nearly conducted a human sacrifice to call up one of Lucifer’s angels had struck home.
“Anyone else?” Barnes asked. More silence. “Then let us put it to a vote.”
The results blew her away: Only eight summoners voted against her. The rest were good with her joining their group.
The necros had shown her more support than the trappers.
As she digested that surprise, she and the other two newbies were lined up in front of the members. Riley figured they would hand out the light gray robes and call it good. Instead, it was Ozymandias’s turn. He walked up to the first new summoner and placed his index finger in the middle of the man’s forehead. The fellow closed his eyes and twitched.
“Light gray,” Ozymandias announced. Which meant the guy had little or no magical talent, as was expected. He was handed the robe, which he pulled on with great ceremony. Light applause filled the room.
The result was the same for the woman. Once the robe was on, more applause.
Gray is so not my color.
Then Ozy was in front of her, staring into her eyes. “Ms. Blackthorne.”
“Lord Ozymandias.”
His finger touched her forehead. It felt warm, comforting. Then a blast of magic blew through her like a summer storm. Her mind saw colors that didn’t exist, heard music that had yet to be written and voices that were centuries old.
When she blinked open her eyes, she found Ozy watching her with a faint smile.
“Well, well,” he said. He turned to the assembly. “Light blue.”
There were gasps, which told Riley this wasn’t the usual thing. A quick glance at Mort earned her a wink.
“My lord,” a senior summoner said, rising. “Are you sure?”
Ozy’s good humor vanished. “Yes, I am. Do you wish to test her?”
The man paled and shook his head. “No, it’s just . . . ”
“Unusual,” the high lord replied.
“Very, Your Lordship.”
“I should be light gray, right? Because I’m a newbie,” Riley asked.
Ozymandias nodded. “We show our magical ability by robes that range from lighter to darker: gray, blue, brown, dark crimson, and finally black.” His eyes sought out Lady Torin’s. “Though some summoners prefer to wear the darkest crimson rather than black.” She gave a nod in response.
Riley grew increasingly uncomfortable. “But I don’t know that much.”
Ozy tilted his head. “Your will to live, to protect others, was so strong that you blew apart Summoner Fayne’s spell. You grounded her magic and destroyed her protective circle. That speaks volumes about what you are capable of.”
“What level was Fayne?” someone called out from the back of the room.
“Dark brown.”
More gasps. Whispers began among some of the attendees, making Riley even more apprehensive.
“I’d like to test her,” a summoner called out.
Ozy gave him a perturbed frown. “Are you amenable to that, Ms. Blackthorne?”
“Sure.” What else could she say?
The other summoner walked up and stared at her for a good ten seconds, as if he could somehow detect that she was a fraud. “Close your eyes.”
She did, and felt the same rush of magic as when Ozy checked her out, except this time the level of intrusion was considerably lower.
“And?” Ozymandias asked.
“Ah,” the man said as Riley opened her eyes. He appeared chagrined. “Light blue.”
“It appears we have a consensus,” Lord Barnes said.
Mort pressed a baby-blue robe into her hands and helped her pull it on. He had her raise the hood, as well. The fabric seemed to have a sheen all its own.
After Riley and the other new members recited the pledge, there was polite applause.
“Welcome to the Summoners Society, Riley,” Mort said.
“Thank you.” She looked over at Ozy. “You, as well, Your Lordship.”
“Your father would be very proud of you at this moment,” Ozymandias replied.
In her heart, she knew he was right.
Then there was more meeting and greeting. Now that she was one of them, the summoners were as nosy as little old ladies at a church picnic. They wanted to talk to her about trapping, about her father, about everything. Mort ran interference for her until he finally indicated that she could politely escape.
When she claimed her coat from the butler, she realized she didn’t need it, not with the robe. She turned to find Mort beaming with pride.
“Did you know I’d test blue?”
“I had a suspicion.”
Riley gave him a long hug. “Thanks, for what you did for me, for my dad. All of it.”
“You thank me now. Wait until you see what I have in store for you at the next lesson.”
“Levitation?”
He shook his head. “How to break a glamour spell. You’re ready for it.”
“Do I need to buy more aspirin for my headaches?”
“Get the giant economy size,” he said.
Riley laughed, hugged him again, and stepped outside into the crisp night air, one of the newest summoners in Atlanta.
Beck hopped out of the truck as she approached. He took one look at the robe and raised an eyebrow. “Jumped a few hurdles right out of the gate, didn’t you? You know, I’m not surprised.”
“You promised me barbecue,” Riley said, still weirded out by what had happened. Carefully removing the robe, she folded it and tucked it away in a special cloth carrying case they’d given her.
“Well, Summoner Blackthorne, do they have any clue what they’re in for now that yer one of them?” he asked.
“Probably not. But what could go wrong?”
He cocked his head. “You really wa
nt me to answer that?”
“No. We’ll find out soon enough.”
And with my luck, it’ll all go wrong.
Chapter Nineteen
Riley slept in, still wiped out from all the stress of the night before. When she finally dragged herself out of bed, Beck was already up—still on Scottish time. He was an early bird anyway, but now it was worse than that.
When she finally wandered into the kitchen, he wasn’t there sipping coffee. Finally, the occasional thump thump registered. He was upstairs on the house’s unfinished second floor, lifting weights.
That’s not right. Not when she could barely lift a coffee cup.
As she munched on cereal at the table, her little demon buddy pattered his way across the counter.
“Dude, you do realize we have a grand master in this house, right?” she said, pointing upward as another thump rattled the ceiling.
The Magpie nodded, clutching his bag tight.
“Well, okay. Just don’t annoy him, and he’ll probably leave you alone. And please don’t rip off any of his stuff.”
The demon shrugged, as if Beck and all that he stood for weren’t any big deal. He must have gotten over his initial shock. Then the fiend was gone, no doubt hunting another piece of jewelry.
By the time Riley had woken up enough to have a brain, Beck had come downstairs and hopped in the shower. After they both dressed, it was time to pick out a Christmas tree. That made Riley feel particularly happy, especially given the extra bonus of watching him flex his muscles as he chopped it down.
They’d just put on their coats and headed for the door when Beck’s cell phone rang. He took the call, frowned, and said they’d be there as soon as possible.
“What’s up? I’m not on call.”
“Apparently the jerk from National needs to see you. Now.”
“But we’re going to get our tree.”
“Now,” Beck repeated.