Forsaken

by Jana Oliver

  Uck.

  Roscoe kept staring at Riley’s chest like he’d never seen breasts before. Then his eyes went cunning. “I can get you work. Three hundred a film. Might as well use those assets of yours for something worthwhile.”

  “What?” Riley asked, confused.

  “Once you know the ropes you can bring in some serious cash. Maybe even a grand a pop,” Roscoe explained.

  He wasn’t talking demons.

  A thousand dollars to star in a porn flick? That made trapping wages look anemic.

  “If you want to make some money on the side, well, you could charge a lot being so young. I got contacts, you know? Get you right to work. Course I take a cut, but we can trade it out if you want.”

  Trade it out … Acid rose, burning her throat.

  Riley made sure the office door was open behind her.

  With a dry chuckle, Roscoe ran his eyes up and down her body, assessing her as if she were a piece of prime beef. “So let’s see the goods.”

  The urge to run slammed head-on against her assignment. Harper would be furious if she didn’t sell the Biblios, and she knew revealing Roscoe’s plans for her cinematic future wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

  How would Simon handle this? She discarded that thought immediately. He was too polite. Beck? That’s who she should be channeling right now.

  Riley glared at the porn king. “Okay. Goods it is.” He leered until she removed the Biblios from her messenger bag, lining them up on his desk, though she didn’t like getting that close to him. One of the fiends was working on his lid, feet braced on the sides of the sippy cup in a vain effort to unscrew it. She tightened the lid just in case.

  “I’m here for Master Harper,” she announced. “Nothing else.”

  Roscoe looked crestfallen. “You sure?” She nodded defiantly. “Damn. Passing up some good money. You’ve got a fine body. It’d look good under the lights.”

  “Not happening. Now can we get on with the deal for the demons?”

  Roscoe leaned forward, the grease on his nose shining like a beacon. The expression on his face almost made Riley vomit. “Ninety a head,” he offered, scratching his belly thoughtfully.

  Ninety?

  He interpreted her silence as a stall for more money. “Alright. A C-note for each. At that price I’ll take all of them you can find.”

  “As many as we can trap?” she asked, hedging. Harper had said to expect seventy-five. What was she missing here?

  “You heard me. A hundred apiece. That’s my deal.”

  Harper said to sell them and it would be righteous to see his face when she returned with that much extra money. Maybe the Church had authorized higher payments and Harper hadn’t gotten the word yet. Riley pulled out the paperwork and laid it near the cups. “You’ll need to sign for these.”

  Roscoe’s forehead bloomed in sweat. “Don’t need the Church’s paperwork. I’ve got a new buyer. They pay more, and that’s why I’m giving you more.”

  “Who’s buying them?” Riley asked.

  “Not your concern, Baby Doll.”

  Baby Doll? Double uck.

  “I can’t sell demons without the paperwork,” she said. It was the law.

  “Okay, make it one-fifteen a head,” Roscoe replied. “That’s as high as I can go. Tell that old bastard you got seventy-five each and you lost the paperwork, then you pocket the difference.”

  Her cut would be $160, enough to buy groceries for a month. If this was a setup, Harper was making it real tempting.

  It isn’t right.

  Riley reluctantly shook her head. “Unless you sign the paperwork, no deal.”

  “Don’t get a bug up your ass, girlie. I’m doing this as a community service. As far as I’m concerned you could flush them down the toilet.”

  Riley began to repack the demons into her messenger bag, her stomach sour at the way this had played out. Harper is going to lose his mind.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Roscoe asked, lurching out of his chair.

  “Doing what I’m supposed to,” she said, packing faster now, eager to get away from this weirdo.

  “One-twenty,” Roscoe said. “That’s more than you’ll make anywhere else.”

  The sleaze bled desperation; she could taste it in the air. Something was going on with this guy, but it wasn’t her problem. As she tucked away the last demon his sweaty hand grabbed her arm.

  “You can’t do that. You have to sell them to me,” he barked.

  She jerked her arm away, sickened by his touch.

  “You’re being stupid,” he growled.

  “Not the first time.”

  Riley pushed her way through customers and employees. The moment she reached the street, the demons erupted into a chorus of raucous cheers.

  Even Hell has standards.

  * * *

  Fireman Jack had been fairly easy to find since there weren’t that many vintage firehouses left in the city. Riley squared her shoulders and poked at the doorbell located next to the overhead door. No answer. She pushed again and the service door began to open.

  “Hello?” A hand waved her in. It was attached to a young guy, probably in his twenties. He was clad in blue overalls and wore high-top black-and-white-checked tennis shoes. His hair was a nest of spikes. Simi would love this dude.

  “Yes?” he asked, eying her critically.

  “I need to do business with Fireman Jack,” I said. “I’m Riley Blackthorne.”

  “Blackthorne?” An eyebrow raised. “Right this way.”

  As she followed him inside, Riley realized a fire station was a good choice for a trafficker. The trappers could pull their vehicles inside the building, close the overhead door and offload the larger fiends. No chance for the things to get loose and maul a passerby.

  Her nose caught the brimstone stench of demons before she heard the growls. There were a half dozen Threes lined up along a back wall in their individual steel cages. They all slobbered and flashed their claws, fur rippling in waves. The floor beneath them was spotless. She wondered if the guy in the high-tops got stuck with cleanup duty.

  “Blackthorne’s daughter,” one of demons howled. The others picked up the chant and magnified it.

  She kept the shiver to herself as she passed by the last cage.

  Two flights of stairs got her to Jack’s office, though it took some time to get there since her thigh didn’t like the hike. The office was big and airy with light streaming through four skylights, illuminating the old red brick walls. She liked this place. It felt good. Maybe if she got rich someday she’d buy a fire station. A quick look around proved it wasn’t just Jack’s place of work. A queen bed sat in one corner along with a tidy kitchenette, and on the other wall a flat screen streamed stock quotes.

  The owner of the place sat behind a large wooden desk. It wasn’t a fancy piece of furniture, but it’d seen years of use. Jack looked near her father’s age. Mid-forties. Old but not ancient like Harper. Jack had dark brown hair with silver streaks at his temples and wore blue jeans, a red shirt, and those barber-pole suspenders. Not hard to spot him in a crowd. A baseball cap sat on his desk. He was a Yankee fan.

  The man was on the phone. He raised a hand to give him a second, then went back to the call. He was questioning someone about regulations regarding demon disposal.

  While she waited, Riley checked out the long wall to her left, which was blanketed in pictures and paintings. There was a common theme—famous fires. London, 1666. Chicago, 1871. Atlanta, 1864 and 1917. Even the Lenox Plaza fire just last year. That had been started by a couple of horny Pyro-Fiends. Luckily that didn’t happen too often, but when it did the results were way incendiary.

  Jack hung up the phone and pointed toward a wooden high-backed chair.

  “Riley! Have a seat. How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. I’m with Harper now.”

  Jack made a gagging motion with his finger, and it set her to laughing.

  She could see why her dad
liked this guy.

  “Actually, that’s not fair,” Jack said. “He may be a platinum-class dick, but he’s a good trapper. You’ll learn a lot, providing you don’t kill him first.”

  “So far I’ve become an expert at cleaning up demon crap.” She raised her chapped hands for proof.

  “Gotta start at the bottom,” he said, smirking. The smirk faded as he opened a drawer and dropped a file folder on top of the desk. It was full of legal-size papers. “I had a look at the contract the debt collectors sent over.”

  “And?” she asked, unable to read the news on his face.

  “They have a solid claim against your dad’s body.”

  She banged the back of her skull against the wooden chair, the discomfort short-circuiting the anger and tears. “No way we can stop them?”

  “I’ve filed a motion asking the court to rule on some specifics of the claim. The best we can do is stall long enough that it doesn’t matter.”

  “I’d pay the money if I had it,” she said. “I really would.”

  “Since you are a minor, you don’t owe them anything. The reason they are going after the body is that’s the only money they can hope to receive. Sorry I don’t have better news.” He put away the folder. They studied each other for a few seconds. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “I’m here to sell you some Ones.”

  Jack pulled a face. “Why me and not one of the other traffickers?”

  “Harper sent me to Roscoe. We couldn’t come to a deal.”

  Jack leaned over the desk. “He sent you to Roscoe? Good God. Does Beck know?”

  “No.”

  “Make sure he doesn’t find out. He’ll go ballistic.”

  “I know. The sleaze offered me a job making porn flicks.” It was her turn to make a gagging motion. “Then he offered me one hundred and twenty dollars for each demon.”

  Jack gaped. “One-twenty? He can’t be selling to the Church at that price. We only get eight-five apiece for them.”

  “Could Harper be setting me up?”

  “Maybe. You never know with him.” Jack thought for a moment. “I don’t usually buy anything below a Grade Three.”

  “I figured, well, you and Dad were buds and…” she said, turning on the charm.

  The trafficker laughed. “Playing me already? Well, you got the face for it. How many?” he said.

  “Four. All Biblios.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair, slipping his thumbs under those garish suspenders. “If you turn out half as good as Paul, you’ve got a future in this business. I’m not stupid. I don’t want to piss off the next generation of trappers.”

  She cocked her head and waited. It felt like there was more.

  “Okay, I admit it,” Jack said. “I love it when an underdog wins, so I’m pulling for you. You’ll get a lot of grief because you’re female. Give it right back to them, okay?”

  He didn’t call me girlie, Baby Doll, or Princess. Jack moved up to the top of her Good People list.

  “Let’s see the little guys.”

  She set them out, one by one. The Biblios were swearing again.

  “What does the Church do with them?” she asked.

  “The official answer is that they put them in special containers, ship them off to monasteries in Europe, and the monks pray over them. It puts them to sleep. Eventually they disappear. The Church thinks their souls are saved. I think they return to Hell and are recycled.”

  “How long does that take?” she quizzed.

  “I don’t know. I honestly think they disappear so they don’t have to listen to the endless chanting.” He studied her intently. “You sure you want to sell them to me?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Jack hesitated for a second then tightened the cup lids, even though she’d just done the same thing.

  “Okay, it’s on your head then. Seventy-five apiece.”

  She nodded, though it was considerably less than what Roscoe had offered. While Jack counted out the money, she thought things through. “Did my dad say anything to you about Holy Water?”

  “No. Why?” he asked, looking up from the vintage green safe behind his desk.

  “I found some notes of his. He was researching it, but I don’t know why.”

  “Ask Beck. He’d know if anyone does.” Jack swung the safe door closed and handed her an envelope. “Don’t put this in your bag. Someone might try to take it. The locals know folks coming out of here have cash on them.”

  She tucked the envelope in the waistband of her jeans. They signed the paperwork and the deal was done. He rose and offered his hand, and they shook firmly.

  “Remember me when you get your journeyman’s license. I’ll be interested to see what you catch. I’ll buy whatever you bring me.”

  Now that rocks. At least someone is on my side.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Riley laid the cash on the master’s desk in a neat stack right next to his box of cigars.

  “You sold them?” Harper asked. There wasn’t a whiskey bottle in sight, and his eyes were predatory, like he was waiting to pounce. It gave her the creeps, and she wished Simon were here, not out buying trapping supplies.

  Riley dumped the paperwork in front of him. A frown appeared as he flipped the pages. She’d sold the demons for the amount he’d said and brought him the cash and forms. Why was he upset?

  “You sold them to the fag!” he bellowed.

  Uh-oh. That’s what Jack had meant when he said it was on her head.

  “Why the hell didn’t you go to Roscoe like I told you?” Harper demanded, his voice echoing off the open rafters. “Can’t you do one damned thing right?”

  “I went to the perv. He wouldn’t sign the papers.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “He said he’d give me one-twenty apiece for the demons as long as I did the deal under the table.” She took a gulp of air. “He said to tell you I got seventy-five and lost the paperwork, then I could keep the rest.”

  Harper’s eyes turned flinty black. Faster that she thought he could move, his hand shot across the desk and grabbed her forearm. The fingers dug in like iron. “You’re lying.”

  She tried to twist out of his grasp, but he only tightened his hold. “I’m not lying! Stop it. That hurts.”

  The master suddenly released her and she staggered a few steps away, fear coursing through her. Harper was too volatile. The next time he might hit her.

  He produced a full bottle of whiskey from a drawer. The amber liquid sloshed into a cracked glass. “I don’t sell to fags. Never have, never will.”

  “I didn’t know,” she retorted.

  “You just did it to make me look bad. You’re as twisted as your old man,” he spat.

  You leave my dad out of this!

  “Get the hell out here,” he shouted, “or I swear you’ll be bleeding.”

  Riley barely reached the front door when glass shattered in the office.

  “Goddamn Blackthornes!” Harper cursed.

  Simon looked up as she fled into the parking lot. When he saw her face, he dropped a box back into the trunk of his car and hurried up to her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Don’t go in there,” she said, shivering. “He’s crazy. He’s throwing stuff.”

  Simon studied her for a moment, then after a quick look at the building he put his hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.

  “What happened in there?” he asked.

  If she told him, what could he do? Argue with Harper? Get tossed out of the Guild? That wouldn’t help either of them.

  Riley shook her head, pulled away from him and hurried toward her car.

  It’s not your fight.

  * * *

  The shakes finally subsided by the time Riley slumped on her couch. She pulled up her sweatshirt sleeve and studied her arm. Five dark finger-sized bruises stood out against her skin. She tugged the sleeve down. The bruises would eventually fade. Her fear wo
uldn’t.

  “He’s going to keep doing this. He’s going to keep hurting me until I quit.”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Dad. I’m so scared.

  Her phone rang and she jumped at the sound. Reluctantly she dug it out of her bag. It was Simon.

  “Riley, where are you?” he asked. Behind him she could hear street noise.

  “I’m at home.”

  “Please tell me what happened. I don’t want to walk in on him without knowing.”

  “I sold the Ones to Jack. Harper didn’t like it.” And then he hurt me.

  “Did he … hit you?”

  She sat up on the couch. Apparently she wasn’t Harper’s only target.

  “I’m okay, Simon.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was hoping he’d be better with you.”

  Not a chance.

  She flipped the phone closed. Her fear sheeted off her like a thin layer of ice in the full sun. “Harper, you miserable…” He’d dissed her dad. He’d hurt her and Simon.

  Her father’s voice asked the question as clearly as if he were sitting next to her.

  Do you believe you deserve to be hit?

  “No.” And though Harper scared the hell out of her, she wasn’t giving up. She’d just stay out of his reach from now on. He’d had his one shot at her, and there would be no others.

  There was a tentative knock at her door.

  She opened it, leaving the chain in place, still on edge. It was Beck, who wasn’t known for knocking so softly.

  “What?” she grumbled.

  She could tell by the way he held himself that he was upset.

  “Simon called. He was worried. He thought Harper had hurt ya.”

  “I’ll handle it,” she said evenly.

  “Riley, he’s a vicious SOB. That’s why I wanted ya with Stewart.”

  “I’ll handle it,” she repeated. How she’d do that she had no idea, but if Beck got involved he’d end up in jail for assault and lose his trapping license.

  “What set him off?” She told him. “Oh, God, I thought ya knew Harper didn’t like Jack.”

  “How would I know that?” she complained. “I’m an apprentice. I’m not supposed to know stuff, but everybody thinks I do because my dad was a master.”