by Jana Oliver
“She’s not listening. That’s a big mistake.” She turned and gave Peter a full dose of the Riley Laser Eyes. “What were you thinking?”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I just saw the last name and the first initial. I had no idea it was him.”
Riley really wanted to scream, just cut loose and shriek like a banshee. But it wouldn’t do any good. Even if Peter managed to get him transferred, Allan would know she went to school in the old Starbucks on Fourteenth Street. He’d continue to haunt her no matter what.
“It’ll be okay. He just wants to spook me,” she said, trying to reassure herself that the ex didn’t intend to pick up where they’d left off in that parking lot two years before.
Peter peered over at her former boyfriend. “I’m not getting that kind of vibe, Riley. I’m getting the ‘You’re going to pay for this’ kind of feeling. Maybe you should tell Beck, let him deal with the guy.”
“What?” she spat. “No way. I’ll deal with Allan on my own.”
“Like you did the last time?”
Peter did have a point. “If it gets scary, I’ll turn Beck loose on him.”
“Good. Sometimes you need backup, and I’m thinking this is one of those times.”
“No more transfers, you got it?”
“I swear it.”
“Unless you’d like to send Allan to like … Algeria or something.”
“I wonder if that’s possible,” Peter pondered.
Brandy was smiling now, chatting up her ex. Hope your parents have good health insurance, girl.
* * *
Simon’s family home was big, two stories and covered in pale peach stucco. Curtains hung at every window, and there were flowerpots full of pansies on the steps that led to the front door. Somehow they’d survived the winter frosts.
Riley adjusted her hair and clothes for what had to be the fifth time. At least the black denim jacket she’d found at the back of her closet fit. She’d forgotten it was there until the blue one had been fried, sliced, and peed on. Black would hide the stains better anyway.
She’d met Simon’s parents, so this shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is. It was the first time she’d been in their house, the first time she’d seen Simon since he’d left the hospital. Would he be better now that he was home?
He just has to be. She visualized what Simon had been like before the fire, before he’d been so badly hurt. The warm smile, the loving kisses. That’s what she wanted more than anything.
Mrs. Adler opened the door wearing a pair of sweatpants and a worn Bon Jovi T-shirt. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, and sweat glistened on her forehead. Riley had managed to catch her mid–exercise regimen.
“Come to see the fair-haired boy?” Mrs. Adler asked.
“If it’s okay.”
“Sure. He’s had a few visitors, but he certainly needs the company.” She waved Riley into the house. The entryway was paved in ceramic tile, and there were family photos along both walls. With a family as numerous as the Adlers, they’d need all the wall space they could get.
Riley followed the woman through what looked to be a living room into a small room at the back of the house. The shades were drawn giving the space a dungeonlike gloom. There was a flat-screen television and the kind of chairs you sink into and never come out of again. Simon was on the leather couch.
“You’ve got a guest,” his mom called out. She left Riley standing at the door and headed toward the front of the house.
Riley drifted to the couch and sat next to her boyfriend, putting her messenger bag on the floor. Simon was in sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The wooden cross he always wore was missing. Had he lost it at the Tabernacle? In his hands was the rosary, and he twisted it back and forth like a set of worry beads.
“Riley.” The way he said the name didn’t convey any meaning. No “Gee, I’m glad you’re here” or anything personal. It was flat, just a word.
“So how are you doing?” she asked, trying to fathom where his head was at the moment. If he was in the same crappy mood as the previous night, there was little she could do for him.
“I’m home.” Again that flat tone, like it didn’t matter.
Riley took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. “Simon, come on. What’s going on in your head? Talk to me.”
His deep blue eyes met hers. “Not sure what’s going on.”
“Having trouble sleeping?” A nod. “Nightmares?”
Simon seemed surprised she’d know that. “I see the demons and the blood and feel the flames.…” He kept rubbing one of the rosary beads between his fingers. “My dad says they’ll get better, that they’re the mind’s way of dealing with what happened.”
“He’s right. How are your wounds?”
“Almost healed. The doctors don’t know what to think of it. They’ve never seen anything like it.”
Bet they haven’t. Not unless angels routinely make hospital calls.
Simon’s hand gripped hers tighter then released it. “I knew I was dying. I could feel it. I wasn’t afraid, I was just sad,” he said. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Well, pretty soon you’ll be healed and we’ll go trap some of those demons. Teach them a lesson.”
She expected a PC version of “Hell yes, let’s kick some demon butt.” There was no reply. Simon’s fingers continued to worry his rosary as his blue eyes stared at nothing.
“You saved me,” she said. “The demon came after you instead of me. I won’t ever forget that.”
“I did everything right,” he retorted, frowning now. “The demons should not have been able to cross the ward.”
“Of course you did it right. No one’s blaming you.”
He wasn’t listening. “I put the Holy Water down in one direction, then repeated it in the other. There were no gaps. The demons should not have been able to get to us.”
“Father Harrison says there were too many of them, that they overwhelmed the ward.”
“No!” Simon replied, shaking his head vigorously. “Demons cannot cross the power of God.”
“But you told me that Holy Water absorbs the evil. If there’s too much—”
“When did I tell you that?” he asked, confused.
“When we were at the Holy Water vendor in the market.”
“No, that’s not possible. If demons can destroy God’s power, then what’s the point?” he argued. “We’re doing His holy work, and He let us be ripped to pieces.” He took a sudden breath, as if a memory had just hit him full on. She knew what it was: The demon’s claws ripping at him, the smell of its rancid breath in his face. The certain knowledge that he was going to die.
When Simon began to shiver, she tried to hold him but he pushed her away. He ceased talking after that, refusing to meet her eyes. Not knowing what else to do, she dropped a kiss on his cheek and left him in the gloom. He had to find his own answers.
Just don’t lose yourself when you do.
EIGHTEEN
It took Riley less time than she’d expected to drive from Simon’s house to the old theater in Buckhead. By the time she arrived it was just after dark and the bright lights of the marquee had been easy to spot. She located a parking place in the lot just north of the building, sliding in next to a Mercedes with tinted windows. Then she just sat there trying to work up the courage to take this next step.
What if her father was here tonight? Could she handle seeing him again? It was one thing to say good-bye when he was lying in his coffin but another to watch him wander around like he was still alive. He’d remembered her at the Tabernacle, but what if those memories were gone now? What if …
The keys made a harsh, jangling sound, her hands shaking as her heart rate accelerated. Her vision tunneled as each breath became more difficult than the last.
Panic attack. She’d had them after her mother had died and thought she’d outgrown them. Riley forced herself to conjure up images of frolicking puppies and days at the beach, trying to think of anythi
ng but Simon, demons, and her reanimated father. Then she began to sing to herself. It was just nonsense words because she couldn’t remember any songs at the moment, but it seemed to work. Finally her heartbeat slowed and she could take a deep cleansing breath. When Riley looked down, her hands were no longer quaking.
“Let’s not do that again, okay?” she mumbled, as if her body would actually listen to her for a change. “It so doesn’t help.”
As Riley pulled herself out of the car, she paused. Was Ori somewhere nearby? She let her eyes search the area and quickly spied him leaning against a shiny black motorcycle across the street, arms crossed over his broad chest. He gave her a nod in acknowledgment.
My own personal bodyguard. That rocks. Bet Brandy wishes she had one.
Which left Riley no excuse not to go to the vendue.
She sucked it up and headed for the front of the theater. Mort was waiting for her clad in a necromancer’s cloak of light brown, without his trademark fedora. The cloak halted just above the tops of his polished shoes and seemed to have an energy all its own, like magic was woven into the fabric. It made him look mystical, which she suspected was the desired effect.
“This isn’t going to be easy for either of us,” he warned.
“I know. What if my dad’s not here?” she asked.
“Then I’ll ask around to see if anyone’s heard who reanimated him. Just let me handle this.”
Riley hesitated. “What’s this like?” If it was like the Deaders in the market, that wouldn’t be so bad.
The summoner puzzled over the query for a moment. “It’s a cross between a fashion show, a Roman slave auction, and a theatrical production.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No. If you’re a buyer, it’s one big party. If you’ve lost someone recently, it’s pure hell.”
Riley sucked in a deep breath. “Does it involve hordes of man-eating demons?”
Mort looked surprised at the question, then shook his head.
“Then it’s doable.”
* * *
The old theater’s marquee included running lights around the edges and it announced the place was closed for a private event. Private seemed to be the key word. There was only one line to get in, denoted by a pair of red velvet ropes like you’d find at one of the trendy Midtown bars. The two men at the door looked like bouncers.
A woman at the head of the line was waved away. When she protested, a third black-suited guy appeared out of the doorway and herded her back toward the parking lot. He held her arm tightly, and as they walked he was saying something to her. The woman’s eyes widened. She shook her head and then skittered off into the night, clearly frightened by whatever he’d whispered in her ear.
Riley shot a questioning look at her escort.
“She’s probably looking for a loved one,” Mort explained. “The management can spot those a mile away.”
“How can they tell?”
“Her clothes weren’t expensive and she seemed ill at ease.” He nodded toward the favored ones in line. “They think they own the world. That’s the difference.”
Riley looked down at her black slacks and scuffed shoes. She’d worn the best she owned. “Then why will they let me in?”
“Because you’re with me,” he replied, though she heard uncertainty in his voice.
Apparently necros had no DNA for queuing, because Mort didn’t join the line, but walked right up to the door like he owned the place. The moment they saw him, the bouncers perked up. The heavier of the two beckoned them forward. There were grumbles from the well-dressed, but no one outwardly challenged them. Why annoy someone who could drop a magical cluster bomb on your head?
“Good evening, Summoner,” the heavier bouncer said politely. He eyed Riley. “Your companion is…?”
“An apprentice,” Mort replied. “We’re here on Society business.”
That was smooth. She was an apprentice, just not with the necromancers.
One of the man’s bushy eyebrows ascended. He turned away, holding his hand to his ear, talking to someone through a tiny microphone. When the man turned back toward them, he was all false congeniality. “You are always welcome here, Advocate.”
“Thank you.”
The two heavies parted to allow Riley and her escort to pass through the shimmering curtain that divided the real world from the obscene. She let out a puff of air in relief once they were inside. It was matched by one of Mort’s.
He didn’t think they’d let me in.
It began to dawn on her the risk the summoner was taking on her behalf. Clearly bringing a reanimate’s daughter to one of these things wasn’t business as usual, even though he was the Advocate.
“Thanks,” she murmured. He didn’t seem to hear her.
The lobby wasn’t full, but it felt that way, and it took Riley a moment to realize why: Every person in the room acted as if they were bigger, more important than their physical bodies. As if every ego took up space of its own. Older, immaculately dressed women stood near a portable bar, chatting to each other. They glistened in the overhead lights like aged fairies on a summer’s night. It was the jewelry. It had such weight that on anyone else the bling would be wearing them.
The next group was younger women in their perky dresses, wedge sandals, and cascading hair extensions. They sipped champagne from crystal glasses held in manicured hands and laughed in high tones. It was a safe bet they didn’t have demon claw marks on their legs or have to worry if they’d be able to pay the gas bill this month. Why did they have it easy and she had to struggle for every dime? Why was she an orphan and they had everything? Nobody would dare steal one of these princesses’ fathers. They would have professional vigil sitters and armed guards to ensure nothing happened.
Riley pushed aside the anger. It wouldn’t do her any good, and if she tried to tell one of the princesses how she felt, what it was like to lose her father to some necro, it would be a waste of time. She’d just drawn a different life, and no amount of envy was going to change that.
On the other side of the lobby a knot of men clustered together. They ranged in age from young to old, from casually dressed to suit and tie. She heard words like gross metric tonnage and FOB being thrown around. To her surprise, a couple of the younger ones gave her the eye.
“How much money do you have to have to get into this place?” Riley whispered.
“More than you or I will ever see.”
Figures.
Mort beckoned her toward a set of highly polished wooden stairs where a plush red runner greeted their ascent, as brass banisters and ornate crystal wall sconces led the way to the second level. He caught her elbow right before she reached the top stair.
“Don’t do anything rash or we’re both in big trouble.”
The moment they reached the second floor she realized why he’d delivered the warning. There were only summoners up here, their voluminous robes ranging from pale white to black. Most of them were male, though a few females were present. One of the women wore a carmine robe, which stuck out like a bright robin in a flock of dull pigeons.
A necro spied Mort, smiled, and walked forward to greet him. The greeting died on the fellow’s lips when he saw Riley.
“Sebastian, good to see you,” Mort said warmly, taking the last few steps as if he hadn’t noticed the man’s reaction. “This is Riley Blackthorne.”
“Ah…” Sebastian shot a look at her and then back to Mort like he didn’t know what to say. He was older than her companion, maybe in his late forties, with a gleaming balding patch at the top of his round head.
Riley deployed the charm. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Sebastian frowned, then shook his head. “You really do like stepping on toes, my friend,” he said, addressing Mort.
“Riley has asked for the Society’s help. As Advocate, I am obligated to assist her.”
“By bringing her here?” the man retorted. “Are you mad?”
“Her father wa
s illegally summoned,” Mort replied evenly. “I think it’s best we solve this quietly before some reporter gets hold of the story. The name Blackthorne is newsworthy at the moment.”
Sebastian’s already pale complexion went a shade lighter. “But he’s here tonight!” the man hissed. “By all the stars, have you no sense? The Eldest will not tolerate this infraction.”
The pale and sweating necro had to be talking about Ozymandias, and this time there was no protective circle between Riley and that monster.
Ripples of goose bumps flooded across her forearms, followed by the sting of magic. “Summoner Alexander?” a smooth voice inquired.
Mort turned and gave a low bow. “Lord Ozymandias. How good to see you.”
A dry chuckle returned. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Riley took a deep breath. She could cower or meet this obnoxious asshat head on. If he was the one who took her dad, she wasn’t going to let him do whatever he wanted just because he was the most powerful of the body snatchers.
Riley turned toward the necromancer who had terrorized her throughout her dad’s vigil. Ozymandias was in his usual black cloak, but the oak staff was nowhere to be seen. That funky tattoo on his forehead gave off a faint sheen like it was radioactive. Now that she was so close, she could see his eyes were pale green with odd brown flecks.
He won’t do anything here, not in front of the others. That was her edge.
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.