Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (40 page)

She was with her father again. The whole world might be searching for them, but that didn’t matter now.

As Riley’s tears soaked into his suit coat, she made one final vow:

I swear that Hell will not have this man. Even if it means I take his place.

Read on to see a

SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT THRILLING DEMON TRAPPERS NOVEL!

Coming Winter 2012

Copyright © 2011 by Jana Oliver

O
NE

2018
Atlanta, Georgia

Riley Blackthorne’s tears were no more. She’d cried herself dry, but remained in the arms of a dead man. If given the chance, she would stay there for the rest of her life.

When she looked up, sad brown eyes gazed back. Her father, Master Trapper Paul Blackthorne, was a reanimated corpse now, summoned from the grave by none other than the Prince of Hell. Like the day he’d been buried, her dad was still wearing his suit and his favorite red tie. The one she’d given him as a present.

“I never thought I’d find you,” she whispered.

“I always knew you would,” he said, smiling. The smile wasn’t quite right, like a cheap imitation.

Riley laid her head on his chest, but it wasn’t like it should be. His heart was dormant now. The essence of her father had been silenced.

Reluctantly they broke apart. With the Vatican’s demon hunters searching for her, she’d taken refuge in Mortimer Alexander’s house; she had nowhere else to run. She hadn’t expected to find her missing parent waiting for her.

Her father took her hand. “Come with me.” She followed him down a hallway, then outside into the morning light at a pace that was just above a shuffle. They entered a walled garden. Cardinals and blue jays flitted around a bird feeder. Water cascaded from the hands of a nude stone nymph perched in the center of a broad fountain. She was laughing, flicking water off her fingers as if her world was only this small courtyard. Riley and her father settled on a stone bench still covered with frost.

Too many questions careened inside Riley to be held at bay.

“What’s it like?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Very … peculiar.”

That wasn’t an answer. “You can’t tell me, can you?”

“No. Not like I thought,” he murmured.

The next question was just as hard. “You didn’t get to see Mom, did you?” she asked.

There was a minute shake of his head as those eyes went even sadder, if that was possible. Her mother was dead and now that her dad had made a deal with Lucifer, he wasn’t headed to Heaven. He’d never get to see Riley’s mother again.

“Dad…” His eyes met hers. “Lucifer told me what you did. How you gave up your soul for me.”

The truth still hurt: A few years before, her dad had faced death at the hands of an Archfiend and had pleaded for his life—for her sake. He’d pledged his soul to Hell in exchange for staying alive until his only child made master trapper, so Riley wouldn’t be on her own, wouldn’t starve or become a ward of the state.

“Did Mom know?” A nod. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

“You were too young.”

“That’s crap and you know it,” she retorted. “I was old enough. What else haven’t you told me, Dad? What else is waiting to fall on my head?”

He didn’t reply, his eyes not meeting hers now. Which meant there
was
more.

Her father pulled her into a tight embrace. Every time he moved there was a crinkling noise, like old paper. Something to do with being reanimated.

“I did what was best. My soul isn’t important.”

It was so important that Lucifer wanted it.
Even though he hadn’t wanted Riley’s.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of oranges and cedar chips, trying to find the good in all this. There was very little, other than she was with her father for a little while longer. Right now every second counted.

Soon you’ll be in Hell with all those demons. How do I live with that?

*   *   *

To Denver Beck
, there were many ways to welcome a new day—spread-eagled on his own lawn, wrists secured by flex-cuffs wasn’t the best of them. Not to mention the rifle barrel jammed into the back of his head.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” he bellowed into the dirt.

The response was the sound of combat boots tromping around inside his house as their owners’ voices called out to one another in Italian. When there was a sharp shatter of glass, he swore, trying to lift his head to see what was happening. The rifle barrel only pressed harder, jamming his face back into the ground.

Beck closed his eyes to keep the dirt out of them and forced himself to relax. If he fought back, the demon hunter behind him might feel the need to put a bullet in his skull.

I’ll be damned if I die like this.

His only choice was to remain here until the Vatican’s elite team finished their search. Which, from all the commotion, involved tearing the house apart in the hopes of finding something.

When he heard a name in the midst of the voices flowing around him, he sighed into the dirt. They were searching for Riley Blackthorne, the seventeen-year-old daughter of Beck’s dead trapper buddy, Paul.

The day had sucked even before this paramilitary-style raid, one Beck was sure his neighbors were enjoying with their morning coffee. Just after dawn Riley had arrived on his doorstep, weeping and shell-shocked. Through tears and sobs she’d admitted her blackest sin: She’d spent the night with a Fallen, one of Lucifer’s own.

Beck had known this Ori guy was bad news from the first moment he’d seen him with Riley, but he’d never expected the bastard to be a Fallen angel.

Why him?
Even now he could see her huddled on the couch, weeping, as he’d shouted that very question at her. After all Beck had done for her, she’d taken up with that …
thing
.

When he’d spat wicked slurs at Paul’s daughter, she’d responded in kind. Fearing how bad it might get between them, Beck had bolted from the house. When he’d returned a short time later, he’d found his front door wide open and the Vatican’s team on the prowl.

More rapid-fire conversation bounced around him now: Beck didn’t need to speak the language to hear the frustration. Since Riley wasn’t lying in the dirt beside him, this raid made the hunters look bad. They would need a scapegoat and Beck would do just fine. A new voice cut in—it was the hunters’ captain. Apparently he’d finally decided to join the party.

Without warning, Beck was hauled roughly to his knees. Once he was up, he tried to wipe his mouth on a shoulder: It proved impossible with the flex-cuffs in place. The demon hunter with the rifle circled around to the side now, the weapon pointed at Beck’s chest.

The captain of the unit squatted in front of him, his dark eyes flinty. Elias Salvatore was thirty-two, a decade older than Beck. He had a Mediterranean complexion, black hair, and a sleek goatee coupled with an athletic build. His navy turtleneck sported epaulets and the demon hunters’ emblem—St. George slaying the dragon. Crisply pleated trousers tucked neatly into polished combat boots.

“Mr. Beck,” he said evenly.

“Captain Salvatore. What the hell is goin’ on?”

“We were informed that Riley Blackthorne was here.”

Who told ya that?

“She was here a while ago. Must of left.”

The man’s eyes narrowed farther. “Where is she?”

“No idea.” It was a safe bet one of the neighbors had heard them shouting at each other, so he went with the truth in case the hunters bothered to check. “We had words.”

“About what?”

“That’s none of yer business,” Beck said. A second later he was facedown in the dirt, a heavy boot pressing on his back.

The captain issued a crisp command and Beck was hauled up again. He gave a look over his shoulder and found that the boot belonged to Lieutenant Amundson, the captain’s second-in-command. He was a tall man, Nordic, and not known for his manners.

Beck spat dirt. “Get these damned cuffs off me.”

Salvatore gave a gesture. There was the snick of a knife, then the cuffs fell away. Amundson had made sure to cut his palm in the process.

Beck wiped his hands on his jeans, revealing the blood.

The captain delivered a penetrating look over the prisoner’s shoulder, then gestured for his lieutenant to move away. “I apologize.”

Beck clamped down on his fury. Throwing punches wasn’t a smart move right now. Instead he ran his uninjured hand through his hair to dislodge some of the dirt and to buy him time to think this through.

Did the hunters know about Riley and the Fallen?
They have to. Why else would they be looking for her?
Still, he didn’t dare make assumptions.

“So what’s this all about?” Beck asked.

The captain rose. “Let’s go inside.”

Beck stood, dusted off his jeans, and retrieved his trapping bag where it lay near the driveway. He felt the bottom of the canvas and was relieved to find it wasn’t wet, which meant none of the glass spheres inside had shattered when he’d been tackled by the hunters.

After ensuring there was no one else in the house, Salvatore closed the front door behind them. Beck had expected the place to have been turned inside out, but that wasn’t the case. The only damage appeared to be a glass that had been knocked off the counter. He ignored the mess on the floor and dropped onto the couch in the same place that Riley had occupied when she’d delivered her devastating news.

Where are ya, girl?
If she ran to her apartment, they’d find her there. If she was smart she’d go to Angus Stewart, one of the two master trappers in the city. Stewart would watch over her.

The captain sat in a chair across from him. He moved as if he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. “We must find Riley Blackthorne as quickly as possible.”

“Why?”

“There’s a Fallen angel in Atlanta. His name is Ori. We believe he has targeted Paul Blackthorne’s daughter.”

Beck made sure he appeared shocked. It wasn’t hard. He still couldn’t believe that Riley had been with one of Lucifer’s allies.

“Why would one of those want her?”

Salvatore shook his head. “We don’t know. There is a strange pattern of events in this city, and that usually means there’s an epicenter, a focus to that activity.”

“If yer sayin’ that Riley’s the reason for all this—”

“What other conclusion can we draw?” Salvatore retorted. “She was nearly killed by a Grade Five demon. The same fiend pressed its attack during the trapper’s meeting at the Tabernacle. That ambush alone cost you a third of your Demon Trappers Guild.”

“I know the numbers, hunter,” Beck replied sullenly. “Why a commando raid on my house? Ya could have knocked on the door like anyone else.”

“But you weren’t home,” the captain observed. “Which leads to another question: Do you usually leave your house unlocked?”

Beck hesitated. “No. Why?”

“Both the front and back doors weren’t bolted and your alarm wasn’t engaged. The back door was partially ajar, indicating a hasty departure, perhaps?” The captain leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Did you call Riley and warn her that we were coming?”

By now they’d have gone through his phone and know he’d called Riley after they’d quarreled, so he opted for the truth. “I didn’t know ya were comin’ here.”

“But you spoke to her.”

“Yeah. We argued about this Ori guy. He’d told her he was a freelance demon hunter and I told her to stay away from. She wasn’t listenin’ so we had words. I called her to…” Why had he called her? Certainly not to apologize, that was for sure.

“Where is she now?”

Beck shook his head. “I don’t know. Now I’m done talkin’ to ya unless the Guild’s lawyer is watchin’ over me.”

The captain sighed. “Look, I respect your loyalty to the girl’s father. Paul Blackthorne trained you, brought you up through the Guild. You were there when he died at the hands of the same demon that tried to kill his daughter. I know what you’re feeling, but we need your help.”

“Bite me.”

Salvatore scowled. “So be it.” He triggered a radio on his shoulder and Italian filled the air. He’d barely finished giving the order when two hunters were through the front door.

The captain rose from the chair, his face set. “Denver Beck, as representative of the Holy See, I arrest you for obstructing justice, additional charges to be filed at a later time. You are duly warned that if you are found to be aiding Hell in any manner, the ultimate penalty is death.”

“Go figure,” Beck muttered.

T
WO

“Syrup?”

“Thanks,” Riley said. Her father pushed a tall plastic bottle across the table like it weighed a hundred pounds. She stifled a sigh as she squirted a thick line onto the stack of steaming buttermilk pancakes. Riley should have been thrilled: she was having breakfast with her dad one more time. How many mornings since he’d died had she wished for this very thing? Now that it had come to pass she wasn’t so sure.

They were seated at a picnic table in a circular brick room that smelled of wood smoke. Mort had told her that the table was easier to move when he wanted to conduct rituals. The whole building had a different feel to it, one that Riley couldn’t quite grasp. Something to do with Mort’s magic, perhaps.

Her dad watched her eat in silence, not joining in the food or the banter they would have enjoyed in the past. A stray lock of brown hair curled onto his forehead like always. But something was missing—the part that made him so cool. Instead he was a human placeholder, a bookmark in a lost life.

There was a soft shuffling at the doorway that announced Tereyza, their host’s reanimate housekeeper. That’s what came with hiding in a necromancer’s house—dead servants. The woman looked at Riley, at the plate full of pancakes, and then up at Riley again. Pancakes made by Emalie, another reanimate who never left the kitchen.

Great. Even the dead are guilting me now.

Riley obediently picked up the fork and dug in. Apparently that was enough for the housekeeper, as she returned the way she came. Though the food was excellent, after two mouthfuls Riley put down her silverware.