Forsaken (18 page)

Maybe the wounds aren’t that bad.

Riley swallowed, twice, and took some deep breaths. Her heart still drummed in her ears and her stomach felt seconds away from erupting. At least the claw marks wouldn’t infect, though she’d still feel like crap for a couple of a days. Like a bad case of the flu is how her dad described it.

“I have nothing to show for it,” she growled. Tossing the empty bottle in the trunk with more force than was necessary, she slammed the lid. There’d been no choice. If she tried to fight them, they would have jumped her and …

“You asshats!” she shouted, thumping her uninjured fist on the trunk lid. She’d bagged her very first Three and they’d taken it away from her like a bully steals a kid’s lunch money.

If Dad had been here …

Tears welled in her eyes again. If her dad had been here, they’d have that demon in the trunk and those two losers would have learned what it meant to tangle with a master trapper. Instead they’d tangled with her, and won.

Epic fail.

“Beck is so going to kill me.” The Three had been her best defense against his anger. He’d have bitched at her, but in the end he would have respected her.

Not now. He’s never going to trust me again. He’ll just tighten up his leash.

Instead of heading for the graveyard, she drove home one-handed, tears coursing down her face. They felt icy against her skin as a full body shiver cramped her muscles and her teeth began to chatter. She turned off the heater. Sweat bloomed on her forehead despite the chilly night air.

Once she got home, she’d call Beck, tell him what happened. Then it would get really bad.

“Someday,” she muttered in between intense shivering sessions. Someday she’d catch up with those guys and make them pay. Someday they’d know what a mistake it was to mess with Riley Blackthorne.

But not today.

SEVENTEEN

The dial on Beck’s watch glowed blue in the growing light. It was a half hour until dawn. With each passing hour he’d talked himself out of dialing Riley’s cell phone and rousting her out of her bed. The kid had to be worn out, the shock of her dad’s death hitting home about now. He knew how that felt.

There’d always be sadness whenever he thought of Paul. The man could have easily blown him off, treated him like everyone else, but Paul told him he’d seen that spark in Beck’s eyes, that drive to be something better. Beck had never thought to argue the subject. His teacher had such a reasoned way of explaining things, it sounded like gospel.

Beck sighed, feeling that dull ache deep in his chest again. He still expected to see his phone light up and it would be Paul, checking in on him, just wanting to talk. That would never happen again. He was truly on his own now.
Just like Riley.

It was a still night and the swirl of dead leaves immediately caught his attention. Mortimer had already visited, polite as ever. Lenny had dropped by a little after two, and another necro named Christian at three. It was as if they had assigned times. The leaves coalesced into a form outside the circle, causing the candles to flare. It reminded Beck more of a high-level demon than a summoner of the dead.

“Wastin’ your time,” he called out.

The form wavered for a moment and then took a more defined shape. Black cloak, carved oak staff, all the theatrical props.

“I can give you what you most want in life,” the voice within the hood said in a sibilant whisper.

“The hell ya say,” Beck replied, too tired to be polite. “Ya can give me a night in Carrie Underwood’s bed? Damn, that woman’s fine, and she can sing too. Or maybe a new truck. That’d be nice.”

“Nothing so mundane.” A dramatic pause. “I can deliver the demon who killed Paul Blackthorne.”

Beck’s heart double-beat, his humor gone. “Yer kind only messes with dead folks, not Hellspawn.”

“I am prepared to make an exception in this case.”

“Why is Blackthorne so important to ya?”

The figure leaned on the staff in a pensive pose. “Just accept that he is. It’s not like Mr. Blackthorne will be in service forever.”

The necro did have a point. Paul would be returned to his grave in a year at the latest, and the demon would be dead. There were ways to hide the truth from Riley, especially if she went to live with her aunt. With the grave so fresh, once the body was exhumed and reanimated, Beck could smooth over the dirt and she’d never know.

“Certainly you want to see justice done,” the figure soothed, “and prevent the chance the fiend will come after the one remaining Blackthorne.”

He played to Beck’s greatest fear. The only way to keep Riley safe was to kill that Five and send a message to Lucifer to back off. Beck wanted that more than anything else in the world, even sleeping with his favorite country music singer.

He rose, taking a few tentative steps toward the glowing circle.

The figure fell silent, drawing him closer. Beck slowly turned to look at the mound of dirt. What would Paul think of him if he disturbed his rest? What would Riley say if she knew he’d betrayed her?

“All for a good cause,” the necromancer insisted. “You must keep her safe. She has a will of her own, and it has put her in danger tonight.”

Beck whipped around. “Whadda ya mean?”

“She went hunting in Five Points. Alone. I hear it went very badly.”

“Yer lyin’,” Beck retorted.

“And if I’m not?” the necromancer replied, his tone too sure for Beck’s comfort. “What if she’s dying right now? Would it make sense to guard this grave when she’s heading toward one of her own?”

“No way she’d go to Five Points alone.” The moment Beck uttered the words, he knew he was wrong.

Damn, girl, ya wouldn’t.
He frowned, the truth hitting as hard as a slug to the gut.
Yeah, ya would, just to spite me.

First the necro had said the demon might hurt her. Now he claimed she was already hurt, maybe dying.

Lies.

Beck forced himself back to the blanket. “I’m not buyin’ it.”

The cloak shifted in what passed as a shrug. “Then it’s on your head,” the summoner replied, no hint of disappointment in his voice. “By the full moon this man’s body will be mine. Do not doubt it.”

The form reverted to leaves and scattered in a light wind.

Riley’s cell phone went unanswered, rolling over to voice mail again and again. When the cemetery’s volunteer arrived a few minutes later, Beck bolted for his truck.

*   *   *

Riley pried open
her eyes to find sunlight on the bedroom ceiling whirling like a kaleidoscope. All sorts of colors. It was really pretty. With considerable effort, she pulled herself upright on the bed, wondering what time it was. She hiccuped, and the shivering began again as her fever rose.

The left thigh was the problem. It was swollen, the denim soaked with something brown. The entire leg pulsated with each heartbeat.

The Holy Water was supposed to neutralize the poison.

“Not so much,” she said, falling back onto the pillow. Time slowed.

Riley knew what was happening. She’d heard her dad talking to her mom about this when he thought she wasn’t listening. Her leg would go septic in a few hours and the poison would spread throughout her body. It would kill her.

Maybe that’s best.
She could be with her parents. Do whatever angels did all day. No worries about money or school or demons.

An annoying noise pulled her out of her fevered imaginings. It was her cell phone. She faded out until it started making noise again. With sweaty hands Riley flipped it open. Someone called out to her in a frantic voice. “Riley? Are you okay?”

“Sick…”

“What happened?” the voice asked.

“They … stole it.”

“Stole what?”

“Demon got me.… Sorry. You were … right.”

She flipped it closed and let the phone fall next to her on the bed, knowing that Beck would find her body and bury her next to her parents.

No vigil needed.

*   *   *

Violating scores of traffic
laws on the way to the apartment, Beck worked his cell, calling in favors. He started with Carmela, rousing the doc out of bed and earning him an earful until he explained the situation. Then he called the Guild’s priest. Father Harrison had just stepped out of the shower but promised to come over as quickly as possible.

After making a parking place where there wasn’t one, Beck leapt out of the truck and took the stairs, two at a time. Hammering on Riley’s door got no response. He called out. Nothing. He tried Mrs. Litinsky’s, then he remembered something about her going to visit her family in Charleston.

For half a second he thought of kicking in the door but discarded the idea. Paul had spent a lot of time reinforcing it, worried about Riley staying home alone at night. He had to find a key.

Swearing under his breath, he ran down two floors to the door marked “Superintendent.” He banged on it. Time crawled by until a scrawny, unshaven face appeared at the door. Beck physically bullied the guy up the stairs, then glowered menacingly while the super fumbled with the keys.

To his relief Riley hadn’t engaged the chain lock. The instant the door opened he shoved past the super calling out her name. She wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. He found her in the bedroom, a tangled mass of sweat and delirium.

It was worse than he’d feared.

She was fully clothed, her hair matted on the pillow and her face deep crimson. The brown sludge oozing out of her thigh was the reason. The necro had been right: She’d tangled with a Three. They loved to hook their prey, drag them in so they could gnaw on them. Their claws were lethal.

Huge sweat rings soaked her T-shirt. Her eyes were closed and she moaned with each breath. The sweet, cloying smell of infection clouded the room. But it was her leg that made Beck nauseous, swollen twice its usual size. He knew all about that. His first Three had clawed him. He’d gotten sick, but not this bad. Paul had made sure of that.

The super took one look at the feverish body and fled.

Beck threw his jacket in the corner and flung open the rusty window to gain some fresh air. He gulped it in to keep from throwing up. He knew what the sweet smell meant. She was rotting from the inside out.

He heard someone call his name. “Back here!” he said.

Carmela paused in the doorway. “Den?” Her eyes went from him to Riley. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, big-time,” Beck said.

Carmela paused to hit the light switch by the door, then hefted an orange suitcase onto the end of the bed. Flipping it open, she tossed out medical supplies like a squirrel unearthing acorns. Bandages, scissors, empty trash bags, IV solution, and tubing all fell in a disorganized heap on the covers.

“The Holy Water I have is a few days old. We need fresher than that,” she said.

“Harrison’s on his way,” Beck replied. He grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and applied the business end to the left blue jean leg, trying to keep his cool. He’d treated soldiers on the battlefield. You worked on what would kill them first. In this case, it was the poison in Riley’s system. But this wasn’t some young private from Ohio. This was Paul’s daughter, the little girl who used to follow him around like a heartsick puppy.

“Hey, don’t be stupid,” Carmela said. She tossed him a pair of latex gloves. “You don’t want that crap in your system. All it takes is a paper cut.”

“Thanks.” Why had he forgotten that? His hands shook as he tugged on the gloves, making the job twice as hard.

Get your head in the game!
It was Paul’s voice and it had the desired effect. He bent down and began to work on the denim. The pants leg came free, leaving only an inch or so for modesty at the top. He examined the thigh—six individual claw marks, all of them swollen and draining brown pus.

“Now that’s seriously gross,” the doc said. She gently placed an electronic thermometer in Riley’s ear and then whistled the moment the numbers appeared on the digital readout. “104.3. I’d expect 103, tops. Something else is going on.”

Carmela took hold of Riley’s ankle, carefully lifting the leg. The girl moaned in response. “Lay down a plastic barrier, then a bunch of those disposable towels. By the time we get done this place is going to look like an oil slick.”

Beck did as he was told, trying not to wince every time Riley moaned.

“What happened?” the doc asked.

“She went trappin’ on her own.”

“Why the hell didn’t she treat it?”

He had no answer.

“Beck?” They turned to find Father Harrison in the doorway. He was in his usual black suit and clerical collar, a large backpack in hand.

“Father,” Beck said. “Thanks for comin’ so quickly.”

He could tell the moment the priest saw Riley: Harrison’s face sobered and he made the sign of the cross. “How much do you need?” the priest asked.

“At least a half gallon to start with,” Carmela replied, her back to him.

It took three attempts before the doctor found a decent vein in Riley’s right arm. Once the IV was secured, she flipped it wide open, then applied a snug bandage. “Maybe that’ll keep her from tearing the thing out. This is going to get rough.”

“Yeah.” The fresher the Holy Water, the more it hurt when it came in contact with anything demonic. The treatment was going to rip the girl apart.

Carmela studied him. “I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, it beats being dead.”

“Maybe that’s what she wanted,” he replied.

“Ugly way to go.”

Beck caught her tone of voice. “Ya don’t think she’ll make it, do ya?”

“Not sure. The one thing she’s got going for her is her age.”

“And God,” Father Harrison added from his position near the door. He offered up two quart jugs of Holy Water.

“Him, too,” Carmela replied. She took the jugs from Harrison and then handed him a pair of gloves. At the priest’s quizzical look, she explained, “Hold down her legs. You try to keep her on the bed, Den. I’ll do the honors.”

As he bent over to pin Riley’s shoulders down, Beck whispered in her ear, “Sorry, girl. This is gonna to hurt like a sonovabitch.”