Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (41 page)

“Does Beck know about your deal with Hell?”

Her father shook his head. “You should eat. You’re so thin,” he replied.

Too much had happened in the last few weeks for her to have much of an appetite: her dad’s death, the attack that had killed so many trappers, her boyfriend Simon’s betrayal. Then there were Ori and Beck. Even more betrayal. Could she ever trust a man, or an angel, again?

But I am.
She was hiding in Mort’s house, trusting him not to turn her in to the hunters.

“Eat,” her father repeated.

Riley returned to the pancakes. They were still warm. How could that be? After the first couple of mouthfuls, she began to eat in earnest. She needed comfort food and a nap. Then she’d figure out what to do. Where to go. Who else she could trust?

By the time she finished eating, Riley was so tired she couldn’t think. When their host offered her a place to rest, she readily accepted the kind gesture. She found the bedroom bright, decorated with cream walls and peach accents. A girl’s room.
Maybe he has a younger sister. Or a niece.

As she yawned, Riley pulled the curtains to reduce the light, then did a test bounce on the bed.
Definitely workable.
Pulling off her shirt, her long hair fell over her face. With it came the unmistakable scent of crisp night air.
Ori’s scent.

“Damn you,” she swore, flinging her clothes in all directions. Riley fled to the shower, adjusting the temperature as hot as she could stand. As the water ran, the night before rushed through her: meeting the angel at Oakland Cemetery, and how handsome he’d been. How right it had felt to let him make love to her for her first time. Then this morning had arrived, bringing betrayal and a broken heart.

“All lies,” she said. He’d had only one reason for being nice to her, claiming she was special. Her soul. Riley couldn’t scrub away the taint, the feeling that somehow she’d been violated by her own heart. At least she could mourn where no one would hear her.

*   *   *

While some would
argue that the Westin wasn’t a jail, the earnest demon hunter parked near the hotel room’s door told Beck he wasn’t free to come and go as he pleased. Since it looked like he was here for the time being, he took himself to the bathroom, used the toilet, and then washed his face and hands. Running a wet facecloth over his hair took most of the dirt out of the blond strands. All of this was busywork while he tried to unravel the knots in his life.

Riley’s selfish actions had brought the hunters to his doorstep. That angered him, not only because of what she’d let that Fallen do to her, but because he’d promised her father he’d keep her safe. Still, Beck’s wounded pride was the least of his worries: What would the hunters do to Paul’s daughter when they caught her? Would they put her on trial? Lock her up? Or worse?

Knowing that his questions were not going to be answered by staring into the bathroom mirror, Beck returned to the bedroom. The hunter was still there, vigilant as ever. Dusting himself off, which left a trail of dried grass on the carpet, Beck unlaced his work boots and dropped himself on the king bed. It was one of those fancy ones you find in expensive hotels. He’d learned to sleep anywhere during his stint in the Army, so something this soft made him uncomfortable.

By his count there were two hunters guarding him: one in the corridor and one in the room with him. He could try to escape, but it’d probably buy him a bullet. Captain Salvatore had promised to call Master Stewart, and for some reason Beck trusted him to do just that. If he was patient, the Scotsman would get him out of here.

The guard in the room was Hispanic with dark, intense eyes and a fighter’s bulk. He kept his attention riveted on his prisoner’s every move.

“Can ya not do that?” Beck growled. “Yer drivin’ me crazy.”

The guy gave a shrug, then settled back in the rolling chair, his attention a few feet to Beck’s left. That was some improvement.

“How long is this gonna take?” No reply.

Knowing he wasn’t going to be told anything of value until his captors were damned well ready, Beck pulled himself off the bed and went through his exercise regime to blow off steam. Fifty push-ups followed by fifty sit-ups. Then another fifty push-ups, some one-handed. As he worked up a sweat, he tried hard to block the memories: Riley crying in his arms, the knowing smirk on that Fallen angel’s face. How disappointed Paul would be if he knew his daughter had been touched like that.

Dammit. I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.

He lost count of the push-ups and finally slumped to the carpet when his arms grew too weak to support him and his back felt like it had been scorched by molten lead. The pain did as he’d hoped, blocking things he didn’t want to think about. Muscles quivering, he returned to the bed, tucked his arms behind his head, and stared up at the pebbled ceiling.

Someone had known Riley was at his house this morning and that list was pretty short, unless his neighbors had decided to spy for the hunters. Master Stewart knew she was there: Beck had called him the moment he’d left her at the house, seething in anger at what had fallen out between her and the angel.

Then there was Justine Armando, the woman he’d been with overnight. Justine was a new addition to Beck’s life, a freelance journalist who’d arrived in Atlanta at the same time as the hunters. She trailed after their teams as they did the Vatican’s wet work across the world, writing up newspaper reports on their exploits. Beck had been interviewed by her … twice. Then they’d taken it a step further and he’d landed in her bed. That’s where he’d been this morning, in this same hotel, when Riley’s panicked phone call had reached him. When he’d heard that terrified voice, he’d bailed out of Justine’s arms and bolted out the door, sure Paul’s daughter was in grave danger.

Had he told Justine where Riley was? He had to admit he wasn’t sure. All Beck could remember was the petulant frown on his lover’s face as he bent over to kiss her good-bye.

Couldn’t be her.
He wasn’t willing to accept that, though he knew Riley would believe it in a heartbeat. He could still hear her warning him about Justine and how he was going to get hurt. If Riley had taken his advice, she wouldn’t be in a world of hurt.

Ya wanted that damned angel, then live with that mistake. Forever.

His words were at war with his heart. Everyone made mistakes, and most didn’t end up with Hell or the Church breathing down their necks.

When there was a knock at the door, the guard cautiously checked the peephole, then opened it to reveal Lieutenant Amundson. The second-in-command held Beck’s cell phone in his hand.

“Your master wants to speak to you,” he said in his heavily accented English, plain he wasn’t happy about it. He tossed the phone on the bed, unconcerned if somehow he disconnected the call.

Jerk.
Beck sat up and took the phone. “Sir?”

“What is goin’ on, lad?” Stewart’s Scottish brogue held none of its usual cheeriness.

“I’m”—Beck shot a surly look at his captors—“enjoyin’ the hospitality of the hunters. It has somethin’ to do with Riley.”

“So I gather. Any notion of where she is?”

“No, sir. Not a clue.”

“Well, then, let me talk to the Viking again.”

Viking?
Figuring he meant Amundson, Beck passed the cell phone back. After a short burst of conversation, the hunter ended the call, but kept the phone.

“You’re here until we have her,” Amundson announced.

“If that’s the case, how about some breakfast?”

There was a grunt from the lieutenant and then the door shut behind him. The guard resumed his post in the chair as Beck stretched out on the bed again. Staring up at the ceiling, all he could think of was Riley. Her tears and his unrelenting fury. How sick he’d felt when she’d told him what she’d done.

How could you let him touch you? Was I just a meal ticket for ya, girl?

It was best he had no idea where Riley Blackthorne was hiding. The way he felt right now, he’d hand her over to the demon hunters himself.

A
LSO
BY
J
ANA
O
LIVER

The Demon Trapper’s Daughter

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SOUL THIEF
. Copyright © 2011 by Jana Oliver. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 978-0-312-61479-9

First Edition: September 2011

eISBN 978-1-4299-8425-6

First St. Martin’s Griffin eBook Edition: August 2011