Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (11 page)

“There are rumors to that effect.” Mort offered her another cookie, and this time she took it without hesitation. Oatmeal. With a hint of cinnamon.
Nom.
Even if a dead lady made them.

“How do you guys do a summoning?”

The necromancer seemed to be weighing his answer carefully. “Unless you are at the level of someone like Lord Ozymandias, spells require preparation. He can do them on the spot, but then he’s not like the rest of us.”

“So how do you do it, the summoning spell, I mean?”

“I collect something of the deceased’s—hair, clothing, a favorite book, some part that I can focus on. If I can’t obtain an item, it’s harder. Then I do a ritual invocation and request that the dead person arise to rejoin the living.”

“Request?”

Mort looked chagrined. “Well,
I
request. Most just order the deceased to comply, which I think lacks respect.”

Respect was a big thing for this guy. Riley leaned an elbow on the table, intrigued. “Which is why you only do legal summonings?”

“Exactly. It’s bad enough to lose a loved one and then have a pirate come along and rip that person out of their grave. As you well know, the heartbreak is unimaginable.”

The passion in his voice told her this was personal. “It happened to you?”

Mort’s eyes lowered to his teacup. “My wife. She was only twenty-five when she died, and within a week she was serving as a maid at a rich household here in Atlanta. I would see her sometimes, on the street.” He took a tortured breath. “Then they moved to New York City, and I couldn’t afford to follow them.”

“Can my dad’s owner do that?” she asked, horrified.

“It’s not against the law to transport reanimates across state lines, at least not yet. Or sell them to someone else, for that matter.”

“Were you able to get your wife back?”

“Not until her year was up,” he replied, his voice torn with emotion. “By then she was just a … husk.”

God.
It was hideous enough to bury someone you loved, but to see them like that and have no way to help them pushed Hell into a new dimension.

“It’s why I became a summoner,” he admitted. “In the case of your father, I will file a report with the Society of an unauthorized summoning,” he said. “Unofficially I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows who raised him.”

“If I can get him away from whoever bought him, can you put my father back in the ground?”

“Break a summoning?” Mort executed a low whistle. “That’s asking for serious trouble. We had a magical … feud a few years back when two summoners interfered with each other’s reanimates. It was a really bad deal.”

“So all you can do is ask questions?” she demanded, sharper than she’d intended.

“There is only so much I
can
do, Riley. Your father has no civil rights,” Mort explained. “When the time comes for him to be inhumed, we will need his summoner’s assistance to reverse the spell. If that summoner is angry at you…” He spread his hands.

“What happens if my dad isn’t returned to his grave after a year?”

“The body disintegrates while the living consciousness is still in it. That’s
not
what anyone wants to endure—him or you.”

The cookies in her stomach were no longer playing nice. “So you’re saying I’m pretty much screwed?”

“No,” he replied, sighing. “I’m saying you don’t have many choices, but that shouldn’t keep you from trying to find him. If whoever has bought him has compassion, they should let you visit him during his term of service.”

“Like he’s in jail or something,” she said. That was a depressing thought. “Is there somewhere they sell them, besides at the market?”

“Yes,” her host said. He toyed with the half-eaten cookie in front of him. “I’ll go to the vendue and see if he’s there.”

“The what?”

“The vendue. It’s from a French word meaning ‘auction.’ The next one’s on Friday night.”

“I want to go with you.”

He shook his head instantly. “You won’t be welcome.”

“Don’t care,” she said, pushing her cup of tea aside. “I want to be there.”

Mort’s eyebrows knitted together. “My fellow summoners are a testy bunch. They won’t like you asking questions.”

“I want to be there,” Riley repeated. Then she tried the magic word. “Please.”

Mort sighed. “All right, just as long as you know this could get unpleasant.”

Only if I don’t find my father.

*   *   *

As Riley walked
along the alley to the street, she tried to get a grip on her turbulent emotions. Did she really believe that once she’d talked to Mort that everything would be okay? That her dad would be waiting for her, ready to return to his grave? If she did find her father and the summoner reversed the spell, she’d have to bury him again. Another funeral.

Oh, God.

As she walked past the mailboxes, a figure caught her notice, a boy spray-painting something on the brick wall ahead of her. He looked about thirteen, and his hood had fallen back to reveal a shock of hair the color of ripe wheat slashed with black stripes. The smell of wet paint stung her nose as he made broad swipes leaving dripping red letters in his wake. When she moved closer he jumped in surprise, giving her a panicked expression. When he bolted for freedom, the spray can fell from his fingers, rolling across the uneven ground and bumping the toe of her tennis shoe.

The crimson paint began to change color, first becoming pale red, then pink, and finally white. It slid downward brick by brick, as if someone were wiping it away with a squeegee. When it reached the ground it crackled and then disappeared in a bright cloud of pale dust.
More magic.
It took a moment to puzzle out what the guy had written, spelling errors and all.

Nekros suk!

“No argument there.”

T
EN

“Home sweet bolt hole,” Riley said. She stood in the doorway to the room in the basement of St. Brigid’s Catholic Church. The room wasn’t fancy, but she hadn’t expected it to be. All of about fifteen by fifteen, there were two stacked wooden bunk beds, a table, a pair of kitchen chairs, and a mint green couch. There was a small television, a mini refrigerator, microwave, and a counter with a deep sink. Down a narrow hall she saw a bathroom. If not for the white walls and the crucifix hanging by the door, it would have felt like a bunker.

After dropping her messenger bag on the table, Riley retreated to the undersized bathroom to change into her favorite PJ’s, the ones with the frolicking pandas. The PJ’s were totally dorky, but her mom had bought them for her and they held good memories.

If Beck sees these …

But he wouldn’t, not unless something went really wrong and he had to take refuge here. In that case, panda PJs were going to be the least of their worries. After scrubbing her face and brushing her teeth, Riley placed her folded clothes on one of the chairs. A blast of hot air ruffled her hair from a vent in the ceiling. She glared up at it.

“Too warm,” she said. Hunting around for a thermostat proved fruitless. That wasn’t good news. It was either freeze at the cemetery or roast here.

After ensuring the door’s lock was engaged, Riley tried the lower bunk. That rated a definite thumbs-up. After some determined pillow thumping to get it into the proper shape, she lay on her back and stared at the underside of the mattress above her.

The furnace turned off. Then on again. Then off.

She was dead tired, but sleep wasn’t in the same room with her. It wasn’t the heat that was keeping her awake, it was this time of day that things hurt the most. She’d replay her dad’s voice in her head, then her mom’s. She’d remember bits of Blackthorne family history.

Eventually Riley sat up in bed, barely clearing the top bunk by a mere two inches. Apparently tall people took the top bunk. She hadn’t brought anything to read, sure that she’d be asleep almost instantly. To kill time, she dug out her cell phone and scrolled through the texts. Brandy, her nemesis at the new school, was wondering if she was going to be at class on Friday. Riley ignored that one. Three texts from Simi about a Gnarly Scalenes concert in March and asking if she’d like to go.
Maybe.
Nothing from Peter. She should text him, but what would she write?
Stuck in a church so demons won’t eat me.
That wouldn’t work, not with someone who’d always been there for her.

Instead, she dialed his number. “Peter?”

There was a lengthy pause.
This isn’t a good idea.

“What’s up, Riley?” he asked. She processed his tone—upset and exhausted.

“I needed someone to talk to,” she admitted.

“You know, so do I.”

Maybe this would work after all. She tucked the comforter around her legs and leaned back against the wooden framework of the bunk bed. It creaked in response. She told him of her new location and what it looked like. “Master Stewart wants me on holy ground at night. He’s worried some demon will come after me.” Actually just one demon in particular, but Peter didn’t need to know that.

“Is Beck there with you?”

“No. He’s shooting pool.”
At least he’d better be.

Silence. She tried to wait him out, but finally she gave in. “Look Peter, if you don’t want to talk to me—”

“It’s not that. There’s been … stuff going on here.”

She shifted positions on the bed, caught by the lost sound in his voice. “Like what?”

“Mom and Dad are getting a divorce.”

It took time for that to sink in. “Oh, man, Peter, I’m so sorry. I thought they’d worked through all that after your brother’s death.”

“No. It was never the same. They’ve been acting like it was, but Dad finally cracked. He just couldn’t take Mom’s Nazi control tactics anymore.”

Her friend wasn’t exaggerating. After Matt’s fatal car accident, Peter’s mom became The Warden, as he called her. She’d monitored all her kids’ moves like they lived in a federal prison.

“She’s been doing the same with Dad,” Peter confided. “If he’s a few minutes late, she freaks and hounds him with phone calls.”

“I thought they went for counseling or something.”

“They did. It didn’t help,” he said sadly.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“Mom wants to go back to Illinois. She thinks Atlanta’s too dangerous for her kids.”

Only if you drink and drive.

A tortured groan filtered through the phone. “They told us the news tonight. Then they asked who we wanted to live with.”

If her parents had asked her that question, how could she decide? No matter who she chose, the other would be hurt. “God, that’s brutal.”

“Totally. David said he’d stay here with Dad. I wimped out and said I had to think about it. Mom was really upset. I guess she thought I’d just go with her automatically.”

“What about the twins?” she asked, thinking of Peter’s two little brothers.

“The ghouls go with her no matter what. Too young to be with Dad.” There was a sigh down the phone. “So what are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have to check in on Harper, then I need to visit Simon and go to the funerals.”

“So who’s this Simon dude? Is he the guy I’ve seen on TV?”

“Yes. He’s an apprentice trapper. We’re … dating.”

“Cool.”

“It feels right this time, Peter.”

“Well, that’s something, at least.”

More awkward silence. “I’m really sorry for you.”

“Yeah, so am I. For a lot of things. Good night, Riley.”

She disconnected the call.

“Don’t you dare move away, Peter King,” she whispered. “You’re my best friend. I can’t make it without you.”

*   *   *

Ori leaned against
his motorcycle across the street from the church, arms crossed over his chest. Riley had chosen her sanctuary well: No demon dared tread on holy ground and not pay the ultimate price. This church was old, and even from here he could feel the raw power of the Creator pressing against his skin, saturating everything around him. He sucked it in as if it were a breath of tantalizing spring air after a cruel winter.

“You are such an addict,” a craggy voice said.

Ori failed to curb his displeasure at having the peaceful moment disturbed. “Sartael,” he said acidly. “Slumming, again?”

A wry chuckle came from the angel standing next to him. Unless you were Divine he appeared unremarkable, a plain man who always managed to blend into the background. A Divine would see the real Sartael—that dark hair, those immense wings, and the sword strapped to his back, its hilt protruding just above his shoulders. The blade was dormant at the moment, but once he pulled it free from the bindings it would flame like the desert sun at midday. As always, there was a hint of madness in the angel’s eyes.

I wonder if some say that of me.

“I do not like it in this realm,” Sartael replied, gesturing contemptuously at the church.

“So you have mentioned, on more than one occasion.”

“Why are mortals so ignorant?” He shook his head in supreme disgust. “They believe their faith is made of bricks and mortar.”

This was an old argument between them, one of many. “To them it is,” Ori replied earnestly. “Mortals need tangible proof of the Creator.”

“
They
are tangible proof that He exists. How soon they forget that little detail.”

“It is easy to become distracted when you’re not eternal.”

Sartael gave him a sidelong look. “Not only mortals have that issue. You have a task to perform, and yet here you stand gaping at an old pile of bricks.”

“I am going about my duties,” Ori said, stiffening at the rebuke.

“Is that rogue demon no more? I have not heard its death cries,” Sartael chided.

“The girl is alive, and she is the key to finding the rogue.”

“Ah, yes, Blackthorne’s child.”

Ori did not like hearing Sartael speak her name, but he hid his frown. “Is there a point to your presence?”

The other angel turned to him. “Time passes and you are needed elsewhere. Cease being amused by the mortals.”

“Is that
His
Order?”