The Demon Trappers: Foretold (3 page)

She knew the master was right. ‘All right, I’ll go.’ Luckily her black funeral dress was upstairs in the closet rather than at the apartment. There never seemed to be an end to
the mourning.

‘Bless ya,’ Stewart exclaimed. ‘That’ll ease my worries a notch. Keep an eye on things down south. I want to know more about Beck’s background and what’s
causin’ him so much anxiety.’

Now I’m a spy.
‘He’ll go ballistic when I tell him I’m coming with him.’

‘That’s why I’ll be the one doin’ the tellin’.’

As he materialized in a pitch-black alley in Demon Central, the angel wept in despair.

‘No!’ Ori cried, raising his fists in defiance. ‘Damn you, Lucifer! Why?’

He was
not
supposed to be alive. He’d been ready to journey into the nothingness that awaited a Fallen when they took their last breath. He had even agreed to Riley Anora
Blackthorne’s outrageous terms for her soul simply because he was convinced he would die that day and she would be free of Hell’s chains.

But his master had denied him that solace. Though Lucifer could not create new life, he could sustain those who were in his thrall and he had healed Ori even as he’d begged to die. He
could still hear . . .

‘You will die when I permit it and no sooner. Slay my enemies. Do not think to cross me again, for the peace of death will not be your reward.’

‘How dare you?’ Ori cried, his fists tightening. He had willingly followed Lucifer into exile, cut himself off from the Light and the love of Heaven, and now he was being treated as
if that sacrifce was nothing.

When Ori’s eyes opened, he lowered his arms and ensured that his wings were hidden. There were no mortals around to see him at present, but that would change. They were far too curious for
their own good. If he encountered one now, one who challenged him, he may well kill it.

Turning, Ori strode down the alley until he reached one of Atlanta’s main streets where the city’s populace flowed around him, unaware of what he was or who he served or the growing
darkness within him. As he walked, he passed a necromancer bristling with magic, then a street preacher exhorting people to rid the city of devils.

He had no choice but to do his master’s bidding, hunting rogue demons who defied the Prince’s rule. Ori would never find the respite death offered as long as Lucifer reigned in
Hell.

Perhaps it’s time to change that.

Knowing Beck was an early riser, Riley pulled herself out of bed and hurried down to breakfast at seven. Mrs Ayers, her host’s housekeeper, promptly filled her to the
brim with food. Despite the woman’s prodigious efforts, Riley really didn’t enjoy the meal as much as she should have done. She was too nervous.

Beck was a lot like her – he didn’t like being told what to do even when it was in his best interests. He’d go supersonic when Stewart delivered the news and she knew who
he’d blame – it wouldn’t be the master.

She tried to distract herself with the newspaper – the biggest article was reserved for a Reverend Lopez, an exorcist who claimed he was going to come to Atlanta and rid them of their
demon problem once and for all. From what she could tell, he was the real deal, not one of the make-believe exorcists roaming around the city. If she was lucky, he would have come and gone before
she returned from Sadlersville.

It was a little before eight when Beck arrived and promptly complained to the housekeeper that he wasn’t pleased that Stewart had insisted on seeing him before he left town. Riley listened
as his boots clomped down to the den and then began counting to twenty. It was at sixteen that Beck’s voice rose in surprised indignation. Backwoods Boy had just received the news that his
trip to South Georgia wasn’t going to be solo.

His outrage carried through the big house. ‘I sure as hell don’t need some little girl along on this trip. She’ll be nothin’ but trouble.’

Riley winced.
Time to go.
She raced up the stairs, collected her small suitcase and then hurried outside in early morning sunlight. There was a roof box on his pickup now, though it
didn’t appear to be new. She hadn’t known he owned such a thing.

The roof box was locked so she set the luggage down and waited. A moment later a crimson-faced Beck barrelled out of the house and for a second it looked as if he was going to slam the front
door, then thought better of it. As he thundered down the front stairs to his Ford, he scowled at her all the way.

Without a word he unlocked the cover, picked up her small suitcase and slung it into the bed of the pickup where it landed with a jarring thud. She suspected he would have done the same to her
if he could have got away with it.

Riley climbed into the truck and then they were off, peeling rubber as he backed out of the drive like all of Hell’s demons were on his tail. She hastily fastened her seatbelt, then
gritted her teeth as she was forced back in the seat by the sudden sharp acceleration.

‘Dude, you’re serious cop bait,’ she complained.

A short time later he screeched to a halt at a stop sign, glowered at her, then turned the corner with a bit more intelligence.

‘How long does it take to get down there?’ Riley asked.

Deafening silence. She knew this drill and it didn’t bug her as much as it used to. Beck was having one of his snits and he’d work through it eventually, hopefully before it was time
to return to Atlanta.

To fill the time, Riley texted her best friend Peter, told him of her trip and asked him the
how long before we’re there?
question. The answer came back quickly because he was in
front of his computer: Sadlersville, population barely nudging the meter above two thousand souls, was about five and a half hours from Atlanta. Not all of it was on the interstate.

HOW’S IT GOING? Her friend texted.

BECK IS ACTING LIKE I DON’T EXIST.

THAT COULD BE BLESSING.

She laughed at that, which immediately earned her a glare from the driver.

HEY, WATCH OUT FOR FIRE ANT MOUNDS, COTTON FIELDS AND VIDALIA ONIONS.

Peter was surfing again.

THX! CHAT WITH YOU LATER.

GOOD LUCK. YOU WILL NEED IT.

Once they were on Dekalb Avenue headed towards the interstate, Beck finally released his death grip on the steering wheel. He shot her a frown and then turned back to watch the traffic.

‘I told Stewart I didn’t want you along. This is too close to yer daddy’s funeral and all . . .’

Riley wisely let his fib stand. Though she’d asked Peter about their destination, she tried to jump start the conversation again.

‘Where is Sadlersville?’

This time she got a reply. ‘A few hours south and east of Macon. It’s near Okefenokee Swamp.’

‘What did you do with Rennie?’ she asked, wondering who was watching Beck’s rabbit.

‘I took her to the neighbour’s place. Mrs Morton will keep an eye on her for me.’

Then he went quiet again, buried deep in his own thoughts.

Once they’d passed the airport on I-75, the truck picked up speed. She wondered how much the trip was going to cost with fuel now hovering at nine dollars a gallon. Better than the ten
it’d been for so long, but still a truck burned a lot of fuel. Hopefully the solar panel on the roof would help.

She put in her earbuds and clicked on her decrepit mp3 player. It worked most of the time and when it didn’t she’d give it a sharp slap against her palm and it’d start again.
Now that she had access to her dad’s life insurance money she could have bought a new one, but somehow it didn’t seem right. The thing was like an old friend and you never ditched a
buddy because he got wacky on you. If that had been the case, Beck would have been gone a long time ago.

Riley checked her backpack again to ensure her envelope of cash was where she’d stashed it. Soon she’d have her own debit card because just the day before she and Beck had opened a
bank account using her dad’s life insurance money as seed. Also tucked in the backpack was the new laptop Peter had helped her find. It wasn’t as fancy as his, but it was the best she
could buy for under three hundred dollars. It was still so new she wasn’t sure exactly how it all worked, even though he’d set up an email account for her. Step by step, her life was
changing and some of it was positive.

Beck clicked on the radio and the cab of the truck filled with a country song, which was all he listened to. To avoid a horrific mash-up of Taylor Swift and the Gnarly Scalenes, Riley clicked
off her mp3 player and stowed it in her backpack.

It was time to get Beck talking again.

‘So what’s this going to be like?’ she asked.

To her surprise, he lowered the radio. ‘Not good.’

‘Not good like hordes of rampaging demons or . . .’

He frowned at her. ‘Folks in Sadlersville don’t remember me kindly and they’re gonna figure we’re, well . . .’

‘Hooking up?’ A nod. ‘So we’ll tell them we’re not.’

‘Tellin’ them and havin’ them believe it is two different things.’

‘Are we staying at your mom’s place?’

He shook his head immediately. ‘No. We’ll be at the motel. It’s OK. I always stay there when I visit.’

That was interesting. ‘Any other relatives down here?’

‘Just me and her.’

The radio’s volume went back up, ending the conversation.

Other than a quick stop for a restroom and fuel, Beck remained in Silent Mode from that point on. Eventually he pulled off the interstate and headed south on a state road and Riley found the
scenery more interesting as Peter’s prediction of fire ant mounds and cotton fields came to pass. She even spied a peach orchard, but no fields of Vidalia onions. The homes on either side of
the highway were either really nice or totally run down and there didn’t seem to be much in the middle. For some reason folks stored their old stuff in their front yards, including
dilapidated cars, broken lawn chairs, kids’ toys, a garden tractor, bedsprings, you name it.

‘Why do they do that?’ Riley asked, gesturing towards one yard packed with items.

‘All that metal is like a bank account. Might need it someday so the best place to keep an eye on it is in the front yard.’

Ohhhkay . . .

Riley had hoped there might be a meal somewhere along the way and when they drove through a town called Waycross she figured Beck would do a quick turn into a burger joint. It didn’t
happen. Luckily she’d had a big breakfast.

‘How soon are we there?’ she asked, fidgeting. ‘Too soon,’ he replied, his fingers bleaching white as he gripped the steering wheel.

He’s afraid. But of what? He’s coming home.

Maybe that didn’t mean the same thing to him.

When Riley finally saw the Sadlersville’s sign, she braced herself: she was about to see into Beck’s past. As he swung into the motel’s driveway and then
under the canopy, she knew she’d entered another world. The place looked decent enough: one long white brick building with flame-red doors dotted along its length. The roof was red as well.
Apparently the owner had a thing for the colour.

Only a few moments after Beck disappeared into the small motel office his phone chimed on the truck seat. Riley checked the display and then wrinkled her nose in disgust. The reporter chick had
sent Beck a text warning him she intended to submit the article in the next day or two and if he wanted his input now was the time. The jealous beast that lived inside Riley demanded she delete the
message. It wasn’t like he’d really be able to read it.

Not. Your. Call.
She forced herself to behave.

When Beck climbed back into the truck, he noticed her sour expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

Riley pointed at his phone. ‘Justine. She’s missing you.’

He huffed and then promptly deleted the text. ‘Nothin’ I hate more than a woman who doesn’t know when it’s over.’

Was there a message for her in there somewhere?

He parked at the west end of the building and right before he got out of the truck, he tossed her a key, which meant she had her own room.

‘Won’t stop the gossipin’, but it’s the way it has to be.’

As the door to her room creaked open, Riley prepared herself for the worst. The room was better than she’d expected: there was an antiquated wall heater under the window, a small desk
hugged one wall and there were two double beds with forest green bedspreads. The carpet was generic brown. As Riley stepped inside she took in a lungful of that spray housekeepers use to scent the
air. It made her cough. She placed her backpack on one bed and did a bounce on the other, the one closest to the door.

Not bad.

The bathroom had a shower and adequate space on the counter for her stuff. There was even a hairdryer.

‘This works,’ she said.

‘Glad you approve,’ Beck said from behind her. He dropped her suitcase on the extra bed and then sank down next to it. Ignoring his presence, she began to unpack, hanging her few
clothes in the closet. At least with her own room he wouldn’t claim she was hogging all the hangers.

‘Gotta set some ground rules,’ he said.

Here it comes.