“Riley did everythin’ she could to keep him in the ground,” Beck complained. “She sat vigil every damned night, made sure there was a consecrated circle around his grave. Then some bastard steals him the one time she isn’t there. It just sucks.”
“She have any notion who did it?” Stewart nudged.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask her.” Which wasn’t quite the truth. Beck could have. They’d huddled together in her family’s mausoleum in Oakland Cemetery until dawn, on hallowed ground in case the demons came after them. She’d been so upset about Simon and the others, she’d cried herself to sleep. At the time it didn’t seem important to know who’d resurrected Paul, so he’d just held her close, kept her safe, thanking God she’d survived. Trying to work through his feelings for the girl. When he’d left her this morning she’d still been asleep, dried tears on her cheeks. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her.
Stewart shifted position again: He was hurting more than he let on. “I canna help but believe there’s a connection between the demons’ attack and Paul’s reanimation,” the old trapper mused.
“How could there be?”
“Think it through. Wouldn’t he have gone off with the necro who summoned him rather than droppin’ in for a wee visit with his old mates?”
“I don’t know,” Beck said, swiping a hand through his blond hair in agitation. “But I’ll know soon enough. I’ll find the summoner who did it and we’ll come to an understandin’: Paul goes in the ground or the necro does.”
Stewart stiffened. “Be careful on that account. The summoners have wicked magic and they’ll not appreciate ya gettin’ in their business.”
Beck didn’t respond. It didn’t matter what happened to him; Paul Blackthorne was going back in his grave, and that was that. He hadn’t been able to keep him alive, but he could honor his friend’s memory in other ways. He’d do it for Paul’s daughter, if nothing more than to give her peace of mind.
“I hear that Five went after Riley in particular,” the master stated. “I wonder why.”
Beck had no answer to that. Grade Five Geo-Fiends were the big boys of Hell who generated earthquakes and spawned mini storms as easily as he took a breath. A Five had killed Paul, and he was willing to bet it was the same one who’d gone after his daughter during the battle.
Beck was sure of one thing: The demons were taking too much of an interest in Riley, calling her out by her name. Hellspawn didn’t do that as a rule. Maybe I should tell Stewart. Maybe he would know what’s goin’ on.
But if he did, it’d only add to Riley’s long list of troubles. Before Beck could make a decision, the master’s phone began to buzz inside a coat pocket.
He pulled it out, frowned, and opened it up. “Stewart.”
Beck turned his attention to the hole in front of him. One of the trappers told him that the Geo-Fiend had thrown Riley into this very pit. That same trapper hadn’t known how she’d managed to escape, said there’d been too much smoke to see what had really happened.
Why didn’t the Five kill ya, girl? There was one possibility, but he didn’t want to think about that. No way Riley would have sold her soul to Hell to stay alive.
What if she’d fallen into that hole and never come out again?
Before Beck could admit to himself what that loss would mean to him, Stewart ended the call.
“That was Harper. The Guild’s representatives are ta meet with the mayor in two hours. We need ta be there.”
“We?” Beck said, caught off guard. “Me too?”
“Certainly. Ya gotta problem with that?”
Hearing the challenge, Beck shook his head. “Can’t the city at least wait till we bury our dead?”
Stewart huffed. “Of course not. Politicians wait for no man when they can lay the blame on some other poor bastard.”
THREE
Riley knew that finding a parking place near the Terminus Market was never easy, but today was worse since the market was so close to the site of last night’s tragedy. After trolling up and down the street for what seemed an eternity, she finally caught sight of a scooter pulling out leaving a thick blue cloud of exhaust in its wake. She edged her car into the open space, nervous she might clip the stall ahead. It was full of knitted hats and scarves, most sporting Georgia Tech or Georgia State logos. The owner, an older black man, kept a wary eye on her progress. Once she turned off the engine, the knitted-hat guy relaxed and gave her an appreciative thumbs-up. She returned it.
When Atlanta joined the growing list of bankrupt cities across the country, the city planners mined every possible way to make money. They’d sold off the school buildings, put a tax on cigarettes, alcohol, day-care centers, Holy Water, homeschooling, almost everything. As the parking spaces went empty because of the excessive price of gas, the city turned them into “retail opportunities,” which meant there were a cluster of mini shops where once there were cars. Each store lived within the white lines of a parking spot, like the guy with the knitted hats and scarves. Some vendors rented more than one, which was why there was a music shop on Peachtree Street called The Five Meters.
Riley crawled out of the car at half speed, her denim messenger bag in hand. It felt like her body had been ambushed by a particularly sadistic army of karate experts. When she’d showered this morning she’d been astounded at all the bruises. Holy Water was only good for demonic wounds, so she’d be a patchwork of yellow and brown spots in a few days. Luckily most of them were hidden by her clothes. The one on her left hip was particularly painful, courtesy of the malevolent Grade Five demon and the door handle of a Volvo.
Riley trudged into Centennial Park on the wide brick path, favoring her sore hip. When she was a kid this place was just a park, though pretty cool as far as green open spaces went, especially one in the center of a major city. It had the five Olympic Ring fountains to play in, and vendors sold ice cream and other yummy goodies. It was still a cool place, but there was a lot more to it nowadays. Over time, vendors moved into the market with portable campers and a small city sprang up inside the bigger one. Now the Terminus Market, as it was called, was a year-round thing.
Right before she entered the market, Riley paused on the walkway, allowing the past to catch up with her. Closing her eyes, she swore she could hear her mom’s voice, jesting with her father about his need to buy just one more book on the Civil War.
“I miss you guys,” she whispered. Wish you were here. Then she continued into the chaos of the marketplace.
Originally there had been a plan to all this—food vendors in one section, crafts in another, and so on. That plan was ignored as the market sprawled in every direction. The tents came in all different colors, ranging from deep black to brilliant red; some were plain, others were adorned with flags and streamers. All had some form of lighting, since the merchants were usually open until after midnight.
Riley paused in front of a tent where a dead animal hung from a spit over a large wood fire. A boy was in charge of turning the spit, and Riley could tell it took all his strength, his muscles straining with every rotation. The sign on the tent said it was pork, but you never knew. Sometimes they sold goat. It smelled good, whatever it was. Her stomach complained, reminding her there hadn’t been a lot of food it in all day, besides the hot chocolate.
Later.
A bit farther on was a guy selling used furniture—chairs, tables, dressers. Some of it was in worse shape than the thirdhand stuff in her cramped apartment.
“Riley?” a voice called out.
She turned, knowing that voice anywhere. The body, too. Clad in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a steel gray duster that swept the ground, the man striding toward her was over six feet with shiny ebony hair and bottomless dark eyes. Definitely yummy. What she liked best was his attitude: It told the world to take a number and wait its turn.
What am I doing? She really shouldn’t be checking out other guys when she was dating Simon, especially when he was in the hospital. Still, it can’t hurt to
look.… That wasn’t being unfaithful.
“Ori,” she called out. “What are you doing here?”
“Still trying to find a proper sword,” he said.
Riley smiled at that. The first time she’d seen him he was at the tent that sold all sorts of sharp pointy objects. He’d been holding a sword, looking like a hero out of a romance novel. He still does.
“How are you doing after last night?” he asked, his full attention on her now.
“I’m okay.” It was her default answer.
Ori’s jet-dark eyes searched her face. “Try again,” he said softly.
She sagged. “The truth? Life sucks. There’re lots of dead trappers, and, just to make things really special, my dad’s been reanimated.”
Her companion looked surprised. “By whom?”
“No clue,” Riley said, holding up her hands in defeat.
“I’m truly sorry.” Ori moved closer to her, sending little tingles through her skin. She never understood why that happened, but it felt good. He sounded genuine, which caused her conscience to nag at her. Many of her memories of the previous evening were hazy, however one in particular was crystal clear: Ori pulling her out of the crater as he threatened the Grade Five demon, making it back off. If he hadn’t, she’d be lying next to her parents now. One of them at least.
Feeling awkward, she dug the toe of her tennis shoe into the dirt. “Did I … thank you for … well … saving my life?”
“No, but you just did,” he replied, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Don’t go all modest,” she protested. “You saved me. I owe you.”
A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “You do.”
“I know it sounds weird, but I don’t remember what happened after I reached the car. Next thing I knew I was at the cemetery.”
“It happens. When the mind is confronted by something too big for it to deal with, it shuts down.”
“Wish it worked that way with the nightmares.”
His hand touched hers. It was warm, and she could feel the heat radiate through her skin. It wasn’t a grabby sort of gesture, more a gentle one.
“Not many apprentice trappers would challenge a Geo-Fiend,” he said.
“I just wanted it to stop killing the others.”
“Which was really brave. Don’t sell yourself short.”
She felt a rush of warmth on her cheeks. He thinks I’m brave. How cool is that?
“Don’t worry; the next time I will kill it,” Ori said, his voice rougher now.
“Do you think it’ll come after me again?”
A determined nod. “I’m counting on it. So don’t be surprised if you see me hanging around a lot.” He delivered a sexy grin. “The only thing I’m stalking is the Hellspawn.”
She couldn’t stop the smile. “Why didn’t you just nail it last night?”
“I wanted you out of harm’s way,” he replied. “And I won’t show off in front of the trappers. It’ll be my kill, on my terms.”
“I know you don’t like them, but the Guild is shorthanded right now. I bet you could get a job really easy.”
Her companion shook his head. “I work alone.”
Which is what she expected he’d say since Ori was a freelance demon hunter, a Lancer. Trappers couldn’t stand Lancers because they didn’t play by the Guild’s rules. Rome’s Demon Hunters didn’t like them, as they wouldn’t pay homage to the Vatican. They were a force all their own, each Lancer his own master, and they dealt with demons as they saw fit.
In a few years maybe she would go out on her own. The trappers didn’t like her anyway; she might as well work for herself.
“How is your boyfriend doing?” Ori asked.
Riley blinked. “How did you know Simon and I are dating?”
“I saw you with him right before you went after the Five. You weren’t crying over any of the other trappers, so I assumed there was something between you.”
She couldn’t argue with his logic. “Simon’s much better today. He’s going to make it.” Because of me and the angel. A warm glow fluttered through her chest at the thought.
Ori paused near a bookstall. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into a display and removed a paperback. It was Dante’s Inferno. He glanced at a few of the pages and frowned.
“He got it wrong; the Ninth Circle of Hell is not a skating rink.” He thumped the book closed in disgust and returned it to the rack.
“Have you ever seen angels before?” Riley asked.
“Lots of times.”
“Oh.” Maybe it was just her. She’d only seen one in her entire life.
“You’re talking about the ones from last night, aren’t you?” Ori asked, somber. When she nodded, he explained, “Those were the…” He paused and searched for a word. “Warrior angels. It’s been a long time since they’ve been deployed.”
Deployed? Military guys used terms like that. Had Ori been in the Army?
He glanced away at that very moment, frowning as if something had distracted him. “I’d best be going. It’s good to see you again, Riley,” he said.
It was like he was suddenly keen to be somewhere else. Had she said something stupid?
“Thanks … again. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Riley watched him head down the row of tents, his duster flapping behind him. Women turned and watched him pass; he had that kind of magnetic pull. She had a lot of questions about this guy, but there was no one she could ask. She’d promised Ori not to tell any of the trappers that he was in Atlanta, which seemed odd, since he’d definitely been right in the thick of the action last night.
“I’ll think about that later.” Her dad came first. Then she’d figure out Mr. Hunky Mysterious Dude.
Riley kept moving toward Bell, Book, and Broomstick, the witches’ store. It was easy to find, the gold and silver stars on the midnight-blue canvas glittering in the late-afternoon sun. To her relief, Ayden was arranging bags of incense at the end of the counter. The witch wore her usual Renn Faire garb—peasant blouse with a laced bodice, a full skirt, and a heavy emerald-green cloak in acknowledgment of the chilly January weather. Most prominent was the large dragon tattoo that began at her neck beneath her russet brown hair and went all the way down into her ample cleavage. In the midst of the market, she seemed ageless, like a fairy queen.
“Ayden?” Riley called out, stopping a few feet away.
The witch looked up then raced out from behind the counter, springing at her like a mother does a missing child. The embrace wasn’t a quick one, but the kind that tells you the embracer is thrilled to see you’re alive. Riley returned it with just as much fervor.
“Goddess, you had me worried,” the witch said, releasing her.
“Sorry. My cell phone got toasted so I didn’t have your number. I’m using my dad’s phone now.”
“And you lost my business card, too?” Ayden chided.
“Ah … no.” It was at the bottom of her messenger bag somewhere under all the other stuff. “I didn’t think of that.”
“It’s okay,” Ayden said. “You’re alive. That’s what counts.”
“Dad’s gone. Someone pulled him out of his grave last night. He was there, at the Tabernacle, and he…” Riley’s shoulders began to heave.
There was another embrace, and this time her tears soaked her friend’s shoulder. When they broke apart, Riley fumbled in her messenger bag for a tissue.
“Come on. There’s a guy down the way who sells hot cider. I think we both need some.”
Riley blew her nose while following her friend through the winding paths of the market. The cider merchant’s tent reminded Riley of a Turkish bazaar. Red fabric, possibly silk, hung underneath the traditional canvas, and it was shot with gold threads. An incense burner sat in the corner wafting something aromatic into the air. The vendor was dark-skinned, Middle Eastern, maybe, and she could tell he had his eye on her friend by the way he smiled at her. Ayden
returned the smile, but not quite as warmly, collected the drinks, and herded her toward the back of the tent away from the other patrons. They sat on large, plush pillows near an electric heater. The cider tasted wonderful and warmed Riley from the first sip. Not quite as luscious as hot chocolate, but still good.
“Tell me what happened with your dad,” Ayden said.
Riley settled the thick mug on her lap. “I had to go to the meeting, so the cemetery had this new volunteer sit vigil. A necro sprang a huge magical dragon on the guy. He was dragon-phobic, so he freaked and broke the circle. The cemetery people don’t have any idea who did it.”
“It was probably Ozymandias, especially after you dissed him.”
Riley groaned. A couple nights earlier Ayden had been sitting vigil with her at the graveyard, watching over her father’s grave while they shared a bottle of the witch’s potent homemade wine. Riley had gotten seriously ripped, and when Ozymandias, the creepy necromancer who resembled one of the evil dudes in The Lord of the Rings, showed up, she’d smarted off to him. She was inside a protective circle, so what could he do?
Steal my dad, that’s what. “I was sooo stupid,” Riley admitted.
“No argument.”
“Hey, it’s partly your fault. I blame your wine; it was wicked strong.”
“I blame your mouth,” Ayden retorted. “Either way, your dad’s on the loose for the next year. There’s not much you can do about that.”
“I’m not letting him stay aboveground.”
“Don’t even think you can tangle with a necromancer and come out ahead,” the witch scolded. “Especially if it’s Ozymandias. I wasn’t blowing smoke when I told you he’s into the dark stuff. Just let it be, okay?”
Not okay.
Riley fell silent to avoid an argument. Ayden took that silence as acceptance and turned her attention to the remainder of the cider in her mug.