Mind Games (Demon Trappers Book 5) Page 5

Riley was instantly enveloped in a hug that fed good vibes through her, courtesy of her friend’s magic. Ayden could wield both soft and tough love with the best of them.

  The embrace ended and the witch studied her closely. “You down this way to see the Magical Mort?”

  “Yup. We have a lesson.”

  “Good. Just remember, the summoners don’t know everything.”

  Riley chuckled. “Funny. He said the same thing about witches.”

  “He would.”

  Ayden walked over to the counter, fished around, and returned with a small bottle of oil. “Use this for clarity. And balance. As usual, your aura is all wonky.”

  “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

  “On the house. We still up for a lesson tomorrow night?”

  “Sure are.” Riley might not like magic, but she really liked the people who were teaching her. “You doing okay with the other witchy people?”

  Ayden sighed. “Not everything is kosher with some of them right now. Lots of . . . drama while the most senior witch is out of town. Not exactly sure what that’s all about.”

  “Maybe it’s something in the water,” Riley said. “I should go. Don’t want to be late. Thanks for the oil.”

  “Send my regards to Mort,” Ayden said, delivering another hug.

  As Riley turned away, she couldn’t help but notice that the large tattoo covering her friend’s upper chest was of a thunderstorm over a spooky graveyard. Since the tattoo changed on its own, acting like a fleshy oracle, that wasn’t a reassuring omen.

  Farther down the alley, Riley paused in front of a collection of mailboxes. They were placed on a wall, some higher, some lower, many requiring the owners to climb to collect their junk mail. Each had its own decoration and Mort’s was graced with a pinwheel, which spun in the light breeze. That one, in particular, always brought a smile.

  His front door was purple and a plaque next to it indicated he was the Summoner Advocate for the city, which meant he dealt with internal necro conflicts as well as preventing the public from demanding they all be burned at the stake. It was a tedious job, but he did it well, though his fellow summoners never gave him any respect for his efforts.

  Mort’s nephew answered her knock, then leaned up against the doorframe, checking her out. Alex was about her age and liked to hit on her, despite the engagement ring. At first, she’d just ignored him, but when he’d persisted she’d mentioned her fiancé, the one who’d killed an Archangel. Once that phrase sank in, Alex ramped down his come-ons, no doubt figuring if he kept it up, he’d be meeting Beck and not in a good way.

  “My favorite part of the week,” Alex said, delivering his bad-boy smile. It was pretty good as those went, but he had nothing on Riley’s guy. Beck’s smile could make a convent of nuns go rogue.

  “Hi. How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Good. Climbed Stone Mountain today. Not as easy as I thought it would be.”

  Riley couldn’t help but smile. Alex was really nice, and if Beck hadn’t already claimed her heart, he’d probably be on her radar.

  He closed the door behind her and locked it. “His Magicness is in his office, like always. Fair warning: I think he has something different lined up for you tonight.”

  “Oh goodie,” she said. The last time Mort had done something different, she’d left with a section of scorched hair and first-degree burns on her fingers because her magical “control” wasn’t anywhere near what his was. “As long as it has nothing to do with demons, I’ll probably do okay.”

  “So you say now,” he replied. “When do I get to meet this big bad dude of yours?”

  “Pretty soon. Beck’s flying home for the holidays.”

  “Is he the jealous kind?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “Lifts weights?”

  “Yup, and ex-military.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Alex said. “I think I’ll just continue thinking you’re off limits, okay?”

  “Smart move.”

  Riley negotiated the hallway to the curiously circular room that served as Mort’s office. It was brick, painted white, with skylights to help bring in the outdoors. The necromancer sat at his desk, which was really a picnic table. For once, there were no books stacked on it.

  “There you are,” he said, beckoning her forward, smiling.

  Mort was a short and round fellow, with a good laugh and sharp mind. At one time, he’d been a mortician and somehow had migrated into the corpse-summoning business. Of all the necromancers Riley’d met, he was the most moral of the lot. He never pressured anyone to raise their dead family member, never played tricks on them. He had put his life on the line repeatedly, when it mattered most.

  “Alex said you have something special for me this time.”

  Mort waggled his eyebrows. “Levitation.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, I am. But first, tell me about last night. Stewart called this morning and said I should ask you about it.”

  Riley gave him the quick and dirty version of the events, and by the end, Mort’s brows were furrowed so deeply they had to hurt.

  “Describe the summoner,” he said crisply, all trace of humor gone.

  When she did, he shook his head. “He doesn’t sound familiar. Of course, he could have been using a glamour to hide his identity.”

  Riley hadn’t considered that, which was dumb since she was studying magic. “How would I know?”

  Mort thought for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s set the levitation aside for this session, and I’ll show you how to see through someone’s glamour spell. How about that?”

  “Works for me.” Because the times she’d need to know how to levitate would probably fall into the almost-never category. Well, except for when she was trapping Geo-Fiends.

  “I’ll call Ozymandias after our class, let him know what’s going on. We do not need bad relations with the demon trappers.”

  “Too late. Some of them hate you.”

  “Well, there are some of my people who don’t like the trappers. In fact, they rate them as untrustworthy as witches.”

  “Wow, that bad, huh?” she jested.

  “Yes,” he replied. Except he wasn’t joking.

  Okay then.

  Mort took a deep breath. “Glamour spells are sometimes simple, sometimes complex. It depends on how much you want to hide. Sort of like whether a woman puts on a wig to change her appearance or goes for a complete makeover.”

  “That bracelet you gave me last spring—it was a glamour spell, a pretty complex one, right? It made me all goth with lots of piercings and weird hair. Which rocked, by the way.”

  “That one was complex. We’ll start with you recognizing and busting the simple spells and work up.”

  “So how do I do that?”

  Mort grew pensive. “How do you know when not to trust some man you meet on the street?”

  She thought that through. “Ah, something doesn’t feel right. I get creeped out, you know?”

  “You’ve learned to trust that instinct?”

  “Most of the time.” Except when it came to a certain Fallen angel who had totally waltzed past her defenses. But then, Ori’s charm had been one of his best weapons.

  “What if this guy you meet is wearing a clerical collar?” Mort asked.

  “A priest? I’d be more likely to think him trustworthy than a guy in a ratty T-shirt, covered in tattoos.”

  Mort nodded. “Most people ignore their sixth sense, the internal warning that insists ‘something’s not right here.’ They figure they’re wrong, or being paranoid. Trusting your instincts is one of the first things young children should be taught to avoid sexual predators. The same applies here.” He paused. “Except we’re going to enhance your intuition with a bit of magic. A powerful glamour is hard to break, but y
ou’ll be able to discern a simpler one fairly quickly.”

  “Powerful like Ozymandias’s whirling-leaves trick?” Now that her father’s body wasn’t in the necromancer’s possession, and his soul was in Heaven, Riley had to admit that the high lord’s magic did kinda rock. Not that she’d ever tell the creep that.

  Mort nodded solemnly. “Lord Ozymandias is very skilled at spellcasting glamour and illusions. I’m thinking once you have the simple spells down, it might be good for him to teach you how to crack the stronger glamours.”

  There he goes again. Ever since she’d asked Mort to help her learn magic, he’d insisted that she should spend some time with Ozy, as she called him. So far, she’d resisted that, mostly because Ozymandias had used her dead father to gain his own freedom from one of Hell’s Archangels. Even though her father had agreed to help, moves like that didn’t win you friends.

  Mort read her expression. “I know you don’t like him, but Ozymandias is the best at this kind of stuff.”

  Riley mumbled under her breath about how she’d rather play tag with a rabid wolf.

  Mort grinned. “There’s a lot of similarity. But first, close your eyes and wait for me to tell you when to open them.”

  She did as he asked. She heard him leave the room, and as time passed, boredom set in. To keep herself occupied, she began figuring out exactly how many hours were left until Beck arrived at the airport. One hundred and forty-four. She began working on how many minutes when Mort returned.

  “Okay, you can open your eyes.”

  Three things sat on the picnic table in front of her: an orange, a lizard, and a bowling trophy. The lizard flicked its tail, each eye swiveling in a different direction at the same time.

  Riley leaned forward. “Is it real?”

  “Depends. Is it a veiled chameleon, or is it an illusion?”

  She frowned and tried to use logic to solve the problem.

  Mort shook his head. “You’re going about it wrong. You’re thinking, ‘Does he have a pet lizard?’ You should be asking, ‘Does the lizard feel real?’”

  Riley cocked her head. The thing looked real. It had scales, swiveling eyes, all the telltale reptile stuff. She knew a bit about the creatures because her friend Peter’d had a chameleon when he was young, and he’d insisted on regaling her with all the details about its everyday life.

  The reptile crawled across the table; when it reached the edge, Mort scooped it up and put it back in front of her. “What’s the verdict?”

  “I think it’s real.”

  “Okay. What about the orange and the bowling trophy?”

  She studied each of those in turn. Her eyes kept going back to the trophy for some reason. She pointed at it. “It feels wrong.”

  “Let’s find out if your instincts are right.”

  The trophy changed into a can of soda, the lizard vanished entirely, and the orange stubbornly remained a fruit.

  “Ah . . . crap.”

  “The orange was what it claimed to be,” Mort explained. “The soda was hidden by glamour, and the lizard was pure illusion.”

  Riley groaned, a dull headache forming behind her eyes. “How do I tell the difference between glamour and illusion?”

  “You already did. You zeroed in on the trophy instinctively, knowing something wasn’t quite right about it.”

  “But the lizard looked so real.”

  “That’s because I’m very good at magic. Still, you want to know how to tell if it’s fake or not.”

  “How?”

  “Be better at magic than I am.”

  This time, her groan filled the room. “Yeah, right. That should be a snap.”

  Mort grinned. He rolled the orange over to her. “Let’s start by teaching you how to make this look like something else. Once you understand the process, you’ll have a better chance at recognizing when someone else is doing the same thing.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Chapter Nine

  Denver Beck yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he walked down the manor’s long hallway to score some breakfast. He’d stayed up later than normal so he could text with Riley. After that, his anger at what was going on back home had made sleep difficult.

  At dawn, he’d loaded up his backpack and gone for a run in the snowy hills, trying to burn off that anger. It’d helped, somewhat, but he was still pissed off and likely to stay that way. At least until he had a private chat with the dickheads who had left Riley unprotected.

  How the hell could they do that to her?

  Beck shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He had a full day of studies in front of him, and he couldn’t do much for his girl at the moment. Once he got back to Atlanta, things would change. He’d make sure they did.

  He hurried down the long staircase, past the pictures of various grand masters from over the centuries. One of these days, his portrait would be there among the rest.

  Beck walked faster, trying to keep warm. He’d grown to love this place, but this morning was chilly, even by Scottish standards. Southern born and bred, his body didn’t like the cold. He’d even had to buy a pair of insulated long underwear, which had drawn some good-natured chiding from his superior, Grand Master Trevor MacTavish.

  Beck nodded at one of the maids as he reached the room used for informal meals, just off the kitchen. Unlike the main dining room, there was no weaponry on the walls, no bold messages of intent other than “it’s time to eat.”

  The table was old, like everything in this place, but sturdy and well built. MacTavish was already seated at it, his plate filled from the selection on the sideboard.

  “Good mornin’, lad. Yer later than usual,” he said. “Been out for a run?”

  “Yeah, I needed to blow off steam,” Beck replied, moving to the sideboard and picking up a china plate. “I was up late last night textin’ with Riley.”

  “Everythin’ all right with ya two?”

  “We’re fine,” he said. “Just missin’ each other.”

  “Aye, I know how that goes. Ya’ll see her soon enough.”

  Beck turned his attention back to the food, a classic Scottish breakfast. This morning he loaded up on four eggs, a mound of bacon, three link sausages, sautéed mushrooms, half a broiled tomato, and baked beans.

  As he sat next to the other grand master, MacTavish chuckled. “I wish I could eat that much nowadays. Enjoy it, because soon age will catch up with ya, and so will yer waistline.”

  Not that MacTavish had an inch of fat on him.

  Beck nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee, then retrieved two slices of brown toast from the rack.

  “I hear things are gettin’ unpleasant in Atlanta,” MacTavish said.

  Beck looked over at the older man. “Stewart called you?”

  “Aye, early this mornin’. He said someone’s stirrin’ the pot in yer hometown. He’s unhappy about how things are playin’ out. It’s good yer goin’ back ta the States soon.” MacTavish took a sip of his tea. “Be sure ta let us know what’s happenin’ there. Lucifer has taken far too much interest in Atlanta of late.”

  “I’ll send you regular reports. Hopefully things will settle down once I’m home.”

  Voices at the door brought Beck’s head up. Grand Master Jonah Kepler, the archivist, had a visitor at his side, a man Beck hadn’t seen since the big battle in Atlanta.

  Beck blinked in surprise, then broke into a smile.

  Elias Salvatore, the head of the Vatican’s Demon Hunters, smiled back at him. He appeared in good health—all dark hair and badass attitude, dressed in navy trousers and a navy turtleneck with the Demon Hunters emblem over the left breast. His goatee was precisely trimmed, as always.

  “Elias!” Beck said, shoving his chair back. “It’s good to see you!” They’d formed a bond last spring when all hell had broken
loose, literally.

  “Same to you, my friend. I had Vatican business in Edinburgh and I remembered you were here, so I wrangled an invite to breakfast.”

  There had to be more to it than that, and they both knew it.

  As Elias reached the table, they shook hands, then slapped backs. The demon hunter sobered, giving the senior master a respectful nod. “Grand Master MacTavish.”

  “Captain Salvatore. It is good ta see ya again. Come, have some food. Tell us what it’s like in the Vatican nowadays.”

  “Like you don’t know already.”

  MacTavish smiled right back. “Not much changes in that regard. It’s the same here as well.”

  “We are slaves to tradition,” Elias replied.

  “Jonah? Ya joinin’ us for breakfast?” MacTavish asked.

  Kepler shook his head. “I have research that needs to be completed this morning.” He left them, shutting the door behind him.

  “He’s looking good,” Elias said, once the man was out of earshot.

  “Stayin’ well. At his age, that’s a blessin’,” MacTavish said.

  As Elias filled his plate, he paused and looked over at Beck. “I had a chance to talk to Simon Adler at Pluscarden Abbey about a week ago. He said you’d been up to visit him.”

  Simon had been Riley’s boyfriend, at least until he nearly died at the hands of a demon and then became a pawn of Hell.

  “Yeah, we met for supper,” Beck replied. “He’s definitely gettin’ his head screwed on right.” He paused. “Simon was very closemouthed about what he’d been up to the last few months. You happen to know?”

  “I do, but I’m not at liberty to speak about it,” the hunter said, sitting at the table. “I’m sure he’ll tell you soon enough.”

  Now that’s interestin’. “I’m happy to see he’s got another chance. Not many have after an Archangel gets done with them.”

  “Amen.” Elias bowed his head, said grace, and then they ate in silence for a few minutes.

  Once their guest’s plate was empty, MacTavish leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

  “So what brings ya ta our doorstep, in particular?” he asked.