by Jana Oliver
“You know I wouldn’t,” she said, stunned that he’d think she’d have her own father mutilated to save a few uncomfortable nights in a cemetery.
“I didn’t know,” he admitted. “If ya’d asked me to do it…” Beck shook his head. “Not possible.”
“For either of us.”
They started walking again, the tension between them draining away like they’d crossed some unseen barrier. Around them, birds settled into the trees, and dried leaves rustled as a squirrel bounced its way past a row of graves.
“Yer daddy had a life insurance policy,” Beck said as they followed the road to the left. “It’ll take a while for the money to come through. It’s not much, but it’ll bury him and give ya some to live on.” He paused and then added, “Oh, and the others took up a collection, bought some flowers for the funeral.”
Riley’s throat tightened. “Thanks. I didn’t think of that.”
He gave her a sad smile. “Me neither.”
The Bell Tower, a two-story building that held the cemetery office, was stark white in its simplicity. As they approached, she saw Simon waiting for them. Like Beck, he was in a suit.
After a quick look at the other trapper, almost like he was seeking permission, Simon stepped forward. “Riley,” he said quietly. Without hesitation, he embraced her. It felt good.
“Thanks for watching over my dad,” she murmured. She felt a nod against her cheek.
“He’s down here,” Beck said, gesturing to a set of stairs that led to a lower level. After a deep breath, Riley followed him, her hands knotted around a bunch of tissues she’d pulled from her coat pocket.
The stench of the Easter lilies hit her nose the moment she reached the door. There was a big vase of them just inside the room. She hated them. To some they spoke of resurrection. To her they meant nothing but death and loss.
At the far end of the room sat a plain pine coffin on a raised stand. The lid was closed.
Dad.
Riley remained rooted in place. She could lie to herself until she saw him in the casket, then all those lies burned away.
Beck cleared his throat. “Riley?”
“Give me a minute,” she said, though no amount of time was going to make this bearable.
“It never gets any easier.”
She looked over at him, caught by the emotion in his voice.
“I still remember my granddaddy’s funeral,” he said. “I was ten and my uncle came down to Waycross to pick me up. Hauled me all the way to North Georgia so I could be there. I cried like a baby.”
“What was your granddad like?” she asked, curious. Beck never talked about his family.
His face turned thoughtful. “Elmore was a cantankerous old cuss. Lived up in the hills and made moonshine.” He looked over at her. “Taught me how to trap squirrels and roll cigarettes.”
“Skills every ten-year-old should know.”
He shrugged. “Some might not see it thatta way, but he was a good man. He’d tell me I could be anythin’ I wanted.” He looked over at the coffin. “Like yer daddy.”
The throbbing ache in her heart grew. “Dad … really liked you.”
Her companion’s eyes misted. He swiped at the tears like they were a weakness. “I never wanted anythin’ but to make him proud.”
Without thinking, she took hold of his hand and carefully squeezed it, mindful of his wounds.
“Did he … say anything when he…?”
“Your name.”
Oh, God. Riley’s shoulders hitched, and the sobs erupted before she could stop them. Tears followed. Beck let go of her hand and placed his arm around her shoulder, holding her close. Her tears soaked his suit coat.
When she finally pulled away, they took slow steps toward the coffin. The room closed in on her, choking her in the stench of those damned lilies. She pressed the tissue to her nose.
On the coffin lid was a brass plaque. The script was fancier than she’d expected, but it was easy to read.
PAUL A. BLACKTHORNE
MASTER TRAPPER, ATLANTA GUILD
He was more than that, but she knew there wasn’t enough room on that piece of metal to tell the world everything he’d been.
“Ready?” Beck asked.
No. Never. But she nodded anyway, and he slowly opened the lid.
Now she knew why Beck had been rummaging through the closet when she was in the bathroom. He’d picked out her father’s burial clothes. Her dad was in his best suit and his favorite red tie, the one she’d bought him for Christmas a few years back. He looked like he was asleep, like Carmela said.
Riley bent over and kissed his pale cheek. It was so cold, like kissing stone. She smoothed back a lock of brown hair, the one that always fell into his eyes.
“He’s with Mom now,” she said, with stinging tears slipping down her cheeks. “Bugging her about her cooking and those dumb soap operas she used to watch.” The ones Dad liked, too, but he’d never admit it.
Beck sucked in a jagged breath. His eyes were closed and his cheeks wet. His whole body shook with grief.
No matter what she thought of him, her dad had always cared for Denver Beck. It looked like that love went both ways.
* * *
Riley headed up the asphalt path toward her family’s mausoleum. It was designed like a miniature cathedral with a tall spire at the top, and built of reddish stone. The two bronze doors had lion’s head door pulls. The rear of the building was curved and held five stained-glass windows, each with a verse from the Bible.
Back in the late 1880s her family had money, and the mausoleum was ample proof of it. One of the Blackthornes had been a banker and made his fortune before the Civil War, and his wealth had left the structure for his descendants.
The mausoleum was full, so her father would be placed right next her mother on the west side of the building where they could watch the sunsets together. That’d been her mother’s choice.
Riley turned at the sound of boots scuffing on asphalt. Six trappers carefully maneuvered the casket toward the grave. It was difficult work and they went slowly. Despite his wounds, Beck was at the head of the coffin, Simon on the other side. One of the men began to sing, and his tenor voice carried throughout the graveyard.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home …
Her dad had always liked that song, especially the part about the band of angels. There were no angels here tonight, at least not that she could see, but he wasn’t alone. Trappers stood in dignified rows, hands clasped in front of them; the two remaining masters were in the front row. Harper wouldn’t meet her eyes, but Master Stewart did. He was in full Scottish regalia and cradled a bagpipe in his arms.
Another knot of men stood a short distance away, but none of them looked familiar. Carmela leaned close to her, apparently noticing her confusion. “Demon traffickers. Fireman Jack is the one in the dark blue suit. He and your dad were good friends.”
Riley found her eyes drifting to the man Carmela had indicated. He nodded to her in response. Now that she knew who he was, she remembered her dad saying that Jack always wore barber-pole suspenders, like his trademark. She couldn’t see them now, apparently hidden by his suit coat.
A hand touched her elbow—it was Mrs. Litinsky. She was in a royal blue coat, her hair braided and tucked up on her head in a thick bun. Riley gave her a wan smile. At best there were thirty or forty people here. She’d trade them all to hear her father’s voice one more time.
Once the coffin was situated, Beck stood next to her. He awkwardly offered his hand and she took it. His emotions were shuttered again. Riley didn’t know how he could do that so easily.
The Guild’s priest, Father Harrison, took his place in front of the coffin. He was young, almost boyish in his looks, with dark brown hair and eyes. It was tradition for a priest to handle the services, even if the trapper wasn’t Catholic.
He began by talking about her father, how he was always eager to teach the newer trapper
s and how he possessed that quiet sense of destiny.
“To lose such a man might make us question God’s mercy. I believe that Paul was called home because his work was done. He had fought the amy of darkness and fallen in battle but will always remain in our hearts. O Lord, in your mercy, grant him eternal rest.”
“Amen,” Riley murmured along with the others.
Father Harrison looked over at Beck. “We also give thanks, O Lord, that we are not mourning the loss of another this night.”
Beck lowered his eyes as if embarrassed he was still breathing.
What if he had died, too?
Riley shivered at the thought. In response, Beck put his arm around her shoulder, thinking she was cold. It was deeper than that.
Harrison turned toward her. “O Lord, father of us all, please watch over Riley, as she takes up the fight against all that is evil in this world.”
“Amen.”
As the priest spoke of resurrection and heaven, they lowered her father into the ground. During the final prayer she didn’t look down into the grave, but up at the sky. Dad was up there somewhere, watching over her. No demon could ever hurt him now. Once the full moon came, no necro could either. He’d kept her safe all these years, she’d do the same for him.
I promise.
Beck and Simon stripped off their suit coats and handed them to another trapper. Then they began to shovel the dirt into the grave.
“It’s tradition,” Carmela explained. “Trappers have a lot of them. Some of them even make sense.”
Beck didn’t go for very long, his face radiating pain. Jackson took over as Simon handed his shovel to Morton. And so it went, trapper after trapper, until the entire coffin was covered in red Georgia clay.
Then the gravediggers took over. As they completed the job, the trappers departed in reverse order of seniority. Another tradition, apparently. Stewart’s bagpipe stirred to life, and the strains of “Amazing Grace” filled the air. Riley bowed her head. When the final note faded, the remaining mourners drifted toward her.
One by one they introduced themselves: Some were teachers who’d known her father from years before; others were former clients. They each had a story to tell. Her dad had removed a demon from their basement, saved their beloved Doberman from a ravenous Three, captured an incubus that had terrorized a private girls’ school.
Her father had done so much, and yet his daughter felt she knew so little about him.
“Riley?”
She turned to find Peter watching her with the saddest expression. His eyes were red, and he was wearing a suit that seemed a size too big.
“Peter?” They hugged awkwardly and he stammered how sorry he was.
“Son…” a woman standing behind him nudged.
“Sorry. Riley, this is my mother,” he said, looking embarrassed.
So this is the warden. Riley had never actually met the woman, which she’d counted as a good thing. Keen to make a favorable impression, at least for her friend’s sake, Riley politely shook hands.
“You have my condolences,” Mrs. King said. “Who will you be staying with now?”
What? That was a very direct question. “Haven’t worked that out yet.”
“You can’t stay on your own,” the woman cautioned. “Do you have any other family?” Peter shifted, clearly not pleased by his mother’s inquisition.
Her tone rubbed against Riley’s raw nerves, though Mrs. King probably thought she was being helpful. “I have an aunt in Fargo.” Who hates me.
“Then I suspect you’ll be moving, won’t you?”
“No!” Peter exclaimed. “You can’t leave Atlanta.”
Riley took her friend’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t know yet. Too much to think about right now.”
That seemed to settle him down. When Mrs. King announced they had to leave, he protested, but it got him nowhere. He gave Riley another hug and then was gone.
Beck joined her. “His momma doesn’t like ya.”
“Never has. Thinks I’m a wild child or something.”
Beck snorted. “Not even close.” He looked over at the mounded grave. “Yer daddy got a good send-off. I think he’d be pleased.” When she didn’t reply, he handed her the bag she’d packed for the vigil. “Best get changed. We need to get the circle in place before sundown.”
And then it begins.
TEN
As Riley peered through the grill on one of the bronze doors, her fingers traced the cold metal of a lion’s head. Those had always fascinated her, unlike the gargoyles high on the mausoleum’s roof. They had the same lion faces, but she’d always thought the gargoyles were creepy. Her dad said they guarded the dead.
Now they’ll watch over you.
When she was younger her family would often come to the mausoleum and visit the dead relatives. Her mom would clean the stained-glass windows then sweep the floor. Her father would tell her stories about some of the people buried there. Then they’d have a picnic on the grass, just like the Victorians who built the cemetery.
Now as she peered inside the structure, the sun’s final rays poured through a couple of the stained-glass windows, projecting a mosaic of primary colors onto the stone floor. Riley unlocked the doors and pulled them open with a noisy scrape. As she walked inside she ran a hand along one of the vaults.
JOHN HARVEY BLACKTHORNE
BORN 17 AUGUST 1823
DIED 4 JANUARY 1888
I will not cease from mental flight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand …
Her mom had said the verse came from an old poem. It seemed an odd thing to put on the tomb of a banker. In the rear of the building was a raised platform covered in a thin stone veneer which cleverly concealed a storage bin. She levered open the lid with considerable effort. A tiny spider crawled out and vanished over the side, its rest disturbed.
The interior looked like her father had left it a few weeks before. She took the sleeping bags out of their cases and shook them out one by one. She’d need them tonight.
“Good choice for a bolt hole,” Beck observed from the doorway.
Trappers called them different names—bolt hole, sanctuary, bunker. Most had one in case of a demon uprising. They were always located on hallowed ground and included stores of dried food, spare clothing, water, and medical supplies. Some had a weapons stash. Her father had instructed Riley and her mom what to do if the demons ever waged war. Now it would be up to her to keep it stocked and ready.
“Mine’s in a church basement,” Beck added. When she didn’t reply, he struggled on. “It’s quiet here. I like that. Mine isn’t. It’s next door to the furnace room.”
It was clear he was going to keep talking no matter what. Maybe it was nervous energy. Whatever the reason, it was bugging her.
“It’s too bad yer daddy’s not in here,” Beck said. “It’d be easier to sit vigil.”
She shoved the sleeping bags and extra blankets in his arms. “I’m changing now, so you need to go.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Riley swung the bronze doors closed behind him and stripped out of her dress and boots. The bare stones felt chilly beneath her feet. She pulled on the blue jeans, leaving the tights underneath for warmth, then added a heavy sweater. Then the boots, hopping from one foot to the other as she zipped them. Finally a heavy coat, because her mom’s wasn’t going to be warm enough.
As she stepped outside, the sun backlit the capitol’s golden dome.
“It’s time,” Simon called out. He’d changed too, in jeans and sweatshirt now. He stood inside a large circle of candles that ringed both her dad and mom’s graves. Each candle was about twelve inches from its neighbor.
When Riley drew close, both of the trappers looked over at her. Beck’s face was set in a determined expression. Simon’s was full of compassion.
“You really think they’ll come for him?” she asked.
“They read the papers just like everyone else,” Beck replied.
&n
bsp; She hadn’t even thought about that. How big of an article would her dad have rated? Front page? No way. Inside the paper somewhere, probably buried underneath notices for lost pets. Trappers only made the front page if they trashed law libraries.
Belatedly, Riley began to think of what this long night might be like. She wasn’t that good with being cold and sitting still. Never could stand camping. Then there was Simon. She really didn’t know him. What if he was creepy or something? She shoved that thought aside instantly. Her dad had thought he was okay. Then another worry caught up with her.
“What if I…” She sighed. “What if I need to go to the bathroom?”
Beck didn’t smirk like she figured he would. “There’s a toilet in the basement of the cemetery office. The door’s locked. The code’s in there,” he said, pointing at a booklet in Simon’s hand.
Oh.
Beck took a deep breath. “Whatever ya do, don’t break the circle. If ya kick over a candle or walk through the circle without doin’ it proper, it’s history. Ya understand?”
She nodded.
“Do ya really understand?” he pressed.
She glowered. “I’m not slow.”
Simon’s grin quickly vanished when the other trapper noticed it.
“It’s not that easy. The necros play all sorts of head games.” Beck looked over at Simon. “You’re in charge.”
Riley ground her teeth.
“I’ll keep them both safe, I promise,” Simon said diplomatically.
“Be sure ya do.” Beck turned on his heels and marched off toward the truck, fueled by some emotion Riley couldn’t fathom.
“Jerk,” she muttered.
“He’s okay,” Simon replied. “He’s just worried about you and your dad.”
The young trapper lit a kerosene lantern and set it on a flat piece of ground. “He says you’ve never done this before. Is that right?”
She nodded. “Mom died of cancer. It wasn’t pretty.”
His eyes softened. “I’m sorry.” She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but she was lying.
“Everything you need is in here,” he said, gesturing at the booklet. “There are sample invocations, or you can use one that has special meaning to you.”