by Jana Oliver
Riley growled under her breath: Simon the Silent was definitely getting a visit this afternoon. She would not let him stew in his pool of depression any longer. It was time to move forward, even if he was confused and scared. We can be that way together.
“Ah, here we go,” Peter said with exaggerated relief.
When the recycling truck pulled into traffic, Riley fell in two car lengths behind. Being big and loaded with plastic bottles made it easy to follow.
“So how many stops was that?” she asked.
“Four. No, five,” Peter said, consulting his notebook.
“The thing’s full.” So either they go to the plant or …
But they didn’t go to the Celestial Supplies plant. Instead they followed the truck to a large brick warehouse near East Point.
“So what just happened here?” Riley demanded as she maneuvered the car onto a side street. “This isn’t the Holy Water plant. That’s up in Doraville.”
“Seems to be some sort of recycling center,” Peter said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I’ll go get a closer look.” Before she could protest, he was out the door and hiking up the street.
This is a waste of time. Even my dad couldn’t figure it out, and he was way smarter than me.
Her cell phone pinged. A text from Peter: IN POSITION. She rolled her eyes. At least her friend was enjoying himself. Then another text: I’M GOING INSIDE.
NO! she typed back.
I’LL BE OKAY. JUST HANG TIGHT.
It was a long fifteen minutes. Riley thought of sending him another text, but that might ruin whatever he was up to. Every minute increased her worry.
“I shouldn’t have brought him with me. He’s going to get into trouble, and his dad is going to go nuclear and…” Every possible scenario ended with Peter hurt or exiled to Illinois.
When her friend sauntered back to the car in no particular hurry, he sported a pleased expression on his face, which meant he’d learned something.
The moment Peter climbed into the car, Riley unloaded: “You’re crazy, you know? You shouldn’t have gone in there on your own. Who knows what they might have done to you.”
“Crazy? This from a person who traps demons for a living?”
“This isn’t about me!” she retorted. “So give it up. What did you find out?”
“I told the guard I had a report to do for school. I made sure to look like a nerd so he wouldn’t think I was any threat.”
Channeling a nerd wasn’t really hard for Peter. “And?”
“This place is the city’s only official recycler, at least for the Holy Water bottles. They collect them, strip off the labels and tax stamps, clean them out, then load them into trucks and haul them to the Celestial Supplies plant to be refilled, where they’re relabeled and stamped before they’re sent to the distributor.”
“Then they’re being stolen from here?” she asked, hopefully.
“Don’t know yet. The guard says they count every bottle that comes in and out. But if someone can find a way to smuggle a few out before they’re cleaned and stripped, all they’d have to do is put a new label on them and fill them with tap water.”
“And as long as the new label has the original batch number and it matches the tax stamp number, it all looks kosher.” Then she shook her head. “But they’d have to fake the paperwork to make up for the missing bottles.”
“That’s the problem with this theory,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine they’re ripping off the bottles during the day, so we’ll have to do night surveillance.”
“You’d do that with me?”
“Sure.” Peter interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Tech rules. I’ll find a way.”
Her friend was beginning to plumb new depths of self-assurance. “You’re really awesome, you know that?”
“I may be awesome, but I’m hungry.”
“I’ll buy you lunch, how’s that?” She saw him open his mouth to protest, but cut him off. “I have money.” Then she explained how she’d gotten it and just how much.
“Beck left you a thousand bucks?” Peter said, astonished. “And you think he’s a butthead because…?” He gestured for her to fill in the blank.
“Don’t start.”
Her companion checked something on his phone. “There’s a Vietnamese restaurant four point three miles north of here. I want pho.”
“Noodles it is, dude.”
TWENTY-ONE
Though they’d been “invited” to meet with the hunters at the Westin, Beck and Stewart were stuck in the hallway, ignored. The longer Beck waited, the more pissed he became. When it appeared they weren’t going to be ushered into the hunters’ presence anytime soon, Stewart sweet-talked a maid into finding them two chairs, gave her a tip for her service, and then settled back in one.
“Sir…” Beck began.
The Scotsman waved him to a chair. “Don’t let them psych ya, lad. It’s all on purpose. We’ll give them five more minutes and then we’re outta here. Then I’ll be talkin’ ta the Archbishop.”
They’d just risen to leave when one of the hunters appeared in the hallway and waved them inside. To Beck, the hotel room seemed huge, like three rooms in one. There was a galley kitchen to the right, a small bathroom to the left, and a big open area in front of them. In that area was a conference table and six chairs.
The smell of fresh coffee caught his nose, reminding him he was a few cups short for the day. Next to the coffeemaker was a plate of donuts. It appeared the hunters liked the frosted ones with the little sprinkles.
Sitting in padded chairs around the table were three men—Captain Elias Salvatore, Lieutenant Amundson, and the priest. Behind them was a massive window—Atlanta from a bird’s-eye view. And another hunter. His eyes weren’t on them but on the city below, an assault rifle in hand.
Vigilant bunch, that’s for sure.
Captain Salvatore rose from his chair. “Grand Master Stewart, please excuse the delay.” His tone told Beck he wasn’t happy about it, either.
“No trouble, Captain,” Stewart replied, choosing a chair at the end of the table near Salvatore. The priest gave them a cursory glance and then returned those dark eyes to the paperwork in front of him.
“Gentlemen, this is Father Rosetti and my second-in-command, Lieutenant Amundson,” the captain said, unaware that Stewart had already given Beck a complete rundown.
Amundson delivered a crisp nod, but the priest pointedly ignored both of them. That didn’t sit well with Beck. He could understand the priest blowing him off; he wasn’t important, but Stewart deserved respect. To his credit, the Scotsman ignored the slight like he’d expected it. Uneasy, Beck sat next to him, which put the priest on his right.
“I’m actin’ in Master Harper’s stead,” Stewart explained. “We’re here ta help ya in any way we can.”
Without looking up, the priest thumbed open a thick file folder stuffed with documents. “We have opened an investigation into the events at the Tabernacle,” he said, his English heavily accented. “In particular what roles Paul Blackthorne or his daughter played in that tragedy.”
Stewart frowned but didn’t reply.
“Tell us what happened that night.”
As the master delivered the report, Beck could hear the increasing tension in his voice. All the while Father Rosetti made notes on a sheet of paper.
“Who is the necromancer that reanimated her father?” the priest asked.
The Scotsman looked over at Beck.
“We don’t know that yet,” he replied. “The summoners aren’t talkin’.”
More notes went on the paper. Beck found it interesting that Rosetti was asking all the questions while Salvatore and his lieutenant watched from the sidelines. That meant he was really in charge of the operation, not the captain. Wonder how that sits with Salvatore.
“You are convinced the Holy Water used at your meeting was genuine?” Rosetti quizzed.
Stewart hesitated momentarily, then nodded. “Ay
e.”
“I was not aware the Guild admitted females to their midst,” the priest remarked.
“It’s a recent change,” Stewart admitted.
“This girl, what is she like?”
“I don’t get your meanin’,” the master replied.
“Can she be trusted?”
“Absolutely,” Stewart replied, his tone prickly now. “The Guild is investigatin’ the problem, and I’ve kept the Archbishop in the loop. It’ll take some time, but we’ll find the source of those bott-els.”
“That is not important at the moment,” the priest said dismissively.
“On the contrary, it is verra important. The public must trust the Holy Water will keep their homes safe. If not, there’ll be citywide panic.”
The priest put down his pen. “The more I look into this matter, all I see is one person in the very center of it all—the girl, Riley Blackthorne. Her father’s papers only indicate he felt something was amiss, yet she claims the Holy Water is not genuine.”
Beck jumped in. “She tested the bottles. Some of them didn’t react.”
The priest studied him, then flipped a page. “Yes, and for that test she employed the claw of a demon. A symbol of Hell.”
How did ya know about the claw? Who told ya? “Why not? It came from the Three she caught. On her own, too.”
Rosetti’s eyebrow rose. “You cannot possibly have me believe such a young child could capture such a Hellspawn by herself.”
What’s goin’ on here? All of this was about Riley, not about how to stop the demons.
Apparently Stewart was thinking along the same line. “So what is the official agenda, Father?” the master demanded.
The pen went down again. “We are here to take control of the city’s Hellspawn problem. We cannot allow Lucifer to obtain a foothold in our world. To that end, if we find that anyone has sided with our enemy in this battle, they will be arrested and tried. That includes Paul Blackthorne’s girl.”
“Now wait a minute—” Beck began.
“Easy, lad,” Stewart said. Then he addressed the priest. “Why are ya so interested in her?”
“Often there is a nexus, a specific individual that Hell uses to lay its plans. Often that is someone young and impressionable. In this case, perhaps it is Riley Blackthorne, especially since she was at the Tabernacle the night of the attack.”
“She had nothin’ ta do with that,” Stewart replied.
“Either way, we need to speak with her on these matters.”
“Not unless her master agrees,” Stewart said, drawing the line in the sand.
“Master Harper’s approval has little to do with the matter. We will talk to the girl,” the priest replied, his face set.
“Not unless Harper agrees,” Stewart retorted. “We don’t throw our people ta the wolves.”
The priest tensed. “You are impeding our investigation, Master Stewart. I shall be filing a formal complaint with the mayor … and the National Guild.”
“Ya misunderstand me, priest. We came here ta offer our assistance, not have ya make one of our own a scapegoat.”
“Your protest is noted,” the priest replied. He shuffled his papers in an agitated manner. “We have nothing further to discuss.”
That was as cold a dismissal as Beck had ever heard.
“Mind you,” Stewart added, his voice rougher now, “somethin’s afoot in this city and it would be a mistake ta think it’s all Hell’s doin’.”
The priest studied him gravely. “Which is exactly what I would expect a trapper to say. Come now, Master Stewart, we both know who guards your kind, where your loyalties lay. That was so plainly evident the other night.”
“That’s not the issue, and ya know it,” Stewart retorted. “We’ll not have this city destroyed just ta make yer boss happy.”
The priest bristled. “This is about evil, Master Stewart, not currying favor with His Holiness.”
“Just as long as ya remember that.”
With a curt nod to the captain, Stewart rose to leave the room, Beck in tow. Amundson had taken a position near the door. The master passed without incident, but the hunter purposely bumped Beck hard, bouncing him off the doorframe. Beck whirled, eager to take on this jerk, but never got the chance as Stewart’s cane shot up between them.
“Stand down, lad!” With an oath, Beck stepped back, furious that he’d lost control in the first place.
Stewart stared up at Amundson’s gloating face. “Another time, hunter. Mark you, that time will come, and I’ll be damned happy ta turn this lad loose on ya.”
Beck seethed all the way down the hall, wanting to hit something. He tried to chill, but the anger wouldn’t fade. There was a showdown coming with the hunters—it was going to be bloody—and he was going to be in the middle of it.
As they waited for the elevator, the Scotsman called Riley’s master and related the news. “Aye. I agree.” He hung up, still frowning.
“Sir…” Beck began. “Harper isn’t goin’ to give her up, is he?”
“Not without a fight, that’s for sure.” The elevator dinged its arrival. “Let’s head ta my place. It’s time ya know what’s really goin’ on.”
* * *
As Beck waited for the master to climb out of the truck, he checked out the man’s house. It was three stories, fancy in an old-fashioned sort of way, and painted in different shades of blue. It even had a small tower off the front. His host led him into a room near the back. Beck liked this place. It felt like a home, from the big fireplace to the little crocheted things on the backs of the chairs.
Stewart took a position near a large cabinet and studied his extensive liquor collection. It encompassed three shelves. From what Beck could see of the labels, most of it was Scotch.
“Ya got a favorite?” his host asked, peering at him over his shoulder.
“No, sir. Never drank much whisky except for my granddaddy’s.”
Stewart hovered a hand over a bottle, then moved to the one next to it. “Aberlour a’bunadh, I think. Ya’d not take kindly ta the peat right off.”
“Pete?”
“It adds a smoky flavor to the whisky. We’ll build ya up over time.”
The master poured a hefty amount in a tumbler, then something for himself from a different bottle. “Have a seat, lad,” he said, handing off the liquor.
Beck settled into a red stuffed chair near the fireplace. Once the master had taken his place in a matching chair across from him, Beck gave the whisky a cautious sniff. Not bad.
“Slàinte mhath!” the Scotsman proclaimed.
Beck had no idea what the man had said, but he smiled and raised the glass anyway. The first sip told him he liked this stuff a lot, which meant it cost more than he could afford.
“Suit ya?” Stewart asked after taking a long pull from his own glass.
Beck nodded. “Real smooth.”
The master propped up his left leg on an ottoman. After another lengthy sip, he smacked his lips in appreciation. He seemed in no hurry, though he’d been the one to issue the invitation.
Beck realized he’d have to get the ball rolling. “Paul told me yer family had been trappin’ since forever.”
“We weren’t the first trappers, but we’re some of the best,” Stewart replied. “The Blackthornes were the same until they came ta America and got too much inta earnin’ money rather than trappin’ the beasties. At least Paul came back ta the fold.”
“That took some doin’, I imagine,” Beck said, hoping to hear a bit more about his mentor.
“Paul had the Blackthorne tradition ta uphold, though he didn’t see it that way. In times past, his family would send their sons ta Scotland and we’d train ’em.”
“He never said a word about that.” But then there was a lot Paul hadn’t told him. “So what’s this ‘Grand Master’ thing? I’ve never heard tell of it before.”
“It’s just a title we use in Europe. It means I’m one of the more senior masters.”
Bet there’s more to it than that.
“It made for hard feelings with Harper when I first came here,” Stewart confessed. “Ten years ago, he was barely holdin’ his own against some of the other masters here in Atlanta. They were a bad lot. Takin’ bribes in a protection racket. If ya didn’t pay their price, they’d set a Pyro-Fiend loose ta burn yer place ta the ground.”
“What?” Beck spouted, horrified. “That’s damned evil.”
“Aye,” Stewart said, nodding sagely. “One of the masters went after Harper and cut him up. That’s how he got that wicked scar. While he was healin’, the National Guild asked me ta come over and clean house.”
“So that’s how he got to be senior master—by ya kickin’ out all the others?”
“Pretty much. Truth be known, he wasn’t happy when I showed up. Felt like the National Guild hadn’t given him enough time ta straighten things out.”
“And now?” Beck asked.
“We’ve learned ta tolerate each other,” the Scotsman said with a wry smile. “I tried ta recruit Paul when I first came ta town, but he turned me down flat. Then his teachin’ job was gone and he was willin’ ta listen.”
The master rose slowly from the chair and refilled his drink. “More?” he asked.
“Not yet, thanks.” No way he’d keep up with a Scotsman.
Stewart recapped the bottle with a thwack of his palm, then returned to his chair. “Back in the day, most demons were dealt with by the church. The priest would exorcise them. Some began ta hunt them, mostly as sport. The bishops encouraged that, partly because those men could be used as muscle when the Church felt the need.”
Another long sip of the whisky. “As time passed,” Stewart continued, “the hunters gained a reputation for bein’ damned ruthless. There was a dispute between one of my ancestors, a Malcolm Stewart, and one of the local hunters. Somethin’ about a bit a’ land. The hunter claimed that Malcolm and his family were conspirin’ with Hell, so the local bishop gave orders ta solve the problem.”
“Solve it, how?” Beck asked. He suspected it didn’t involve a lot of praying. These were Scotsman: They settled their disputes with lethal steel.
