Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2

by Jana Oliver

  She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of oranges and cedar chips, trying to find the good in all this. There was very little, other than she was with her father for a little while longer. Right now every second counted.

  Soon you’ll be in Hell with all those demons. How do I live with that?

  * * *

  To Denver Beck, there were many ways to welcome a new day—spread-eagled on his own lawn, wrists secured by flex-cuffs wasn’t the best of them. Not to mention the rifle barrel jammed into the back of his head.

  “What the hell is goin’ on?” he bellowed into the dirt.

  The response was the sound of combat boots tromping around inside his house as their owners’ voices called out to one another in Italian. When there was a sharp shatter of glass, he swore, trying to lift his head to see what was happening. The rifle barrel only pressed harder, jamming his face back into the ground.

  Beck closed his eyes to keep the dirt out of them and forced himself to relax. If he fought back, the demon hunter behind him might feel the need to put a bullet in his skull.

  I’ll be damned if I die like this.

  His only choice was to remain here until the Vatican’s elite team finished their search. Which, from all the commotion, involved tearing the house apart in the hopes of finding something.

  When he heard a name in the midst of the voices flowing around him, he sighed into the dirt. They were searching for Riley Blackthorne, the seventeen-year-old daughter of Beck’s dead trapper buddy, Paul.

  The day had sucked even before this paramilitary-style raid, one Beck was sure his neighbors were enjoying with their morning coffee. Just after dawn Riley had arrived on his doorstep, weeping and shell-shocked. Through tears and sobs she’d admitted her blackest sin: She’d spent the night with a Fallen, one of Lucifer’s own.

  Beck had known this Ori guy was bad news from the first moment he’d seen him with Riley, but he’d never expected the bastard to be a Fallen angel.

  Why him? Even now he could see her huddled on the couch, weeping, as he’d shouted that very question at her. After all Beck had done for her, she’d taken up with that … thing.

  When he’d spat wicked slurs at Paul’s daughter, she’d responded in kind. Fearing how bad it might get between them, Beck had bolted from the house. When he’d returned a short time later, he’d found his front door wide open and the Vatican’s team on the prowl.

  More rapid-fire conversation bounced around him now: Beck didn’t need to speak the language to hear the frustration. Since Riley wasn’t lying in the dirt beside him, this raid made the hunters look bad. They would need a scapegoat and Beck would do just fine. A new voice cut in—it was the hunters’ captain. Apparently he’d finally decided to join the party.

  Without warning, Beck was hauled roughly to his knees. Once he was up, he tried to wipe his mouth on a shoulder: It proved impossible with the flex-cuffs in place. The demon hunter with the rifle circled around to the side now, the weapon pointed at Beck’s chest.

  The captain of the unit squatted in front of him, his dark eyes flinty. Elias Salvatore was thirty-two, a decade older than Beck. He had a Mediterranean complexion, black hair, and a sleek goatee coupled with an athletic build. His navy turtleneck sported epaulets and the demon hunters’ emblem—St. George slaying the dragon. Crisply pleated trousers tucked neatly into polished combat boots.

  “Mr. Beck,” he said evenly.

  “Captain Salvatore. What the hell is goin’ on?”

  “We were informed that Riley Blackthorne was here.”

  Who told ya that?

  “She was here a while ago. Must of left.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed farther. “Where is she?”

  “No idea.” It was a safe bet one of the neighbors had heard them shouting at each other, so he went with the truth in case the hunters bothered to check. “We had words.”

  “About what?”

  “That’s none of yer business,” Beck said. A second later he was facedown in the dirt, a heavy boot pressing on his back.

  The captain issued a crisp command and Beck was hauled up again. He gave a look over his shoulder and found that the boot belonged to Lieutenant Amundson, the captain’s second-in-command. He was a tall man, Nordic, and not known for his manners.

  Beck spat dirt. “Get these damned cuffs off me.”

  Salvatore gave a gesture. There was the snick of a knife, then the cuffs fell away. Amundson had made sure to cut his palm in the process.

  Beck wiped his hands on his jeans, revealing the blood.

  The captain delivered a penetrating look over the prisoner’s shoulder, then gestured for his lieutenant to move away. “I apologize.”

  Beck clamped down on his fury. Throwing punches wasn’t a smart move right now. Instead he ran his uninjured hand through his hair to dislodge some of the dirt and to buy him time to think this through.

  Did the hunters know about Riley and the Fallen? They have to. Why else would they be looking for her? Still, he didn’t dare make assumptions.

  “So what’s this all about?” Beck asked.

  The captain rose. “Let’s go inside.”

  Beck stood, dusted off his jeans, and retrieved his trapping bag where it lay near the driveway. He felt the bottom of the canvas and was relieved to find it wasn’t wet, which meant none of the glass spheres inside had shattered when he’d been tackled by the hunters.

  After ensuring there was no one else in the house, Salvatore closed the front door behind them. Beck had expected the place to have been turned inside out, but that wasn’t the case. The only damage appeared to be a glass that had been knocked off the counter. He ignored the mess on the floor and dropped onto the couch in the same place that Riley had occupied when she’d delivered her devastating news.

  Where are ya, girl? If she ran to her apartment, they’d find her there. If she was smart she’d go to Angus Stewart, one of the two master trappers in the city. Stewart would watch over her.

  The captain sat in a chair across from him. He moved as if he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. “We must find Riley Blackthorne as quickly as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a Fallen angel in Atlanta. His name is Ori. We believe he has targeted Paul Blackthorne’s daughter.”

  Beck made sure he appeared shocked. It wasn’t hard. He still couldn’t believe that Riley had been with one of Lucifer’s allies.

  “Why would one of those want her?”

  Salvatore shook his head. “We don’t know. There is a strange pattern of events in this city, and that usually means there’s an epicenter, a focus to that activity.”

  “If yer sayin’ that Riley’s the reason for all this—”

  “What other conclusion can we draw?” Salvatore retorted. “She was nearly killed by a Grade Five demon. The same fiend pressed its attack during the trapper’s meeting at the Tabernacle. That ambush alone cost you a third of your Demon Trappers Guild.”

  “I know the numbers, hunter,” Beck replied sullenly. “Why a commando raid on my house? Ya could have knocked on the door like anyone else.”

  “But you weren’t home,” the captain observed. “Which leads to another question: Do you usually leave your house unlocked?”

  Beck hesitated. “No. Why?”

  “Both the front and back doors weren’t bolted and your alarm wasn’t engaged. The back door was partially ajar, indicating a hasty departure, perhaps?” The captain leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Did you call Riley and warn her that we were coming?”

  By now they’d have gone through his phone and know he’d called Riley after they’d quarreled, so he opted for the truth. “I didn’t know ya were comin’ here.”

  “But you spoke to her.”

  “Yeah. We argued about this Ori guy. He’d told her he was a freelance demon hunter and I told her to stay away from. She wasn’t listenin’ so we had words. I called her to…” Why had he called her? Certainly not to apologize, that w
as for sure.

  “Where is she now?”

  Beck shook his head. “I don’t know. Now I’m done talkin’ to ya unless the Guild’s lawyer is watchin’ over me.”

  The captain sighed. “Look, I respect your loyalty to the girl’s father. Paul Blackthorne trained you, brought you up through the Guild. You were there when he died at the hands of the same demon that tried to kill his daughter. I know what you’re feeling, but we need your help.”

  “Bite me.”

  Salvatore scowled. “So be it.” He triggered a radio on his shoulder and Italian filled the air. He’d barely finished giving the order when two hunters were through the front door.

  The captain rose from the chair, his face set. “Denver Beck, as representative of the Holy See, I arrest you for obstructing justice, additional charges to be filed at a later time. You are duly warned that if you are found to be aiding Hell in any manner, the ultimate penalty is death.”

  “Go figure,” Beck muttered.

  TWO

  “Syrup?”

  “Thanks,” Riley said. Her father pushed a tall plastic bottle across the table like it weighed a hundred pounds. She stifled a sigh as she squirted a thick line onto the stack of steaming buttermilk pancakes. Riley should have been thrilled: she was having breakfast with her dad one more time. How many mornings since he’d died had she wished for this very thing? Now that it had come to pass she wasn’t so sure.

  They were seated at a picnic table in a circular brick room that smelled of wood smoke. Mort had told her that the table was easier to move when he wanted to conduct rituals. The whole building had a different feel to it, one that Riley couldn’t quite grasp. Something to do with Mort’s magic, perhaps.

  Her dad watched her eat in silence, not joining in the food or the banter they would have enjoyed in the past. A stray lock of brown hair curled onto his forehead like always. But something was missing—the part that made him so cool. Instead he was a human placeholder, a bookmark in a lost life.

  There was a soft shuffling at the doorway that announced Tereyza, their host’s reanimate housekeeper. That’s what came with hiding in a necromancer’s house—dead servants. The woman looked at Riley, at the plate full of pancakes, and then up at Riley again. Pancakes made by Emalie, another reanimate who never left the kitchen.

  Great. Even the dead are guilting me now.

  Riley obediently picked up the fork and dug in. Apparently that was enough for the housekeeper, as she returned the way she came. Though the food was excellent, after two mouthfuls Riley put down her silverware.

  “Does Beck know about your deal with Hell?”

  Her father shook his head. “You should eat. You’re so thin,” he replied.

  Too much had happened in the last few weeks for her to have much of an appetite: her dad’s death, the attack that had killed so many trappers, her boyfriend Simon’s betrayal. Then there were Ori and Beck. Even more betrayal. Could she ever trust a man, or an angel, again?

  But I am. She was hiding in Mort’s house, trusting him not to turn her in to the hunters.

  “Eat,” her father repeated.

  Riley returned to the pancakes. They were still warm. How could that be? After the first couple of mouthfuls, she began to eat in earnest. She needed comfort food and a nap. Then she’d figure out what to do. Where to go. Who else she could trust?

  By the time she finished eating, Riley was so tired she couldn’t think. When their host offered her a place to rest, she readily accepted the kind gesture. She found the bedroom bright, decorated with cream walls and peach accents. A girl’s room. Maybe he has a younger sister. Or a niece.

  As she yawned, Riley pulled the curtains to reduce the light, then did a test bounce on the bed. Definitely workable. Pulling off her shirt, her long hair fell over her face. With it came the unmistakable scent of crisp night air. Ori’s scent.

  “Damn you,” she swore, flinging her clothes in all directions. Riley fled to the shower, adjusting the temperature as hot as she could stand. As the water ran, the night before rushed through her: meeting the angel at Oakland Cemetery, and how handsome he’d been. How right it had felt to let him make love to her for her first time. Then this morning had arrived, bringing betrayal and a broken heart.

  “All lies,” she said. He’d had only one reason for being nice to her, claiming she was special. Her soul. Riley couldn’t scrub away the taint, the feeling that somehow she’d been violated by her own heart. At least she could mourn where no one would hear her.

  * * *

  While some would argue that the Westin wasn’t a jail, the earnest demon hunter parked near the hotel room’s door told Beck he wasn’t free to come and go as he pleased. Since it looked like he was here for the time being, he took himself to the bathroom, used the toilet, and then washed his face and hands. Running a wet facecloth over his hair took most of the dirt out of the blond strands. All of this was busywork while he tried to unravel the knots in his life.

  Riley’s selfish actions had brought the hunters to his doorstep. That angered him, not only because of what she’d let that Fallen do to her, but because he’d promised her father he’d keep her safe. Still, Beck’s wounded pride was the least of his worries: What would the hunters do to Paul’s daughter when they caught her? Would they put her on trial? Lock her up? Or worse?

  Knowing that his questions were not going to be answered by staring into the bathroom mirror, Beck returned to the bedroom. The hunter was still there, vigilant as ever. Dusting himself off, which left a trail of dried grass on the carpet, Beck unlaced his work boots and dropped himself on the king bed. It was one of those fancy ones you find in expensive hotels. He’d learned to sleep anywhere during his stint in the Army, so something this soft made him uncomfortable.

  By his count there were two hunters guarding him: one in the corridor and one in the room with him. He could try to escape, but it’d probably buy him a bullet. Captain Salvatore had promised to call Master Stewart, and for some reason Beck trusted him to do just that. If he was patient, the Scotsman would get him out of here.

  The guard in the room was Hispanic with dark, intense eyes and a fighter’s bulk. He kept his attention riveted on his prisoner’s every move.

  “Can ya not do that?” Beck growled. “Yer drivin’ me crazy.”

  The guy gave a shrug, then settled back in the rolling chair, his attention a few feet to Beck’s left. That was some improvement.

  “How long is this gonna take?” No reply.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to be told anything of value until his captors were damned well ready, Beck pulled himself off the bed and went through his exercise regime to blow off steam. Fifty push-ups followed by fifty sit-ups. Then another fifty push-ups, some one-handed. As he worked up a sweat, he tried hard to block the memories: Riley crying in his arms, the knowing smirk on that Fallen angel’s face. How disappointed Paul would be if he knew his daughter had been touched like that.

  Dammit. I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.

  He lost count of the push-ups and finally slumped to the carpet when his arms grew too weak to support him and his back felt like it had been scorched by molten lead. The pain did as he’d hoped, blocking things he didn’t want to think about. Muscles quivering, he returned to the bed, tucked his arms behind his head, and stared up at the pebbled ceiling.

  Someone had known Riley was at his house this morning and that list was pretty short, unless his neighbors had decided to spy for the hunters. Master Stewart knew she was there: Beck had called him the moment he’d left her at the house, seething in anger at what had fallen out between her and the angel.

  Then there was Justine Armando, the woman he’d been with overnight. Justine was a new addition to Beck’s life, a freelance journalist who’d arrived in Atlanta at the same time as the hunters. She trailed after their teams as they did the Vatican’s wet work across the world, writing up newspaper reports on their exploits. Beck had been interviewe
d by her … twice. Then they’d taken it a step further and he’d landed in her bed. That’s where he’d been this morning, in this same hotel, when Riley’s panicked phone call had reached him. When he’d heard that terrified voice, he’d bailed out of Justine’s arms and bolted out the door, sure Paul’s daughter was in grave danger.

  Had he told Justine where Riley was? He had to admit he wasn’t sure. All Beck could remember was the petulant frown on his lover’s face as he bent over to kiss her good-bye.

  Couldn’t be her. He wasn’t willing to accept that, though he knew Riley would believe it in a heartbeat. He could still hear her warning him about Justine and how he was going to get hurt. If Riley had taken his advice, she wouldn’t be in a world of hurt.

  Ya wanted that damned angel, then live with that mistake. Forever.

  His words were at war with his heart. Everyone made mistakes, and most didn’t end up with Hell or the Church breathing down their necks.

  When there was a knock at the door, the guard cautiously checked the peephole, then opened it to reveal Lieutenant Amundson. The second-in-command held Beck’s cell phone in his hand.

  “Your master wants to speak to you,” he said in his heavily accented English, plain he wasn’t happy about it. He tossed the phone on the bed, unconcerned if somehow he disconnected the call.

  Jerk. Beck sat up and took the phone. “Sir?”

  “What is goin’ on, lad?” Stewart’s Scottish brogue held none of its usual cheeriness.

  “I’m”—Beck shot a surly look at his captors—“enjoyin’ the hospitality of the hunters. It has somethin’ to do with Riley.”

  “So I gather. Any notion of where she is?”

  “No, sir. Not a clue.”

  “Well, then, let me talk to the Viking again.”

  Viking? Figuring he meant Amundson, Beck passed the cell phone back. After a short burst of conversation, the hunter ended the call, but kept the phone.

  “You’re here until we have her,” Amundson announced.

  “If that’s the case, how about some breakfast?”