Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (15 page)

As Riley turned off the engine and scooped up her messenger bag, Peter appeared to be having second thoughts.

“Is this dangerous?” he asked.

“No way. These guys are all about stealth. That’s why we call them Hell’s cat burglars. They’re just into bling.”

“What kind of bling?” he asked.

“The shinier the better.”

He thought that through. “Okay, I’ll see what it’s all about. If it gets weird, I’m outta there.”

That was fair.

Right before she exited the car, her cell phone pinged—a text from Mortimer: The vendue was on, and if she really wanted to be there, she needed to be available tomorrow night. Time and directions followed. A second message arrived before she could reply: IF YOU ATTEND, DON’T WEAR JEANS.

She was supposed to be on hallowed ground after sundown. Did she dare risk it?

“Riley?” Peter nudged. “Something wrong?”

“No, just trying to decide something.” What if the Five came after her at this vendue thing? Then she remembered who would be there—summoners who wielded magic for fun and profit. She couldn’t imagine a demon would take that on when it could wait for another time when she wasn’t protected. Besides, Ori would be on her tail. She sent Mort a quick text telling him she’d be there.

Riley found her friend studying the contents of one of the store’s display windows. It was full of sparkle. “How do you catch this thing?” he asked.

She dug in her bag, pulled out a sippy cup, and handed it to him.

“You’re joking, right?” he said. “You trap demons with cups that have dancing bears on them?”

She glowered at him. “See the glitter in the bottom? Klepto-Fiends can’t resist it.”

He held up the sippy cup and compared it to the exquisitely cut diamonds in the store window.

“Wanna bet?”

And I brought him along why?

He returned the cup. “The ’rents can’t know about this—ever.”

“Got it.”

Riley pushed open the reinforced door and looked around for someone who might be in charge. The paperwork said the complaint came from a guy named Abe Meyerson. There were two employees, but the elderly man near the watch case seemed to be the best choice. He had some serious wrinkles and was probably at least eighty, if not older.

After a deep breath to build her confidence, Riley put on her professional “I know what I’m doing” face and approached the glass counter.

“Mr. Meyerson?” she asked. The old gentleman nodded. “I’m Riley Blackthorne and I’m here to deal with your
theft
problem.” Her dad had always insisted that she not use the words
demon trapper
in a retail store until the owner indicated he was okay with his customers knowing what was going on. In case the jeweler wasn’t making the connection, she offered him the paperwork.

Mr. Meyerson took the trapping request out of her hand, held it closer to his nose than would have been comfortable for her, and then nodded again. Then he looked at her, squinting. “Oy, they’re sending young ones now!” the man said with a spry grin. He looked at Peter. “Are you a trapper, too?”

“No, sir. I’m just watching, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine by me. These little thieves are just the nature of the business, but this one isn’t kosher. It ignores anything metal; only likes loose stones. I think it’s a little off in its skull; you know what I mean,” he said, tapping his temple for emphasis.

Not good.
That meant this one would be harder to capture. She so needed something to go right for a change, especially with Peter watching her every move.

“How long has it been here?” Riley asked, refusing to let the disheartening news sidetrack her.

“A week.”

“Does it have any particular time that it steals stuff?”

“Just whenever it feels like it.”

She’d have to go through this place inch by inch to find the fiend rather than just wait it out. With the funerals this afternoon, she really needed to make this happen. Taking a deep breath, Riley recited the warnings and precautions that came with removing a demon from a public location. Mr. Meyerson had no questions, mostly because he’d been through this numerous times over the years, and he readily signed the form to indicate he knew the consequences.

“I leave it to you,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.” The old man puttered off to sit at a desk that had to be as ancient as he was. Pressing a jeweler’s loupe to his eye, he bent over a watch and began poking at it with a little screwdriver.

Cue demon trapper.

Riley retreated to the door and began a visual tour of the showroom, a technique her dad had taught her during one of her first trapping assignments.
Assess the surroundings
.
Look for obvious hiding places.

“What are you doing?” Peter whispered.

“Trying to find where a three-inch-tall demon could hide.”

“Ah, that’s about everywhere,” he said. “I don’t think your glitter-in-a-cup trick is going to work.”

Unfortunately, Peter was right. There were a lot of nooks and crannies in a building this old. Her usual bait was worthless with all those gems in the cases, each lit with their own internal fire and by carefully positioned high-intensity lights. She could put Holy Water at each of the exits and along the windows to flush the fiend out. Problem was, then it’d go nuts and tear the place apart. She already had a reputation for trashing libraries; no need to add jewelry stores to the list.

What am I going to do?
She could call Beck and maybe he’d have an idea, but that would make her look like she couldn’t handle things on her own. Calling Harper was
so
not an option.

As she thought it through, Peter parked himself at a chair near the watch case, laptop out, surfing an online gaming site. She looked over his shoulder; he was checking out pictures of dragons. He pulled one of the images into a program and then upped the size so he could see it easier. It made the thing look huge on the vivid eighteen-inch color screen.

Her eyes went to the closest glass case. The problem was that all these jewels were about the same size. Nothing really screamed BLING! What she needed was a humongous gem.

Peter’s dragon now sat on top of a mound of gold and jewels, short puffs of smoke coming out its nostrils. It looked menacing, but not the twenty-foot-tall, pull-her-dad-out-of his-grave kind of scary.

The idea that popped into her brain was crazy. She would bet no trapper had ever tried such a stunt, but she was out of options. Either she gave it a go or she had to call Harper and say she couldn’t handle the job.

No way. He’d never let me live that down.

Riley cautiously ran her lunatic idea past the jeweler, and to her astonishment she received a vote of approval.

“Can’t hurt,” Mr. Meyerson said. He opened the vault and returned with a large emerald. It was marquise cut and two carats in weight, he said, though Riley had no idea what all that meant. She took a picture of it with her cell phone, e-mailed it to Peter, and then explained exactly what she wanted him to do. To her relief, he didn’t tell her she was totally wacked. As her friend worked, the jeweler returned the emerald to the safe, made a quick check to ensure there wasn’t a demon inside, and then locked it tight.

Luckily there were no customers at the moment, as it took time to set the trap. The jeweler turned off all the interior lights, including those in the display cases. There was still light coming in the front windows, but not so much as to ruin her plan.

Peter positioned his laptop on one of the main glass displays, clicked a key, and the image of the emerald appeared on the big screen. He’d done something to it so the image rotated, sparkled, and shone like it was lit from within by a solar flare.

If the gem could talk, it would be screaming, STEAL ME!

“You think this will work?” Peter whispered as they backed away.

“It better,” Riley whispered in reply.

The jeweler and his assistant hovered by the front door, watching the show. They seemed amused by her high-tech trap.

“Such a thing I have never seen,” the old man said. “Kids these days—so smart.”

Only if this works.

Time passed. Peter nudged her with an elbow. “And this is going to happen … when?”

She gave him a dirty look. “Patience, dude.”

Then she heard it, that pitter-patter of boot-clad demon feet racing across glass. A moment later the Magpie stood transfixed in front of the computer, its bulging bag of loot at its side. It looked like the one in her apartment—about three inches tall—except this one wasn’t wearing a black bandana. In the glow of the screen she could see its tiny fingers twitch in nervous anticipation.

That’s right. It’s all yours. Just don’t move.

Riley slowly approached, making each step as quiet as possible. If she spooked it, it wouldn’t fall for this ruse a second time. The moment before it leapt at the screen she caught the fiend. She dropped the demon into the transparent sippy cup and slapped a hand over the top.

“Lid!” she called out. Her friend just stared at the cup in her hand, wide-eyed. “Peter! I need the lid. Now!”

“Sorry,” he called out and hurried over. Between them they sealed the cup.

“Wow. That’s really a demon. I mean, you can see pictures of them on the Web, but—”

The fiend in question rose on its feet, pointed at the bag, and then began to wail, pulling at its clothes like it was in mourning.

“What’s he doing?”

“Freaking. He thinks I’m stealing his stuff.” Riley brought the cup to nose level. “Hold on, I’ll get it for you. I won’t take it away,” she said.

Mr. Meyerson opened the bag’s drawstring, and the contents slid across the glass countertop.

“Look at all that,” Peter said in awe. There were at least a dozen loose diamonds and sapphires, but no emeralds. They’d offered the demon the perfect bait.

The old jeweler separated out the merchandise with a wizened finger. “That’s all of the gems. The rest is just glass. Who knows where it came from,” he said with a toothy smile.

Riley put the remaining loot back in the bag and, with Peter’s help, dumped it inside the cup without losing the demon. The Magpie clutched his horde to his chest and sighed in profound relief.

“Wow, he
is
obsessed,” Peter said, staring at the fiend.

“Totally. Get rid of the emerald. He’s forgotten it for the moment, but that won’t last.”

“Gone,” her friend said, punching a key. The image vanished, and in its place was a thunderstorm rolling over Atlanta’s skyline.

“Well done,” the old man said, beaming through a sea of wrinkles. “Ingenious.”

Riley grinned. “Thanks.” She looked over at her friend and shot him a thumbs-up. “Who knows, maybe this is the future of demon trapping.”

“Tech rules,” Peter replied.

They left the shop with one demon in a sippy cup, signed paperwork, and two free coupons for lunch at a downtown deli courtesy of Mr. Meyerson. He’d also promised not to tell anyone about Peter’s part in the job.

“Trapper scores,” Riley said, feeling really good for a change.

This is how it’s supposed to be.

F
OURTEEN

It was nearly one thirty when Riley pulled her car up to Beck’s house in Cabbagetown. His place wasn’t much different than its neighbors’, other than it looked better maintained. The trim and porch railing were stark white, and the house itself a pleasing shade of light green. She could almost imagine him out there on a ladder slinging paint all over the place.

How does he find the time?
She was still behind on her laundry.

Beck sat on the porch in a wooden rocking chair clad in his black suit. From the dour expression on his face, all he needed was a shotgun and something to fill full of holes, and he’d be just fine.

She’d first heard about the new kid from South Georgia over the dinner table when her father had told them about this smart-ass sixteen-year-old in his history class, a troublemaker sprinting full speed toward a brick wall. “Serious lemming potential” is the way he’d described Denver Beck. Now her father was dead and the former troublemaker had taken it upon himself to watch over her so she wouldn’t go all “wild child” on him.

It was a plan doomed to failure.

As she parked the car in the driveway, Beck rose with considerable effort. She didn’t think it was because of his injuries: The Holy Water would have started to heal those. What hurt was way deeper and most likely permanent. She carried some of those same scars herself.

Beck climbed in her car, placed his trapping bag on the seat behind them, and then clicked the seat belt without so much as a “Hello.” Like it was expected she’d haul his butt around town.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be on his own.

She asked the question anyway. “Some reason I’m driving you to the funeral?” she said.

“Don’t need a ticket.” At her puzzled look, he explained: “After the service we’ll go to the Six Under for the wake. Don’t want to lose my truck if the cops pull me over on the way home.”

Another trapper tradition: Bury your dead and then get drunk. There were a lot of traditions, which led her to believe they’d evolved over time. Anything that involved an excuse to drink was automatically trapper approved.

“I’ll drive you home after the wake,” she offered, heading back toward Memorial Drive.

“No, I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”

“You could still get arrested for that,” she said. “I’ll drive you.”

He eyed her. “Yer not comin’ to the bar with us. Yer not legal.”

“They serve soda. Besides, it’s only right: I was at the Tabernacle when they died; I want to be there for their wake.”

He ignored her from that point on. The silence held for longer than was comfortable, and finally she relented. She needed to talk to someone and Beck was the only option.

“The collection agency jerk visited me yesterday. He said they’ll go after the life insurance money since they didn’t get to steal Dad’s body.”

Beck huffed. “Don’t worry; they won’t get it.”