The Demon Trapper’s Daughter

by Jana Oliver

  Then what does Dad look like?

  Riley nearly choked at the thought. She forced herself to take a sip. It was hot and tasted sweet, like there was honey in it. She took another long drink, accompanied by the old woman’s approving nod.

  “Mr. Beck said to tell you he took the demons with him. They were making considerable noise.”

  “What?”

  “The small ones in the cupboard,” the woman explained.

  “Oh.” Which was why Max was lounging on the bed rather than trying to tear the kitchen apart. She reached out and stroked his thick fur.

  “He will stay with you tonight, keep you safe,” Mrs. Litinsky said.

  That seemed silly. What could a cat do?

  The yawn caught Riley unawares. She finished the drink and handed the empty cup to her neighbor, her hands quaking.

  “I’ll be out on the couch,” the woman announced. “Call if you need me.”

  Before Riley could protest, there was the soft shuffle of slippers and then the door closed. She fumbled for a photo on the nightstand. It was one of her and Dad from last summer mounted in a picture frame they’d bought at a dollar store. It had orange kittens running around the edge. Dorky, but cheap.

  They’d gone on a picnic that day, just the two of them. She’d made sandwiches and cupcakes and lemonade. She could almost smell the fresh lemons and see the blue sky draped like a canopy above them. The picture had been taken by a young man who was there with his new wife. They’d been all over each other. Her dad was embarrassed, but she’d thought it was cute.

  Her father looked younger in the picture, content, like all the bills and worries didn’t exist. She hugged the frame close to her body, wishing time had stopped that day in the park. Then she and her dad would be together again.

  Max moved closer to her, wedging himself up against her stomach, his rich purr reverberating throughout her body. She curled around him, clutching the photo to her chest. The last thing she could remember was him licking her hand and her father’s reassuring voice saying that everything would be okay.

  EIGHT

  Riley woke to household noises, the sound of clanking pans and water running in the sink. Her dad was making her breakfast. He often did that, even though he was exhausted from being up all night.

  She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, puzzled why she was so tired. There was a thump as something tumbled to the floor. Bending over, she saw the framed picture. She stared at it, her heart tightening.

  “Dad?” she called out. “Dad?!”

  The noises ceased in the kitchen, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall, the same solid clomp, clomp her father’s work boots made on the wood.

  “It was a nightmare,” she whispered. And an ugly one at that. But how could it have felt so real?

  When Beck’s unshaven and scored face appeared in the bedroom doorway, Riley shoved herself up in bed, biting back a sob. Without saying a word he returned to the kitchen. She jammed a hand over her mouth, feeling the tears prickling on her cheeks. It hadn’t been a nightmare or Beck wouldn’t be here. Her dad was dead.

  The tears burst free, scorching her throat raw, making her nose drip and her neck wet. When she finally hauled herself to the bathroom, the face in the mirror seemed alien. Hollow, puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back at her. She doused her cheeks with cold water, blew her nose again, and then jammed her hair in a clip, not caring that it stuck out like a porcupine. Tugging on fresh underwear and her last pair of clean jeans, she dug in the clean clothes basket until she found a T-shirt. It had a tombstone on the front.

  With a sharp cry, she slung it away in revulsion. More digging unearthed a plain one. It had been her dad’s. She slipped it on, the thin cotton brushing against her skin like a whisper.

  Now came the firsts. The first morning without her father. The first breakfast, the first day, week, month. She’d gone through this painful accounting after her mom died. After a few months she’d ceased the mental math, but this morning there was no way to shut it off.

  Her visitor had his back to her. He was being domestic, cooking something on the gas stove despite his bandaged hand. For a moment she wanted to believe it was her father, though he wasn’t the same height and his hair was the wrong color.

  Beck looked over his shoulder, ruining her delusion. “I’ve got some breakfast for ya.”

  “You’re not my dad,” she said defiantly.

  “I can’t be if I tried.” He pointed toward the table. When she didn’t move, he put the oatmeal in a bowl and set it down, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and some sausage. Mismatched silverware followed. “Come on, girl, ya gotta eat.”

  She stared at the food, wishing it would disappear with the guy who’d made it. When Beck pulled out her dad’s chair to join her, she snapped, “Don’t sit there!”

  He looked puzzled for a second, then nodded like he understood it meant more than just a place at the table.

  “Keep the doors locked. If ya need me, call,” he advised. “I’ll be back at four. The service is at four-thirty. Pack a bag for the cemetery. You’ll be stayin’ there tonight.”

  “Why would I stay—”

  But he was already out the door. Riley waited until she heard his footsteps on the stairs before she turned the locks. Then she kicked the door for good measure, making her toes ache.

  He’d planned the funeral without her. How could he do that? Muttering under her breath she retreated to the kitchen. Her dad’s empty chair mocked her. She pushed it all the way under the table so no one would ever sit there again.

  Yesterday her father had been so tired after the night’s trapping, but he’d sat and talked to her over a cup of coffee as she’d eaten her breakfast. His hair had been wet from his shower and he’d smelled of cheap shampoo.

  She’d wasted their last morning together. She’d chirped on about Peter’s latest run-in with his dictatorial mom and the dumb Demonland television show. He’d listened so patiently, like everything she said was really important.

  When his eyes began to droop, he’d given her a kiss on the forehead and gone to bed. “Sleeping in shifts” as he called it. He was a sound sleeper, so yesterday she’d tried to find where he’d concealed his manual. He always hid it too well. Now she wondered if she’d ever find it.

  Their last morning together. And neither of them had known it.

  When Riley looked down the food was cold. Grease congealed on the plate. Something beeped and the noise dragged her eyes to her father’s cell phone tucked up next to the salt and pepper shakers. Beck must have left it for her. The low battery light was blinking along with an occasional warning sound. Flipping it open she studied the messages. The text she’d sent him about the Magpie sat at the top of the list.

  He’d never had a chance to read it.

  * * *

  It was close to two in the afternoon when her other visitor arrived. The woman was a tall brunette, toting a backpack with the Guild logo. Her hair was pulled into a tight braid, and her brown eyes were rimmed with red. She was wearing black slacks and a turtleneck and one of those thick red insulated vests.

  “Riley, I’m Carmela Wilson,” the woman said. “I’m the Guild’s doctor. I was a … friend of your dad.”

  When Riley didn’t respond, she added, “Den asked me to check in on you.”

  It took Riley a moment to realize she meant Beck.

  “I’m okay,” Riley said reflexively. It was easier to say that so everyone didn’t freak. She started to close the door, but Carmela wedged a booted foot so it wouldn’t shut.

  “Other people might buy the ‘I’m okay’ line, but I’d say that’s bullshit. I’m not okay with Paul’s death, so I figure you’re pretty much torn to hell. Am I right?”

  Riley nodded before she could stop herself.

  “Just as I thought.”

  Riley stepped back and the woman strode into the apartment, did a visual inventory of the crowded space, and then headed for the kitchen where she dumped her
medical bag on the table. She sank in the closest chair; it was Riley’s.

  “First off, I want to see that demon bite you got yesterday,” she said, her voice not allowing for argument.

  I don’t need this. Not now. Riley began to back away toward the bedroom.

  “I lost my dad when I was ten,” Carmela explained, her eyes meeting Riley’s. “I’ve been there, so I’m not playing head games with you.”

  Riley froze, caught between the need to fill the vacuum inside her and the overwhelming urge to bury herself in the pillow again.

  Her visitor shifted uneasily. “Come on, let me look at the wound. I promise it won’t hurt that much.”

  Riley reluctantly sank into her dad’s chair. The doc immediately went to work, pulling out a fresh bandage, a bottle of Holy Water, and some medical tape. After removing the old bandage, she poked, prodded, and pinched the area around the bite. Riley ground her teeth against the discomfort.

  “Looks good,” she said. “Den was sure your hand would be rotting off by now.”

  “He could have asked me,” Riley retorted.

  “Would you have told him the truth?”

  “Probably not.”

  Carmela nodded her understanding. “Besides, we can talk girl to girl. Guys don’t get half of what we say even when we say it reaallllly slow.”

  Riley scrutinized the woman more closely now. “You don’t let him run over you, do you?”

  “No way. You’re going to be the same. He’ll bitch and moan, but he’ll respect you for it.”

  “Right. Don’t see that happening.” Not in this lifetime.

  Carmela broke the seal on the pint bottle of Holy Water and handed it over. “This’ll sting. The stuff’s only a day old.”

  Riley took herself and the bottle to the sink and cleaned the wound. The doc was right, the stuff was strong and it made her wince. The trickle of the water down the drain brought back memories. How many times had she treated her dad’s wounds? None of them had been that bad, except when he’d first started trapping and her mom had taken care of those. He’d always joke that no demon would ever best him.

  But one did.

  When the plastic bottle was empty, Riley returned to the table. There was more poking until the doc was satisfied with the condition of the wound. From what she could tell, it was already closed, only a thin red circle left where the demon’s teeth had met flesh.

  But what does Dad look like?

  “You saw him after…” she began, than faltered.

  Carmela’s expression flattened. “Den called me so I could certify Paul’s death.” She let loose a long sigh and blinked her eyes rapidly like she was trying to hold back tears. “A glass shard embedded in his heart, that’s what killed him. It would have been very quick.” The woman’s hands fumbled with the bandage. “Paul looks asleep, not…”

  Dead. “What about the demons? Did Beck catch them?” Kill them?

  Carmela tidied up the table before she answered, buying time. “No. They only grounded the Five. The Three ripped the hell out of Den, but he wouldn’t let it get near your dad’s body. Which means you have a decision to make.”

  “What decision?” Riley asked, puzzled.

  When the woman looked up, there was pity in her eyes. “Your dad’s body is in good shape. In such good shape that he’s prime fodder for the necromancers.”

  Riley’s stomach heaved. She barely made it the bathroom before the soup from lunch vaulted into the toilet. She kept retching until there was nothing more to off-load.

  A cool hand touched her forehead, causing her to jump. “Ah, damn. I’m sorry. I should have said that better,” Carmela murmured.

  Riley flushed the toilet, dropped the lid, and then flopped down. Her throat burned from the acidic taste of vomit. Carmela handed her a wet cloth, and she mopped her face.

  “Why didn’t Beck tell me this?” Riley demanded. “He was Dad’s partner.”

  “He couldn’t. This is hurting him as much as it is you.”

  Like hell. “What’s this decision I have to make?”

  The doc sat on the side of the tub, rubbing her arms like she was cold. Her eyes were pointedly fixed on her boots.

  “If your dad’s body remains the way it is,” she said, her voice barely audible, “the necros will try to steal it. That is, unless you decide to sell him to them.”

  “Sell him? No way!” Riley growled. “Not happening.” Her stomach tumbled and she swallowed hard.

  Carmela’s eyes met hers. “In that case, you’ll have to sit vigil every night until the next full moon to keep him safe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You cast a magical circle, and it keeps the necromancers from summoning your father. After the full moon, they can’t touch him.” Carmela paused. “Or there’s another way.”

  Riley waited her out.

  “You have one of the trappers…” The woman took a deep breath, “make your father’s body less whole. If he’s no longer in one piece, the necros won’t come after him.”

  Riley stared, horrified. “You mean have Beck slice up my dad?”

  “It won’t be Den,” Carmela replied, her voice taut.

  “Doesn’t matter who it is!” Riley frowned. “Can’t we cremate him or something?”

  “State law doesn’t allow trappers that option if they’ve been killed by a demon. Some nonsense about contamination or something.”

  This was a nightmare.

  “So either I sit vigil or have my father … dismembered?” Riley asked. “That’s so medieval.”

  “No argument there,” Carmela said. “It’s your call. There are consequences no matter what you do.”

  There was only one answer. “He goes in the ground like he died. I swear to God if anyone touches him—”

  There was a low sigh of relief from her visitor. “That’d be my call. Just realize it’s going to be a bitch for the next few weeks.”

  “Can’t be any worse than now.”

  The doc gently smoothed away a strand of hair from Riley’s face.

  “You might be surprised, hon.”

  NINE

  Riley dug out the black dress and held it to her body. She hadn’t touched it since her mother’s funeral. It reached just above her knees now. She remembered her father bringing it home for her, thinking at the time how plain it was. He hadn’t had a clue about her size and bought it too big. Now it would probably fit perfectly, as if he’d foreseen she’d have to wear it again.

  A shiver launched up her spine and wedged at the base of her skull.

  No way. He couldn’t have known this would happen.

  Though she really wanted to curl up on the couch and bury herself inside the heavy comforter to forget what this evening would bring, Riley forced herself to get ready. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. She creaked open the lid of the tiny ballerina jewelry box and found the heart locket her dad had given her on her sixteenth birthday. It had a picture of her parents inside. She kissed the cold metal.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” she murmured, her tears wicking into the dress, unseen. Maybe that was why people wore black when someone died.

  A knock came at the door.

  It was Beck. They gravely studied each for a few moments like they were afraid of what the other might say. She’d never seen him in a suit before. He’d been on leave when her mother died, and he’d worn his dress blues to the funeral. His face was shaved; it must have been tough to work around the cuts. The dark circles under his eyes told her he hadn’t slept any better than she had. There was the hint of aftershave, something like pine trees, she thought.

  “It’s time,” he said, voice low and raspy.

  She picked up her mother’s wool dress coat, and Beck helped her put it on, though she could tell his shoulder hurt him. He took possession of the bag she’d packed for the graveyard. As she shut the apartment door, she swore she could hear her father’s voice calling out his good-bye.

  * * *

  Bec
k’s truck didn’t look the same as the night before: It had been washed, and all the beer bottles in the bed were gone, the inside swept, and the console cleaned. It smelled like the new peach air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

  Why did he do all this? It wasn’t like her dad would care.

  She solemnly buckled herself in and then stared out the side window.

  “Riley…” he began.

  She shook her head. There was nothing he could say that would make it better. If anything, he’d only make it worse. Beck took the hint and fell silent. As he drove, the only sounds were the tires on the pavement and the occasional click-click-click of the turn signal. Not much different than when they’d driven her to the cemetery for her mom’s funeral. On that trip Beck sat in the backseat of the car, his hair so short it made him look bald. Every time he’d moved, she’d heard the stiff fabric of his uniform.

  They parked outside Oakland Cemetery’s main gate, joining other cars and trucks in the parking lot. Most of the vehicles sported the Guild emblem in their rear windows. Riley got out of the truck and tugged her dress into place. She knew the area fairly well. Situated east of the state capitol building, the graveyard was bordered on the south by Memorial Drive and on the north by the MARTA tracks. Every few minutes a train would roll in or out of the station with a peculiar whirring sound.

  They crossed underneath the brick archway and onto the asphalt road that led along the oldest section of the graveyard. It’d been here since the 1850s. Some of Atlanta’s most famous people were buried here, like the lady who wrote Gone with the Wind.

  And now my dad.

  Beck cleared his throat. “There’ll be a short service and then the burial,” he explained. “After that, ya change clothes and we’ll set the circle.”

  “We?”

  “Simon and me. He offered to stay with ya tonight, keep ya safe.”

  That she hadn’t expected. Rather than dwell on that, she asked, “How does this circle thing work?”