by Jana Oliver
“She totally lost it. She cried a lot and accused my dad of brainwashing David and me. They had a big fight. It was totally 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.”
“Well, if you’re anything like me, they’ll be stellar,” she muttered.
He sighed heavily into the phone. “This is the part where you’re supposed to tell 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 really well.”
“We were until he lost his mind.” She blurted out all the gory details, including the “you sold your soul to Hell” 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’ll 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 will be better once she’s with her family. Maybe they can get her help.”
“That’s Dad’s hope. Call me in the morning, will you?” Peter asked. “My uncle is going to be here with a U-Haul, and I’m helping Mom pack. I’ll need the sanity break from the serious guilt trip she’s going to lay on me.”
“I’ll call. 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 all yer doors. It’ll keep the evil things out. I’ll 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’ll 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—“will help settle his nerves.”
Beck paid for his soda and took it to a booth. An open pool table called 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 still couldn’t wrap his mind around what had happened with those Fours. He’d have to tell Stewart about them once all 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 Hell 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 full 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 all 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 all his thoughts about Riley evaporated.
“Well, damn,” he said. Justine scanned the room, then her eyes lit on him. Her smile appeared genuine, like she really 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 tall 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 really.” 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 call 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 will 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 Hell.
“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 all
?” she pressed, smiling at his discomfort.
“Yup.”
“They have an impressive track record.”
“And one helluva 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 all 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 full 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 really,” 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 usually get to say that.”
He reluctantly pulled his mind back to work. “Can ya tell me what the hunters are gonna do here?” When she didn’t reply right off, he added, “Come on, I’ve been answerin’ all 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 called Five Points. It’s got lots of holes and abandoned buildin’s. The Threes love those.” He leaned closer, pushing his soda aside. “What will they do after this survey?”
“Once they know the types of demons and their locations, they’ll move in and clear them out.”
“And if folks get in the way?”
She shrugged. “They try to minimize the collateral damage, but sometimes that isn’t possible.”
“So who’s this Father Rosetti?” he asked. “Are all Rome’s priests such tight asses?”
A red eyebrow arched. “Father Rosetti was originally an exorcist for the Vatican. And no, the other priests are not as ardent in their duties. I find it odd: He usually 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 still-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 well. Especially 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 called out from his place at the bar.
“Hey, where ya goin’, babe? Come back here. I’ll 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 still on the lounge’s entrance. The quartet was still 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. Hell must hate you.”
He chuckled. “I do my bit. Can I drop ya somewheres?”
She turned toward him, and he could smell 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? All he’d done recently was fret over Paul’s daughter and work long hours to pay the girl’s bills 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 pulled 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 called you at seven in the morning and asked to meet you after Mass. Though Riley was still 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 still 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 really 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.”
All 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 hellish 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 tell 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 called them. He told them that … you and your father were the reason all those trappers died.”
“He called the demon hunters down on me?” Riley cried. Heads turned in their direction. She lowered her voice, but outrage still 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.