Forsaken (23 page)

“It was a draw. Either that or coffee stirrers at twenty paces.”

For the next few minutes they drank in silence. Riley spent that time savoring the exquisite goodness of the drink and screwing up her courage to ask The Question.

“Ah, thanks,” she said. “This is really good.”

“There’s more if you want some.”

Simon didn’t seem like he wanted to be somewhere else, and he wasn’t checking his phone every few minutes as if he were expecting a call.

Just ask him.

“Are you dating someone?” she blurted.
Oh, that was smooth.

His forehead crinkled in amusement. “Maybe.”

“Oh.” She sighed.
Of course he’s dating, you idiot. He’s way too cool to be on his own.

“I’ve just started seeing someone,” he said.

That made it even worse.

Simon touched her hand with his fingers. “There’s this really nice girl. She’s got the most amazing brown eyes and an incredibly sharp mind.”

“Oh.”
So not me.

“And we’ve got something in common. We both trap demons.”

It took her a second to realize he was talking about her.

“Me?” she asked. He nodded.
Me!
“Then it’s all good.”
Really good.
She gifted him with a smile

“But we can’t let Harper know we’re dating or he’ll make it worse for you.” He gnawed on his lip for a moment. “Will you promise me something?”

“What?” she asked, caught off guard by his serious expression.

“Promise you won’t go hunting on your own again, at least not until you’re a journeyman.”

What?
Where was this coming from?

She pulled her hand away. “I can’t make that promise, Simon.”

“Riley, you’re really brave, but you’re still a—”

“Girl?” she asked, her temper rising.

“Apprentice,” he replied, an edge to his voice.

“Who happens to be a girl,” she pushed back. That was always the bottom line with these guys. She wasn’t one of them.

“No!” he said emphatically. “Not everything is about gender. This is about you being safe.”

Riley’s eyes bored holes into her cup. She really liked this guy, and yet here he was trying to box her in, just like Beck.

“Do you think I’m crazy wanting to be a trapper?” she demanded.

Simon frowned. “Yes.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he raised his hand to cut her off. “I understand why you could want this so badly. I know I do, even if it makes no sense.”

He’s not playing power games. He really cares.

The realization left her breathless. Simon took her hand again and squeezed it, rubbing his thumb over her palm in a gentle motion. “Just be careful, will you? That’s all I ask.” His voice was so gentle.

“Only if you promise the same.”

“Deal.”

They held hands for another minute or so, and then he rose to fetch more hot chocolate. After he placed the order, he looked over at her and smiled. The rest of the room faded to gray. There was only him, his brilliant blue eyes, and that amazing hair.

Something had changed between them. Whatever it was, it felt right.

TWENTY-TWO

It took Riley a while to decipher the peeling sign on the concrete building. “Ming and Sons Auto Repair.”

The sign boasted Ming could fix transmissions, radiators, and CV boots.

Not anymore
. Now the building housed the most senior trapper in Atlanta, and the one with the shortest temper.

At least it’s close to the cemetery.
Real close, like down Memorial Drive. Now that she went to school in Midtown, she’d have to drive through Atlanta to class, put in her three hours, then drive all the way down here to spend the night watching over her dad.

She yawned at the thought.
Only five more nights.
Despite her tummy being full of luscious hot chocolate and the toasty inner glow Simon had kindled, Riley hadn’t slept well. Too worried what today would bring.

Her cell phone began chirping. It was Peter.

At least he’s talking to me again.

“Hey, dude,” she said, making sure not to let the relief show in her voice.

“I cracked it!” he crowed.

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the computer disk.

“So what was the password?”

“Eleven, nineteen, eighteen sixty-three.”

“Huh?”

“The date of the Gettysburg Address,” he replied proudly.

“Makes sense. Dad wrote his thesis about it.”

She heard a groan. “You couldn’t have told me that up front and saved me hours of hacking?”

“Don’t give me that. You loved every minute of it.”

She knew he was grinning. “Busted,” he said. “I’m still digging through the files. From what I can tell, it’s research about Holy Water. History, folklore, all of it. It’ll take a while to get through all this.”

“I wonder what he was up to,” Riley admitted.

“We’ll find out. So what’s your day like?”

“I’m standing outside my new master’s place. Not impressed.”

“Well, have at it. Call me when you get a chance.”

“Later, Peter.”

She put away the phone and trudged across the gravel parking lot to the metal door located at the front of the building. The door was battered and scratched and definitely needed a paint job. She raised her hand to knock, but the door opened before she could do the honors.

It was Simon and he was frowning. “Riley.”

“Hi. How are you?” she asked, remembering how pleasant last night had been.

“Good,” he said, but it didn’t sound that way. “Harper’s inside. Be careful.”

Riley nodded and mustered her game smile. “It helps that you’re here.”

He shook his head. “It’ll only make it worse, for
both
of us.” He pushed past her and headed toward his beat-up silver Dodge.

Ohhkay.

After he’d pulled away, she had no further reason to stall. The moment she stepped inside the smell hit her. Lube. Old tires. And something else. Raw sulfur.

Demon.

The building was laid out like any garage—twin double doors led to service bays. All the metal lifts were gone, and the exposed ceiling rafters sported wires and ropes that ran over the beams like spaghetti. In one corner was a huge pile of plastic jugs and bottles, the kind used for Holy Water. Apparently, Harper’s place was some kind of recycling location.

One half of the building had been sectioned off. To her right along the wall were five heavy-duty steel cages, only one of which was occupied. Unlike the demon she’d tangled with, this Three was all black, like they were supposed be. It slavered and slobbered, reminding her of an overly hairy dog, except this one’s long claws raked against the sides of the reinforced steel enclosure like it was sharpening them.

“Blackthorne’s daughter,” it growled.

Before she had a chance to reply, a voice bellowed, “Get the hell in here, girl!”

With a pleading look heavenward, Riley made the journey into what must have been the shop’s office. It was small and crowded with furniture. On one side of the room was an old wooden desk with an equally ancient desk chair. On the other, Harper was sprawled in a tattered dark blue recliner that had been new before computers were invented. His eyes were red and his face unshaven, probably because of the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s at his elbow. His shirt was clean but wrinkled, and his jeans had black stains in them. Behind him was a wooden door that led into the rear of the building. Through it she could see an unmade bed and what looked like a kitchenette. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink.

He lives here?
She’d expected he had apartment or a house, like the other trappers.

Riley had never really paid much attention to Master Harper, mostly because he was always hating on her dad. Now she’d be with him for the next nine months.
Less if he wants to get rid of me.

“Mr. Harper,” she said. No reason to piss him off right off the bat.

“Brat,” he replied, daring her to challenge him. He flicked a lighter on the end of a cheap cigar.

“I’m Riley, sir.”

“No, you’re Brat.” Smoke coursed out of his mouth, revealing surprisingly decent teeth. “Or maybe I’ll call you Bitch.”

She sighed. “Brat works for me.”

Establishing the pecking order. Maybe that was as far as it’d go.

“All my apprentices need to know one thing: My word is law. You fuck up and you’re gone, and no other master in this country will touch you. Got it?”

Annoy you and I’m gone.
“Yes, sir.”

“Just because you’re Blackthorne’s girl doesn’t mean you’re going to get any slack. I don’t trust you as far as I can spit you, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s clear to me Blackthorne was doing a piss-poor job of training you, so we’re starting over from the beginning.” He pointed to a battered metal bucket and a scrub brush in a corner. “The floor under the cages need cleaning. Get to it.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked at the implements, remembering the sizable piles of demon crap. “Do you have a shovel and some gloves?”

He took a pull on his bottle. “Yeah, I do.”

She waited, but he didn’t move, didn’t tell her where to find them. Then it dawned on her. She wasn’t going to be using them.

“You can shovel the shit like I did when I started … with your hands. Put it out back. It kills the roaches.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then jammed it shut. He was waiting for her to refuse; she could see it in his bloodshot eyes.

“Out back. Got it.”

*   *   *

As the morning
progressed, Riley began to learn a lot about demon scat. It stank like brimstone and whatever the thing had eaten recently, which was about everything. The crap stained concrete, and it stung her skin like scalding water if it was fresh.

She’d started on the farthest cage from the occupied one, kicking at the mound of dried excrement with the toe of her tennis shoe. Mistake. The kicking had no effect on the mound.

Leverage. That’s what I need.

Digging around the back of the building revealed a collection of junk and a fairly decent stockpile of discarded metal that included bent hubcaps and broken manhole covers. Since the yard was fenced and secured with a padlock, it made Riley wonder if her new overlord traded in the stuff.

More digging unearthed a tire iron and a hammer with a cracked handle.

Better than nothing.

After prying, pounding, and tugging until her arms ached, the mound of crap broke up chunk by chunk. The outside might have been like concrete. The inside wasn’t.

“Oh, gross,” she muttered, her stomach churning as the smell and heat reached her nose. Had her dad started out like this?

Another scrounge around the warehouse turned up a battered garbage can lid, but nothing to scoop with. That made her think Harper had hidden anything she might be able to use.

Hands or nothing.
Before she got them any dirtier, she rolled up her sleeves. At least the wound on her palm had closed and she no longer needed a bandage.

Riley closed her eyes and started scooping the mess onto the lid, trying to imagine it was anything but what it was. Tears formed as liquid heat cooked her fingers, palms, even her nails. Her hands quickly turned an abnormal shade of purple-red, even though the demon crap was solid black. She kept shoveling until the mound was gone, then stood. Her thigh cramped no matter what she did.

This wasn’t demon trapping. This was scut work, some form of hazing apprentices had to endure.

No way I’m wimping out.

Riley looked down the line of cages. There were four more, one of which held its own peril. The demon watched her with the intensity a snake does an injured bird.

It took most of the morning to make it to the occupied cage. Midway through, Harper stood at the door to his office, watching her, a bottle of JD in hand. From his glassy eyes she knew it was booze, not an energy drink.

“Not what you thought, huh?” he called out, his voice rough with liquor and cigars.

If she said no, he’d gloat. If she said yes, he’d dream up some other torment. Riley clamped her mouth shut. It was either that or she’d sling some of this stuff in his direction and she’d be an ex-apprentice in a heartbeat. Once she was out of the Guild, their lawyer would probably bill her for all those legal fees.

Shut up and scoop.

“Bet your dad never had to do that,” Harper taunted. She heaved a sigh of relief when he returned to his office. The recliner creaked under his weight as the television began to drone sports scores.

Doesn’t he ever go out and trap anything?

It was nearing noon when she reached the occupied cage. The fiend had eyed her all morning, making those slobbery noises and licking its ebony lips. Knowing its time had come, it called out her name again.

“Yeah, that’s me. So who are you, fur bag?”

It seemed surprised, then it answered with some long name that made no sense unless you were one of Lucifer’s own. Like Argabettafingle something or other.

“Sorry I asked.” She eyed it, testing the weight of the tire iron in her hand. The only way to clean under the cage was to get within range of those claws.

“Don’t even think about it.”

It snarled and swiped a paw in her direction. A second later, it howled, that paw held up to its mouth, red eyes blazing.

She waved the tire iron at it. “You were warned.”

Bending over, she began to scoop the dung out from under the cage. It was fresh and burned like acid, making her eyes and nose flood like a toddler with a head cold. A claw snicked through her hair and cut off a few strands, which floated to the ground, embedding themselves in the pile.

“Hey, stop that!” Pissed, she tossed a handful of the steaming manure at the thing. The stuff stuck in its fur and the demon howled again, batting at it like it hurt.

Maybe it does.

“Don’t like that, do you? You keep messing with me,” she said, shaking a mucky finger, “and I’ll bury you in it. Got it?”