Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2

by Jana Oliver

  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 belligerence?” 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 collective 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 allow you to become an apprentice. You’re only fit for that collection of scum in the Guild.”

  You … How dare he dis the trappers? All 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 all 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 totally serious.

  Riley was still 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 falling.

  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-dollar bill 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 still 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 tell a really 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 allowed 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, telling 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 all the necros come to this thing?” Riley whispered to her companion.

  “Don’t call us that!” Mort pleaded. “At least not where they can hear you. You don’t want one of us to download a spell 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 tell her much. Probably the point. Trappers were equally 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 following him. “Tonight we have a lovely collection on view. Do not hesitate to enjoy the refreshments, and remember that a small portion of tonight’s sales will 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 filled the space, causing Riley’s back teeth to hum. As her eyes adjusted, other details began to reveal themselves. A full 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 skull 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 … well…” the dead man intoned, misquoting Shakespeare. His forehead wrinkled in thought, as if it was taking every brain cell to remember the words. “A fellow of … of infinite … ah … jest. Ha! Ha!” Then he hoisted the skull up into the air and glanced nervously at the tables closest to him. Some
one 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 million dollars, this is the reanimate for you.” Their host paused and then called 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 rolled over, she gripped her abdomen with both hands.

  “Restroom?” she pleaded.

  Mort pointed and she fled up the stairs. She could still 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 sell 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 followed. 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 dollars.

  There’s always money to be made in death. The guy at the Deader tent had been right.

  “So who gets all that?” she snarled. “You guys?”

  Mort shook his head. “The family will 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 all 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 challenging me like this.”

  “Hey, why not? I already dissed Ozymandias. Why not make it a full 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 skills. 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, all 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. Thankfully the emcee called 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 well, 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 refilled. 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 illusion 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 full 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 full 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 tell from the expression on his face he’d struck out, too.

  “You might as well go home,” he conceded. “I’ll 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 really weird eyes. “If you
took my dad, just tell 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 still 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 full 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 cell 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 spell will call forth your father’s spirit,” Mort explained. “If he appears, maybe he can tell you who took him and where he’s located, providing he can reveal that information.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Can you do this spell?”

  “I can…” he started, “… but I won’t. It will 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.”