Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2

by Jana Oliver

  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 Hellspawn cowered in fear.

  “Tell me, pitiful one,” he ordered, putting power behind the command.

  The creature began to babble in Hellspeak. 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.” Finally he had a lead on the rogue that had killed Master Blackthorne. Ori turned on a heel and hiked down the alley. 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 brilliant 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 silly 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 will 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 called him and then sweetly but firmly refused to let him off the hook. The interview just had to happen this morning. Beck had finally 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 still uncomfortable. There was no good reason for him to be talking to this lady, especially 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 pulled 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.

  “All right, then, Justine. What is it ya wanna know?”

  “I want to tell 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. Usually if you didn’t talk, the other person would fill 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 sell my stories to newspapers all 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. “Shall 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 Sadlersville, 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 really need more than just a ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Mr. Beck.”

  “Just Beck. That’s what folks call me.”

  “Well, then, Just Beck…”

  He opened his mouth to tell her she’d gotten it wrong, but then saw the corners of her mouth curve up in a smile. She was pulling his chain.

  “Yer messin’ with me,” he said.

  “I am. So why don’t you tell me what happened that night at the Tabernacle, and I will tell 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 tell 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 really 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 will 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 will show up.”

  “More work for you,” she said.

  He shook his head. “They’ll 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 kill demons in certain circumstances,” she said. He nodded. “Is this one?”

  “Hell, 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 all this, and then I will follow up with you
if I have more questions.”

  Beck grunted. “The mayor’s all 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 cell phone number beneath it. “Keep in touch, Beck. I’m sure I will have more questions.”

  He looked into those deep green eyes and decided this hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought. Actually, a pretty nice way to start his day. “I’ll do that, Justine.”

  As she strolled out of the restaurant, he put the card in his jacket pocket and signaled for a refill on the java.

  “Not bad at all.”

  * * *

  To keep her mind off Simon and his infantile behavior, Riley dug into the pile of bills that seemed to have grown overnight. Paying bills 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 still 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 called 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 pulled from the cupboard.

  He noticed the stack of bills. “How ya doin’ for money?”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “I paid the cell phone bill, the utilities, and the rent. There’re more bills due in about a week and I’ll be short by then. Peter knows a place where I can sell a few of my old CDs for cash.”

  Beck nodded and then fell 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 cell 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 fill 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 all of them at one time or another.

  She let her eyes skim over the paper in front of her. Russell 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 filling in the form, though it was almost physically 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.

  “Hellspawn,” Beck replied. “They’ll add the coroner’s report when they send it in, so you don’t need to do more than that.”

  “Hellspawn,” she said, filling 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 still 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 really hard.

  “You go much slower, and I’ll end up doing all 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 tell 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 tell 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 really 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 all 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.

  “Hello?” she said, rapping her knuckles on the table. “Did I say that?”

  He half shrugged. “I knew all 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 actually pass.

  “I couldn’t do that,” she admitted.

  “What?”

  “Memorize all the questions. That would be way hard. You might not be able to read and write that well, 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.”