Forsaken

by Jana Oliver

  Harper kept going. “Once they claim your soul they have two choices—harvest it right then and there, in which case you are dead meat, or sell you to a higher-level demon to curry favor.”

  “What does the higher-level demon do with a person’s soul?” Simon asked, frowning.

  “Since you’re still alive, they own you. You’re their bitch for eternity.” He turned to Simon. “Tell us the difference between an incubus and a succubus.”

  Her fellow apprentice sighed, not pleased at having to discuss such matters in front of Riley. “A succubus seduces males and takes energy from them during the sex act. An incubus does the same with women.”

  Harper nodded. “They’re evil. No other way to say it.”

  “So how do you stop them?” Riley asked.

  “A Babel sphere does the trick,” the master replied.

  She wasn’t that far in the manual. Maybe she should have read ahead. “How does it work?”

  Harper huffed like she was ignorant. “Tell her, Saint.”

  The so-called Saint, who’d been doing some heavenly kissing the night before, studied her via the rearview mirror. “The Babel sphere translates what the demon is really saying, rather than what it wants you to hear. It reveals the fiend underneath the illusion.”

  “Once we’re sure this is a demon, we’ll bust open a Babel and then bag the damned thing,” Harper said. “Piece of cake.”

  Riley caught a glimpse of Simon’s face in the mirror.

  That wasn’t what either of them was thinking.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Armageddon Lounge wasn’t busy, but the folks inside eyed the three of them like refugees would a free Sunday buffet.

  This is where Beck plays pool. It fit him—a seedy End Times–themed bar with eight pool tables and a big-screen television running some college football game. The green felt on the tables was worn, and the painted concrete floor needed mopping. It smelled of cigarette smoke, which meant the owner had paid the city extra for that option.

  Harper nodded toward a young couple at one of the tables.

  “Probably them,” he said. The boy was almost Simon’s height, five nine or so, with black scruffy hair and a collection of metal in his eyebrows, nose, and tongue. Riley wondered how he could afford all that bling. The boy wore stonewashed blue jeans and a black T-shirt that said “I’m Perfect! Deal!”

  No ego there.

  As Riley moved closer she examined the girl. The paperwork said she was fifteen, but Carol Ford looked older. Her hair was blunt cut and blond, her face remarkably plain. Riley couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under her eyes. Either Carol was ill, a druggie, or her boyfriend really was an incubus sucking the life out of her. No matter what the cause, no amount of concealer was going to fix that.

  Simon unzipped his trapping bag and set it on the floor next to him. Next to it went a bright blue lunch tote.

  “Excuse me, are you Carol Ford?” he said. She turned toward him and blinked repeatedly like he’d shown a bright flashlight in her eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Simon Adler. I’m a demon trapper. You might have a problem I can help you with.”

  Riley envied him: He sounded so in control, except with Simon it came from his faith, not years of experience.

  “You don’t need to talk to them,” the boy said in a commanding voice, turning his full attention their way. “Your ’rents sent them.”

  “Parents?” she asked, like she’d forgotten she had any.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding,” the boy continued. He put his arm around Carol, who shivered at his touch, and not in a good way. “Her ’rents don’t like me, but we’re meant for each other. It’s not fair that people keep getting in our way. You should leave us alone.”

  He sounded reasonable, but so had Allan when he was on his game.

  “It’s not like we don’t care for each other,” the boy continued. “You love me, don’t you, Carol?”

  Carol nodded like a puppet.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt her,” the boy continued, then let his eyes roam to Riley.

  The moment their eyes met, Riley felt the weight of his attention like they were the only ones in the bar. She could hear him talking to her, but it didn’t seem that anyone else heard him. He was telling her how she was so pretty, how he was sorry she was all alone now, that he’d make it right. How he’d never leave her like everyone else had.

  You trust me, don’t you? he asked.

  There was a loud snap and both apprentices jumped. Harper had busted a pool cue over one of the tables.

  “For God’s sake, get on with it, Saint!” he ordered.

  Simon jerked to attention and clutched his wooden cross, his lips moving in silent prayer. A moment later a sphere impacted the floor and exploded in tiny glass fragments. Carol gave a gasp of surprise as the air immediately filled with the smell of cinnamon and a mosaic of flickering lights. The lights rose with the scent, then veered directly toward her boyfriend, encompassing him.

  “What is that?” she asked nervously.

  “Evil…” the boy hissed. “How dare you!” He flailed at the magic as his honeyed voice took on a reedy quality. Higher and higher it went as his face shifted from handsome to hideous in a reverse makeover. His clothes vanished revealing a body that looked like it’d been dipped in mud. The brown layer was cracked in places, revealing sallow skin underneath. His bloodred eyes bore into Riley, glowing in the bar’s muted light. He had no horns, but a long barbed tail flicked behind him like an angry cat as his taloned hands clawed the air.

  With the clothes gone, Riley caught a glimpse of what no mortal should see.

  Oh, great. Now that’s seared into my brain forever.

  Once it dawned on the bar’s patrons that they had a naked demon in their midst, there was a stampede for the front door. When Carol saw her boyfriend’s real form, then looked farther south, she shrieked and backpedaled.

  “Her soul I nearly had,” the demon shouted. “Evil you are!”

  Simon ignored him, donning a pair of heavy latex gloves.

  “Boon I grant all of you!” the demon offered.

  “Get screwed,” Harper replied.

  The fiend began to shrink like a child’s balloon with a slow leak. As he diminished in size, the demon yowled and swore and flailed his hands, but it didn’t stop the magical process.

  That is so cool. I wonder how it works.

  Finally he was only a foot tall, stuck inside a circle of bright twinkling lights that resembled a miniature force field. Simon scooped up the snarling fiend, dumped it in the oversized lunch tote, zipped the container closed and padlocked it. The magical charms tied to the handle rattled as he picked it up. Apparently they were supposed to keep the fiend from clawing his way out.

  Riley clapped, pleased at Simon’s success. “Trapper scores.” He gave her a modest smile, but she could tell something was bothering him.

  Harper didn’t share her joy. In fact, he glared at the pair of them. “What the hell were you two doing?” he demanded. “I told you he’d mess with your head, and you stood there like a couple of dummies!”

  Riley didn’t bother to argue. If the fiend could get into Simon’s mind, it could get into anyone’s. She turned her attention to Carol. The girl seemed paralyzed, staring at the container that held her ex-boyfriend. Copious tears rolled out of her eyes.

  “He’s … he’s a…” she stammered.

  “Demon. They happen,” Riley said, trying to sound supportive.

  The girl wailed and flung herself into Riley’s arms.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Harper ordered, casting a wary eye around the bar. A crowd of curious locals had formed at the door. “Don’t want to waste my time explaining this to the cops.”

  As Simon toted the demon outside, the bartender got in Harper’s way, bitching about the broken pool cue and all the glass on the floor.

  “You want us to turn him loose?” Harper demanded. The gu
y paled and shook his head. “Figured so.”

  Once they were outside, Riley pointed Carol toward the police station.

  “Go over there and call your parents,” she advised. “Tell them you screwed up.”

  “I thought he was…” the girl said, sniffling. She blew her nose. “He was so…”

  “Wrong for you.”

  “But they’ll ground me,” Carol cried, totally focused on her ruined love life and not the what-might-have-been if the Four had won this round.

  Getting grounded or spending forever with a demon?

  “Small price to pay,” Riley said, patting the girl’s arm in sympathy. “Trust me on that.”

  * * *

  Simon remained dead silent on the drive to Harper’s place.

  You caught the demon. That’s all that matters. Did he really think the thing wasn’t going to try to con him? That he was immune somehow?

  Harper was quiet, too, so Riley spent time trying not to stare at the lunch tote on the seat next her. She could hear the demon in her mind offering her a boon if she’d set him free.

  “No way that’s happening, so just shut up,” she muttered.

  Harper gave her a stern look over the seat. “Is it talking to you?” She nodded. “Tempted?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a Blackthorne,” Riley replied, before she could stop herself.

  He smirked. “Like that makes a goddamn bit of difference.”

  The demon kept bugging her so she took a mental vacation to the night before and the kissing. Its voice faded away to nothing.

  The instant they reached Harper’s building, the master was on her case. “There’re some Ones in the office. Take them downtown to Roscoe Clement on Peachtree Street and sell them. You’ll get seventy-five a piece for them. Get the paperwork signed, got it?”

  “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Simon chimed in, troubled by the order. “Roscoe is—”

  Harper delivered a blistering look at the older apprentice. “Not your call, Saint.” He jabbed a finger at Riley. “Be back by the time we are.”

  And that will be? She didn’t dare ask, not with his black mood. Harper barked orders at Simon, and then they were gone, the old Dodge belching smoke. Going somewhere to sell the Four.

  But not to Roscoe. Now why is that?

  Her dad had spoken of this Roscoe dude, that he sold adult videos, barely legal sex toys, and bought demons on the side. How he’d received Church approval to be a trafficker, no one knew. Her dad had warned her to stay away from the sleaze unless he was with her. Now Harper was sending her to Roscoe on her own. It was like throwing a chunk of bunny entrails in front of a Three.

  “Bet you didn’t do that to Simon,” she groused.

  Riley found the four fiends sitting in their individual sippy cups on Harper’s desk. They were all Biblios.

  One was sleeping, but the others got in the finger before she stowed them in her messenger bag. The paperwork went in next. It was in quadruplicate—a copy each for the trapper, the trafficker, the city, and another page for when the demon trafficker delivered the fiends to the Church. Every demon sale was tracked from the time the fiend was captured to the time the Church took control of them.

  According to the Trappers Manual the paperwork went all the way to Rome. She could imagine the accountants in the Vatican pouring over the reports, tallying them into some huge ledger that dated back to the Middle Ages. Maybe the pope got to see the ledger with his coffee every morning. Which meant maybe someday he’d see Riley’s name and all the demons she’d caught.

  How cool is that?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Fewer cars should equal more parking. That hadn’t been Riley’s experience. The city’s predatory search for revenue, including converting the empty parking spaces on Peachtree Street to makeshift shops that had to pay a monthly fee, made it difficult to find a place for her car. As she waited for a blue van to finish unloading so she could scoop up the parking place, Riley tugged out the manila envelope and leafed through the pages. Peter had separated the contents into specific stacks with sturdy binder clips. She studied the first batch, flipping up her eyes every now and then to see how the unloading progressed.

  “The History of Holy Water”

  Her father never approached a subject by half, and he hadn’t changed his approach when it came to the sacred liquid. In her hands was a detailed account of Holy Water’s legends and folklore in minute detail. He had a list of miracles attributed to the sacred liquid, old wives’ tales regarding its use, even a chart that showed how Holy Water was manufactured and distributed in the Atlanta area.

  Riley checked the van—still unloading—then returned to the page. The local manufacturer, Celestial Supplies, created the Holy Water in a plant in Doraville. From there it was sent to a licensed distributor who supplied various stores in the city. Every single pint, quart, and gallon of the holy liquid was tagged with a sales tax seal and cataloged by batch number.

  “And we care about this why?” she said, frowning. Maybe her dad was going to write an academic paper or something. “But who would read it?” She’d admit that some of the folklore was kind of cool, but the rest was a snooze.

  Farther on she found page after page of numbers, an inventory from Celestial Supplies that represented every single batch of Holy Water produced in the last six months.

  “Whee!” she said, rolling his eyes. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She looked up to see a stocky guy close the van’s rear door and lock it. He jumped in and pulled out of the parking spot.

  “Mine,” she said, grinning.

  Riley trudged past the Westin, one of the few hotels still open downtown. Smokers huddled together outside the front door, puffing away. One of them had a Deader standing near him, holding his briefcase. The live guy in the expensive suit was talking rapid-fire over his cell phone, pacing back and forth, leaving a long tail of cigarette smoke behind him.

  Riley’s eyes met those of the reanimate, a petite Hispanic woman in a black pantsuit and white shirt. The combination did nothing for her gray skin. Her hair was held back by a clip, and she looked so sad. Maybe she’d been this guy’s secretary before she died and he didn’t want to replace her. No matter what, she was his slave now.

  That has to suck.

  Riley gave the woman a sympathetic nod. The Deader returned the nod. That surprised her. They usually stared at the world through empty eyes. The woman’s owner gestured and she came closer, opening up the briefcase and offering its contents for his inspection. He chose a sheaf of papers and returned to his marching, ignoring everyone around him.

  Sorry, Riley mouthed. She didn’t get a response.

  The intersection of Baker and Peachtree lacked a traffic light. Constant bike and moped traffic zipped past her, and one rider nearly clipped her toes. At least horses weren’t allowed in downtown anymore since no one really wanted to wade through the manure.

  A few doors down from Max Lager’s, a popular brewpub, sat Roscoe’s Emporium. You’d have to be blind not to find the place. It was dripping in neon.

  In the front window a sign announced “Don’t Dick with America!” Right below was a giant condom. Just to make the point that Roscoe was a deeply patriotic sleaze, it enlarged to ridiculous proportions and then changed colors, rotating through red, white, then blue while “America the Beautiful” played through a pair of ancient speakers.

  The strap on her messenger bag slipped and Riley adjusted it. Tiny voices rose, barely audible. She tapped the side of the bag.

  “Knock it off.” Silence fell. It was safe to assume that middle fingers were hoisted in her direction.

  Riley stood outside for at least a full minute hoping God or whoever was in charge of the universe would step in and she wouldn’t have to do this. When there was a disappointing lack of divine intervention, she shuddered and pushed open the door.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the hu
ge video screen on the far wall. From a set of audio speakers came the low moans and the “Oh, baby,” murmurs of the siliconized porn star hooking up with a hunky Latino. A knot of customers were clustered in front of the screen, fixated, mouths agape.

  My dad is spinning in his grave.

  Roscoe spied her immediately, like he’d been expecting her. He stood behind a lengthy glass counter showing a potential customer something Riley didn’t recognize. Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t look comfortable no matter where you might put it.

  “Be with you in a sec,” he called out, drawing all eyes to her.

  Thanks, perv.

  While she waited, Riley rooted herself by the front door, refusing to wander through the shop. Not that she was a prude or anything, but a few of the customers looked scary and they watched her every move.

  Eventually Roscoe huffed his way over, his big belly arriving ahead of the rest of him. His rusty brown hair was too curly to be natural. He had tattoos on both arms that proved mermaids were really into sailors.

  Even before she had a chance to say a word, he licked his lips and grinned. “This way, girlie. We’ll do the deal in the office.”

  Girlie. She shook her head. Apparently Harper had called ahead so this should go fast. Anything to get me out of this place.

  It was hard to tell where the store ended and Roscoe’s office began. Rows of rainbow-colored vibrators sat on uneven shelves behind a rusty metal desk. Nude calendars adorned the other walls, while a small television featured a truly disgusting video involving cheerleaders. There was even a framed photo of Roscoe on the wall. The newspaper clipping below it said that the “adult entertainment czar”—Riley smirked at that—had paid over fifty thousand dollars in state licensing fees and sin taxes in the past five years. Which was why the city tolerated his smut. As her dad would say, they got their cut.

  Roscoe crunched down into a worn leather chair. The move made his vast stomach roll over the top of his jeans, fighting a battle against the tight T-shirt. It wasn’t an attractive sight. Especially when the T-shirt had a line drawn across the nipples and lettering that said “Must Be This Tall to Take This Ride.”