by Jana Oliver
“She and Simon have taken a fancy ta each other, did ya know? They were holdin’ hands and kissin’ before the meetin’. They didn’t think I saw them.”
“Kissin’?” Beck felt something heavy form in the middle of his chest, like a thick stone weighing on his heart. Had to be because of the demon wound, they always made a person feel weird. It wouldn’t do him any good to think of Riley as more than just Paul’s little girl.
“Ya didn’t know?” the master asked, all innocence.
Beck shook his head. He’d known Riley and Simon were spending time together—they were apprenticing with Harper and saw each other every day. But he hadn’t realized their relationship had gone that far. She was only seventeen, and now that both of her parents were dead he felt responsible for her. Sort of like a big brother. Maybe something more.
“Yer frownin’, lad,” Stewart observed.
Beck tensed, uncomfortable with the old trapper’s scrutiny. “Simon’s okay,” he acknowledged. “But he’s not what she should be thinkin’ about right now. I’ll have a talk with him once he’s better. Warn him off.” Let him know if he goes too far with her I’ll rip his damned head off.
The master gave him a fatherly smile. “Let them sort it out, lad. Ya canna keep her in a bubble the rest of her life.”
Wanna bet? It’s what Paul would have wanted and, if he was honest, the only way Beck could sleep at night. As he stared at the broken landscape and the savaged building, his mind filled with images from the night before. Of demons and the trappers battling for survival. Of Riley in the middle of the flames. How close he’d come to losing her. Beck shuddered, ice shearing through his veins.
Stewart laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, startling him. “I know ya stayed inside that furnace until the very last. That takes stones, and I’m damned proud of ya. Paul would have been as well.”
Beck couldn’t meet the master’s eyes, troubled by the praise.
The Scotsman’s hand retreated. “Ya can’t carry it all on yer shoulders, broad as they are.”
He sounded just like Paul, but that made sense—Master Stewart had trained Riley’s father, who in turn had apprenticed Beck. From what Paul had said, the Stewarts were some of the best demon trappers in the world.
This man thought he’d done all right last night. He’s just bein’ nice.
As if knowing a change of topic was needed, Stewart asked, “Any idea who pulled Paul from his grave?”
That was the other thing hanging over them. Though he’d been dead for two weeks, Riley’s father had appeared at the trapper’s meeting, summoned from his eternal rest by a necromancer. He was a reanimated corpse now, a Deader, money on the hoof providing he’d made it out of the Tabernacle in one piece.
“Riley did everythin’ she could to keep him in the ground,” Beck complained. “She sat vigil every damned night, made sure there was a consecrated circle around his grave. Then some bastard steals him when she isn’t there. It just sucks.”
“She have any notion who did it?” Stewart nudged.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask her.” Which wasn’t quite the truth. Beck could have. They’d huddled together in her family’s mausoleum in Oakland Cemetery until dawn, on hallowed ground in case the demons came after them. She’d been so upset about Simon and the others, she’d cried herself to sleep. At the time it didn’t seem important to know who’d resurrected Paul, so he’d just held her close, kept her safe, thanking God she’d survived. Trying to work through his feelings for the girl. When he’d left her this morning she’d still been asleep, dried tears on her cheeks. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her.
Stewart shifted position again, he was hurting more than he let on. “I canna help but believe there’s a connection between the demons’ attack and Paul’s reanimation,” the old trapper mused.
“How could there be?”
“Think it through. Wouldn’t he have gone off with the necro who summoned him rather than droppin’ in for a wee visit with his old mates?”
“I don’t know,” Beck said, swiping a hand through his blond hair in agitation. “I’ll know soon enough. I’ll find the summoner who did it and we’ll come to an understandin’—Paul goes in the ground or the necro does.”
Stewart stiffened. “Be careful on that account. The summoners have wicked magic and they’ll not appreciate ya gettin’ in their business.”
Beck didn’t respond. It didn’t matter what happened to him; Paul Blackthorne was going back in his grave and that was that. He hadn’t been able to keep him alive, but he could honor his friend’s memory in other ways. He’d do it for Paul’s daughter, if nothing more than to give her peace of mind.
“I hear that Five went after Riley, in particular,” the master stated. “I wonder why.”
Beck had no answer to that. Grade Five Geo-Fiends were the big boys of Hell who generated earthquakes and spawned mini storms as easily as he took a breath. A Five had killed Paul, and Beck was willing to bet it was the same one who’d gone after Paul’s daughter during the battle.
Beck was sure of one thing—the demons were taking too much of an interest in Riley, calling her by her name. Hellspawn didn’t do that as a rule. Maybe I should tell Stewart. Maybe he would know what’s going on.
But if he did it’d only add to Riley’s long list of troubles. Before Beck could make a decision, the master’s phone began to buzz inside a coat pocket.
He pulled it out, frowned, and opened it up. “Stewart.”
Beck turned his attention to the hole in front of him. One of the trappers told him that the Geo-Fiend had thrown Riley into this very pit. That same trapper hadn’t known how she managed to escape, said there was too much smoke to see what had really happened.
Why didn’t the Five kill ya, girl? There was one possibility, but he didn’t want to think about that. No way Riley would have sold her soul to Hell to stay alive.
He’d thought Harper would keep her safe. He’d been wrong. What if she’d fallen into that hole and never come out again?
Before he could admit to himself what that loss would mean to him, Stewart limped back.
“That was Harper. The Guild’s representatives are ta meet with the mayor in two hours. We need ta be there.”
“We?” Beck said, caught off guard. “Me too?”
“Certainly. Ya gotta a problem with that?”
Beck heard the challenge and shook his head. “Can’t the city at least wait ’til we bury our dead?”
Stewart huffed. “Of course not. Politicians wait for no man when they can lay the blame on some other poor bastard.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DEMON TRAPPER’S DAUGHTER. Copyright © 2011 by Jana Oliver. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
ISBN 978-0-312-61478-2
First Edition: February 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-9284-8
First St. Martin’s Griffin eBook Edition: February 2011