by Jana Oliver
“The volunteer never saw the summoner.”
Riley hung her head in body-numbing despair. “Dammit! It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been here.”
This was as much her fault as the dragon-phobic guy.
“Why the circle?” Riley asked. “What’s the point?”
“It’s for you, dear.”
“The demons can’t come here.”
“But the living can, and some of the necromancers are sore losers. Best you stay inside the circle tonight.”
Something in Martha’s voice made Riley pause. The moment the volunteer invited her inside she scurried across the candles.
“Good night, dear. Don’t worry, everything will work out,” Martha said in that overly cheery voice of hers. She gave a wave and trudged into the night.
“Oh, yeah, things are working out great,” Riley muttered. She glowered up at heaven. “Thanks for nothing.”
It took some time for her to go to the empty grave. There was no Dad to talk to now. He was wandering somewhere around the city, playing slave to some rich bastard.
She fell on her knees in the red clay, staring into the deep hole. The pine coffin’s hinges were twisted and broken like her father had busted out of a prison cell.
Fury roared within her. She shoveled the dirt back into the hole where it thunked inside the open box, bulldozing until her arms ached, muscles jittered, and palms were raw.
“So which one was it? Mr. I’m Totally Harmless Mortimer? Lizard Lenny?” Or His High Lord Ozymandias? She’d have to find out.
“We almost made it, Dad. Almost.”
Riley stumbled to her bag and rooted through it until she found the chamois pouch Ayden had given her. She pried open the strings and then returned to the grave. Taking a pinch of clay from the ground, she dropped it inside the bag pouch.
The witch had said to collect things that made her feel strong, that defined her as a person. The soil that had covered her dead father would remind Riley to never trust someone to do her job.
They always fail you.
“I’ll find you, Dad. I’ll get you back here as soon as I can, I promise.”
Then Riley gave into the much needed tears, wailing like a lost soul. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears away and they dried on her cheeks, cracking in the cold night air. Salty testimony to the endless ache in her heart.
Knowing there was little she could do for her father or the other trappers, Riley toted the tarp and the sleeping bag to the west side of the mausoleum and arranged them on the hard ground. It was difficult to think, so she found herself making trips for single items—one for the bottled water, the flashlight, another for the blanket.
Curling up inside the sleeping bag, she sat upright and watched the fire. In the glow she thought she saw faces. Dead men’s faces. She’d seen trappers torn apart, sickened by how much blood had poured from their bodies. Those images would never leave her. Never.
Simon. Would he make it through the night? What about Beck? Would morning bring more bad news?
“Please, God. I’ll do anything not to lose them.”
There was a stir of wind in the bare trees.
Desperate for something to occupy her mind, to keep her from thinking about Simon dying, she pulled out her cell to call Peter to let him know she was safe. The phone didn’t work, didn’t even light up.
She removed the back and found the wiring inside was fused.
“Oh, damn,” she said, tossing it in the messenger bag, no clue as to how it’d become damaged. Her friend was probably watching the news reports, frantically dialing her over and over. He’ll think I’m dead. So would Simi and all the kids at school. Maybe even her crazy aunt in Fargo.
“I could have been.” A few more seconds and she’d have been at the bottom of that pit. She owed Ori her life and couldn’t remember if she’d thanked him.
Her eyes finally closed, and Riley slid into tortured slumber. She heard someone calling for her. Simon. He kept crying her name, begging her to save him. She ran through the smoke and flames, kicking Threes out of her way like they were made of straw. Then she saw the pit. Simon was lying at the bottom, covered in blood. His chest was ripped open, and she could see his beating heart. He kept calling out to her but she couldn’t get to him. His body sank lower and lower, fires raging beneath him. There were demons down there, with pitchforks and pointed tails. They howled in laughter and then pulled him into the depths as he issued one final pleading scream.
“Riley!”
She jumped and grabbed the flashlight for a weapon.
It was Beck. He stood just outside the circle hunched in pain and blinked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.
“Riley?” he whispered.
Is it really him?
She cleared her throat and wiped away the crusty tears. “If you mean no harm, then pass within.”
He made a few more steps inside the circle before he staggered and fell into her arms, his duffel bag hitting the ground with a thump.
“Thank God!” he murmured. “Thank God.”
He sagged and collapsed in a heap at her feet. Dropping to her knees, she shined the flashlight on him. Burns on his face, his right hand. His thigh had taken the worst of it.
“A Three?” she asked, and he nodded numbly, his hands clasped around the torn denim and ripped flesh.
“I’ve got fresh Holy Water,” she said, taking off at a sprint for the mausoleum. When she returned he was still clutching the leg, his eyes closed in agony.
Which was only going to get worse.
She broke the seal. “You ready?” He nodded. The moment the stuff hit the wound he bellowed, writhing back and forth, making it difficult to keep the fluid going where it needed. She kept pouring until he sagged against the ground, his breathing labored.
“I’m so sorry, Beck!” she said. She remembered what it felt like, how her bones had burned deep within. At least this is the real stuff.
“Had to be done,” he said through clenched teeth. “Go on. Do the rest.”
Riley gently took his hand and treated it, then dabbed the Holy Water on his face. He kept his eyes closed the whole time.
As she made them a bed in the mausoleum, zipping the two sleeping bags together for warmth, she could hear Beck moaning with each breath. By the time she was finished her preparations he was sitting up, staring at the open grave. His hands quivered like an old person.
“It was Paul,” he said.
“Yeah. He came to warn me,” Riley said. Beck gave her a strange look. “I know that sounds weird, but he told me to run, that they were coming.”
“How did he know?”
She shrugged. Beck was shivering again.
I can’t help Simon, but I can help you.
“Come with me. It’s too cold to stay out here,” she said. To her relief he tried to help as she pulled him to his feet. It was hard going—he weighed more than she did and his leg was too numb to be of use—but she managed to guide him inside the building. Beck let her strip off his leather coat and wrap him up in a couple of blankets. Riley lit a candle and placed it on a ledge at the rear of the mausoleum. The dim light fell across his blackened face in a dance of light and shadow. She closed the heavy doors and sat next to him, tucking them into the sleeping bag. When she offered him a bottle of water, he downed it without pausing for air. His fingers tightened around the plastic and it crackled.
“Did you see Dad after…?”
Beck shook his head.
“Maybe he didn’t get out,” she said.
“No, he’s out of there. Any necro worth his salt would have made sure of that.”
“How many dead?” she asked.
“Not sure. Ten at least,” he said in a smoke-roughened voice.
She had to know. “Who?”
“Morton, Collins, Ethan. All dead.”
“Ethan?” she asked, not wanting to believe it. He was one of Stewart’s apprentices and was getting married in a few months.
/> “He went quick,” Beck said in a thick voice. “Not like some of the others.”
“What about … Simon?”
Beck didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know if he made it. They were tryin’ to get him to the hospital. I didn’t see him after that.” He turned completely toward her now. “I couldn’t find ya. Someone said the Five was after ya and I thought—”
“I’m okay.”
He pulled her into a tight embrace. There was the sting of tears on her cheeks, but they weren’t hers. He kissed the top of her head and murmured something. She didn’t hear what he’d said, but that didn’t matter. He was alive.
Riley wanted to stay in his arms, but Peter would be frantic by now.
She unwound herself. “Is your phone working?”
Beck shook his head. “Happens sometimes around the groundin’ spheres.”
Crap. Sorry Peter.
The wounded trapper folded himself into the sleeping bag as Riley covered him with every extra blanket she had. When she slipped in next to him, he pulled her close, his injured arm over her for protection.
“I’ll go back in the mornin’,” he said faintly. “I’ll see about Simon and the others.”
“Were those really angels?”
“Yeah. Now get some sleep. Yer safe. I won’t let anythin’ hurt ya.”
And she knew he wouldn’t.
* * *
While Riley slept, Beck fell back on what he knew best. He remembered what it was like right after a battle. Everybody had their own way of dealing with it. Some guys drank, others shot up. He’d always go somewhere quiet and think it through, remember the stench of war, the pleas of the dying. He was doing the same now in the solitude of the old stone building.
Come morning, the trappers would have to face a new reality. They’d have to find out who was messing with the Holy Water and how the demons had crossed the ward. Was Hell making its big move? Was this really the end? So many questions that had no answers.
He pushed them all aside. There’d be time to figure all that out down the line. Instead, he calmed himself by listening to Riley’s measured breathing, her warm body tucked up next to his. He’d thanked God repeatedly she was alive, and with those thanks came the truth that he’d been trying to deny.
I care too much for ya, girl.
Every person had a breaking point. Losing both Paul and Riley would have been his. How he would have stopped the pain, he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
Riley stirred, crying out. He comforted her and waited until she went back to sleep, gently stroking her hair. Morning would bring her even more hell. He knew what a dying man looked like, he’d seen them often enough in the war. His gut told him Simon wasn’t going to make it, and that was going to rip her apart.
I’ll be there for ya, girl. No matter what.
Beck took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had to stay strong for her, make the tough decisions. It was best that Paul’s daughter never know how he felt about her. There’d be less hurt that way, for both of them.
Just keep her safe, God. I can settle for that.
THIRTY-EIGHT
When Riley finally stirred, Beck was gone along with his duffel bag. Rising on stiff legs she stretched and opened the door. It was past dawn, and the sun was higher than she’d expected. She broke the circle, packed her gear, and headed for the car. As she drove the thin curl of black smoke rising from the city drew her like a magnet.
The Tabernacle’s burned-out husk seemed alien in the thin daylight. Two of the brick walls had collapsed inward, and the stained glass windows were gone. Disoriented bats chittered in the air, their roost history.
The area around the Tabernacle was blocked with barricades and the occasional police car. Riley stumbled to a halt. There was a makeshift morgue on the sidewalk closest to the park. She tried not to count the body bags but couldn’t help herself.
Thirteen. About forty trappers had been at the meeting last night. That meant only twenty-seven had made it out alive.
She crossed the street and immediately encountered a cop.
“Can’t go in there, miss,” he said sternly, his hands crossed over his chest. Not knowing what else to do, she pulled out her trapper’s license.
“You were here last night?” he asked, eyes taking in the bruises on her face, the singed hair, and the apron of dried blood on her jeans.
Riley nodded. He waved her through the crime scene tape without another word. The parking lot looked like giant gophers had gone berserk. There was a municipal gas crew working on a mass of pipes. Some of craters had steam rising out of them, like in one of those apocalyptic movies.
She found Beck in a small knot of trappers. He held himself stiffly, moving in slow motion. As she grew closer to the group, Riley realized the topic of conversation was her dead father.
“I know what I saw,” one of the men said. He had a bandage on his arm and a deep scowl on his face. “It was Blackthorne, and he was helping those demons.”
“That’s bullshit,” Beck growled.
“Then how the hell did they get in? Someone had to break the ward. It sure as hell wasn’t one of us.”
Another trapper jumped in. “It had to be him. It’s too much of a coincidence. Blackthorne shows up and a few seconds later we’re deep in demons. No other explanation.”
Riley pushed her way forward through the group, furious. “He came to warn me. He told me to run.” The moment after she spoke, she realized it was the wrong thing to say.
“How’d he know that?” one of the trappers demanded. His name was McGuire and he’d opposed Riley’s apprenticeship from the start.
“He wouldn’t have broken the ward,” she protested.
“If Blackthorne didn’t let them in, who did? You?”
“It be time ta step back, trapper.” It was Stewart. He had a thick bandage on his forehead. His skin was as pale as his hair, and he leaned heavily on his cane. “We’ll work it out later. Right now, we need ta take care of our own.”
The irate trapper didn’t back down. “I know what I saw.”
“Did ya ever think that’s what the beasties wanted ya ta see?”
Grumbling broke out around them, for and against the argument.
“We gotta know who we can trust,” McGuire replied. “It’s all connected—the Holy Water, the attack, the demons working together.” He pointed at Riley. “It all went wrong when she joined the Guild. She’s to blame!”
Stewart put himself between her and the angry men. “Go stock yer bags and get back ta work. The city hasta see we’re still out there. If not, they’ll be callin’ in the hunters as fast as ya can fart a tune.”
The group slowly dispersed.
Stewart pointed at Beck. “Take this one home, will ya, lass?”
“But I was going to the hospital,” Riley began. “I want to see Simon. See if he’s…” Still alive.
The master pulled her aside. “Yer worried about him. I am too. But Simon has family ta watch over him.” He looked back at the injured trapper. “Ya hafta be there for Beck. He only has you.”
Riley sighed. “I’ll get the car.”
* * *
Other than providing directions to his house in Cabbagetown, Beck didn’t say a word. Finally he pointed to a driveway that led to a compact green house with white trim. The mailbox had his last name stenciled on it and a purple clematis vine wound its way up the wooden post. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected, but this wasn’t it.
Beck climbed out of the car like it took every bit of energy he possessed, but he refused her help up the stairs. Instead of unlocking the door he sank on the top step.
“You okay?” she asked, concerned.
Beck stared into the middle distance. “It’s all goin’ wrong. I don’t understand.” He looked over at her. “Which necro took him?”
“No idea.” Riley tugged on his arm. “Come on.” He didn’t budge. “I’ve never been inside your place,” she urged. “I wan
t to see if it’s as messy as mine.” Anything to get you out of the cold.
Beck seemed puzzled by that. “I’m sorry. I thought ya’d been here. Yer daddy was, off and on. He liked it.” A melancholy smile creased his face. “He said he wanted to buy ya a house like this.”
Riley didn’t want to think about what might have been. Not ever.
He finally got the front door open and tapped away at the alarm panel. The beeping ceased, then he limped into the front room.
Riley was greeted by dark hardwood floors and a braided rug to clean your feet on. There were pegs to hang coats and tan walls with pictures of Okefenokee Swamp. He’d surprised her again. The house was way clean by guy standards. There were no moldy chunks of pizza on the counter or dirty underwear lurking on the floor. In fact, the place was as clean as her own.
She pointed him to a kitchen chair and asked, “Where’s your Holy Water?”
“Hall closet. Get a bottle for yerself and carry it with ya from now on.”
“Why?”
“If ya need a quick ward, pour a circle and get inside it. It’s better than nothin’.”
“You’re thinking the demons aren’t done with us.”
“I’d say they’re just warmin’ up.”
Other people’s closets held stuff they never used like ice skates, Christmas ornaments, old pairs of shoes that were long past their prime. Beck’s held his trapping supplies. Everything was methodically organized, shelf by shelf, and included several pints of Holy Water, steel bags, coiled rope, spheres—you name it. Even a spare length of steel pipe.
Riley found the freshest bottles, verified the labels with the wet finger test, and returned to the kitchen. She put one in her bag. Beck still stared at nothing about twelve inches in front of him.
“Time for some more pain,” she said.
“Is it the good stuff?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He slowly stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He took the pint from her. “I’ll do it.”
Works for me.
After washing her hands, Riley rummaged around inside the refrigerator and found eggs and some sausage links. More hunting helped her locate a frying pan, which she set on the gas stove. A sharp yelp came from the bathroom, then a stream of swear words, most of them starting with f. Then another yelp. The shower began to run.
