“Riley,” he said in a voice that would melt steel.
“Ori,” she said. Somehow the day felt better already. “How’s it going?” At her side, Simi had fallen into full-stare mode.
“You … you know this guy?” she asked breathlessly.
“Sure. Ori and I met at the marketplace. He was trying to buy a sword.”
“Occupational hazard. You slay dragons and you go through a lot of swords,” he jested, turning those bottomless eyes on Simi and playing the rogue. Actually, it was more the default setting with him.
“God, you’re so cute,” her friend blurted.
Riley did a mental face-palm. “Simi works at the coffee shop. And lives on caffeine.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Ori replied politely. He didn’t seem the least bit troubled by her friend’s adulation. “Glad to meet you.”
“You really slay dragons for a living?” she asked, her eyes locked on him.
“On occasion. And rescue damsels,” he said, winking at Riley.
For a second she thought Simi was going to tackle this guy.
As if Ori sensed the danger, he said, “I best be going. Good to meet you, Simi. I’ll see you later, Riley.” Then he walked off, duster flowing behind him.
The barista grabbed Riley’s arm. “You have been holding out on me, girlfriend. Give me the deets, now!”
“No details. He’s got business in Atlanta, and we see each other every now and then.”
“See each other? Has he kissed you yet?”
What? “Pleeeze. I’m dating another guy. You think I’m a skank or something?”
“A kiss wouldn’t hurt. I mean, you’d probably explode from the ecstasy, but, hey, it’d be worth it. You just don’t see guys like that very often.”
Simi was right, Ori was top-shelf material. Which meant he wasn’t in their league.
“True, but he’s not in Atlanta for that long. Once his job is done, he’s outta here. Simon is not going anywhere.”
Simi herded her down a side street. “Don’t be an idiot. This Ori guy likes you, or he wouldn’t be hanging around all the time.”
“Not going there.”
“You’re too stuffy, girl. You need to be wild every now and then.”
“You do wild. I’ll do sane.”
Luckily the conversation ended as Riley was shepherded into a salon. The hair stylist had colors even crazier than Simi’s, which didn’t do a thing for Riley’s confidence. But after the shampoo, scalp massage, and deep conditioning, she began to relax. The woman seemed to know what she was doing, deftly removing the frizzled hair, shaping it as she wielded the scissors.
“You are overdoing the curling iron,” she said. “I’ve never seen hair this badly damaged.” In the mirror Riley could see her friend gesturing frantically, trying to derail the conversation. The stylist kept on. “Just what are you doing anyway?”
Before Riley could figure out a way to avoid talking about just why she was in this state, Simi tugged on the stylist’s arm and then drew her aside for a private talk.
When the woman returned she was repentant. “Sorry, I didn’t know. We’ll make your hair look good, and there’s no charge.”
“But…” Riley said.
“No. I should have recognized you from the television. Don’t worry, you’ll look great when I’m finished. You deserve that for all you’ve done for us.”
Twenty-three minutes later Riley stepped outside of the hair salon minus the fried ends and with hair that moved, according to the stylist. And it did. Move that is. She had talked the stylist into a generous tip, but Simi insisted on paying it.
“Better?” her friend asked, beaming like a sun at high noon. She always did that when she got her way. Riley tried her glower again, but couldn’t muster the proper level of aggravation.
“Yes.” She had to admit the new haircut, which kept most of the length but had cool layers, looked awesome. Even better, her hair no longer smelled like burnt Tabernacle. That in itself was a blessing.
After a time, they sat on the steps in front of the Suntrust Building, soaking up the sunshine like a pair of human solar panels.
“You’ll have to keep it trimmed or it’ll look awful,” Simi advised as she fussed with her lipstick, some deep purple shade called Nameless Sin. “You need to look hot now that you’ve got three guys giving you the eye.”
“Three?” Apparently her friend’s math was different than Riley’s.
Simi capped the lipstick with a click and dropped it back into the bat bag.
“Sweet blue-eyed blond trapper,” she said, raising one finger. Her nail polish was purple and sparkled in the sunshine. “Muscled blond trapper number two, who buys you cards,” she said, adding finger number two. Finger number three rose. “And that gorgeous, ‘Where have you been all my life?’ dude with the raven-black hair and dark eyes.”
“You read too many romance novels,” Riley replied sourly.
“You don’t know how good you have it,” Simi countered. “Any of those guys are great. Me, I’d go for the dark and dangerous one. He’s smoking.”
“You would.” Simi was an on-the-edge kinda girl. “Simon’s just fine for me, thankyouverymuch.”
“Of course. You go with safe and secure every time, but no guy’s really that way. Might as well go for a wild one once in your life.”
“Simon is right for me,” Riley argued. “Ori isn’t.” It was pushing the envelope to even think in that direction.
“What about Beck?” Simi asked, wrinkling her brow.
“Backwoods Boy? Are you crazy? It’d be a threesome—me, him, and his overbearing ego. Definitely doomed to failure.”
Simi laughed, then a few seconds later her brilliant smile faltered. She took Riley’s hand and squeezed it. “You know, you’re doing incredible and dangerous stuff, but I don’t want you to forget who you really are.” She perked up. “With your new hair, you’re going to kick demon butt and look awesome doing it. That’s the Riley Blackthorne way.”
A lump formed in Riley’s throat. “Thanks.” They hugged, and when they broke apart there was a film of tears in Simi’s eyes.
“I do not want to see any more pictures of you on the television,” her friend commanded. “Unless you’re winning an award or something.”
“They don’t have those for demon trappers.”
“Not yet,” Simi said, hooking her arm around Riley’s. “Now you tell me all about this babelicious blue-eyed boyfriend of yours.…”
* * *
Like most places in Atlanta, Master Harper’s place was on its second reincarnation. Once a car repair shop, now it was his home, an aging single-story concrete block building with twin overhead doors that led to what once were the repair bays. Harper had made a few changes, adding a small apartment behind the original office, but it was still a dump that stank of old tires, grease, and demons.
No matter how Riley looked at it, her time with Master Harper hadn’t been good. He’d hated her dad for some unknown reason, was a drinker, and had a volatile temper. He was too quick to strike out at his apprentices if he thought he wasn’t getting his way, often leaving bruises. She’d not seen him since the Tabernacle. What kind of mood would he be in? If she was lucky, he’d be drunk and asleep, then she could do a quick walk-through and take off.
No such luck; Harper was awake in what had been the tire shop’s office, perched in a ratty recliner that gave used furniture a bad name. There wasn’t a bottle of booze at his elbow, which had to be a first. Instead there was a bottle of pills that sported a thick red sticker on the side warning against taking them with alcohol. Who knew keeping the old guy sober would be so easy?
His usual frown was in place, along with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, though it was cool in the room. The long scar that ran from his left eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth was pulled tight like he was in pain. She kept her distance from him: He was vicious on a good day.
The old television was on, tuned to CN
N, with yet another talking head standing in front of the smoking ruins. They pulled up a file shot of the body bags lined along the street like long black cocoons.
Her master scowled up at her, hitting the mute button. “What are you doing here?” he growled.
“Bringing you food,” Riley replied, hoisting the bag of groceries on the desk. Though you so don’t deserve it. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got what looked good.”
When she placed a McDonald’s bag on the arm of his chair, he glowered at it like it held a bomb. The smell must have gotten to him because he opened the bag and rummaged through it. The cheeseburger came out first.
“None of this adds up,” he said around a mouthful of burger. “Demons don’t work together.” He frowned, opened up the sandwich, and discarded the pickles into a nearby trash can with considerable disgust. “Every fiend wants to suck up to Lucifer. If that means shivving another demon, that’s the way it is.” Harper’s sour expression diminished. “You got something for me to drink?”
She dug into the grocery sack and then handed over a cold bottle of soda, one of a six-pack. Harper twisted open the top, and after two big gulps, he put it down. He didn’t say another word until the burger was gone, then he started on the fries. As he ate, Riley put away the groceries in the small kitchenette that shared space with his bedroom. Harper’s bed was unmade, and from its condition it looked like he’d done a good bit of thrashing around in it. A stack of books sat on the floor, and the titles all had something to do with Hell or demons. The image of Harper curled up in his bed doing his homework just didn’t compute.
Her master fixed her with a smirk as she exited the kitchen. She figured it was for her new hairstyle.
“You sure that Holy Water for the ward was good, not that fake stuff?” he asked.
He hated her already, so the truth couldn’t make it any worse. “I only checked the labels, not the Holy Water itself. Father Harrison said it wouldn’t have made a difference, that there were too many demons for the ward to keep them out.”
She expected a blast of fury from her master. Instead there was a thick huff of air.
“The priest’s right. No matter how careful Adler was putting that stuff down, we were hosed.”
Adler. Usually their master just called him Saint because of her boyfriend’s religious habits.
“But that don’t answer why your old man showed up,” Harper said, eyeing her.
“He told me the demons were coming. He was trying to save us.”
Harper’s attention momentarily flickered to the television. “What about Adler?”
“He’s going to make it.”
Then his eyes swung back to her. “I told you to stay away from that Geo-Fiend. Why in the hell didn’t you listen to me?”
“It was the one who killed my dad.”
“Jonesing for revenge, were you?” He sneered. “You just had to go up and introduce yourself?” He shook his head. “Stupid move.”
That angered her. “It said it wouldn’t kill any of the others if I gave myself up.”
Harper’s bloodshot eyes searched her face. “And you believed the damned thing?” he chided. “God, you’re a fool.”
“It was worth the risk,” she admitted. “After Simon…”
Harper slumped back in his chair, wincing at his cracked ribs. “In the future, you listen to what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled. “What do you want me to do until you’re better?”
Her master rubbed his thick fingers over his chin stubble. “Get yourself in here every morning. If there’re Grade Ones to trap, you’ll do ’em. If not, I’ll find something to keep your ass out of trouble.”
That she wouldn’t doubt.
“I’ve had enough of you for one day,” he said, running up the volume on the television with the aged remote. “Get lost.”
If it were only that easy.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Beck hiked into Demon Central, his trapping bag fully stocked. He was eager for the hunt, and he wasn’t too fussy about how many of the demons he caught were still alive when they were sold to the traffickers. If the fiends gave him a reason, he’d kill them without thinking twice, especially after what went down at the Tabernacle.
Beck knew he shouldn’t be in this part of town on his own, but time was running out. When the demon hunters came to Atlanta they’d kill every demon they could find, big and small. If he wanted to build up enough money to tide himself over until the hunters cleared out, it was now or never.
There were two problems with his “catch as many demons as possible” plan. First—he wasn’t in peak condition, not with the healing leg wound. Second—no demons. He’d usually spot at least one or two fiends in Demon Central during every visit, sometimes as many as five in one night. Tonight all he’d seen was a mangy limping cat and a few scraggly pigeons. Those were usually scarce when the Threes were on the prowl.
Demon Central was the trappers’ name for Five Points, a section of south Atlanta that never got any breaks. Even the casino they’d constructed a few years back wasn’t doing that well, not with the depressed economy. Time and neglect had opened up numerous holes in Five Points’ streets and sidewalks over the old steam vents. Since the city didn’t have the money to repair them, this area was now home to Grade Three demons. The Gastro-Fiends lived in the holes and ate everything they could gulp down, even fiber optic cable. Didn’t matter if it was a stray dog, a rat, or a trapper: If something looked like it could be eaten, the Threes were all over it.
Beck pulled his attention back to his surroundings: daydreaming down here was a one-way ticket to a fiend’s belly. He wrinkled his nose at the stench from an overflowing dumpster. To avoid paying the city’s exorbitant collection fees, people brought their trash here and dumped it, even at the risk of becoming dinner for a ravenous Three. The only plus was that the rotting garbage was prime Gastro-Fiend bait.
But there were no demons to be found. At least not down here. He’d heard scattered reports of sightings elsewhere in the city, but they sounded like tall tales. Demons had certain behavior patterns, and some of the stories were too bizarre to be true, like how a Three who had broken into a dress shop had eaten some of the mannequins, clothes and all. Gastro-Fiends would devour anything, but they didn’t usually break into businesses for a quick snack.
As Beck hiked down a street littered with abandoned tires, broken hunks of concrete, and boarded-up buildings, his thoughts slipped to Riley. They did that a lot nowadays. It troubled him that he hadn’t seen her today, despite his early morning phone call that had earned him an earful of aggravation. He liked talking to her, even if she gave him grief all the time. It wouldn’t hurt to call her, would it? Check in and see how she was doing? See if she needed any help? That’s what Paul would expect him to do.
He wavered for a time, then flipped open his phone and dialed. Maybe one of these days he’d feel good about using that text thing.
“Hey, girl, how ya doin’?” he asked as soon as Riley answered.
“I’m okay. What’s up?” Her voice sounded neutral, like she wasn’t looking to pick a fight. Maybe they could keep it that way.
“Well, some of the funerals are tomorrow afternoon. I was wonderin’ if ya could pick me up at my place and drive me down to the cemetery. The services are at South-View.”
“Okay,” she replied. “You know how to get there?”
“Yeah.” He’d been there for another trapper’s funeral about a year back. “Make it about one-thirty.”
Beck shifted the phone to the other ear, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Just because it seemed quiet didn’t mean he’d let down his guard. That was usually when you got nailed.
“How’s your leg? Is it healing okay?” Riley asked.
“It’s better. So what’d ya do today?” he asked, trying not to sound like he was conducting an inquisition.
“A friend made me get my hair cut. It looks better now.
And I checked in with Harper,” she said. He heard the sound of a car door closing. “He’s still a jerk, but at least he’s not drinking. I’m in Little Five Points. I’m going to talk to Mortimer to see if he has any idea who took Dad.”
Beck opened his mouth to tell her that might not be a good idea, then changed his mind. Riley needed to be doing something useful, keeping her mind off Simon and all the other bad stuff. Besides, she couldn’t get into too much trouble in Little Five Points. It was mostly necromancer and witch territory, and because of that the demons usually steered clear.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Let me know if ya learn anythin’.”
There was a momentary pause, like Riley had expected a lecture and was astonished when she didn’t get it. “So where are you?” she asked.
“Demon Central. No luck so far.” He did another slow three-sixty. No threats.
“Someone with you?”
He smiled at the concern in her voice. “Nah. I’ll be okay.”
“Beck…” she began, the worry clearer now. “You’re still getting over those demon wounds. You need someone watching your back.”
“I’m fine, Riley. No action down here anyways. I’m about to pack it in, maybe go to the lounge and play some pool. Haven’t done that in a long time.” Not since yer daddy died.
Her deep sigh of relief caused his smile to widen.
“Tough life you got there, Backwoods Boy,” she jested.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch. Ya gonna be on holy ground tonight, right?”
“You know, I don’t appreciate you ratting me out to Stewart. I owe you for that one.”
“Happy to help out, as long as it keeps ya safe.” He did another perimeter check. Other than a rat crawling along a ledge of broken bricks about ten feet to his right, there wasn’t anything to worry about. He noted she hadn’t answered his question. “Yer at the cemetery tonight, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Damn, girl, don’t make me call the Scotsman again.”
“You don’t have to. I’m staying at Saint Brigid’s, in your bolt hole.”