by Jana Oliver
Now he was dead.
“Who else?” Simon asked, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.
“That’s it. Both of the masters are hurt: Stewart has a concussion, and Harper’s got a couple of cracked ribs.”
Silence. Not the good kind.
She offered him more ice and he took it. Once it was gone, he sucked in a thick breath. “I must have put down the Holy Water wrong.”
“No way. You did it perfectly. The demons shouldn’t have gotten through.”
But they had. It was a good bet he would carry that horrendous guilt forever, no matter who said he wasn’t to blame. Simon would always second-guess himself.
More silence. She held his hand, knowing he needed to think things through.
Eventually Simon closed his eyes, and she took that as a hint he wanted to be alone. After a kiss on his forehead, she whispered, “You get better. You hear?” No reply.
When she reached the door Riley paused and looked back at him. A single glistening tear rolled down his pale cheek.
It was a match to her own.
FIVE
When he was young, Beck had spent time in the high school principal’s office, hauled in for swearing, roughing up bullies, threatening teachers, and vandalizing a skinhead’s truck. Same drill in the Army, though most of the time that had been on account of his drinking. Even now, at twenty-two, he knew what it was like to be called to account for his sins. That’s what this felt like.
As they waded through the throng of newshounds outside Atlanta City Hall, he shot a look at Stewart. From the expression on the master’s face, he could see the man agreed. They were going to be held responsible for this disaster.
Reporters churned around them, shooting questions at them like bullets. As the pair made their way toward the massive building that housed Atlanta’s civil administration, Beck did his best to clear the path in front of Stewart, knowing the master’s leg was troubling him. Truth was, his was just as bad, but at least he had age on his side.
Once they reached the top of the stairs, they turned as one and were greeted with an amazing sight: Mitchell Street awash with satellite trucks, their masts high in the air like overzealous daisies. Across the street, in the park, the police had formed a viewing area for the curious citizens of Atlanta. Signs were everywhere. “Prepare to Meet Your Maker!” one said in bright red lettering. Others cited Bible verses. Then there was the Demons Have Rights group with fake horns on their heads. They even carried plastic pitchforks and wore pointed tails. That bunch was separated from the rest, probably to keep them from getting beaten up.
“So what ya seein’ here?” Stewart asked.
“A whole lot of crazy people,” Beck replied sourly.
“A few, maybe. Frightened people do stupid things, lad. Keep that in mind in the days ta come.”
Beck didn’t reply. He knew the old trapper was right. As long as the Guild stood between the dark scary things and the public, the good folks of Atlanta had been okay with that. Now it looked like the trappers were losing the battle, and that scared their fellow citizens out of their minds. Hell, it even frightens me.
Beck caught a glimpse of flaming red hair billowing around a woman’s shoulders, stirred to life by a light breeze. She wore a chocolate-brown pantsuit and stood near a news van. From this distance it was hard to tell the color of her eyes, but he’d bet they were vivid green to match her blouse. She stood out like a fiery beacon in the midst of a monotone crowd.
There was a nervous cough from behind them. It came from an earnest young man in a suit. “Sirs?” he said. “If you would follow me. The council is ready.”
Stewart waved their escort forward. “‘Lay on Macduff, and damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’”
“What?” the young flunky asked, bewildered.
“Never mind, lad. Show us the way, will ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
As they walked into the building Beck wondered aloud how the solid metal doors had remained in place. “These must be worth a fortune.”
“The last three fellows who tried ta steal them were given a one-way trip ta Demon Central,” Stewart explained. “Word gets ’round.”
They kept walking, which only made Beck’s leg throb.
They were shepherded into one of the smaller meeting rooms. It wasn’t fancy, nothing more than a long table and a few padded armchairs for the council and folding chairs for the audience. The master trapper sank into a chair near the front, his forehead sweaty.
“Ya okay?” Beck asked, worried.
“Nothin’ that a little whisky won’t cure,” the man replied gamely. Stewart’s eyes met his. “Ya keep that temper on a leash, ya hear?”
That was going to be difficult. Beck was dog tired, he had a raging headache, and his body ached like he’d been in a mosh pit. With demons. Keep it cool, a voice said inside his head. It was Paul’s voice, guiding him like he had since Beck was sixteen.
Ezekiel Montgomery, the mayor of Atlanta, entered from a side door. The politician sported a noticeable paunch and was accompanied by a few council members, a couple of assistants, and a pair of Atlanta cops. The officers positioned themselves on either side of the long table, facing toward the audience like they expected trouble.
“They brought backup,” Beck murmured. He heard a snort from his companion.
“This isn’t all of ’em,” Stewart observed. “The council president is missin’. I wonder why the others aren’t here.”
As the council settled themselves, Beck took a seat next to the master and waited, drumming his fingers on his knee to work off some of his tension. When he brushed a hand over his forehead, it came away wet. He wanted to peel off his leather jacket, but then everyone would see the sweat rings and how his shirt clung to him because of the fever. He’d changed clothes before this meeting, taking care to tightly bandage his left thigh in an effort to keep the jeans clean. The way the leg throbbed, he suspected the bandage was a waste of time.
God, I feel like crap. At least in another twenty-four hours he’d be better. Until then, he just had to tough it out.
“Which one of you is Harper?” the mayor asked without looking up from the paperwork in front of him.
Stewart cleared his throat. “He’s out with an injury. I’m Master Trapper Angus Stewart. I’m empowered ta speak for the Guild.”
“Could you stand when you talk?” the mayor asked. “It makes it easier for us.”
“But not for me,” the Scotsman said, remaining in his chair. “Tell ’em why, lad.”
Beck pulled himself to his feet. “Ah, what Master Stewart means is that he’s injured. It’s best he sit.”
The mayor frowned, then gave a curt nod. Beck’s attention moved to the young man right behind Montgomery. He looked like any other young political assistant, but something about him felt off. The guy wouldn’t meet his eyes but kept his full attention on his boss.
“So who are you?” the mayor asked, scrutinizing Beck like he’d just discovered him breaking into his house.
“I’m Denver Beck. I’m a journeyman trapper.”
“Mr. Buck,” the mayor began, “we offer our condolences for the losses the Guild has incurred.”
That’s just fancy talk for “As long as it isn’t my ass that’s hurtin’, I’m good with it.”
“The name’s Beck,” he said. Grudgingly he added, “Thank you.”
The councilwoman sitting three seats down from the mayor issued a faint smile. She was African American, with caramel skin and bright eyes. There was no nameplate in front of her, so Beck had no idea who she was.
“I want to know what you intend to do about these demons,” Montgomery demanded.
Beck looked over Stewart, who waved him on. Why am I doin’ all the talkin’?
“Master Harper called the National Guild, and they’re sendin’ us another master so we can train new apprentices.”
“How does that solve the immediate problem?” the
councilwoman asked.
“It doesn’t,” Beck admitted. “We’ve put out a call for other trappers to move to Atlanta for the time bein’.”
“How many were in the Guild to start with?” the councilwoman asked.
Beck gave Stewart a quick look, and the master whispered the answer.
“Fifty-six,” Beck said, feeling like a talking puppet. “Not all are active. Right now we have about twenty trappers who can work.” He’d never felt so out of place in his life. What did he know about all this political stuff? He hadn’t even voted in the last election.
“What about the demon hunters? Why can’t we have them take care of this?” a balding councilman asked.
Stewart finally spoke up. “I talked with the Archbishop about that this mornin’. The Church’s position is that we can handle it.”
The mayor’s assistant leaned forward and whispered in Montgomery’s ear. The mayor shook his head, causing the man to repeat whatever he’d said. This time there was a nod.
“I must respectfully disagree with the Archbishop,” Montgomery replied. “The governor has been in touch with the Vatican, and they’ve offered to send a team of demon hunters to Atlanta. I think we should move forward on that offer.”
The muscles in Beck’s jaw tensed, causing him to weigh his words carefully. “I’m sure the big boys are good at what they do, but they don’t know Atlanta or her demons. Our fiends aren’t the same as the ones in New York City or L.A.… or Rome for that matter.”
“So you’re saying that your knowledge of the city will be better for this situation than the Vatican’s expertise?” the councilwoman asked.
The lady was feeding him the right questions, and Beck loved her for it. “Yes, ma’am. We got ambushed last night, and that won’t happen again.”
“If last night was an example of how the trappers work, we’re in deep trouble,” the mayor insisted.
One of the other council members nodded. “I agree. We should request the hunters come to Atlanta. They’ll get the job done.”
“The trappers have dealt with our demon issues for as long as the city has existed,” the councilwoman protested. “Bringing in an outside force will only make things worse. The hunters aren’t locals, and they don’t have to answer to anyone but the Church.”
“We need to get this behind us,” Montgomery replied. “We’ve got major industries looking at moving to this city. Unless we get this settled as quickly as possible, those opportunities are going to dry up.” The mayor began to shuffle papers in front of him, clearly agitated. “We’re having this problem because of the Guild. The trappers had their chance and they blew it. We need professionals, not amateurs.”
Stewart’s face turned blood red at the grave insult. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Beck was sure the man was going to have a stroke.
After a quick motion, which was seconded, the vote went in favor of the demon hunters. Only one nay vote was cast: The councilwoman had held to her principles.
“Motion passed.” The mayor gaveled the meeting to a close and then rose from his seat. “Go bury your dead and call it a day, gentlemen,” he said. Behind him, his assistant wore a sly smile, like he’d just won a major victory.
Beck’s temper burst out of its restraints. He took a step forward, his fists clenched, but he was immediately blocked by the cops, hands on their firearms.
“Don’t, lad,” Stewart said from behind him. “Give it up. They’re not listenin’.”
* * *
Once they’d waded through the crowds and were inside the truck, the master produced a silver flask from a pocket and took a long swig. He offered it to Beck, who did the same. The whisky burned his raw throat as it went down. “Thanks,” Beck said, and handed the flask back. As he pulled away from the curb, he asked, “Why did ya let me do all the talkin’? I’m just a journeyman.”
The old trapper took another swig of his flask, then smacked his lips. “… Who’ll be a master someday. Ya might as well learn the ropes now. It’s not gonna get any easier, that’s for damned sure.”
“But I’m not…” what ya think I am.
Stewart glared at him. “Paul Blackthorne only trained the best. Ya wouldn’t want ta be insultin’ his memory now, would ya?”
The master had him by the throat: No way Beck could diss his friend. “No, sir.”
“Good. First thing, take me home. I need sleep. Pick me up about eight tonight, and we’ll go ta Harper’s. We need ta find a new meetin’ place, start the insurance paperwork, all that.”
“But if the hunters are comin’ to Atlanta…”
“All the more reason ta get our own house in order.”
SIX
Oakland Cemetery. It was the last place Riley wanted to be, but here she was, trudging along the asphalt road that led into the boneyard. The cemetery sat east of the city and had been there since the mid-1800s. Since the Victorians had a thing about graveyards and designed them like parks, Oakland was known for its massive magnolia trees and stately mausoleums.
Over the last couple of weeks Riley had spent almost every evening here, safely tucked inside a sanctified circle of Holy Water and candles, guarding her father’s grave from the necromancers. As long as the circle had remained intact, no one could have touched him. Once the moon was full, he’d have been safe from any summoning spell.
But he never made it to the full moon.
“I should have been here,” she grumbled, her breath puffing out in a thin white stream as she tromped deeper into the graveyard. Nothing would have scared her into breaking that circle.
She turned left onto the road toward her family’s patch of ground. The air was still at the moment, the moonlight draped across the ancient gravestones like thin silver icing. Beneath each of those stones was someone who’d lived in this city, walked its streets. Now all they had was a bit of red clay to call their own.
Back when the Blackthornes had money—one of her relatives in the 1880s was a banker—they’d constructed the family mausoleum. It was one of the finest in the cemetery. Sitting on an island between two roads, it was built of red stone, so solid it had withstood a tornado. In true Victorian fashion the builders had really pimped out the place—heavy bronze doors, stained-glass windows, and lurking gargoyles on the roof.
Now Riley thought of the mausoleum in terms of hours and hours of sitting vigil for her father. Of last night with Beck after the trappers had been killed. She’d fallen asleep inside the building, nestled in his arms, safe on holy ground. She didn’t think he’d ever closed his eyes. He’d smelled of smoke and blood and righteous anger. Denver Beck was a stick of dynamite waiting for a match, and she hoped she wasn’t anywhere near when he exploded.
Riley halted in front of the mausoleum and peered up at the gargoyles. Their bizarre lion faces glowered down at her as if she were an intruder. They had always creeped her out.
Since the building was full of dead relatives, her parents’ graves were on the west side looking toward the state capitol dome. Though it hurt too much to think about, Riley knelt in front of her father’s grave. It was still a mess, like a giant mole had dug itself out, mounding dirt on either side in its frantic effort to escape. The damaged coffin was gone. Apparently the cemetery people had taken it away.
She took a deep breath, feeling the cold saturate her lungs, causing her to cough. Her mouth still tasted of soot. Blinking to clear the tears, she whispered, “Sorry, Dad. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He was supposed to be alive, teaching her how to be a trapper, laughing at her jokes and taking her out for pizza. Calling her a sleepyhead when she woke up late. Being there for her. Now there was just an empty hole in the ground that matched the one in her heart.
Riley remained silent for a time, pulling memories from the corners of her mind like someone might detangle yarn. She never wanted to forget her father’s gentle voice, his face, how his hair refused to behave. As long as she held those memories close, he wasn’t really go
ne.
Then she began to talk to him. Though his body was missing, maybe somewhere his spirit would hear her. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been close to her mom, but her father had been a trapper, so she told him what had happened over the last twenty-four hours. She knew he couldn’t answer, but somehow the talking seemed to help.
“I saw some of them die,” she said, shuddering. “Beck’s okay but pretty beaten up. Simon’s—” Her voice caught. “He’s going to make it, but only because, well … just because.”
There was a sigh of wind in the trees around her, like her father had heard her and was offering his sympathy. His calm voice floated through her mind. It’ll be okay.
When she was a child she’d believed him. Not anymore.
Once she’d talked herself out, Riley rose, dusted off her knees, and headed back down the road to the Bell Tower, where the cemetery had its office and gift shop. She would wait there for the volunteer who’d failed her and her father so spectacularly.
Boredom quickly took hold, and she dialed her best friend. She didn’t have many friends, at least none like Peter. He was more like a big brother than a buddy. Unfortunately, the last time they’d talked they hadn’t parted on good terms.
“Hello?” her friend asked, his voice hesitant.
She’d forgotten she was using her dad’s phone and he wouldn’t know the number.
“Hi Peter. It’s me.”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“The cemetery.”
“Still grave-sitting?”
Peter didn’t know. They’d last spoken when she was at Beck’s place the morning after the Tabernacle fire. Upset that she’d nearly gotten herself killed, Peter had hung up on her and she’d never had a chance to tell him about her dad.
“No, I’m done with that.” Then she told him why.
“That bites. You go to all that work and…” He swore into the phone. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”
“Yeah, it sucks. I’m trying to find him but none of the necros are talking.”
