Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (12 page)

“Not officially. However, He will ask of your progress and I must answer. I cannot believe you are unable to find a mere weather fiend.”

“I believe it is being shielded by its demi-lord.”

“And who might that be?” Sartael asked, leaning closer, his eyes lit by some internal fire.

“I have no idea.” He and Sartael had always been rivals, so the admission stung.

“Ah, I see. You make excuses to cover the lack of progress,” Sartael said, nodding his understanding. “To be honest, I did not expect such weakness from you.”

Ori squared up with him, his anger growing. “Then do you know who is behind this rogue demon?”

“That is not my problem. You know what is expected. Get it done. Fail and there will be a reckoning.”

“Advice noted,” Ori replied crisply, turning back toward the church.

“And ignored, I wouldn’t doubt,” Sartael replied. “Oh, well, it’s not my pretty head on the block.” At a wave of his hand, the angel vanished into the night air.

“No, it never is,” Ori grumbled. “But some day it will be yours on the block, and I’ll be wielding the sword.”

E
LEVEN

Beck pushed open the twin flame-embossed wooden doors that led to the Armageddon Lounge. As was his custom, he paused a moment and gave the place the once over. Old habits die hard, especially when one of the worst beatings he’d ever experienced was delivered by a jealous husband in a pool hall.

But not this pool hall.
The Armageddon Lounge was neutral territory for him, and he meant to keep it that way. For that reason he didn’t usually pick up girls here. No need to invite trouble.

The Armageddon Lounge’s décor was trashy, even for this part of town. Garish flames decorated almost all the walls, except the far one with the black-veined mirror tiles. Figures writhed in those flames, most of them female and nude, someone’s idea of what the end of the world would be like.

Fewer mirrors, more screamin’.
At least that’s how Beck envisioned it.

When he was assured that nobody was in the mood for trouble, he headed for the bar intent on enjoying his first beer of the day. A couple years back that wouldn’t have been the case: By this time of night he would have already gone through at least a six-pack. It was Paul who changed that, early in Beck’s apprenticeship.

“There’s a time to drink and a time to trap Hellspawn,” his mentor had advised. “You get those confused and you’re demon food.” When Beck had protested he could do both, Paul had summed it up with one question. “Is a buzz worth dying for?”

The answer had been easy: Much as Beck loved a few good beers he preferred to remain aboveground. He’d cut back on his drinking that very night. He still would get a buzz on every now and then, but not as often now. It was a sad fact that the booze wasn’t the solution; it just wanted you to think it was.

Zack, the bartender, acknowledged him with a broad smile. Stocky, his sandy hair was so short you could see his suntanned scalp.

“Hey, Beckster, how you doing?” he called out.

“Good,” Beck said, though that wasn’t the truth by a long shot. By the time he reached the bar, the Shiner Bock was waiting for him. He sighed, took a lengthy sip, and then sighed again.

“Mighty fine,” he said, grinning over at Zack. The less he drank the more he appreciated a good beer.

“Quiet tonight,” Zack observed, leaning on the bar. “Usually Saturday evenings are totally packed. I’m thinking it’s because of what went down the other night at the Tabernacle. Folks are scared.”

Beck nodded his understanding. There were only about a dozen patrons in the lounge, and he knew most of them by name, though none of them were trappers. Those were probably on the streets trying to take down a demon or two.

And gettin’ nowhere fast.

“Lenny was in a while ago,” Zack added. “He said he’d be back later.”

Lenny the Necromancer. He was one of the summoners who’d been jonesing to pull Paul’s body out of the grave, so he’d be a good one to pump for information.

“Heard ya had a Four in here the other day,” Beck observed, leaning against the bar.

Zack snorted as he dried a highball glass. “And some trappers. Seems one of them broke a pool cue and didn’t bother to pay for it. Really pissed off the boss. Gave me an earful about how all you guys are arrogant jerks.”

“He’d be right,” Beck replied, taking another sip. “At least when we’re after demons.”

Another snort came his way. “Boss said the trappers had a girl with them. You guys allowing that kind of thing now?”

“Yeah, we are. The world is changin’,” Beck said.

“Tell me about it.” Zack’s voice changed tone, went lower. “So how are you doing after the other night?”

Beck turned back toward the bartender, hearing the concern. “Breathin’,” he said. “Better ’n some.”

“That’s for sure. When I heard about it, I prayed for you guys.”

“That’s good of ya.”

“Sounds like it’s getting ugly,” Zack remarked. “I had a regular in here this afternoon telling me he saw a couple demons downtown, right on Peachtree Street.”

“Is this guy on the level?” Beck quizzed.

“Yup. He’s a cop.”

Some of those crazy stories just might be true.

Using his bartender radar, Zack headed down the bar toward a couple and refilled their glasses the moment they were empty. The girl was plain to look at, but they were totally into each other.

Beck had been that way once. Her name was Louisa, and they’d been in the same class in Sadlersville, their hometown. The other kids had known not to mess with them: It was always Den and Lou from the time they met in ninth grade. Then Louisa decided she could do better than a poor loser who had an alcoholic for a mother. He still remembered what it felt like to have someone think you were less than human just because of your family. From what he’d heard, Louisa moved from guy to guy after that, never finding what she was looking for.

Beck gave himself a swift mental kick, annoyed at wasting time dwelling on the past. Picking up his beer, he toted it to the back of the bar where one of the pool tables was open. He selected a cue and took his frustration out on the balls. One by one they went into the pockets like remote-controlled robots, just an extension of his hands and brain. When he finished running the table, something he’d been able to do since he was thirteen, he racked the balls again.

Part of his frustration was Stewart’s insistence he talk to the press and to the city bosses, that he learn the ropes before he became a master. Beck knew those same ropes could turn into a noose with very little effort. Then there was that flame-haired babe he’d seen at the city hall. No surprise, she was a reporter and she just
had
to talk to him. She’d even gotten his cell phone number, courtesy of the Scotsman. Beck had dodged her so far, but the master had warned him to just get on with it. That it came with the territory.

“Not a good idea,” Beck mumbled under his breath. He knew what his mind was like when he had a pretty lady in front of him: He said things he shouldn’t, but in this case those words would end up in the newspaper, maybe even on the Internet. One slip of the tongue and he might lose his chance at becoming a master trapper.

The double doors pushed open and a man entered the lounge. The newcomer was a little taller than Beck, decked out in black jeans and T-shirt. A gray duster hung from his broad shoulders like a hero in an action movie. His midnight-black hair and eyes gave him a screw-with-me-at-your-own-peril look.

Trapper?
Probably not. Freelance hunter? That was a possibility. Still, he should have some form of defense on him and Beck didn’t see one. Their gazes met, sizing each other up, then the dude headed to the bar. After a short conversation with Zack, the bartender began pulling a beer from the tap.

Though this was more of a locals bar, every now and then someone new wandered in. Beck’s mind chided him that he was just being paranoid. When the newcomer settled behind a corner table near the front of the lounge, Beck went back to his game.

Lenny was the next one to arrive. The summoner’s biggest sin was that he dressed like a pimp with a limitless credit card. Tonight he was wearing a particularly unholy purple velvet jacket, black leather pants, and a frilly black shirt. He really needed an adult to dress him.

“Let me get a beer,” the necro called out.

Beck nodded, then racked the balls, buying time until Lenny joined him.

When the man returned, brew in hand, Beck asked, “Ya playin’ for the exercise or the money?” Best to establish that right up front.

“Exercise. At least when I’m playing with you,” Lenny replied, stripping off his coat and carefully draping it over a stool. His shirt glistened with silver threads. Beck shook his head at the sight, but Lenny ignored him and chose a pool cue. He tested the weight, chalked the end, and stepped forward.

“Go ahead and break,” Beck said. It wasn’t going to matter either way.

“So who’s the new guy?” Lenny asked in a lowered voice, angling his head toward the action hero in the corner.

Beck shrugged. “No clue.” He could feel the guy’s eyes on him since the moment the dude had entered the bar.

“Doesn’t look like a local,” Lenny said.

“No. Definitely not from here.”

The necro leaned over, lined up the shot, and then straightened up again like he had something on his mind. “I didn’t have anything to do with Blackthorne’s reanimation,” he said, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “I wanted you to know.”

“If I thought ya had, ya’d be in a world of hurt right now,” Beck replied.

The summoner nodded and broke.

As Beck walked around the table to choose his shot, he asked, “Any idea who did it?”

Lenny sagged against the mirrored wall behind them. “No. I warned the others not to jack with Blackthorne’s corpse. I told them you’d rip them apart if they did anything. A summoner’s bones break just as easy as anyone else’s. Not that you heard that from me.”

Beck grinned. He’d spent a lot of effort building that reputation.

“Someone didn’t give a rat’s ass what I’d do,” he said.

“That’s for sure,” Lenny said.

Beck made sure not to sink the next ball. “What about Mortimer?” he asked.

A chuckle came his way, along with a quick shake of the necro’s head. “Mort’s totally by the book. He won’t reanimate a corpse without the family’s written permission … in triplicate.”

“How’s about Christian?” Beck asked, recalling the necros who’d been visiting Paul’s grave over the last couple of weeks.

“Don’t think so. From what I heard, the spell was one serious mother. Christian doesn’t have that much juice.”

“So who does?”

Lenny’s eyes rose to Beck’s then made a quick circuit around the pool hall. He straightened up again, leaning on the pool cue. “Only one summoner I know of.” He went back to his shot and blew it.

“And does this bastard have a name?”

“He does, but I’m not saying it aloud.”

Now that’s interestin’.
“Why would a necro want Blackthorne?”

“It’s said your masters have hidden knowledge about every kind of demon there is, even the Archangels and the Fallen. That knowledge could be incredibly valuable if you wanted to summon any of the above.”

Beck blinked in surprise. “I thought yer kind was just into dead bodies.”

Lenny gave him a sour look. “Magic can be used for other purposes, but most of us are smart enough to stay away from the dark stuff.”

“But not
him.
”

His companion shook his head and leaned his pool cue against the wall. “Another beer?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Lenny headed toward the bar. The necro wasn’t telling him everything, but Beck had gotten more out of him than he’d expected.

“Yer scared, aren’t ya?” he whispered.

And it had nothing to do with Beck’s badass reputation.

*   *   *

They were three
games in when Beck heard the bar go quiet behind him. He had his back to the door but felt a gust of cold air strike the back of his neck. A faint tingling began in his limbs, then a peculiar dizziness.
No way.
He took a sip of his beer as a quick test and was rewarded with a heady mixture of hops, grain, and alcohol, tenfold what it should be. There was only one thing that could magnify the senses like that.

His favorite pool hall had just rated another Grade Four demon.

Beck carefully set his beer aside while scanning the room through the uneven reflection in the mirrored wall. Many of the other patrons stood slack jawed, eyes glazed, except the dude in the corner wearing the hero clothes. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world.

So what gives here?

When a low voice began to whisper to Beck, he hunted for the source in the mirror and found it standing just inside the lounge doors. “She” was dressed in thigh-high boots, a tan leather micro miniskirt that barely covered her butt, a black bustier, and red fake-fur jacket. Her hair was wavy brown, and she looked barely sixteen. That would be what the demon wanted you to think.

This was a Mezmer. They were known by a lot of names—Jezebels, Tempters, Seducers—and they came in a few different varieties, but all of them sucked out your life essence and then took your soul if you gave them half a chance. And as they did you’d thank them for every minute of hellish torment.

Beck wasn’t immune to her power, and raw desire struck him head on then migrated farther south. He heard her talking to him, promising delights that might be his if he’d just let her do her thing. The tingling grew stronger as the demon wove its spell, slowly encompassing all the men in the bar. The three women in the place just stared around, confused as to what was happening. One jostled her date, but he didn’t react.

That was actually good news. If the demon were more experienced, all of the customers would be under its spell. That meant this one was a younger fiend, less powerful, and by casting such a wide net it was looking to suck up energy to grow.