by Jana Oliver
“Go on,” he prodded.
This was Peter. He wouldn’t laugh at her. At least not for long.
“You remember how in junior high I never fit in? I had this thing I did every summer. I tried to be someone new, someone different, so that when I went back to school all the kids would say, ‘Wow, Riley’s cool.’ Of course it didn’t work. No matter what I did, all they saw was the old me.”
“So that’s why you were so weird the first couple weeks of school. I could never figure it out.”
“Yeah, I probably acted pretty strange.”
“I like the old Riley,” Peter admitted. “She’s cool, even if she’s Lucifer’s biatch.”
“Enough with that.”
“Oh, we’re grumpy. At least you ended up at a Starbucks. I got sent to a day-care center. It’s still open during the day.”
“So what’s that like?”
“It smells of kiddy poop and baby powder.”
She smirked. “Do you get to sit on a tiny chair?”
“No, but we have to lie down on these little mats and take a nap after our juice and crackers.”
She let the laughter roll free. “I miss you a lot, Peter. I wish you were in class with me.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “Could you repeat that?”
“Why?”
“So I can record it. That way I can replay it when you start calling me a butthead again.”
“No way. You missed your chance.”
“So you know, I’m trying to get transferred to your school.”
“Really? Think it’ll work?” she asked, her hope surging. Then everything would be fine again.
“Don’t know. The warden didn’t have a thing to do with the new school, so it was just random bad luck. I figure I might be able to affect that randomness in some way.”
“How?”
“Not the kind of thing we want to discuss on the phone.”
Which meant he was trying to hack the education department’s computer system and generate a transfer.
“Be careful,” she said. The more creative the endeavor, the less the educational types would like it.
In the distance she saw Simon approaching. “Gotta go. It’s one of the trappers checking on me.” The one who just happens to be my new boyfriend.
“Be careful out there,” Peter warned. “Oh, and I’ll have a printout of all this stuff from your dad’s disk ready tomorrow morning. Ring me and we’ll set up a time to meet, okay?”
“Sure. Night, Peter.”
“Later, Riley.”
Simon called out his greeting, and after she’d invited him in, he joined her in the circle. The candles barely flickered.
“Thought I’d see how you were doing,” he said, shielding something behind him.
“I’m tired. Class ran late. I almost didn’t make it on time,” she replied. Whine much? “Sorry, I’m a little cranky.”
“Well, this should help. I got you a present.”
He brought his arm around, showing her the object he’d been hiding. It was a brand-new blue tarp still in its clear plastic wrapper.
Other girls get flowers, I get a tarp. And she didn’t mind a bit.
“You’re awesome, Simon,” she said, meaning every word.
“Aren’t I?” he replied, waggling his eyebrows.
Riley quickly tidied the ground. Pinecones and rocks were evil and became more so as the night progressed.
“Here, let me help,” Simon offered. Together they laid out the tarp, then the sleeping bags, her blanket, and other necessities. “Is there anything left in your apartment?” he asked, waving a hand at all her stuff.
“Yes!” she said, shooting him a mock glower. “Pop-Tart?”
“Sure! Got strawberry?” She dug inside the box and found one. Treats in hand, they settled on the makeshift campsite, sharing a blanket.
“So what happened to your windshield?” he asked, around munches of the tart. “It’s got something red on it.”
Riley gave him the quick-and-dirty version. To her surprise, his face colored when she told him what the lipstick had said.
“You’re nothing of the kind!” he said, frowning.
“Thanks.” It felt nice to have him stick up for her. “I haven’t decided how to get even yet.”
“That’s a waste of time. It screws you up more than it does them.”
She cocked her head. “You don’t lose your cool when Harper’s being an asshat; you’re polite all the time, even to the demons. How do you do it?”
He tapped his cross. “It helps me find my center.”
“Mom used to talk about that sort of thing.” Treasured memories arose. “I liked going to church with her. She took me to a Latin mass once. It was all spooky and mysterious,” Riley said.
Simon gave her a sidelong look. “I didn’t realize your mom was Catholic. What about you?”
“I’m not sure. I think God’s up there somewhere watching over us, but if He is, He must hate me.”
Her boyfriend slipped his arm around her, pulling her closer. It made her feel good deep inside.
“He doesn’t hate any of us,” Simon explained. “He just tests us. Unfortunately, your tests have been really hard.”
“What about you?”
“Haven’t really had any tests yet. Nothing major, that is.”
He leaned closer and then placed a gentle kiss on her lips.
Though surprised, she didn’t push him away. He was a good kisser. Not that she’d had tons of practice, but she knew she’d be happy if he kissed her again. And he did. This time the kiss lasted longer and tasted of strawberries. He finally pulled himself away, a faint blush on his cheeks.
“You are such a temptation,” he muttered, shaking his head.
He makes that sound like a bad thing.
To her disappointment he suddenly rose, like he didn’t trust himself alone with her. “I’ve got to go. I promised my mom I’d be home in time for dinner.”
“Must be nice,” she said wistfully. With a family as big as his, it’d be chaos, but you’d never be lonely.
He pondered for a second. “You should come over sometime. Mom makes incredible fried chicken.”
Did he just invite me to his house?
“I’d … like that,” she stammered.
“Good. My parents want to meet you. I’ve told them all about you.”
Me?
She stood and delivered a quick peck on his cheek. Another kiss ensued, and this time there was no hurry.
“Definitely a test,” he murmured. “You call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Night, Simon.”
“Good night, Riley.”
As he walked away, she replayed the last few minutes.
He kissed me. He invited me to dinner and his parents want to meet me.
This was moving way faster than she’d expected.
TWENTY-FOUR
Riley reluctantly looked up from her father’s manual, clicking off the flashlight to save the battery. She was deep in the section on how to trap Threes, the part she really should have read before going it alone. Her visitor was Mortimer. He was still in the fedora and the long trench coat.
Riley yawned a greeting.
“Good evening. How are you, Miss Blackthorne?” the necro asked in a husky voice. It sounded like he was coming down with a cold.
“It’s been better,” she said. Then she held up her hand before he could make his usual offer. “If anyone asks, you did your thing and I shot you down like every other night. That way we’re not wasting our time. Besides, I’m too tired for it.”
Mortimer smiled. “You’re not like the others. They usually curse at me. I appreciate that.” He paused and then asked, “Do you really enjoy trapping demons?”
“A week ago I would have said yes because I could trap with my dad. Now? Not so sure. I’ve got a new master, and he’s a real asshat.”
“Ah, I know how that works. We have a similar system to the tr
appers’. New summoners are required to work up through the ranks. I was assigned the task of maintaining the reanimates when I first started. They require some care or, well, things get pretty bad after a while.” He held his nose for effect.
“Can’t hang an air freshener on them and call it good?” she joked, exhaustion making her punchy.
Mortimer chuckled. “No, but if you treat them carefully they look and smell better than when they were first inhumed. It’s an art, you see.”
She rose and stretched. For once her thigh didn’t bitch about the move.
“How long have you been a necro?”
“We prefer being called summoners.”
“For you, summoner. All the rest of them are necros in my book.”
He gave her a genuine smile. “I’ve been reanimating the dead for over five years. It’s a living. Before that I worked at a mortuary.”
“So the dead have always been your thing, then?”
“Pretty much.” He looked up the path. When he turned around there was a frown on his face. “Time to go. It’s been good talking to you. You have a good night, and do be careful.”
“You too, Mortimer.”
“Mort. That’s what my friends call me.” He tipped his fedora and headed up the walk. As he made the turn toward the entrance, she saw another figure approaching. To her surprise, Mort veered off among the graves rather than pass the newcomer on the road.
“I got ya some food,” Beck called out, holding up a bulging paper bag as he strode toward her.
Maybe you’re not so bad after all.
He paused at the edge of the circle. “Ah, damn, my boot’s untied. Here, take this,” he said offering the bag. Riley started to reach across the circle, then paused. Something didn’t feel right. She looked down at his boots. Beck always double-knotted his. She remembered him saying how he didn’t want to fall over his laces and get eaten by some dumbass demon.
She stepped back and checked him out with a more critical eye.
No duffel bag. Beck always had it with him, even at her dad’s funeral. And Mort had gone out of his way to avoid this guy.
“Nice one.” If she’d reached across the candles to claim the bag, she’d have broken the line of protection and her dad would be someone else’s property.
It didn’t surprise her when “Beck” evaporated into a swirl of leaves, revealing the creepy necro. None of the others attempted such sophisticated magic.
“You are smarter than most,” he observed. “I’m rather enjoying the challenge.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, making talking motions with her hand. “It’s not happening.”
“So you say,” he replied. With a whoosh, the circle flared into the night like he’d touched it, then it subsided. The summoner was gone, a whirl of leaves shooting up the path like a malevolent tornado.
Riley heaved a sigh of relief. She needed to ask Mort about this guy, because it looked like Mr. Black Magic Necro wasn’t going to quit until he’d scared the living crap out of her.
* * *
Morning brought a light frost and a black plastic bag tied to her car door handle. After much fumbling with cold fingers, Riley untied the bag and dumped its contents on the frost-painted hood. A thick manila envelope slid out, along with a wad of paper towels and a plastic bottle of ammonia.
There was a note attached.
Warm car first, then clean windshield or you’ll be sorry.
“Peter strikes again.”
While the car warmed, she dialed her friend.
“Got the delivery?” he asked without bothering to say hello.
“I did. Thanks,” she said, watching the heat make small circles on the windshield. The bag’s contents sat on the seat beside her. “How’d you get out here?” Peter didn’t have a car, and she doubted the warden would let him take off so early in the morning on his own.
“David dropped it by for me as he was headed to work. He thought it kinda weird I was having him make a delivery to a cemetery.”
David. His next oldest brother who wanted to be a pilot but was working at a bakery instead. “Man, there’s a lot of a paper here. What is all this?” she asked, hefting the nearly inch-thick envelope.
“Everything that was on your dad’s disk. It’s all about Holy Water, or at least as much as I got to read. The warden kept checking in on me last night, so I gave up.”
“I’ll go through it,” she said, “but I have no idea why my dad was going to all this work. He never said anything about this.”
“Definitely a mystery,” Peter replied and then crunched on something through the mouthpiece. Cereal no doubt.
Rivulets of water ran down her windshield in response to the blast of heated air. Time to break out the ammonia and destroy Brandy’s work of art.
“Thanks, Peter, I owe you.”
“Definitely.” He hung up.
Riley leaned back in the car, savoring the warmth. She really wanted a nap, but she had barely enough time to clean the windshield, grab a breakfast sandwich, and get to Harper’s. If she was late the master would find another way to torment her. With her luck it would involve more demon poop.
She reluctantly stashed the manila envelope in the glove compartment for later.
* * *
The Three was gone; apparently her master had sold the thing to a demon trafficker. She tidied up underneath its cage before Harper told her to, which seemed to aggravate him. By the time she’d finished, Simon was packing his car for a run. He’d barely said two words to her over the last couple of days, at least when Harper was around. All her daydreams about how cool it would be to train with him hadn’t materialized.
“We’re going trapping,” he explained. She started to ask whether she could come along but stopped at the warning look in his eyes.
Harper lumbered up, clad in a thick coat with a duffel bag in hand.
“I decide who goes and who doesn’t go on a run.”
Riley took that to mean she wasn’t invited. That changed the moment the two men were in the car.
“So get your ass in here, Brat,” Harper ordered. “We don’t have all damned day.”
No way I can win.
Riley eased into the backseat and slammed the door. Part of her was stoked. She was out of that smelly building and doing what she should be doing—trapping demons. Well, not her, exactly. This was Simon’s show, and from the conversation in the front seat they were after a Grade Four Hypno-Fiend, or Mezmer, as the trappers called them.
Harper supplied the directions.
“What are we getting into?” Simon asked, turning off Memorial Drive and heading north toward downtown. His voice held a hint of nervousness.
The master shoved some paperwork over the seat back to Riley.
“Earn your keep.”
Pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, she skimmed the report. As with all trapping requisitions, the paperwork stated the complainant’s name, address, and type of suspected demonic activity.
“A Mr. Ford says this boy is hanging around his daughter, Carol, and getting her do things she shouldn’t be doing. He thinks the boy is a demon because every time he tries to run him off, he finds himself agreeing with whatever the kid says.”
“Sounds like a Mezmer,” Harper said.
“He might just be a creep,” Riley said.
The master trapper gave her a strange look over the seat. “Been there, have you?”
Sure have.
Riley had met Allan right after Beck had tossed her to the curb. She’d been vulnerable, and Allan had taken advantage of that. It hadn’t mattered that her father had disliked her new boyfriend from the moment they’d met. In her mind, Allan was the only thing in her life that mattered and she’d do anything for him to keep him interested in her. And she had. It’d started with the small stuff—lying, sneaking around, stealing cigarettes from the grocery store, though neither of them smoked. It ended the day she’d been one step away from stuffing a two-thousand-dollar mini la
ptop under her jacket. He’d told her it would prove that she loved him.
The instant her hand had touched the computer a shock ran through her entire body. The future unfolded like a bad movie: It wouldn’t be him at the police station getting yelled at by the cops; he wouldn’t be fingerprinted, thrown in a cell, or have to face the judge; he wouldn’t have to endure her father’s horrified disappointment.
Freaked, she’d hurried out of the store minus the computer. As Riley passed the security guard he’d given her a nod. He’d known what she was going to do.
“Smart move, kid,” he’d said.
Allan hadn’t seen it that way. When she’d admitted she couldn’t do what he wanted, he’d shouted her down in front of everyone in the parking lot, calling her a stupid bitch. Then he’d hit her.
Riley touched her cheek, remembering the sting of the blow, the taste of blood in her mouth, his furious face only inches from hers as he’d called her nasty names.
She’d found the courage to leave him swearing in that parking lot. It’d taken three bus rides to get home. When her father saw her and the growing bruise, his face went crimson in anger. She’d collapsed in his arms and told him all of it. When she’d finally stopped crying, he’d asked her only one question.
“Do you believe you deserved to be hit?”
“No!” she’d said. “He had no right!”
Her father’s expression had melted into relief.
“Always remember that, Pumpkin. No one has the right to hurt you.”
Then he’d hugged her and taken her out for ice cream to celebrate her lucky escape from The Worst Boyfriend Ever. A few months later she’d heard Allan had broken his new girlfriend’s arm during an argument.
I got off so lucky.
“Hey!” Harper called out, snapping his fingers and causing Riley to jump. “Pay attention, will you? If you think you know all this, you’re wrong.”
“Sorry,” Riley said. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that Grade Four demons are devious mothers. They sing a sweet song in your ear, and next thing you know your soul’s got a brand on it courtesy of Lucifer. Sometimes they do it fast, sometimes slow. Doesn’t matter which, because your soul is what they want, before or after they fuck you over.”
Simon twitched at the obscenity.
