Forbidden Page 12

  She glowered at him. “See the glitter in the bottom? Klepto-Fiends can’t resist it.”

  He held up the sippy cup and compared it to the exquisitely cut diamonds in the store window.

  “Wanna bet?”

  And I brought him along why?

  He returned the cup. “The ’rents can’t know about this—ever.”

  “Got it.”

  Riley pushed open the reinforced door and looked around for someone who might be in charge. The paperwork said the complaint came from a guy named Abe Meyerson. There were two employees, but the elderly man near the watch case seemed to be the best choice. He had some serious wrinkles and was probably at least eighty, if not older.

  After a deep breath to build her confidence, Riley put on her professional “I know what I’m doing” face and approached the glass counter.

  “Mr. Meyerson?” she asked. The old gentleman nodded. “I’m Riley Blackthorne and I’m here to deal with your theft problem.” Her dad had always insisted that she not use the words demon trapper in a retail store until the owner indicated he was okay with his customers knowing what was going on. In case the jeweler wasn’t making the connection, she offered him the paperwork.

  Mr. Meyerson took the trapping request out of her hand, held it closer to his nose than would have been comfortable for her, and then nodded again. Then he looked at her, squinting. “Oy, they’re sending young ones now!” the man said with a spry grin. He looked at Peter. “Are you a trapper, too?”

  “No, sir. I’m just watching, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine by me. These little thieves are just the nature of the business, but this one isn’t kosher. It ignores anything metal; only likes loose stones. I think it’s a little off in its skull; you know what I mean,” he said, tapping his temple for emphasis.

  Not good. That meant this one would be harder to capture. She so needed something to go right for a change, especially with Peter watching her every move.

  “How long has it been here?” Riley asked, refusing to let the disheartening news sidetrack her.

  “A week.”

  “Does it have any particular time that it steals stuff?”

  “Just whenever it feels like it.”

  She’d have to go through this place inch by inch to find the fiend rather than just wait it out. With the funerals this afternoon, she really needed to make this happen. Taking a deep breath, Riley recited the warnings and precautions that came with removing a demon from a public location. Mr. Meyerson had no questions, mostly because he’d been through this numerous times over the years, and he readily signed the form to indicate he knew the consequences.

  “I leave it to you,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.” The old man puttered off to sit at a desk that had to be as ancient as he was. Pressing a jeweler’s loupe to his eye, he bent over a watch and began poking at it with a little screwdriver.

  Cue demon trapper.

  Riley retreated to the door and began a visual tour of the showroom, a technique her dad had taught her during one of her first trapping assignments. Assess the surroundings. Look for obvious hiding places.

  “What are you doing?” Peter whispered.

  “Trying to find where a three-inch-tall demon could hide.”

  “Ah, that’s about everywhere,” he said. “I don’t think your glitter-in-a-cup trick is going to work.”

  Unfortunately, Peter was right. There were a lot of nooks and crannies in a building this old. Her usual bait was worthless with all those gems in the cases, each lit with their own internal fire and by carefully positioned high-intensity lights. She could put Holy Water at each of the exits and along the windows to flush the fiend out. Problem was, then it’d go nuts and tear the place apart. She already had a reputation for trashing libraries; no need to add jewelry stores to the list.

  What am I going to do? She could call Beck and maybe he’d have an idea, but that would make her look like she couldn’t handle things on her own. Calling Harper was so not an option.

  As she thought it through, Peter parked himself at a chair near the watch case, laptop out, surfing an online gaming site. She looked over his shoulder; he was checking out pictures of dragons. He pulled one of the images into a program and then upped the size so he could see it easier. It made the thing look huge on the vivid eighteen-inch color screen.

  Her eyes went to the closest glass case. The problem was that all these jewels were about the same size. Nothing really screamed BLING! What she needed was a humongous gem.

  Peter’s dragon now sat on top of a mound of gold and jewels, short puffs of smoke coming out its nostrils. It looked menacing, but not the twenty-foot-tall, pull-her-dad-out-of his-grave kind of scary.

  The idea that popped into her brain was crazy. She would bet no trapper had ever tried such a stunt, but she was out of options. Either she gave it a go or she had to call Harper and say she couldn’t handle the job.

  No way. He’d never let me live that down.

  Riley cautiously ran her lunatic idea past the jeweler, and to her astonishment she received a vote of approval.

  “Can’t hurt,” Mr. Meyerson said. He opened the vault and returned with a large emerald. It was marquise cut and two carats in weight, he said, though Riley had no idea what all that meant. She took a picture of it with her cell phone, e-mailed it to Peter, and then explained exactly what she wanted him to do. To her relief, he didn’t tell her she was totally wacked. As her friend worked, the jeweler returned the emerald to the safe, made a quick check to ensure there wasn’t a demon inside, and then locked it tight.

  Luckily there were no customers at the moment, as it took time to set the trap. The jeweler turned off all the interior lights, including those in the display cases. There was still light coming in the front windows, but not so much as to ruin her plan.

  Peter positioned his laptop on one of the main glass displays, clicked a key, and the image of the emerald appeared on the big screen. He’d done something to it so the image rotated, sparkled, and shone like it was lit from within by a solar flare.

  If the gem could talk, it would be screaming, STEAL ME!

  “You think this will work?” Peter whispered as they backed away.

  “It better,” Riley whispered in reply.

  The jeweler and his assistant hovered by the front door, watching the show. They seemed amused by her high-tech trap.

  “Such a thing I have never seen,” the old man said. “Kids these days—so smart.”

  Only if this works.

  Time passed. Peter nudged her with an elbow. “And this is going to happen … when?”

  She gave him a dirty look. “Patience, dude.”

  Then she heard it, that pitter-patter of boot-clad demon feet racing across glass. A moment later the Magpie stood transfixed in front of the computer, its bulging bag of loot at its side. It looked like the one in her apartment—about three inches tall—except this one wasn’t wearing a black bandana. In the glow of the screen she could see its tiny fingers twitch in nervous anticipation.

  That’s right. It’s all yours. Just don’t move.

  Riley slowly approached, making each step as quiet as possible. If she spooked it, it wouldn’t fall for this ruse a second time. The moment before it leapt at the screen she caught the fiend. She dropped the demon into the transparent sippy cup and slapped a hand over the top.

  “Lid!” she called out. Her friend just stared at the cup in her hand, wide-eyed. “Peter! I need the lid. Now!”

  “Sorry,” he called out and hurried over. Between them they sealed the cup.

  “Wow. That’s really a demon. I mean, you can see pictures of them on the Web, but—”

  The fiend in question rose on its feet, pointed at the bag, and then began to wail, pulling at its clothes like it was in mourning.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Freaking. He thinks I’m stealing his stuff.” Riley brought the cup to nose level. “Hold on, I’ll get it f
or you. I won’t take it away,” she said.

  Mr. Meyerson opened the bag’s drawstring, and the contents slid across the glass countertop.

  “Look at all that,” Peter said in awe. There were at least a dozen loose diamonds and sapphires, but no emeralds. They’d offered the demon the perfect bait.

  The old jeweler separated out the merchandise with a wizened finger. “That’s all of the gems. The rest is just glass. Who knows where it came from,” he said with a toothy smile.

  Riley put the remaining loot back in the bag and, with Peter’s help, dumped it inside the cup without losing the demon. The Magpie clutched his horde to his chest and sighed in profound relief.

  “Wow, he is obsessed,” Peter said, staring at the fiend.

  “Totally. Get rid of the emerald. He’s forgotten it for the moment, but that won’t last.”

  “Gone,” her friend said, punching a key. The image vanished, and in its place was a thunderstorm rolling over Atlanta’s skyline.

  “Well done,” the old man said, beaming through a sea of wrinkles. “Ingenious.”

  Riley grinned. “Thanks.” She looked over at her friend and shot him a thumbs-up. “Who knows, maybe this is the future of demon trapping.”

  “Tech rules,” Peter replied.

  They left the shop with one demon in a sippy cup, signed paperwork, and two free coupons for lunch at a downtown deli courtesy of Mr. Meyerson. He’d also promised not to tell anyone about Peter’s part in the job.

  “Trapper scores,” Riley said, feeling really good for a change.

  This is how it’s supposed to be.

  FOURTEEN

  It was nearly one thirty when Riley pulled her car up to Beck’s house in Cabbagetown. His place wasn’t much different than its neighbors’, other than it looked better maintained. The trim and porch railing were stark white, and the house itself a pleasing shade of light green. She could almost imagine him out there on a ladder slinging paint all over the place.

  How does he find the time? She was still behind on her laundry.

  Beck sat on the porch in a wooden rocking chair clad in his black suit. From the dour expression on his face, all he needed was a shotgun and something to fill full of holes, and he’d be just fine.

  She’d first heard about the new kid from South Georgia over the dinner table when her father had told them about this smart-ass sixteen-year-old in his history class, a troublemaker sprinting full speed toward a brick wall. “Serious lemming potential” is the way he’d described Denver Beck. Now her father was dead and the former troublemaker had taken it upon himself to watch over her so she wouldn’t go all “wild child” on him.

  It was a plan doomed to failure.

  As she parked the car in the driveway, Beck rose with considerable effort. She didn’t think it was because of his injuries: The Holy Water would have started to heal those. What hurt was way deeper and most likely permanent. She carried some of those same scars herself.

  Beck climbed in her car, placed his trapping bag on the seat behind them, and then clicked the seat belt without so much as a “Hello.” Like it was expected she’d haul his butt around town.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to be on his own.

  She asked the question anyway. “Some reason I’m driving you to the funeral?” she said.

  “Don’t need a ticket.” At her puzzled look, he explained: “After the service we’ll go to the Six Under for the wake. Don’t want to lose my truck if the cops pull me over on the way home.”

  Another trapper tradition: Bury your dead and then get drunk. There were a lot of traditions, which led her to believe they’d evolved over time. Anything that involved an excuse to drink was automatically trapper approved.

  “I’ll drive you home after the wake,” she offered, heading back toward Memorial Drive.

  “No, I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”

  “You could still get arrested for that,” she said. “I’ll drive you.”

  He eyed her. “Yer not comin’ to the bar with us. Yer not legal.”

  “They serve soda. Besides, it’s only right: I was at the Tabernacle when they died; I want to be there for their wake.”

  He ignored her from that point on. The silence held for longer than was comfortable, and finally she relented. She needed to talk to someone and Beck was the only option.

  “The collection agency jerk visited me yesterday. He said they’ll go after the life insurance money since they didn’t get to steal Dad’s body.”

  Beck huffed. “Don’t worry; they won’t get it.”

  Easy for you to say.

  More silence. She almost turned on the radio, but the music she liked would only earn her hassles from her companion. “Trapped a Magpie today. At a jewelry store,” she said, figuring that was a safe topic.

  “It go okay?”

  “Real well.” She was about to tell him how she’d pulled it off, then changed her mind. He might not like the idea of Peter being there.

  They made it through four more intersections before he gave in. “Ya see Simon today?”

  “No. I’m going to stop by tonight.”

  “Good; he’s askin’ for ya. It’s gonna take him a while to get over what happened.”

  “Same for all of us.” She heard a grunt of acknowledgment. Time to move to more sunny topics. “Mort’s trying to help me find Dad.”

  “Does he know who took him?” Beck quizzed.

  “No. He thinks it’s odd that no one’s talking. I’m just hoping it’s not Ozymandias. Ayden says he’s into dark magic.”

  Beck looked pensive. “That must be the guy Lenny was talkin’ about. I’ll pay him a visit.”

  “He’s not like Mort or the others. This one’s evil.”

  “Evil I can do,” Beck said, as if the problem were solved.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Not happenin’, so don’t even think about it,” he retorted.

  Why is everything a battle with you? Why can’t you let me make my own decisions?

  In response to the tension, Beck began to rearrange the contents of his duffel bag. From what she could tell, it didn’t need the attention, but he focused on that rather than talking. A nervous habit. She had a few of her own.

  He finally stopped fussing with the bag. “There were two Mezmers at the lounge last night.”

  “What?” she said, giving him a quick glance before returning her eyes to the highway. “Did you get them?”

  “No,” he said. “I tagged the first one, but before I could get it secured, the second one showed up. It was … more than I could handle.”

  She pulled up to a stop sign, jamming on the brakes. “Beck! You’re okay, aren’t you?” He nodded. “How did you get away from it?”

  Her passenger shrugged. “Don’t really know. It was workin’ me over somethin’ fierce, and then both of them just took off.”

  “Did you tell Stewart?” she asked, more worried now that he didn’t have a solid answer.

  “Not yet. I will, once everythin’ settles down.”

  Riley could tell there was more here than he was admitting. What if that thing had gotten his soul? Would she be able to tell? A sick knot formed in her chest. “Beck…” she began, her voice quavering.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he ordered. “It’s over and I’m still in one piece.”

  But you might not have been.

  * * *

  Beck had been planning his move from the moment the funerals had ended. As Riley pulled into the pub’s parking lot, he hopped out of the car, hoping to avoid a confrontation. “Thanks, girl. Call when ya get to the church so I know yer safe.”

  There was no way he could ignore the expression on Riley’s face. He knew it well enough; it promised defiance, so it wasn’t any surprise when she turned off the car, undid the seat belt, and climbed out. Beck watched her walk across the street toward the pub, her hair swinging back and forth, boots clicking on the pavement.

  Ya shouldn’t
be here. It wasn’t dangerous or anything, but it was a guy thing.

  “We’re gonna get drunk, we’re gonna swear and tell a lot of war stories,” he called out. “That’s about it.”

  Riley paused at the entrance to the Six Feet Under Pub and Fish House. “I know. Dad told me about these things.”

  “It’s no place for a … girl.”

  “But it is for a trapper,” she said, and left him standing there like a moron.

  “Why do ya fight me on everythin’?” he snarled. He had no choice but to let her have her way. Dragging her out of there by the hair would just make both of them look stupid.

  He found Riley at the bar, ordering a glass of Pepsi. Just like he figured, the bartender was giving her the once-over.

  “You’re new,” the guy said, turning on the charm.

  “Uh-huh,” Riley replied, laying a five on the counter and looking around. “Where are the trappers?”

  “Oh, you’re here for that, huh? They’re upstairs, on the roof,” he answered, pointing toward a set of stairs near the entrance. Then he plunked the glass down and gave her the change. As Beck approached, Riley picked up her drink and headed for the stairs, acting as if he didn’t exist.

  “Hey, man,” the bartender called out. “I heard about the Tabernacle. Sorry.”

  “It was a bitch, that’s for sure,” Beck said. “Thank yer boss for the flowers. The families really appreciated them.”

  “Will do.” The bartender stacked a couple glasses as he watched Riley climb the stairs. “Now that’s a total hottie.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Beck warned.

  “Oh, sorry,” the guy said, raising his hands in surrender. “I didn’t know she was spoken for.”

  Beck realized he’d been a jerk. “No, not yer fault. I’m kind of … well … she’s a trapper. She’s Paul’s daughter.”

  “I thought she was a groupie or something. Thanks for setting me straight.” He went into bartender mode. “The usual?”

  “Yeah. Make it a pitcher this time, and start a tab.”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  The rooftop portion of the Six Feet Under was open to the air, so Riley made sure to sit near one of the radiant heaters. She selected an empty chair at the end of a long wooden table. Three tables, actually, all nosed together to accommodate the trappers. As she sat, heads turned. A few faces frowned. She was pleased to see not all of them did.