by Jana Oliver
Mort sighed. “All right, just as long as you know this could get unpleasant.”
Only if I don’t find my father.
* * *
As Riley walked along the alley to the street, she tried to get a grip on her turbulent emotions. Did she really believe that once she’d talked to Mort that everything would be okay? That her dad would be waiting for her, ready to return to his grave? If she did find her father and the summoner reversed the spell, she’d have to bury him again. Another funeral.
Oh, God.
As she walked past the mailboxes, a figure caught her notice, a boy spray-painting something on the brick wall ahead of her. He looked about thirteen, and his hood had fallen back to reveal a shock of hair the color of ripe wheat slashed with black stripes. The smell of wet paint stung her nose as he made broad swipes leaving dripping red letters in his wake. When she moved closer he jumped in surprise, giving her a panicked expression. When he bolted for freedom, the spray can fell from his fingers, rolling across the uneven ground and bumping the toe of her tennis shoe.
The crimson paint began to change color, first becoming pale red, then pink, and finally white. It slid downward brick by brick, as if someone were wiping it away with a squeegee. When it reached the ground it crackled and then disappeared in a bright cloud of pale dust. More magic. It took a moment to puzzle out what the guy had written, spelling errors and all.
Nekros suk!
“No argument there.”
TEN
“Home sweet bolt hole,” Riley said. She stood in the doorway to the room in the basement of St. Brigid’s Catholic Church. The room wasn’t fancy, but she hadn’t expected it to be. All of about fifteen by fifteen, there were two stacked wooden bunk beds, a table, a pair of kitchen chairs, and a mint green couch. There was a small television, a mini refrigerator, microwave, and a counter with a deep sink. Down a narrow hall she saw a bathroom. If not for the white walls and the crucifix hanging by the door, it would have felt like a bunker.
After dropping her messenger bag on the table, Riley retreated to the undersized bathroom to change into her favorite PJ’s, the ones with the frolicking pandas. The PJ’s were totally dorky, but her mom had bought them for her and they held good memories.
If Beck sees these …
But he wouldn’t, not unless something went really wrong and he had to take refuge here. In that case, panda PJs were going to be the least of their worries. After scrubbing her face and brushing her teeth, Riley placed her folded clothes on one of the chairs. A blast of hot air ruffled her hair from a vent in the ceiling. She glared up at it.
“Too warm,” she said. Hunting around for a thermostat proved fruitless. That wasn’t good news. It was either freeze at the cemetery or roast here.
After ensuring the door’s lock was engaged, Riley tried the lower bunk. That rated a definite thumbs-up. After some determined pillow thumping to get it into the proper shape, she lay on her back and stared at the underside of the mattress above her.
The furnace turned off. Then on again. Then off.
She was dead tired, but sleep wasn’t in the same room with her. It wasn’t the heat that was keeping her awake, it was this time of day that things hurt the most. She’d replay her dad’s voice in her head, then her mom’s. She’d remember bits of Blackthorne family history.
Eventually Riley sat up in bed, barely clearing the top bunk by a mere two inches. Apparently tall people took the top bunk. She hadn’t brought anything to read, sure that she’d be asleep almost instantly. To kill time, she dug out her cell phone and scrolled through the texts. Brandy, her nemesis at the new school, was wondering if she was going to be at class on Friday. Riley ignored that one. Three texts from Simi about a Gnarly Scalenes concert in March and asking if she’d like to go. Maybe. Nothing from Peter. She should text him, but what would she write? Stuck in a church so demons won’t eat me. That wouldn’t work, not with someone who’d always been there for her.
Instead, she dialed his number. “Peter?”
There was a lengthy pause. This isn’t a good idea.
“What’s up, Riley?” he asked. She processed his tone—upset and exhausted.
“I needed someone to talk to,” she admitted.
“You know, so do I.”
Maybe this would work after all. She tucked the comforter around her legs and leaned back against the wooden framework of the bunk bed. It creaked in response. She told him of her new location and what it looked like. “Master Stewart wants me on holy ground at night. He’s worried some demon will come after me.” Actually just one demon in particular, but Peter didn’t need to know that.
“Is Beck there with you?”
“No. He’s shooting pool.” At least he’d better be.
Silence. She tried to wait him out, but finally she gave in. “Look Peter, if you don’t want to talk to me—”
“It’s not that. There’s been … stuff going on here.”
She shifted positions on the bed, caught by the lost sound in his voice. “Like what?”
“Mom and Dad are getting a divorce.”
It took time for that to sink in. “Oh, man, Peter, I’m so sorry. I thought they’d worked through all that after your brother’s death.”
“No. It was never the same. They’ve been acting like it was, but Dad finally cracked. He just couldn’t take Mom’s Nazi control tactics anymore.”
Her friend wasn’t exaggerating. After Matt’s fatal car accident, Peter’s mom became The Warden, as he called her. She’d monitored all her kids’ moves like they lived in a federal prison.
“She’s been doing the same with Dad,” Peter confided. “If he’s a few minutes late, she freaks and hounds him with phone calls.”
“I thought they went for counseling or something.”
“They did. It didn’t help,” he said sadly.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Mom wants to go back to Illinois. She thinks Atlanta’s too dangerous for her kids.”
Only if you drink and drive.
A tortured groan filtered through the phone. “They told us the news tonight. Then they asked who we wanted to live with.”
If her parents had asked her that question, how could she decide? No matter who she chose, the other would be hurt. “God, that’s brutal.”
“Totally. David said he’d stay here with Dad. I wimped out and said I had to think about it. Mom was really upset. I guess she thought I’d just go with her automatically.”
“What about the twins?” she asked, thinking of Peter’s two little brothers.
“The ghouls go with her no matter what. Too young to be with Dad.” There was a sigh down the phone. “So what are you doing tomorrow?”
“I have to check in on Harper, then I need to visit Simon and go to the funerals.”
“So who’s this Simon dude? Is he the guy I’ve seen on TV?”
“Yes. He’s an apprentice trapper. We’re … dating.”
“Cool.”
“It feels right this time, Peter.”
“Well, that’s something, at least.”
More awkward silence. “I’m really sorry for you.”
“Yeah, so am I. For a lot of things. Good night, Riley.”
She disconnected the call.
“Don’t you dare move away, Peter King,” she whispered. “You’re my best friend. I can’t make it without you.”
* * *
Ori leaned against his motorcycle across the street from the church, arms crossed over his chest. Riley had chosen her sanctuary well: No demon dared tread on holy ground and not pay the ultimate price. This church was old, and even from here he could feel the raw power of the Creator pressing against his skin, saturating everything around him. He sucked it in as if it were a breath of tantalizing spring air after a cruel winter.
“You are such an addict,” a craggy voice said.
Ori failed to curb his displeasure at having the peaceful moment disturbed. “Sartael,” he sa
id acidly. “Slumming, again?”
A wry chuckle came from the angel standing next to him. Unless you were Divine he appeared unremarkable, a plain man who always managed to blend into the background. A Divine would see the real Sartael—that dark hair, those immense wings, and the sword strapped to his back, its hilt protruding just above his shoulders. The blade was dormant at the moment, but once he pulled it free from the bindings it would flame like the desert sun at midday. As always, there was a hint of madness in the angel’s eyes.
I wonder if some say that of me.
“I do not like it in this realm,” Sartael replied, gesturing contemptuously at the church.
“So you have mentioned, on more than one occasion.”
“Why are mortals so ignorant?” He shook his head in supreme disgust. “They believe their faith is made of bricks and mortar.”
This was an old argument between them, one of many. “To them it is,” Ori replied earnestly. “Mortals need tangible proof of the Creator.”
“They are tangible proof that He exists. How soon they forget that little detail.”
“It is easy to become distracted when you’re not eternal.”
Sartael gave him a sidelong look. “Not only mortals have that issue. You have a task to perform, and yet here you stand gaping at an old pile of bricks.”
“I am going about my duties,” Ori said, stiffening at the rebuke.
“Is that rogue demon no more? I have not heard its death cries,” Sartael chided.
“The girl is alive, and she is the key to finding the rogue.”
“Ah, yes, Blackthorne’s child.”
Ori did not like hearing Sartael speak her name, but he hid his frown. “Is there a point to your presence?”
The other angel turned to him. “Time passes and you are needed elsewhere. Cease being amused by the mortals.”
“Is that His Order?”
“Not officially. However, He will ask of your progress and I must answer. I cannot believe you are unable to find a mere weather fiend.”
“I believe it is being shielded by its demi-lord.”
“And who might that be?” Sartael asked, leaning closer, his eyes lit by some internal fire.
“I have no idea.” He and Sartael had always been rivals, so the admission stung.
“Ah, I see. You make excuses to cover the lack of progress,” Sartael said, nodding his understanding. “To be honest, I did not expect such weakness from you.”
Ori squared up with him, his anger growing. “Then do you know who is behind this rogue demon?”
“That is not my problem. You know what is expected. Get it done. Fail and there will be a reckoning.”
“Advice noted,” Ori replied crisply, turning back toward the church.
“And ignored, I wouldn’t doubt,” Sartael replied. “Oh, well, it’s not my pretty head on the block.” At a wave of his hand, the angel vanished into the night air.
“No, it never is,” Ori grumbled. “But some day it will be yours on the block, and I’ll be wielding the sword.”
ELEVEN
Beck pushed open the twin flame-embossed wooden doors that led to the Armageddon Lounge. As was his custom, he paused a moment and gave the place the once over. Old habits die hard, especially when one of the worst beatings he’d ever experienced was delivered by a jealous husband in a pool hall.
But not this pool hall. The Armageddon Lounge was neutral territory for him, and he meant to keep it that way. For that reason he didn’t usually pick up girls here. No need to invite trouble.
The Armageddon Lounge’s décor was trashy, even for this part of town. Garish flames decorated almost all the walls, except the far one with the black-veined mirror tiles. Figures writhed in those flames, most of them female and nude, someone’s idea of what the end of the world would be like.
Fewer mirrors, more screamin’. At least that’s how Beck envisioned it.
When he was assured that nobody was in the mood for trouble, he headed for the bar intent on enjoying his first beer of the day. A couple years back that wouldn’t have been the case: By this time of night he would have already gone through at least a six-pack. It was Paul who changed that, early in Beck’s apprenticeship.
“There’s a time to drink and a time to trap Hellspawn,” his mentor had advised. “You get those confused and you’re demon food.” When Beck had protested he could do both, Paul had summed it up with one question. “Is a buzz worth dying for?”
The answer had been easy: Much as Beck loved a few good beers he preferred to remain aboveground. He’d cut back on his drinking that very night. He still would get a buzz on every now and then, but not as often now. It was a sad fact that the booze wasn’t the solution; it just wanted you to think it was.
Zack, the bartender, acknowledged him with a broad smile. Stocky, his sandy hair was so short you could see his suntanned scalp.
“Hey, Beckster, how you doing?” he called out.
“Good,” Beck said, though that wasn’t the truth by a long shot. By the time he reached the bar, the Shiner Bock was waiting for him. He sighed, took a lengthy sip, and then sighed again.
“Mighty fine,” he said, grinning over at Zack. The less he drank the more he appreciated a good beer.
“Quiet tonight,” Zack observed, leaning on the bar. “Usually Saturday evenings are totally packed. I’m thinking it’s because of what went down the other night at the Tabernacle. Folks are scared.”
Beck nodded his understanding. There were only about a dozen patrons in the lounge, and he knew most of them by name, though none of them were trappers. Those were probably on the streets trying to take down a demon or two.
And gettin’ nowhere fast.
“Lenny was in a while ago,” Zack added. “He said he’d be back later.”
Lenny the Necromancer. He was one of the summoners who’d been jonesing to pull Paul’s body out of the grave, so he’d be a good one to pump for information.
“Heard ya had a Four in here the other day,” Beck observed, leaning against the bar.
Zack snorted as he dried a highball glass. “And some trappers. Seems one of them broke a pool cue and didn’t bother to pay for it. Really pissed off the boss. Gave me an earful about how all you guys are arrogant jerks.”
“He’d be right,” Beck replied, taking another sip. “At least when we’re after demons.”
Another snort came his way. “Boss said the trappers had a girl with them. You guys allowing that kind of thing now?”
“Yeah, we are. The world is changin’,” Beck said.
“Tell me about it.” Zack’s voice changed tone, went lower. “So how are you doing after the other night?”
Beck turned back toward the bartender, hearing the concern. “Breathin’,” he said. “Better ’n some.”
“That’s for sure. When I heard about it, I prayed for you guys.”
“That’s good of ya.”
“Sounds like it’s getting ugly,” Zack remarked. “I had a regular in here this afternoon telling me he saw a couple demons downtown, right on Peachtree Street.”
“Is this guy on the level?” Beck quizzed.
“Yup. He’s a cop.”
Some of those crazy stories just might be true.
Using his bartender radar, Zack headed down the bar toward a couple and refilled their glasses the moment they were empty. The girl was plain to look at, but they were totally into each other.
Beck had been that way once. Her name was Louisa, and they’d been in the same class in Sadlersville, their hometown. The other kids had known not to mess with them: It was always Den and Lou from the time they met in ninth grade. Then Louisa decided she could do better than a poor loser who had an alcoholic for a mother. He still remembered what it felt like to have someone think you were less than human just because of your family. From what he’d heard, Louisa moved from guy to guy after that, never finding what she was looking for.
Beck gave himself a swift mental kick, a
nnoyed at wasting time dwelling on the past. Picking up his beer, he toted it to the back of the bar where one of the pool tables was open. He selected a cue and took his frustration out on the balls. One by one they went into the pockets like remote-controlled robots, just an extension of his hands and brain. When he finished running the table, something he’d been able to do since he was thirteen, he racked the balls again.
Part of his frustration was Stewart’s insistence he talk to the press and to the city bosses, that he learn the ropes before he became a master. Beck knew those same ropes could turn into a noose with very little effort. Then there was that flame-haired babe he’d seen at the city hall. No surprise, she was a reporter and she just had to talk to him. She’d even gotten his cell phone number, courtesy of the Scotsman. Beck had dodged her so far, but the master had warned him to just get on with it. That it came with the territory.
“Not a good idea,” Beck mumbled under his breath. He knew what his mind was like when he had a pretty lady in front of him: He said things he shouldn’t, but in this case those words would end up in the newspaper, maybe even on the Internet. One slip of the tongue and he might lose his chance at becoming a master trapper.
The double doors pushed open and a man entered the lounge. The newcomer was a little taller than Beck, decked out in black jeans and T-shirt. A gray duster hung from his broad shoulders like a hero in an action movie. His midnight-black hair and eyes gave him a screw-with-me-at-your-own-peril look.
Trapper? Probably not. Freelance hunter? That was a possibility. Still, he should have some form of defense on him and Beck didn’t see one. Their gazes met, sizing each other up, then the dude headed to the bar. After a short conversation with Zack, the bartender began pulling a beer from the tap.
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.