The Demon Trappers 3: Forgiven Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Riley stood alone in a field of crisp, freshly fallen snow. There was nothing around her, no buildings, no people. High above a blood-red moon held court in the sky, thousands of stars paying homage.

  A breeze tugged at her hair and it smelt of deepest midnight. She felt Ori’s presence even before his arms slid round her waist, drawing her back against him. She knew it was a dream, but she didn’t want to wake. Here it would be perfect. There would be no Heaven or Hell, no one to tell her what she was doing was wrong. It would just be Ori and her forever.

  Turning in his arms, Riley gazed up at his black hair and those bottomless eyes. Eyes that had seen the beginning of the cosmos.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Ori murmured, his voice just as she remembered it. ‘I hurt you and that is not what I wanted.’

  ‘It didn’t have to be that way,’ she said. It could have been so different.

  ‘Let me make it right between us. Let me show you what your future can hold.’

  He gestured and a scene appeared in the air in front of them. It was Riley, older now. She had a grace and strength that she never thought possible. She was teaching two apprentices how to trap demons and they were riveted on her words. This Riley was strong and confident, no hint of the troubled girl that lay within.

  ‘You’ll be a renowned master trapper, like your father,’ Ori explained. ‘The trappers will be in awe of your skills. All the while, my protection will keep you safe from harm.’

  She could trap and be successful and everyone would think she was the best there was. Just like my dad . . .

  His kiss reignited her desire for him. Her need for love, for someone to care for her. She melted against his body, savouring the touch and scent of him.

  ‘I am yours,’ the angel said. ‘Give me your soul and we can be together forever, Riley Anora Blackthorne.’

  ‘Do you love me?’ she asked. That was what she wanted, what she craved. To be loved by someone as magnificent as an angel.

  Ori did not reply, his face tormented. As if he wanted to lie, but could not. He tried to smile, but failed. ‘Come with me,’ he said, offering a hand. ‘We will have eternity together. Is that not enough?’

  Riley hesitated, her heart pounding hard. If he doesn’t love me . . . Was she so desperate that she’d settle for an empty life? Caught in her doubts, she looked away and found that the field wasn’t empty any longer. Her family’s mausoleum now stood a short distance away, cloaked in snow and moonlight. Solid red stones, stained-glass windows, all testimony to the Blackthorne legacy. The lion-winged gargoyles on the roof glared down at her, brilliant yellow flames pouring from their mouths, as if she was a threat to the dead within.

  The double brass doors swung open and, instead of the stone interior lit by dancing candlelight, there was semi-darkness. Figures moved around inside, all talons and teeth and glittering ruby eyes. The emissaries of Hell awaiting her decision.

  It was so tempting. She’d spend forever with her father. The demons couldn’t hurt her and –

  A voice cried out her name. She searched across the field and found Beck running towards her at top speed. He cried out again, his voice ragged as if he’d been shouting for hours and she’d not heard him.

  ‘Do not listen to the trapper,’ Ori warned. ‘He is jealous of us. Of what we have.’

  She hesitated, confused.

  ‘Riley!’ Ori called, more forceful now. ‘Pledge me your soul. I promise you will never suffer another moment of your life.’

  ‘What will we have?’ she demanded. ‘Some promises? None of which you will keep.’ She shook her head. ‘You never loved me. You only loved my soul and what it will buy you in Hell.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ the angel retorted. ‘This was always about you.’

  ‘Lies!’ she shouted.

  A searing cramp dug deep into her belly and she doubled over in agony. Riley forced herself to straighten up, holding her stomach. The area around her had become a minefield of skulls, each inhabited by a demon. They taunted her, threatened her, spoke of the endless tortures that awaited her soul in Hell.

  Ori was no longer near her but at the edge of the skull field now, pacing in agitation. ‘You have to give your soul. It is the only way, Riley! Please, I beg of you!’

  The snow around her turned crimson and began to boil.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have lost too much already.’

  As the skulls massed for an assault, Beck charged into the minefield, bent on her rescue. He only made it a few steps before he cried out her name once more, then died in tormented agony as the demons tore him apart.

  ‘NO!!!!’

  Riley lurched upright in the bed, sweat pouring off her in streams. Her chest felt heavy and each breath only brought in a tiny stream of air. She bent over, clutching her stomach. Swallowing repeatedly to keep from vomiting, she struggled to regain her senses and break free of the nightmare.

  With a groan, she wiped sweat off her brow. A vicious headache pounded in the very centre of her forehead. The room around her was quiet. There were no demons, no angel, no dying Beck. As the nightmare receded, the horror of it still clung to her.

  Was this a sign of what her future held? Would Ori continue to push at her mind until she screamed for release? Would Beck throw away his life to save her soul?

  With another groan, Riley rooted in her messenger bag and excavated two Advil and a bottle of water. She washed the tablets down, hoping they’d stay put, then leaned back against the headboard.

  ‘This seriously sucks.’ The verbal acknowledgement only made her head thump harder.

  Once she’d shaken off the worst of the dream, she headed for the bathroom and made a totally useless attempt to do something about her hair. When she pulled on her clothes, she was relieved they smelt less like the lying angel now. It was a pity that the memory of his touch wouldn’t fade as easily.

  Out of habit she retrieved her cellphone, but a second before powering it on she hesitated: did she dare check her messages? Would the hunters be able to track her here?

  ‘Better not,’ she said, leaving the phone off. It felt weird to be so out of touch. How would she let her friends know what was happening? Her best buddy Peter freaked if he didn’t hear from her regularly. Simi, her barista friend at the local coffee shop, would wonder what happened to her, especially since she insisted on updates every couple of days.

  Staying with Mort was too dangerous for all of them. Eventually the hunters would come here. The only choice was for her and her dad to make a run for it, hide out until the Vatican’s boys got bored and returned to Rome. We’ll have to start over. Find a place to live. I’ll have to get a different job. If they survived all that, eventually she’d have to convince Lucifer to put her dad back in the ground.

  All because I wanted someone to love me.

  *

  While some would argue that the Westin Peachtree Plaza 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 made his way to the bathroom. Running a wet facecloth over his hair took most of the dirt out of the blond strands. He made sure to keep the bandage dry.

  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 tracked his movements, vigilant as ever. Dusting himself off, which left a trail of dried grass on the carpet, Beck unlaced his work boots and dropped on to the king bed. It was one of those fancy ones you find in expensive hotels. He’d learned to sleep on some of the world’s hardest surfaces
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, a number of those 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 deceived 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 one of his neighbours was a 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 happened 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 dirty work across the world, writing up glowing newspaper accounts of 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 of the door, sure Paul’s daughter was in grave danger.

  Had Justine told the hunters where Riley was? He had to admit he wasn’t sure. All Beck could remember was the petulant frown on her face as he bent over to kiss her goodbye.

  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.

  He huffed at the thought that he was responsible for Riley’s problems. If she’d taken his advice, she wouldn’t be in this world of hurt. He’d be the first to admit 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, revealing Lt Amundson.

  ‘Master Stewart knows you’re in custody and that you’re not leaving until we have the Blackthorne girl,’ he said in his heavily accented English.

  At least Stewart knows where I am. ‘If that’s the case, how about some breakfast?’

  There was a grunt from the lieutenant and then the door shut behind him. Staring up at the ceiling, all Beck could think of was Paul’s daughter, of her bitter tears and his unrelenting fury. How sick he’d felt when she’d told him what she’d done.

  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.

  Chapter Three

  As Riley made her way back through Mort’s house, she tried not to get lost. The place was larger than she’d first thought, the walls aged brick with exposed wooden roof beams overhead. Kind of cool in a warehouse-maze sort of way.

  In the circular brick room Mort considered his office. The early afternoon poured down from the skylights, forming golden pools on the worn wooden floor. The summoner and her father were deep in conversation at a picnic table, sitting on benches across from each other.

  About Riley’s height and considerably wider, Mortimer Alexander had a pleasant round face and a bright smile, though behind all that was a fierce spirit. He’d chosen to become the Summoner Advocate of Atlanta, a job that earned him no respect from his fellow necromancers who spent most of their time luring the dead out of their graves and selling their bodies as unpaid slaves to rich people.

  ‘Riley,’ he said. ‘Do you feel better?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, politely lying. If anything, she felt worse now. The nightmare still hovered at the edges of her mind, like a monster hiding under a child’s bed.

  ‘There’s my favourite daughter,’ her father called out, a smile lighting his face.

  He wore some of Mort’s clothes now – a T-shirt and jeans – both hideously oversized. The jeans ended at his ankles and seemed out of place with his black socks and dress shoes. She had to find him clothes that fitted, but going to their apartment was going to be difficult: It was a good bet the hunters were watching the place.

  The moment she plopped on to the bench seat near her father he put his arm round her. She leaned into him. Some things never changed, even if he was no longer among the living.

  Mort cleared his throat. ‘I put your car in my garage,’ he said, pointing at her keys on top of the table. ‘If the hunters are patrolling the streets, it’s out of sight.’

  She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The latest news is that Lord Ozymandias is furious someone stole your father right out from under his nose.’

  As the most powerful summoner in Atlanta, Ozymandias had been after her father since the moment he’d died. During her cemetery vigil the necromancer had tried devious magic tricks to coerce her into breaking the sacred circle that protected her dad’s grave. He’d not been successful and her dad’s body had stayed put. Until Lucifer came calling.

  ‘You know, that’s just tough,’ she said, totally pleased at the news. Then that happiness faded. ‘Will Ozy come here?’

  Mort cringed at the casual use of the senior necromancer’s name. ‘He will if he finds out your father’s staying with me.’

  Awkward silence fell after that. Her dad kept taking sips from a bottle filled with a luminescent liquid that looked like orange juice spiked with iridescent sparkles.

  ‘Stabilizer,’ Mort explained before she could ask. ‘A basic potion with added magical oomph. It’s why he smells like oranges. He has to drink a lot of it. A reanimate’s vocal cords are difficult to keep hydrated.’

  Riley really didn’t want a lesson in Deader physiology, but she’d got one anyway. It came with hiding in a summoner’s house.

  ‘We talked while you slept and we both agree that Master Stewart is your best hope with the hunters,’ Mort added. ‘They’ll listen to him.’

  ‘Riiight,’ Riley replied. ‘They’ll brand me a heretic and fry me. I know where this is going.’

  Her father touched her hand. ‘I wouldn’t put you . . . in danger.’

  But you did. You made a deal with Hell and when you died they came after me. Riley didn’t dare say any of that, so she gnawed on the inside of her lip instead.

  ‘I can get some money and we’ll go somewhere else,’ she suggested.

  ‘But where? Paul said you have an aunt in Fargo, but the hunters will look there. You can’t live on the streets. It’s not safe for a girl your age.’

  She looked at her father. ‘I can’t leave you here, D
ad. Mort doesn’t need the hassle from the hunters or the other summoners. We need to go somewhere else.’

  ‘That’s your choice, Riley,’ the necromancer said solemnly, ‘but I’d advise that Paul remain with me. He’s safer here. I can take care of him, keep him in good condition.’

  ‘And I can’t?’ she asked, too tired to be angry at what he was suggesting.

  ‘You don’t have magic behind you,’ was the gentle reply. ‘Your father’s care involves certain spells, potions and a lot of finesse. If I don’t watch over him, in a couple weeks the body will begin to disintegrate while the mind keeps working. He’ll be safer with me than with anyone,’

  It was a compelling argument, though Riley wished that wasn’t the case. Next to her, her dad’s eyes began to blink more rapidly now.

  ‘What’s going on? Are you really tired or something?’ she asked.

  It was Mort who answered. ‘Reanimates have little or no life force behind them and they wear out quickly. He’ll be going dormant here in a little bit. After a rest, he’ll be back.’

  ‘Oh. Can Master Stewart get the hunters to back off?’

  ‘No,’ Mort replied, ‘but he can negotiate with them, act as the Guild’s representative.’

  The Scotsman would be a better choice than Master Harper, the trapper she was apprenticed to. Harper hated Riley and her dad. If he had the chance to bring both of them down, he’d jump at it.

  ‘You sure Stewart will help me?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve dealt with him as the Summoners’ Advocate and he’s nothing but fair. However, you have to make a decision soon. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to get the hunters to cooperate.’

  Cooperate? What little she knew of the Vatican’s boys, that wasn’t a word those guys were familiar with. She’d seen their high tech equipment and their paramilitary work ethic. No matter her deal with Heaven, they would only be interested in her chat with the Prince of Darkness and her knocking boots with the Fallen.

  ‘If I had something to bargain with . . .’ she murmured.