The Demon Trapper’s Daughter

by Jana Oliver

  Paul stepped out from behind the dumpster, studying the monster from a respectful distance, another sphere already in hand.

  “Damn, yer good,” Beck said, edging closer. “I can never hit ’em when they’re runnin’ like that.”

  “Takes practice. You be careful,” his mentor urged.

  “No problem. I learnt my lesson about these things.” Beck gingerly prodded the steel into the side of the demon. It wasn’t breathing. Which meant it was getting ready to strike.

  “Heads up!” he shouted. The fiend was on its feet in an instant, moving faster than he’d expected. One of its paws clamped onto the pipe. Beck knew better than to keep hold of it. He’d made that mistake before and been pulled into the other set of claws. He surrendered the pipe, but by that time the demon was already lunging for him, Hellfire eyes glowing. He kicked with his steel-toed boot and caught the thing on the shoulder. As it spun around, one of the claws ripped the hem of his jeans, pulling him off balance. If he hit the ground he was dead.

  As it turned, another sphere smashed into the Three’s back full on, causing it to shriek and bat wildly at the soaked fur. Before either trapper could react, it raced toward the closest hole, dove into the darkness, and disappeared.

  “Ah, shit!” Beck spat.

  Paul joined him, slipping the strap of the duffel bag onto his shoulder, his face radiating disapproval.

  “Go on, say it.”

  “What’s the point? You never listened when you were an apprentice; you’re not going to now.”

  Beck waited him out. There was always more.

  Paul shook his head. “You can’t do it straight, can you? Always a hotdog. It’s going to get you dead, Den.”

  Beck was used to this lecture. He’d heard it often enough.

  “It’s just … never mind.” Skating on the edge made him feel alive, kept things interesting. But he knew better than to try to explain. “The Holy Water hardly touched the thing. It shoulda been out for at least a couple minutes.”

  “It’s happening more often now.”

  Beck arched an eyebrow. “Any idea why?”

  His companion shook his head. “No, but I’m working on that.” Paul studied the alley. “We need to rethink our strategy, at least for this demon.”

  Beck reclaimed his pipe. It had four new claw marks on it. “Yeah, big-time.”

  They turned and began to walk to the truck, both of them on edge. It reminded Beck of when he was in the Army, out on patrol. Waiting for that first burst of gunfire or a thundering explosion along the roadside. Here it was teeth and claws, but the effect was the same. If a trapper didn’t pay attention, he got injured or he got dead.

  “That Five at the library today,” Paul said out of nowhere.

  Beck had wondered when that subject would come up.

  “Why did it come after my daughter?”

  “No clue. Anyway ya can keep her from trappin’ for a while?”

  “Probably not, but I can restrict her to being with one of us. That’ll keep her safe until we get this sorted out.”

  “Better not send her out with me. She’ll feed me to the first Three she sees,” Beck said, trying to lighten the moment.

  “She’s not got a crush on you anymore, Den, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh, I know that. Now she just hates me. I don’t know which is worse.” A grunt of agreement came from his partner. “Ya think the Five made itself look like one of the students?”

  “That’s my guess. They don’t change forms very often, but it’s possible. As long as it kept its feet from touching the ground, it could work its evil.”

  A breeze stirred, kicking up puffs of concrete dust. The hair on Beck’s neck ruffled. He shot a concerned look at his companion.

  “Just the wind,” Paul said. “A Five’s not going to mess with two of us.”

  “Tell him that,” Beck said, pointing down the alley.

  A Grade Five Geo-Fiend materialized thirty feet in front of them, hovering a foot or so above the road. Beck estimated it was at least seven feet tall; its coal-black face was dominated by curved canines and twin horns that sprouted from the side of its head, curving upward like a bull. It had a massive chest, like an Olympic weightlifter who’d overdone the steroids. Brilliant red eyes glared at them, flickering in the dim light.

  This was one of the big boys. Unless they were very careful, it’d turn them into sushi.

  “That’s one damned ugly demon,” Beck muttered.

  Paul palmed a Holy Water sphere.

  “Hey, dumbass,” Beck shouted. “Trash any books today?”

  The resulting laugh cut like razor blades. “Blackthorne’s daughter nearly mine.”

  Paul’s legendary composure fled. His voice went low, urgent. “Circle around to the truck, Den. I’ll handle this.”

  “Kiss my ass, Blackthorne.” It was exactly what he’d said the first time they’d met in history class.

  After a worried frown, Paul called out, “Demon, this is your only warning.”

  Warning? Trappers never warned demons. What’s he doing?

  In response, the Geo-Fiend made slight hand movements like it was flicking lint off its clothes. Blue-black clouds began to form, the warm-up to a full meteorological assault. The fiend laughed again, its eyes glowing bright in anticipation.

  “So what’s the plan?” Beck asked, his throat turning dry.

  “Back up slowly.”

  A snarl came from behind them. Beck looked over a shoulder. The Three had returned, drooling and clicking its claws together.

  “Not happenin’.”

  Paul shook his head. “This is so wrong.”

  “Like they care,” Beck said, slowly rotating until his back was against Paul’s, his eyes on the furry omnivore bringing up the rear. “Got another plan?” he asked, testing the weight of the steel pipe in his hand.

  “No,” Paul replied. He hurled the sphere, but a full blast of wind hit them a second later, like a summer squall, causing the orb to disintegrate in midair. Stinging rain and hail pelted them as a thunderclap shook the air, making their ears pop. Beck yelped and dropped the steel pipe, cursing as lightning sparked off it. Slowly they were pushed toward the slobbering demon. It held its position, its meal being catered.

  Paul dug in his duffel bag and handed a blue grounding sphere to Beck. Then he pulled one out for himself. “You go left,” he ordered. “Count it down.”

  Beck took a deep breath, his gut twisting in fear. “Three … two … one!”

  He hurled the sphere to his left as Paul slung his in the opposite direction. Glass smashed and the spheres’ contents erupted in a blaze of brilliant blue light. The grounding magic began its run across anything metal, making it look molten. It shot along a section of rusty fence, leapt to the battered dumpster, then to a mangled bicycle. If the two portions met and formed a circle it would ground the Geo-Fiend into the earth. Once grounded the fiend lost its ability to use the forces of nature against them.

  The Five hesitated, seeing their plan, and then moved higher into the air. It swept its hands upward creating two new whirlwinds. Pieces of debris sucked into the vortex, like iron filings to a powerful magnet. Nails, shards of glass, slivers of wood, and pieces of brick all whirled in a huge circle.

  Beck picked up a broken two-by-four, gritting his teeth as the slivers drove themselves into his scorched palm.

  “Eyes!” Paul shouted, smashing a shield sphere to the ground.

  Even though his were closed, Beck could see the sheet of white light as it bloomed around them. Once he felt the brightness subside, he pried them open. A white veil hung in the air around him and his friend, a defense against the storm. It wouldn’t last long.

  The twin whirlwinds struck hard against the magical wall, debris attacking from every quarter. It sounded like a hail storm against the magical shield. As the storm intensified, ripples of magic, like long blue tentacles, stretched upward to the Geo-Fiend. It fought the grounding,
hurling wind, snow, and lightning like a vengeful god.

  The white protective shield evaporated. A second later Paul cried out and slammed into Beck, causing the younger trapper to tumble to the ground. Rolling to the side, Beck came to his feet, crouched and ready for battle. Adrenaline pumped through him with every staccato heartbeat. It made his vision clear, each breath deeper. It made him feel alive.

  There was a final wail as the weather demon sank into the earth behind them. The grounding spheres had saved their asses. As the wind died there was the patter of urban debris hitting the ground.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Beck murmured, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Edging sideways, he picked up the pipe in his sweaty hand, dropping the two-by-four. Keeping a wary eye on the Three, he moved backward, step by step, until he was even with his friend. His fellow trapper was on his knees, bent over like he was in prayer.

  “Paul?” No reply. “Ya okay?”

  His mentor slowly raised his head, his face a bluish gray. In the fading glow of the grounding sphere’s magic Beck saw a quarter-sized dot of blood over his friend’s left breast.

  Paul took a tortured, sucking breath, one that made his whole body shake. “Lies…” Terror filled his eyes. “Riley … Oh, God, Riley…”

  As his mentor crumpled into Beck’s arms, the remaining demon charged.

  SEVEN

  Beck began his slow ascent. Right leg. Left leg. Right. Left. He concentrated on the movement up the two flights of stairs, sixteen steps total to the second floor and the apartment where Riley Blackthorne slept. There was one step for each year of his life before it’d been forever altered by the girl’s father.

  Beck didn’t remember much about his first two years—probably for the best. From age three on he remembered too much. Nights alone in a cold room, his mom gone. When she did come home she was too drunk to know who he was. No food, not even a hug. Night after night he curled on the floor in a makeshift bed of dirty clothes, thinking he’d done something to make her hate him. On his fifth birthday, he remembered, his mom had been passed out on the worn plaid couch in their living room, the man who’d come home with her zipping up his pants. When Beck had told him it was his birthday, the guy had laughed, tousled his hair, and gave him a dollar bill. Beck had cried himself to sleep that night, wondering why he hadn’t gotten real presents like the other kids.

  At ten he knew his father was a phantom, someone who had picked up Sadie’s bar tab the night he’d been conceived. Probably on that damned plaid couch. He also knew what his mother was—an alcoholic whore. No, that wasn’t right. Whores sold themselves to make ends meet. His mother just got drunk and didn’t care who fucked her.

  By the time he turned eleven, Beck knew she wanted him to run away. He refused. That would have been too easy for her. As he reached the thirteenth step he recalled the beatings. One of the men who’d moved in had taught him fists were a great weapon. Beck learned that lesson well and used it on other kids. On anyone who challenged him. He’d spent his next two birthdays in juvenile detention.

  In his sixteenth year he’d met Paul Blackthorne. The history teacher hadn’t treated him like some of the others at school. Hadn’t told him he was a loser headed for prison or an early grave. Instead, Blackthorne talked about the future. In his own way Paul had seeded Beck’s desire for revenge—the ultimate revenge—turning out better than his alcohol-soaked bitch of a mother.

  When Beck reached the seventeenth step he moved onto the landing, like his own life at the same age. He’d bailed out of high school early, barely getting his diploma. For three years in the Army he took on an enemy he never understood, watching friends die while they cried out to God and to their mothers. Beck didn’t believe in either. At twenty he was back in Atlanta. Back with Paul—the only person in the world who ever gave a damn about Denver Beck.

  In the end he’d proved his teacher wrong. The smart-mouthed kid with no future wasn’t any better than his mother or the bastard who’d knocked her up.

  He halted in front of the apartment door feeling the blood cracking on his face, the pulsing burn on his right hand, the prick of glass in his left knee. Raising his fist, he let it hang in the air, not wanting to take that final step. Finally he hammered on the door. A decade passed. Riley’s sleepy voice asked who it was. He told her.

  “Dad?” she called out. “Are you there?” When he didn’t answer, she began to frantically undo the locks. “Dad?”

  As she wrenched the door open, their eyes met.

  Beck’s heart turned to ashes.

  * * *

  “What do you want?” Riley asked. When he didn’t reply, she shoved past him, not caring that she was in her nightclothes. “Dad?” she called out.

  There was no one else in the hallway.

  She whirled around. “Where’s is he? Is he hurt?”

  A shudder coursed through Beck’s body. “Gone,” he murmured, then looked down at the floor.

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “I’m so sorry, girl.”

  Confusion gave way to anger. “Is this some sick game?” she asked, jamming a finger at him. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “I tried, but there were two of them and … He’s gone, Riley.”

  Her hand was in motion before she realized. He made no effort to block the blow, and the slap landed soundly on his cheek. Before she could strike him again, Beck snagged her arm and pulled her up against him. Though she struggled and swore, she couldn’t break free.

  “Goddammit,” she heard him whisper.

  He hugged her so tightly she couldn’t breathe, then broke his embrace.

  Unable to think of what this meant, she shoved him away. Her hands came away sticky, imprinted with blood.

  It was only then she saw the gouges on Beck’s face and hands, the long strips of leather missing from his jacket that revealed a shredded T-shirt underneath. Both legs of his jeans were ripped and stiff with dried blood.

  The rational part of her examined those injuries, cataloged them and told her that if Beck was that badly hurt, her dad wasn’t coming home.

  Her heart refused to accept it.

  No. He’s alive. He’ll be here in the morning and …

  With each passing second the pressure built inside her. It coiled around Riley’s chest, forcing itself up into her throat. She wrenched herself away and fled into the apartment, stumbling into the bedroom. Only then did she let the scream loose into the depths of her pillow, let it rend her throat until she had no more breath. Then the tears came, streaming hot, salty. She tried not to let them overwhelm her, but it was no use. She choked on her sobs, hammering the bed with her fists.

  Images of her father came to mind—teaching her how to ride her first bicycle, comforting her after she took a headlong tumble down a flight of stairs when she was five, holding her hand at her mother’s funeral.

  Not this. Please, not him.

  How long she cried she couldn’t tell; her sense of time stripped away. When Riley could finally catch her breath, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose with a wad of tissues from the box on the nightstand. There was the sound of running water in the bathroom. When it shut off she heard thick sobs through the thin wall.

  Beck.

  Her father was really gone.

  Later, when she rolled over in the bed she found Beck sitting on the chair near the door. His eyes were swollen, dark red, and he stared at nothing, unaware that the wounds on his face were still oozing. He only roused when she pulled herself up against the headboard.

  Beck hoarsely cleared his throat. “We tried to catch … that Three. It got away. We were walkin’… to the truck when—” He broke off and looked down at the floor again, his elbows on his knees. His jacket was off and there were claw marks on his chest. “A Five popped out of nowhere. Then the Three came back. They were workin’ together.”

  That wasn’t what she wanted to know. “How did he…?”

  “A piece of glass got through the shield. Doc said i
t hit his heart.”

  Now she knew. It didn’t help.

  “Where is he?”

  He looked up at her. “Oakland Cemetery. None of the mortuaries will have anythin’ to do with a trapper.”

  “I want to see him,” she said, shifting her feet to the edge of the bed.

  “Not ’til mornin’.”

  “I don’t want him alone.” She bent over to try to find her socks.

  “He won’t be. Simon’s with him.”

  She ignored him.

  “Riley, please. Simon will watch over him. Ya need to stay here.”

  Beck was right, but it robbed her of something to do when every minute promised unbelievable heartbreak.

  Riley sank onto the bed. “I have no one left now,” she said. “No one.”

  “Ya have me.”

  She glared him. How could he possibly think he was interchangeable with her father? “I don’t want you!” she snarled. “If you really cared for him, he’d be alive and you’d be the one who—”

  Beck took a sharp intake of breath like she’d broken something inside of him. She turned her back on him and let the tears fall. A door closed, and then there was silence.

  A few minutes later something touched Riley’s knee and she jumped. It was Max. He settled next to her, leaning into her body, purring as loud as she’d ever heard him. At first she resented his presence, but he kept rubbing up against her. Finally she gave in and hugged him tight. His thick fur soaked up her tears.

  “Riley? I have tea for you, child,” Mrs. Litinsky offered. Riley pried her face out of the cat’s fur. Her elderly neighbor stood in the doorway, a cup in hand.

  “No … thanks.”

  “It is chamomile. It will help you rest. That is what you need right now.”

  Knowing Mrs. Litinsky wasn’t easily put off, Riley sat up and took the cup. The herbs smelled fresh and they helped unstuff her nose.

  The old woman settled on the side of the bed in a robe, her pure white hair in a braid that nearly reached her waist. She seemed almost ethereal, like a fairy. “Mr. Beck has left. I urged him to get his wounds treated. They look bad.”