by Jana Oliver
“If you’re here from the collection agency, don’t bother. My dad’s long gone and I have no idea who has him.”
“I am not from any collection agency,” the woman replied. Something floral wafted into the apartment as she offered up a business card with a delicate hand. “I’m Justine Armando.” She stated the name as if everyone would recognize it instantly.
Riley studied the card: FREELANCE JOURNALIST. “I don’t talk to the press,” she said automatically. That was one of the first lessons drilled into an apprentice’s brain: Talking to the media was a big no-go.
“I am aware of that, but Beck said it would be fine,” the woman replied.
That didn’t sound like Backwoods Boy. “I doubt that.”
“On the contrary, I’ve already interviewed him … extensively,” the woman added.
The words interviewed and extensively had a certain weight to them, like the reporter meant something entirely different.
Riley eyed her visitor again, assessing the package. “Stroke his ego, did you?”
Ms. Armando’s mouth curved into a knowing smile.
Ah, jeez. You’re knocking boots with a reporter? Come on, Beck. That’s just wrong.
“I thought it would be wise to hear your perspective on trapping with the men,” the woman explained. “That cannot be easy for you.”
As much as Riley would love to tell her side of the story, if she talked to the press without Harper’s permission, he’d be all over her. She just didn’t need the hassle.
“Sorry, I can’t do it, not without my master’s okay,” she said, and shut the door before she lost her nerve.
The reporter knocked again, calling out, but Riley ignored her, double-checking that the chain lock was engaged. She curled up in bed, trying not to conjure up the image of Backwoods Boy and the reporter chick doing what she and the angel had been up to in her dream. She thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead, hoping that might dislodge the slide show. It didn’t work. In fact, the images only became more graphic.
“Euuuuu!” she said, grimacing. “La la la la la…”
If they were hooking up, there was only one reason that woman would pick Beck as a lover: The red-haired stick chick was using him to further her career.
“I mean, look at her. She’s so not your type.” Not that she knew what Beck’s type would be, but Riley suspected it would be someone into country music and who liked to hang at the Armageddon Lounge and shoot pool all night. That was not Ms. Perfect Size Eight.
Riley finally drifted into an uneasy sleep. Seconds later, or so it seemed, someone pounded on the door. She sat bolt upright, glowering. It was like there was a neon sign on the top of the apartment building that said “Riley Is Trying to Sleep. Visit Her Now!”
“If this is the stick chick again…”
This time it was all guys, two of which were in military garb, wearing sidearms and sporting a special patch on their vests depicting a dude slaying a dragon. Behind them was a priest, clad in solid black like an aged crow. It wasn’t Father Harrison.
Simon’s call to the demon hunters had borne fruit.
“Miss Blackthorne?” one of the men asked, his accent thick and hard to understand. He was tall, Nordic blond, and pretty scary. “We are demon hunters, here by special permission from the Vatican.”
Here being Atlanta, she hoped, rather than on her doorstep in particular.
“I can only talk to you if my master is present.” It was a good response to about anything she didn’t want to do.
“Those rules don’t apply to us,” the man insisted.
“They do for me.”
“We have the power to detain you for questioning,” he replied, his voice taking on a harder edge. “We will use that power if needed.”
I so don’t need this right now. “This is because of Simon Adler, right? What he said about me?”
The priest nodded. “Mr. Adler has concerns about your loyalties.” He moved closer to the door at this point. Maybe he thought he had a better chance of convincing her to play along.
“Did he tell you we used to date?”
“He stated that you had coerced him into a romantic relationship.”
“Co … erced?” she sputtered. Simon had been the one to ask her out, not the other way around.
“We need to speak at length about this issue, Miss Blackthorne,” the priest replied. “Please let us in.”
“I don’t know what else Simon told you, but I didn’t break the ward. Neither did my father, who is dead and has been reanimated, just in case you haven’t heard. I have no idea why the demons came after us, and I have class in an hour,” she said in a rush of words. “That’s all you’re getting from me unless my master is present.”
“These charges are serious: You have been accused of working for Lucifer,” the priest replied.
“Not a chance. Now good afternoon,” she said, pushing the door closed.
The big blond man slammed his palm against the wood, straining the chain lock. With only a little more effort the chain would snap and they’d be inside.
Panicking, Riley backed off, grabbing her cell phone from the coffee table.
“You stay outside or I’ll call the cops,” she warned, brandishing the phone like a weapon.
“You let us in and the door stays in one piece,” the big man replied.
She had no other option but to dial Harper, gambling that he hated the hunters more than he hated her. As the phone rang there was rapid-fire conversation between the priest and the Nordic guy, all in a language she didn’t understand. When her master answered, she unloaded the situation in a breathy voice.
“What do I do?” she asked, crossing the fingers of her free hand behind her back where the hunters wouldn’t see it. Please don’t make me do this.
“Let me talk to the priest,” Harper ordered.
Riley handed the cell phone to Father Rosetti through the wedge of open door. There was a brisk exchange, and then the phone came back to her.
“Sir?” she asked, her fingers still crossed.
“You’re not to talk to them unless I’m with you. If they arrest you, call me and we’ll take it from there,” Harper said. “And don’t think you’re out of it. If you’re working for Hell, I’ll kill you myself.” The phone went dead.
Oh goody.
The priest issued an order and the big man backed off. “You will talk to us eventually,” the cleric said, giving her a thin smile. If it was supposed to reassure her, it did the opposite.
“The Guild won’t let you touch me,” she said defiantly.
“They will if we find evidence of your guilt. They will throw you to us just to clear their name. It is better to plead your case now. Unlike God, our mercy is not limitless.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she insisted. “So just go away and leave me alone.”
Riley pushed the door closed, then leaned against it, stomach churning. There was the thump of combat boots on the stairs and then silence.
They want a scapegoat and I’m it. The next time I won’t be able to stall them.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The big blue tent at the far edge of the Terminus Market seemed an unlikely place to hold a trapper’s meeting, but according to Jackson nobody else in the city would rent them space.
“Can’t blame them,” the trapper said as he parked himself in a folding chair next to Riley inside the tent. His arm was still bandaged, but he seemed able to move it without much pain.
“Do you want me to do the Holy Water ward?” she asked. It was usually Simon’s job, but she doubted he could handle it right now.
“One of the others is doing it.”
And Riley knew why. “You don’t trust me to do it right,” she said, more hurt than she cared to admit.
“If it was me you’d be doing the ward, but Stewart suggested a journeyman handle it for the time being. That way if anything happens, you won’t be blamed.”
“So will it always be
this way? Nobody trusting me, that is?” Riley demanded.
“I honestly don’t know,” Jackson replied.
“We didn’t do anything to the ward.”
“I know that. Sometimes the truth is harder to accept than a lie.”
Jackson was trying to make her feel better, in comparison to other trappers who kept frowning and muttering “Blackthorne” under their breath like it was a curse word. Asshats. How could they believe she’d let the demons in? All her father had done was protect his daughter.
When Jackson moved to the front of the tent, she looked over at her master. Harper hadn’t said a word to her about her phone call this afternoon, like his apprentices were visited by the demon hunters every day. Which meant he thought she deserved their wrath. So did Simon, who sat next to him, grim. When one of the trappers said hello the apprentice only nodded, his mind stuck in some dark mire of conspiracy theories.
Why is everything so wrong now?
Someone called out Beck’s name, and a moment later he appeared at the tent flap. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Bet it wasn’t because you were hunting demons. Not with the arrogant smirk on his face.
He took a seat next to her, placing his trapping bag on the ground. “Girl.”
The faint hint of something flowery caught her nose and she reacted instantly. “How’s the reporter chick?”
Beck gave her a startled look. “What do ya mean?”
She took an exaggerated sniff. “The reporter chick, the one with the red hair? Unless you’re letting your inner girl show, you smell just like her.” When he began to protest, she waved him off. “She was at my apartment this afternoon trying to interview me, so I remember her perfume.”
“Did ya talk to her?” Beck asked, suddenly worried.
“Was I supposed to?”
“No way. Ya know that. Everythin’ goes through Harper or Stewart.”
The stick chick lies like a pro. “You’re always giving me advice; here’s some for you: She’s playing you. She lied to me, told me you said it was okay if I talked to her.”
“That’s what reporters do,” he said, but his frown told her he wasn’t happy with the news. “I thought ya knew that.”
“I know a lot of things, Beck, and she’s not your type.”
“Ya sayin’ I’m not good enough for her?” he said, his voice harsher now.
“No. I’m saying she’s not on the level.”
A scowl formed on his face. Riley knew what was coming. “Ya called Fargo yet?”
“No, I’ve been too busy trying to destroy the Guild and corrupt Simon’s soul. Being evil is a full-time job.”
Beck snorted. He angled his head toward where her ex-boyfriend sat at the other side of the tent. “No need to hang around for him anymore. He’s moved on. That sure didn’t last very long, did it?”
Ouch. Riley knew they should step away from this before someone went too far, but the need to retaliate became overwhelming.
“I’m not staying at the church from now on,” she announced. “Ori’s watching over me. He won’t let anything happen. He’ll get that Five, you wait and see.”
A chuff of disgust came her way. “Bull … shit. Pretty boys like that don’t know jack when it comes to demons. They’re just flash.”
Riley leaned closer to her father’s favorite trapping buddy, eager to spear his insufferable arrogance in its heart. “Ori was the one who saved me from the Five at the Tabernacle.”
“What?” Beck spouted.
“You heard me.” She let three seconds pass before delivering the verbal knife-thrust between his ribs. “He was there for me when it counted, Beck. So where were you?”
The trapper’s mouth flopped open in astonishment.
Jackson’s timing was perfect: He called out for silence. As trappers settled into their chairs, Beck continued to stare at her in disbelief.
“I’m calling this meeting to order,” Jackson said, waving his hands to gain attention. “We lost the gavel in the fire, so we’ll just have to deal. The masters have asked me to be acting president until we have an election. Is that okay with you folks?”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Fine. First thing, Pritchard is the only one still in the hospital. He’ll be going home in a couple of days, but he’s done trapping. That’s a mixed blessing, but at least he’s still alive.”
“Thank God,” someone called out. Riley thought his name was Remmers or something like that. He was the only other African American in the Atlanta Guild.
“I second that,” another said.
“The remainder of the funerals will be out of the area, so I need volunteers to attend those services.” Hands shot up and Jackson made note of the names. “Thanks, guys. Master Stewart, you want to give a report on the demon hunters?”
The Scotsman rose from his chair, leaning heavily on his cane. “As we expected, they’re goin’ ta do their own thing. My advice is ta stay outta their way. They’ll kill a few demons and then leave, if we’re lucky.”
“And if not?” Jackson asked.
“Then it could get ugly. We don’t want any more casualties, so don’t cross these guys. Just back off and live for another day.”
“We should just let them do whatever they want?” someone called out.
A wily grin settled on the Scotsman’s face. “No, I’m not sayin’ that. Ya have a problem with them, call me or Beck. We’ll get it sorted.”
“Anything from the Archbishop about the Holy Water problem?” Jackson asked.
“Not yet. He’s checkin’ his sources, but so far the city claims there’s no problem at all.”
Riley held her tongue. No reason to let the others know she’d been investigating on her own, at least not until she’d figured out the whole scam. Then she’d be happy to drop it in their laps.
“Anything you want to say, Harper?” Jackson asked.
Riley’s heart began to thud. What if he tells them about the hunters? What if he demands they toss me out of the Guild?
The older trapper shook his head. “Not right now.”
What? He’d had the perfect opportunity to ruin her career and he’d passed on it. What’s he up to?
“On to other business, then,” Jackson continued. “It seems like we’ve got more press in this city than we have demons, at least that’s what it looks like. Be careful what you say to these folks. We need to present a solid front.”
“Better tell Beck about that,” a trapper called out. Riley didn’t recognize the voice.
Her companion shifted uneasily in his seat. “I know how to handle ’em.”
“So we noticed,” was the swift response. Crude jests flew through the tent, followed by laughter. Even they think you’re sleeping with her.
Jackson shuffled papers. “The National Guild is requesting trappers to come to Atlanta to help us out, at least in the short term. They’re also trying to line up a master for us. It’ll be a while before that happens.”
“What about that television show?” Reynolds asked. “They still coming?”
“I haven’t heard anything to say they’re not,” Jackson replied. “Let’s talk about what happened the other night,” Jackson added, opening the floor to whoever wanted to have their say.
There were different schools of thought: the Holy Water was neutralized or the bogus Holy Water was to blame. The third explanation cut too close to home: Someone had purposely broken the ward.
“Riley?” It was their temporary president and he was looking right at her. “Could you tell us what your father said to you that night?”
She rose, nervous when all eyes turned to her. “He said I should run, that they were coming. That there were too many of them.”
“And he was inside the ward, wasn’t he?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. He was right behind me.”
Voices erupted from the back of the tent as she sank into her seat.
“I told you he did it!” McGuire s
houted.
Harper rose, a hand pressed against his sore ribs. “That’s not what I saw. The ward was still up when Blackthorne was talking to his kid. It didn’t break until it was overrun by the demons.”
Harper doesn’t blame my dad? She had to be dreaming.
“What’s yer theory on all this?” the Scotsman asked Harper.
“Same as yours—too much evil in one place,” her master replied and sank back into his seat.
As Simon rose to his feet, all eyes went to him. “How can you…” He paused to suck in a tortured breath. “How can you believe that God’s Holy Essence can be destroyed?”
“Not destroyed … neutralized. There is a difference,” Stewart replied.
“Not to me,” Simon shot back. “Either you believe Heaven has ultimate power to destroy evil, or you believe that Lucifer can win this war. There is no middle ground.”
The silence within the tent became oppressive. No one wanted to challenge him, not after what he’d been through.
It was Harper who finally spoke. “No one is claiming that Heaven can’t kick Hell’s ass. What we’re saying is that the Holy Water did what it was supposed to do, but there was just too much evil.”
“I refuse to accept that,” Simon replied, glaring at Riley as he lowered himself into his chair. “Hell had help that night. That’s the only explanation.”
She lurched to her feet, eager to tell him how wrong he was about her dad, about her. How much Simon had hurt her and how that agony would never go away.
“Anythin’ ya want ta say, lass?” Stewart asked.
Her anger made her visibly tremble, and she cursed herself for that weakness. “My dad loved being in the Guild,” she protested. “He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you, Simon. Or any of those guys.”
“So if it wasn’t him,” McGuire called out, “how about you, girl? Did you break the ward?”
She turned toward her accuser. “And get myself eaten by a demon? Do I look stupid?”
“Maybe they said they’d let you go. Hell makes some powerful deals.”
“Talking from experience, McGuire?” she snapped.
“Riley, he’s a journeyman, and yer—” Beck warned.