by Jana Oliver
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 frilly black shirt. He really needed an adult to dress him.
“Let me get a beer,” the necro called out.
Beck nodded, then racked the balls, 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 carefully 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 wall 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 ball. “What about Mortimer?” he asked.
A chuckle came his way, along with a quick shake of the necro’s head. “Mort’s totally by the book. He won’t reanimate a corpse without the family’s written permission … in triplicate.”
“How’s about Christian?” Beck asked, recalling the necros who’d been visiting Paul’s grave over the last couple of weeks.
“Don’t think so. From what I heard, the spell 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 hall. 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 Fallen. 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 wall. “Another beer?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Lenny headed toward the bar. The necro wasn’t telling 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 hall had just rated another Grade Four demon.
Beck carefully set his beer aside while scanning the room through the uneven reflection in the mirrored wall. 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 all 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 hellish 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 spell, slowly encompassing all 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 actually good news. If the demon were more experienced, all of the customers would be under its spell. 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 allure of the demon’s seductive message as it trickled through his mind. The humming worked, allowing 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, still facing the mirrored wall, he had both hands full—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 illusion, not until he used the Babel sphere, but there was no doubt this was Hellspawn.
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. Smaller and smaller she shrank, he
r clothes vanishing. Left behind was a short, squat body that looked like it’d been coated in brown mud. Hellfire red eyes gleamed at him, and a long barbed tail thrashed back and forth. The claws were black and sharp.
The other patrons’ dull 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.
“Well 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 collect his money. Not a bad deal: Shoot some pool, drink some beer, and collect four hundred dollars for his trouble. To think he’d wasted all 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 allowed her barbed teeth to show, causing some of the patrons to knock over their chairs and scramble backward.
“Time to play, trapper,” it called 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 filled the air as the end of the whip caught the orb and shattered it in his hand. Cursing, he pulled 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 follow him to the rear exit. Beck wished he could join them.
“What the hell are you?” a man called 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 bellow, his ability to breathe restored. Two of his buddies pulled 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 Hellspawn as tall 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 Hell, slaughtering rivals with every step. Those that survived were the really evil ones. That it would show him its true form so easily told Beck he was in serious trouble.
“Killing 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 swallowed 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?”
Chilling laughter burst from the fiend’s mouth. “You will be perfect for my amusements, trapper. I wonder who will 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 will 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 Hell 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 spell.
“Your soul, trapper,” the fiend urged. “Swear it to me and I will make your dreams come true. I’ll bring her to you, and she will 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 Hell 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 pull on his mind snapped like an overextended rubber band. The sheer force ricocheted him back on top of the pool table, scattering balls in all directions as his head pounded like someone had clubbed it with a sledgehammer. Tears ran down his cheeks.
When he finally opened his eyes, Lenny stared down at him, concerned.
“You okay?” the necro asked. Around them Beck could see other faces, all 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 really 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 all happened, but the bottom line was that his soul was still his. The bad news was that Hell 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 o
f the fiends. Normally 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 Hell 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 Hellspeak younger demons employed once their true forms were revealed. Parts of that form still 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 Hellfiends 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 killed 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 challenged a Divine so openly.
Ori issued a casual grin in response, though all he really 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 Hell,” the senior demon responded, trying to regain the upper hand.
Too late. The younger Hellspawn had confirmed Ori’s suspicions: Someone had deliberately targeted the trapper in an effort to get to Riley.