Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (21 page)

“Thank you.”

The two heavies parted to allow Riley and her escort to pass through the shimmering curtain that divided the real world from the obscene. She let out a puff of air in relief once they were inside. It was matched by one of Mort’s.

He didn’t think they’d let me in.

It began to dawn on her the risk the summoner was taking on her behalf. Clearly bringing a reanimate’s daughter to one of these things wasn’t business as usual, even though he was the Advocate.

“Thanks,” she murmured. He didn’t seem to hear her.

The lobby wasn’t full, but it felt that way, and it took Riley a moment to realize why: Every person in the room acted as if they were bigger, more important than their physical bodies. As if every ego took up space of its own. Older, immaculately dressed women stood near a portable bar, chatting to each other. They glistened in the overhead lights like aged fairies on a summer’s night. It was the jewelry. It had such weight that on anyone else the bling would be wearing them.

The next group was younger women in their perky dresses, wedge sandals, and cascading hair extensions. They sipped champagne from crystal glasses held in manicured hands and laughed in high tones. It was a safe bet they didn’t have demon claw marks on their legs or have to worry if they’d be able to pay the gas bill this month. Why did they have it easy and she had to struggle for every dime? Why was she an orphan and they had everything? Nobody would dare steal one of these princesses’ fathers. They would have professional vigil sitters and armed guards to ensure nothing happened.

Riley pushed aside the anger. It wouldn’t do her any good, and if she tried to tell one of the princesses how she felt, what it was like to lose her father to some necro, it would be a waste of time. She’d just drawn a different life, and no amount of envy was going to change that.

On the other side of the lobby a knot of men clustered together. They ranged in age from young to old, from casually dressed to suit and tie. She heard words like
gross metric tonnage
and
FOB
being thrown around. To her surprise, a couple of the younger ones gave her the eye.

“How much money do you have to have to get into this place?” Riley whispered.

“More than you or I will ever see.”

Figures.

Mort beckoned her toward a set of highly polished wooden stairs where a plush red runner greeted their ascent, as brass banisters and ornate crystal wall sconces led the way to the second level. He caught her elbow right before she reached the top stair.

“Don’t do anything rash or we’re both in big trouble.”

The moment they reached the second floor she realized why he’d delivered the warning. There were only summoners up here, their voluminous robes ranging from pale white to black. Most of them were male, though a few females were present. One of the women wore a carmine robe, which stuck out like a bright robin in a flock of dull pigeons.

A necro spied Mort, smiled, and walked forward to greet him. The greeting died on the fellow’s lips when he saw Riley.

“Sebastian, good to see you,” Mort said warmly, taking the last few steps as if he hadn’t noticed the man’s reaction. “This is Riley Blackthorne.”

“Ah…” Sebastian shot a look at her and then back to Mort like he didn’t know what to say. He was older than her companion, maybe in his late forties, with a gleaming balding patch at the top of his round head.

Riley deployed the charm. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Sebastian frowned, then shook his head. “You really do like stepping on toes, my friend,” he said, addressing Mort.

“Riley has asked for the Society’s help. As Advocate, I am obligated to assist her.”

“By bringing her
here
?” the man retorted. “Are you mad?”

“Her father was illegally summoned,” Mort replied evenly. “I think it’s best we solve this quietly before some reporter gets hold of the story. The name Blackthorne
is
newsworthy at the moment.”

Sebastian’s already pale complexion went a shade lighter. “But
he’s
here tonight!” the man hissed. “By all the stars, have you no sense? The Eldest will not tolerate this infraction.”

The pale and sweating necro had to be talking about Ozymandias, and this time there was no protective circle between Riley and that monster.

Ripples of goose bumps flooded across her forearms, followed by the sting of magic. “Summoner Alexander?” a smooth voice inquired.

Mort turned and gave a low bow. “Lord Ozymandias. How good to see you.”

A dry chuckle returned. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Riley took a deep breath. She could cower or meet this obnoxious asshat head on. If he was the one who took her dad, she wasn’t going to let him do whatever he wanted just because he was the most powerful of the body snatchers.

Riley turned toward the necromancer who had terrorized her throughout her dad’s vigil. Ozymandias was in his usual black cloak, but the oak staff was nowhere to be seen. That funky tattoo on his forehead gave off a faint sheen like it was radioactive. Now that she was so close, she could see his eyes were pale green with odd brown flecks.

He won’t do anything here, not in front of the others.
That was her edge.

She gave a nod in his direction, trying to keep her fear in check.

“Are you sober this evening, Miss Blackthorne, or can I expect a repeat performance of your juvenile belligerence?” he asked.

“No witchy wine tonight,” she said. “Just the real me.”

“And no little witch to guard you. You are foolish.”

Mort cautiously cleared his throat. “My lord, Miss Blackthorne is seeking her father.”

“I heard he was among the walking again.”

“Did you yank him out of his grave like you said you would?” Riley demanded.

A collective gasp came from those around them.

Oops.

Ozymandias was suddenly closer to her, though Riley swore she hadn’t seen him move. “So ignorant.” The tattoo glowed brighter now. “The Society would never allow you to become an apprentice. You’re only fit for that collection of scum in the Guild.”

You
 … How dare he dis the trappers? All these necros did was rob graves and wear stupid robes. When she opened her mouth to reply, Mort’s trembling hand on her arm cut her off.

“I think it is time for us to find our seats. By your leave, Lord Ozymandias.”

The High Lord of all things necromantic delivered a gracious nod, but in his eyes she saw contempt.

Wait until I’m a master, you jerk. I’ll teach you some manners.

As they entered the theater and walked down the ramp, Mortimer grumbled, “Which part of ‘Don’t do anything rash’ didn’t you get?”

“No one disses the trappers, not even His Creepiness,” she retorted.

“Sometimes being humble keeps you alive.”

“He’s not going to go after me here. Too many witnesses.”

“Who would say they never saw a thing.”

“You would.”

He eyed her. “Not if I’m dead.”

The expression on Mort’s face told her he was totally serious.

Riley was still seething when they reached their row, but at least her escort had removed his death grip on her arm. They’d no more than sat in the wide, plush seats when a cocktail waitress in an extremely short dress and heels hurried over to them. Riley wondered how she got up and down the stairs without falling.

The waitress handed Mort a piece of paper. He glanced at it and then stuck it under his robe.

“Champagne? Canapés?” she asked in a cheery voice that sounded rehearsed.

“Ah, no, thank you,” Mort replied.

“What about you?” the woman asked Riley.

“No, thanks.”

Mort produced a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on her tray. “We’re good. You won’t need to check on us again.”

“Okay, thanks!” She headed off.

Riley took the opportunity to look around. No one was sitting near them, and even Mort’s friend Sebastian was pointedly keeping his distance. She didn’t bother to try to locate Ozymandias. He was here: Those goose bumps were still in place.

There was the sound of someone settling in a seat behind them: It was the woman in the carmine robe. She had wavy dark hair that touched her shoulders, and laugh lines at her eyes. The kind who could tell a really good joke and not screw up the punch line.

The necro leaned forward and placed her palms on Mort’s shoulders. “You brought a reanimate’s daughter to the vendue? I’m impressed. So what do you do for an encore?”

Mort noticeably relaxed. “Don’t know yet.” He allowed himself a pleased smile, then seemed to remember they weren’t alone. “Riley, this is Lady Torin, one of our senior summoners.”

“Glad to meet you,” the woman replied. “Sorry to hear about your father. I’m hoping Mortimer can find him for you.”

Riley studied the woman. She didn’t seem to be blowing smoke just to be polite. The way her hands were resting on Mort’s shoulders indicated she was fond of him. Or was she giving him her blessing in some way, telling the other summoners that she approved of Mort’s actions and that screwing with him meant crossing her?

“Thank you,” Riley said.
No matter what you’re up to.

“Just be very careful, dear Mortimer. You’re treading into uncharted waters.”

Lady Torin leaned back in her seat, rearranging her cloak. When the cocktail waitress appeared at her elbow she put in an order for a Scotch, neat.

“Do all the necros come to this thing?” Riley whispered to her companion.

“Don’t call us that!” Mort pleaded. “At least not where
they
can hear you. You don’t want one of us to download a spell on you, trust me.”

“Okay, then the same question but with
summoners.
”

Mort shook his head. “You are only required to attend if you have a reanimate in the vendue.”

“Then she…” Riley began, aware that the
she
in question was probably hearing every word.

“… has someone on offer. Lady Torin doesn’t like this any more than I do,” Mort replied.

“How do you get to become a lord or lady in your Society?”

“The rank is awarded according to magical ability.”

Which didn’t tell her much.
Probably the point.
Trappers were equally cautious about discussing their trade. Since Mort and Riley were located in the front row of the balcony, she took the opportunity to peer over the wood rail into the rows below. There weren’t any. Instead it looked more like a club than a theater. Tables sat at discrete intervals from each other, covered in fine white tablecloths, and in the center of each one was an iced bottle of champagne. A tuxedoed waiter approached one table and replaced an empty bottle with a fresh one.

“Champagne?” When Riley glowered at Mort, he had the good sense to look embarrassed.

“The auctioneers know how to cater to those who have money,” he explained. “Each auction has a theme. Tonight it’s … Gothic. Better than the last time. That was a salute to Hawaii. The luau was over the top.”

Riley groaned under her breath.
This better not be totally stupid, or I’m out of here.

The overhead lights flicked on and off a few times and then darkened, causing the crowd noise to die down like this was some popular Broadway show. A single spotlight appeared center stage showcasing a man in a tuxedo and a black satin cape.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a deep, resonant voice, employing the same false smile as the waitress. “Welcome to our second vendue of the new year.”

He walked a few paces, the spotlight following him. “Tonight we have a lovely collection on view. Do not hesitate to enjoy the refreshments, and remember that a small portion of tonight’s sales will be sent to this month’s designated charity. And now, without further delay, the show,” he said, his hand gesturing toward the center of the stage.

The spotlight faded to nothing as the curtain rose with a soft mechanical whir. The low, ominous tones of a pipe organ filled the space, causing Riley’s back teeth to hum. As her eyes adjusted, other details began to reveal themselves. A full moon hung over the stage like a huge silver eye. The skeletal branches of a gnarled oak tree draped over tombstones that rose out of a white fog sea like weathered teeth. A wolf howled and Riley shivered at the sound.

Mort sighed deeply. “I’m sorry you’re going to see this,” he said.

The fog parted in front of the largest tombstone as a man’s head appeared like an oversize mushroom just above the stage floor. Bit by bit the rest of him rose until he was completely exposed. The guy was about her father’s age and he held a skull in his right hand. He blinked his eyes rapidly in the bright lights. After an awkward pause he began to speak in a halting and raspy voice.

“Alas,… poor Yorick.”

Mort groaned.

“I knew him … well…” the dead man intoned, misquoting Shakespeare. His forehead wrinkled in thought, as if it was taking every brain cell to remember the words. “A fellow of … of infinite … ah … jest. Ha! Ha!” Then he hoisted the skull up into the air and glanced nervously at the tables closest to him. Someone laughed and the poor guy heard it.

The master of ceremonies moved across the stage. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is Herbert. In his previous life he worked for the Internal Revenue Service as an auditor. His knowledge of corporate tax matters is his biggest asset. If you wish to avoid tangling with Uncle Sam over a few million dollars, this is the reanimate for you.” Their host paused and then called out, “Do I have a first bid?”

“Ten thousand,” someone shouted.

“Eleven,” another said immediately.

They are really buying this guy.
Riley had known this moment would happen, but seeing it in person was too much. When her stomach rolled over, she gripped her abdomen with both hands.

“Restroom?” she pleaded.

Mort pointed and she fled up the stairs. She could still hear the bidding as she pushed through the door to the women’s room.

“Eighteen thousand!”

Riley’s stomach opted not to revolt, so she wet her face with cold water and let it air-dry. As she examined her face in the mirror, a gruesome thought hit her.