Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (2 page)

T
WO

Feeling a tickle in his throat, Denver Beck coughed deeply in an attempt to purge the stale smoke from his lungs. It did little good. In the distance, firefighters moved across the Tabernacle’s rubble, working on the hot spots and searching for charred bodies in the mounds of broken bricks and burnt wood.

I should have died last night.
In the past it wouldn’t have mattered. Now it did. It was his fear for Riley that had driven him out of the smoke and flames.

To his right, Master Trapper Angus Stewart leaned heavily on his cane in the late-afternoon sun. His usually ruddy face was nearly the color of his white hair, pale against the bloodstained bandage tucked into his hairline. They stood near one of the many holes in the Tabernacle’s parking lot, the stench of burnt asphalt hanging heavy in the air. Beck bent over and stared into the crater’s maw, which was laced with tangled wires and debris. It was a good ten feet wide and three times as deep. A thin column of steam rose from its center.

“How does a demon do this kind of damage?” he asked in a soft Southern drawl.

“The Geo-Fiend just waved its hands and this abyss appeared. They have some strange power over the earth and the weather,” Stewart said in his rich Scottish accent. It was still noticeable, though blunted by a decade in Atlanta.

As Beck straightened up, the demon wound in his thigh cramped in protest. The dressing was leaking and the drainage had soaked into his blue jeans. He needed more aspirin—his temperature was up and every now and then his teeth would chatter. Like a mild case of the flu with claw marks as the bonus.

Everythin’ has changed now.
He knew angels were for real; he’d seen them around Atlanta. Most were the ministering kind, the most prolific of Heaven’s folk, who came and went doing whatever God wanted them to do. He’d never seen any from the higher realm, the ones with the flaming swords. He had last night.

Beck shook his head again, unable to deal with how eerie the things had been. At least seven feet tall, clothed in eye-blinding white with shimmering alabaster wings edged in gray, their fiery swords had roared like summer thunder and filled the night air with the crisp tang of ozone.

“I’ve never heard tell of Heaven steppin’ in to protect trappers,” Beck said in a lowered voice, mindful of a television news crew on the other side of the parking lot. They were all over the city now, trying to get a handle on one of the biggest stories to hit Atlanta since the 1996 Olympics. “Why’re the demons workin’ together now? It feels like a war’s brewin’.”

“So it does.” Stewart cleared his throat. “Seein’ the angels make ya a believer?”

Beck blinked at the question.
Had it?
He’d never really thought much about God, and he figured the feeling was mutual. “Maybe,” he admitted.

Stewart huffed in agreement. “The city will be wantin’ action.”

“Master Harper will take care of that, won’t he?” Beck asked. Harper was the most senior trapper in Atlanta and Riley’s master. From what Beck could tell, he was a serious piece of work but a good trapper when he wasn’t drinking.

“Nay, not with his ribs bein’ the way they are,” Stewart said. “I’ll have ta take the lead. With Ethan dead, I’ll need yer help.”

Ethan had been one of the master’s apprentices, but he’d not made it out of the Tabernacle alive. “What about yer other apprentice? Rollins. Where’s he?”

“He quit. Canna handle this sorta thing. I respect that.” Stewart paused a moment, then added, “I’m pleased ta hear young Simon’s gonna make it. That’s good news for Riley.”

“Yeah,” Beck replied, unsure of where the old master was heading with that last comment.

“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 know I saw them.”

“Kissin’?” Beck felt something heavy form in his chest, like a stone weighing on his heart. Had to be because of the demon wound; they always made you feel sick. It wouldn’t do for him 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 both 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. Sort of something more.

“Yer frownin’, lad,” Stewart observed.

Beck tensed, uncomfortable under the old trapper’s scrutiny. “Simon’s better than some she could date,” 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 evening before. Of demons and the trappers battling for survival. Of Riley in the middle of the flames and 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.”

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, 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 the one time 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. “But 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 he was willing to bet it was the same one who’d gone after his daughter during the battle.

Beck
was
sure of one thing: The demons were taking too much of an interest in Riley, calling her out by her name. Hellspawn didn’t do that as a rule.
Maybe I should tell Stewart. Maybe he would know what’s goin’ 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’d managed to escape, said there’d been 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.

What if she’d fallen into that hole and never come out again?

Before Beck could admit to himself what that loss would mean to him, Stewart ended the call.

“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 problem with that?”

Hearing the challenge, Beck shook his head. “Can’t the city at least wait till 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.”

T
HREE

Riley knew that finding a parking place near the Terminus Market was never easy, but today was worse since the market was so close to the site of last night’s tragedy. After trolling up and down the street for what seemed an eternity, she finally caught sight of a scooter pulling out leaving a thick blue cloud of exhaust in its wake. She edged her car into the open space, nervous she might clip the stall ahead. It was full of knitted hats and scarves, most sporting Georgia Tech or Georgia State logos. The owner, an older black man, kept a wary eye on her progress. Once she turned off the engine, the knitted-hat guy relaxed and gave her an appreciative thumbs-up. She returned it.

When Atlanta joined the growing list of bankrupt cities across the country, the city planners mined every possible way to make money. They’d sold off the school buildings, put a tax on cigarettes, alcohol, day-care centers, Holy Water, homeschooling, almost everything. As the parking spaces went empty because of the excessive price of gas, the city turned them into “retail opportunities,” which meant there were a cluster of mini shops where once there were cars. Each store lived within the white lines of a parking spot, like the guy with the knitted hats and scarves. Some vendors rented more than one, which was why there was a music shop on Peachtree Street called The Five Meters.

Riley crawled out of the car at half speed, her denim messenger bag in hand. It felt like her body had been ambushed by a particularly sadistic army of karate experts. When she’d showered this morning she’d been astounded at all the bruises. Holy Water was only good for demonic wounds, so she’d be a patchwork of yellow and brown spots in a few days. Luckily most of them were hidden by her clothes. The one on her left hip was particularly painful, courtesy of the malevolent Grade Five demon and the door handle of a Volvo.

Riley trudged into Centennial Park on the wide brick path, favoring her sore hip. When she was a kid this place was just a park, though pretty cool as far as green open spaces went, especially one in the center of a major city. It had the five Olympic Ring fountains to play in, and vendors sold ice cream and other yummy goodies. It was still a cool place, but there was a lot more to it nowadays. Over time, vendors moved into the market with portable campers and a small city sprang up inside the bigger one. Now the Terminus Market, as it was called, was a year-round thing.

Right before she entered the market, Riley paused on the walkway, allowing the past to catch up with her. Closing her eyes, she swore she could hear her mom’s voice, jesting with her father about his need to buy
just one more book
on the Civil War.

“I miss you guys,” she whispered.
Wish you were here.
Then she continued into the chaos of the marketplace.

Originally there had been a plan to all this—food vendors in one section, crafts in another, and so on. That plan was ignored as the market sprawled in every direction. The tents came in all different colors, ranging from deep black to brilliant red; some were plain, others were adorned with flags and streamers. All had some form of lighting, since the merchants were usually open until after midnight.

Riley paused in front of a tent where a dead animal hung from a spit over a large wood fire. A boy was in charge of turning the spit, and Riley could tell it took all his strength, his muscles straining with every rotation. The sign on the tent said it was pork, but you never knew. Sometimes they sold goat. It smelled good, whatever it was. Her stomach complained, reminding her there hadn’t been a lot of food it in all day, besides the hot chocolate.

Later.

A bit farther on was a guy selling used furniture—chairs, tables, dressers. Some of it was in worse shape than the thirdhand stuff in her cramped apartment.

“Riley?” a voice called out.

She turned, knowing that voice anywhere. The body, too. Clad in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a steel gray duster that swept the ground, the man striding toward her was over six feet with shiny ebony hair and bottomless dark eyes. Definitely yummy. What she liked best was his attitude: It told the world to take a number and wait its turn.