Forsaken Page 3

  She gave a bark of bitter laughter. “All of them, Beck. Every single one of them. I looked like a total moron.”

  He’d been there often enough to know how that felt, but right now that wasn’t the issue. Why would a senior demon play games with an apprentice trapper? What was the point? She wasn’t a threat to Hell in any real sense.

  At least not yet.

  Riley shut down after that, staring out the passenger-side window and fidgeting with the strap on her bag. Beck had a lot of things he wanted to say—like how he was proud of her for holding up as well as she did. Paul always said the mark of a good trapper is how he handled the bad stuff, but telling Riley that wouldn’t work. She’d only believe it if she heard it from her father, not someone she considered the enemy.

  They passed a long line of ragged folks waiting their turn to get a meal at the soup kitchen on the grounds of the Jimmy Carter Library. The line’s length hadn’t shortened from last month, which meant the economy wasn’t any better. Some blamed the demons and their devious master for the city’s financial problems. Beck blamed the politicians for being too busy taking kickbacks and not paying attention to their job. In most ways, Atlanta was slowly going to Hell. Somehow he didn’t figure Lucifer would object.

  A few minutes later he parked in a junk-strewn lot across from the Tabernacle and turned off the engine. He was used to ass chewing, but the girl wasn’t. If there were any way he could take her place tonight, he’d do it without thinking twice. But that wasn’t the way things worked when you were a trapper.

  “Leave the demon here,” he advised. “Put him under the seat.”

  “Why? I don’t want to lose him,” she said, frowning.

  “They’ll have the meetin’ warded with Holy Water. He’ll tear himself apart if ya try to cross that line with him in yer bag.”

  “Oh.” Before every Guild meeting an apprentice would create a large circle of Holy Water, the ward as it was called, which would serve as a sacred barrier against all things demonic. The trappers held their meeting inside that circle. Beck was right, the Biblio wouldn’t cross the ward. She pulled out the cup, tightened the lid, and did as he asked.

  “One piece of advice: Don’t piss ’em off.”

  Riley glared at him. “You always do.”

  “The rules are different for me.”

  “Because I’m a girl, is that it?” When he didn’t answer, she demanded, “Is. That. It?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “As long ya know that goin’ in.”

  She hopped out of the car, hammered down the lock with her uninjured fist, then slammed the door hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

  A green finger jabbed in his direction the moment he stepped out.

  “I’m not backing down. I’m Paul Blackthorne’s daughter. Even the demons know who I am. Someday I’m going to be as good as my dad, and the trappers will just have to deal. That includes you, buddy.”

  “The fiends know yer name?” Beck asked, taken aback.

  “Hello! That’s what I said.” She squared her shoulders. “Now let’s get this over with. I’ve got homework to do.”

  THREE

  Riley paused on the sidewalk, shaking inside. Her outburst had cost her what little energy she had left. She needed food and a long nap, but first there was the Guild to deal with. She could already imagine their smirks, hear the good ol’ boy laughter. Then there’d be the crude jokes. They were really good at those.

  I don’t deserve this. The other apprentices made mistakes but they’d never rated an emergency Guild meeting.

  The sun was setting, and for a moment she could believe there was no disappointed father waiting for her inside that old building. Her nose caught the tantalizing scent of roasted meat. Smoke rose in thin, trailing columns from multiple wood fires across the street at Centennial Park. The grounds were dotted with multicolored tents, like some modern-day Renaissance Faire. A tangle of people wandered the grounds as vendors called to them from tables piled high with goods. She could hear a baritone voice announcing that he had fresh bread for sale.

  They called it the Terminus Market, after the city’s original name. At first it’d just been open on the weekends, but now it was a permanent thing. As the economy got worse the market blossomed, filling the missing holes as regular businesses went under. You could buy or barter almost anything, from live chickens to magical supplies like the spheres the trappers used. If the vendor didn’t have what you wanted, by the next night he would, no questions asked.

  “Sign of the times,” Beck said under his breath. “Not that it’s right.”

  Caught by the deep frown on his face, her gaze followed his. On the sidewalk was a dead guy, loaded down with packages from the market. He wore clean clothes and his hair was combed, but you could tell he was dead. The pasty gray complexion and the zoned-out expression gave it away every time. He stood a few steps behind his “owner,” a thirty-something woman with strawberry blond hair and designer jeans with the words “Smart Bitch” in sequins on the butt. Everything about her shouted money, including the car. No solar panel on the top, so she wasn’t concerned how much a gallon of gas might cost. No dents, no rust, just clean and new.

  Probably has the dead guy wash it.

  From what Riley had heard, a Deader wasn’t like a zombie in the movies, just a sad reminder of a past life. For people with money they were the perfect servants. They never asked for vacation and they weren’t entitled to wages. Once a necromancer pulled a corpse from the grave it was good for nearly a year, the downside of better embalming techniques. When it ceased being useful it was buried again, if the owner was compassionate. If not, the Deader would be found abandoned in a dumpster.

  “They’re just slaves,” she said. “Once you’re dead you should be left alone.”

  “Amen to that.” Beck cleared his throat. “Well, ya won’t have to worry. If a trapper gets chewed up by a demon, the necros don’t want ’em.”

  Now that’s great news.

  Riley watched as the Deader piled the packages into the trunk of a car. When he was finished he climbed into the backseat. They were good for simple tasks, but driving wasn’t one of them.

  Riley turned back toward their destination. Built of red brick, the Tabernacle had clocked over a century of use. It’d been a Baptist church, then a concert hall. She’d come here for an Alter Bridge concert to celebrate her dad’s thirty-fifth birthday when they’d lived in Buckhead and her mom was still alive. Back when her parents were teachers at a real school and everything was good.

  Beck paused at the entrance, leaning against a rope that served as a handrail. The metal ones were long gone. Still holding his duffel bag in one hand, he turned toward her, his face unusually solemn.

  “It’s not just because yer a girl,” he said in a lowered voice, his mind still on their earlier conversation. “A lot of these guys are gettin’ older, and they’re not happy competin’ with younger trappers.”

  “Like you?”

  He nodded. “Don’t expect a good time, okay? But don’t let ’em push ya around. It was a good trappin’ gone wrong. That’s happened to every one of us. Don’t let them claim anythin’ different.”

  Then he left her on the street, putting distance between them like he didn’t want to be seen with her.

  Creep.

  Her dad was waiting inside that building. What would he say? Would he tell the Guild he’d made a mistake, that she wasn’t trapper material? Or would he try to defend her?

  If he does, they’ll roast him.

  That thought pushed her forward. Her father wasn’t going to face this alone. This was her mistake, not his.

  Riley limped up the steps and entered the building, closing the street door behind her. Nothing much had changed since the last Guild meeting: Cobwebs still hung from the ceiling, and the floors were laced with dust and discarded foam cups. A sneeze overtook her. Then another. Pulling a tissue out of a pocket, she blew her nose as she wandered into the huge audito
rium. It was a vast space with uncomfortable wooden benches in three sections that rose to the rear of the building, most of it in the dark now. There used to be a pipe organ but it was long gone. Metal was too valuable.

  On the floor in front of her was a wet line in the dust that encircled the area where the meeting was being held. Why the trappers bothered to have a Holy Water ward never made sense to Riley. No demon would wander into a roomful of trappers. It’d be a way-dumb move. Still, it was tradition, and it fell to an apprentice to ensure the ward was properly applied. One day it would be her turn.

  This was only the second time she’d been in front of the Guild. The first hadn’t been a blast, with lots of argument over whether to issue her an apprentice license. Most of the trappers hadn’t cared either way, but a few clearly resented her. Not because of her dad, but because she wasn’t male. They’d be her foes tonight.

  And I gave them all the ammunition they need.

  Only the ground-floor General Admission Section was illuminated. Above her, dust hovered in the bright streams of light pouring down from the floods. The lights doubled as a heat source, which left the rest of the building uncomfortably chilly.

  The meeting had already started, and her dad was at one of the round banquet tables, arms crossed. It was his you’re-standing-on-my-last-nerve pose. He was wearing his Georgia Tech jacket and sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. His brown hair really needed a trim. Just like an average dad—except he trapped demons for a living.

  “How’d this simple job go so far off the rails, Blackthorne?” an older man asked. He was gray at the temples and had a deep crescent-shaped scar that ran down one side of his face. His nose had been broken and hadn’t healed right. It made him look like a cross between a pirate and a convict.

  Harper. The most senior of the three master trappers in the Atlanta Guild.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” her dad replied, his voice clipped. “Riley should be here soon; then we can hear the full story.”

  “Don’t care if she’s here or not. She’s done as far as I’m concerned,” Harper replied. The sneer on his face pulled the scar out of alignment.

  “We’ve all made mistakes.” Her dad pointed toward a beefy black man at a nearby table. “Morton destroyed a courtroom trying to trap a Four right after he became a journeyman. Things happen.”

  “What did I know?” Morton said, spreading his hands. One of the few African Americans in the Guild, he looked like he should be selling houses rather than trapping fiends. “The defense lawyer acted just like a demon. I’m still getting sued over that one.”

  There was muted laughter.

  Her dad nodded. “My point is that Riley is smart and she listens to instructions. She’ll learn from this, and the next trapping will be picture perfect.”

  “That’s better than your last apprentice,” someone joked. “He never did listen.”

  Beck stepped into the circle of light. “Evenin’ all,” he said.

  “Speak of the devil,” the same trapper called out. “What do you say about this, Mile High?”

  From the way Beck tensed, Riley could tell he didn’t like the nickname. He just shrugged and parked himself at her father’s table, then pulled two beer bottles out of his duffel bag and set them in front of him. Twisting the top off one, he took a long swig and settled back like he was there to watch a stage show.

  You selfish jerk. He wasn’t going to stand up for her. How many times had her father saved his butt? So much for gratitude.

  Gnawing on the inside of her bottom lip until she drew blood, Riley stepped into the light, blinking to clear her vision. When they spied her, some of the trappers snickered. She held her ground, hands knotted at her side.

  “There’s Little Miss Fuckup now,” Harper said.

  Riley’s father glared. “Keep it clean, Harper.”

  “If she can’t take it, she shouldn’t be here.”

  “There’s no need to be crude,” another trapper insisted. It was Jackson, the Guild treasurer. He was a tall, thin man with a goatee and ponytail. He’d worked for the city before the first round of layoffs a few years back. In lieu of a response, Harper spat on the floor then dug out another wad of chew.

  Though Riley really wanted to run into her father’s arms, she took her time crossing to him. She refused to act like a scared little girl in front of these jerks, though deep inside she was freaking out.

  Her dad stood and put his hands on her shoulders, looking deeply in her eyes. When he saw the damage to her face, he winced.

  “You okay?” She nodded. He squeezed her shoulders for support. “Then tell them what happened.”

  He’d treated her like an adult, not a frightened kid. That simple gesture gave her the courage to face this.

  She scanned the circle of men around her. There were about thirty of them. Most were middle-aged, like her dad. They’d become trappers when their other careers had ended, destroyed by an economy that had never found anything but the bottom. Bitterness hung on them like a heavy winter coat.

  Riley cleared her throat, preparing herself. Harper snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come on, spill it. We don’t have all damned night.”

  “Don’t let him goad you,” her father murmured.

  Hoping her voice wouldn’t quaver, she gave her report. Her words sounded so insignificant inside the cavernous building, a mouse squeaking to a pack of lions.

  When she finished Harper huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, revealing a blood-red tattoo on his forearm. It was a skull with a writhing fiend in its mouth.

  “Demons don’t work together,” he said. “Every apprentice knows that. ’Cept maybe you.”

  He made it sound like she was lying.

  “How else would you explain all the damage?” Morton asked.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Harper said. “All that matters is that we’re the laughingstock of the city, and we know who’s to blame.”

  Murmuring broke out among the men.

  “It’s not as easy as that,” her dad began. “If the demons are banding together, we need to know why they’ve changed tactics.”

  “You’re just trying to save your brat’s ass, Blackthorne. She would never have been given a license in the first place if she wasn’t your daughter.”

  Beck stirred and set his beer bottle down on the table with a clunk. “Why not? She met all the requirements.”

  Harper swung his dark gaze toward him. “Why do you give a shit? Looking to get a piece of that, are you?”

  Riley’s dad shifted in his chair, his face growing red with anger. Beck, on the other hand, was icy calm. It wasn’t what she’d expected of him.

  He popped open the top of the second bottle, took a long swig, then smacked his lips. “Nah, she’s too young. She can’t buy me beer.”

  “Damned straight,” someone called out. “Nothin’ more than jailbait.”

  Her father’s frown deepened.

  “I say we eyeball the library’s security tapes,” Beck said in a thick drawl, heavier than usual. “That’ll tell us if there was another demon there.”

  “Take too long to get them. We need to vote on this,” Harper argued.

  “We don’t need the tapes, Master.” That was Simon Adler, Harper’s apprentice. He was tall and blue-eyed with bright blond hair that swirled in waves. When Riley was small, her mom bought an angel for the top of the Christmas tree; Simon’s hair was the same color. A couple of years older than her, he wore jeans and a Blessid Union of Souls T-shirt. A wooden cross hung from a thick leather cord around his neck.

  “There’s already a video of it on the Internet,” he said, gesturing toward a laptop on the table in front of him. She was surprised he’d bring it into this dustbowl.

  Harper threw him a furious look. “Who the hell asked you?”

  “Sorry,” Simon replied, “but I thought we’d want to know the truth.”

  “You keep your goddamned mouth shut unless I say otherwise, got i
t?”

  The apprentice winced at the blasphemy.

  Beck cut in. “Come on now, Simon’s doin’ what any good trapper would do—keepin’ tabs on the demons. That’s what yer teachin’ him, isn’t it?”

  Harper’s face turned dark with anger, making the scar stand out.

  “Let’s see it,” Jackson called out. “Maybe it’ll make our report to the Church easier.”

  The Church. The trappers only captured the demons; the Church was responsible for dealing with them after that. It was a complex arrangement, but it had held together for centuries. The Guild always went out of its way not to piss off the Church.

  Simon tapped away on the keyboard as men crowded around. There were too many trappers, so it looked like they’d have to take turns watching the screen. A running commentary began at the same time as the video.

  “Damn, look at that flying tackle,” Morton said. “That had to hurt.”

  It had.

  “She got him!” one of them called out.

  “Oh, my God, look at the—”

  Bookshelves. A tremendous crash came from the computer speakers. Exhausted and shaking, Riley sank into the closest chair. Her dad pushed a bottle of water her way. She twisted off the plastic cap and sucked the cool liquid down, gulp after gulp. Her stomach rumbled, a reminder she’d not eaten since breakfast.

  Her dad hadn’t hurried over to watch the video. There was only one reason for that. He thinks I screwed up.

  That hurt more than the burning demon bite.

  Finally, Simon set the computer in front of her father. “Just press this key and it’ll play,” he said. He gave Riley a quick smile and retreated.

  Trappers moved in behind her, talking among themselves. One of them was Beck. She gritted her teeth at what was to come.

  “You ready?” her dad asked.

  She nodded.

  It was worse the second time around. Like watching one of the Demonland episodes on television, only this time she was the star and there was no stunt double. Whoever captured the video did a pretty good job, though the picture would swing wildly every now then.