by Jana Oliver
“I need to get some sleep,” the girl said. She patted her tummy. “Growing a baby makes me tired.”
A child her brother might never see.
As they walked out of the hospital along the sidewalk toward the parking garage, music filled the air. Amy dug in her voluminous suede purse and retrieved a cell phone.
“This is Amy. What? What do you mean?”
And then she shrieked and took off at a run back toward the hospital.
Good news? Bad news? It could be either one. Amy’s shriek hadn’t been very specific.
“Hey! What happened?” Riley called out.
She didn’t get a reply.
Simon’s sister made it to the bank of elevators faster than Riley, pregnancy not hampering her speed as much as a demon-clawed leg. The doors closed before Riley reached them.
“Damn!” She bounced back and forth from foot to foot. “Come on,” she grumbled as she kept punching the button. No elevator.
An older woman watched her and delivered a matronly shake of the head.
“You young kids are just so impatient nowadays.”
Riley punched the button three more times to further demonstrate her youthful impatience. By the time the next elevator arrived she was about to brave the stairs, leg cramp or not.
Pushing through the double doors into the ICU, she found the area in front of Simon’s room crowded with family. There was lots of crying and hugging going on.
When she drew closer, they cleared a way for her.
“That’s his girlfriend,” one of them whispered to another.
As she stepped inside the room, the first thing she heard was Amy’s sobs. There was no mechanical whoosh. The ventilator was off.
Riley closed her eyes, feeling the shakes coming again. She’d given Heaven her word. Had they’d failed her? Like always?
“Riley, look!” Amy exclaimed. “He’s awake! He’s breathing on his own.”
Riley whipped open her eyes, desperately wanting to believe it was true.
The breathing tube was gone, and the nurse was carefully positioning an oxygen cannula in his nose.
“Simon?” Riley said, putting all her prayers into the one word.
Her boyfriend’s bloodshot blue eyes slowly opened, and a croak came from his lips. Then he saw her at the end of the bed. “Ri … ley,” he whispered.
Joy burst through her like a lightning bolt. Simon was alive and had a working brain, or he wouldn’t know who she was.
“They did it,” she said. “Omigod, they did it!” She sucked in the pungent, unforgettable scent of watermelons. The Angel Martha had been here and pulled off a miracle.
As Riley shared a celebratory hug with Amy, the truth hit her.
Her boyfriend was going to live.
Heaven had kept their part of the bargain.
Which means I’m on the hook for the rest.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next thrilling Demon Trappers novel coming in Fall 2011 from St. Martin’s Griffin!
Copyright © 2011 by Jana Oliver
ONE
2018
Atlanta, Georgia
Inside the Grounds Zero Coffee Shop was the most amazing hot chocolate in Atlanta, maybe even the whole world. It appeared Riley Blackthorne would have to wade through Armageddon to get it.
“The End is near!” a man called out to the passersby. He stood near the entrance holding a homemade cardboard sign that proclaimed the same thing. Instead of having a scraggly beard and wearing a black robe like some Biblical prophet, he was wearing chinos and a red shirt.
“You’ve got to prepare, missy,” he said, and shoved a pamphlet toward Riley with considerable zeal. The tract looked remarkably like the one she had in her pocket. Like the one the angel had given her right before she’d agreed to work for Heaven to save her boyfriend’s life.
“The End is near!” the man shouted again.
“Is there still time for hot chocolate?” Riley asked.
The End Times guy blinked. “Ah, maybe, I don’t know.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “I’d hate to take on Hell without fueling up.”
That earned her a confused frown. Rather than explain, she jammed the pamphlet into her jacket pocket and pushed open the door to the coffee shop. The man went back to exhorting passersby to prepare for the worst.
The Grounds Zero didn’t look any different from the last time she’d been here. The smell of roasted beans hung in the air like a heady perfume and the espresso machine growled low and deep. Customers tapped on laptops as they enjoyed expensive coffee and talked about whatever was important in their lives. Just like every day. Except …
Everything is weird now.
Even buying hot chocolate. That used to be easy: Place order, pay for order, receive hot beverage. No hassles. No worries about hordes of demons or the end of civilization.
That didn’t appear to be the case now.
The barista kept staring at her, even as he was making the drink, which wasn’t a good thing as he nearly scalded himself. Maybe it was the multiple burn holes in her denim jacket, or the ragged slice down one shoulder that revealed the T-shirt underneath. Or the fact that her long brown hair had a frizzled, been-too-close-to-a flame look, despite two shampoo sessions and a lot of conditioner. At least she’d changed her jeans, or the guy would be staring at all the dried blood. Blood that wasn’t hers.
“I saw you on TV. You’re one of them, aren’t you?” he asked in a shaky voice, brown eyes so wide they seemed to take up most of his face.
On TV? Riley had no choice but to own up.
“Yeah, I’m a trapper.” One of the few lucky enough to survive last night’s slaughter.
The guy dropped the ceramic cup on the counter, sloshing some of the brown goodness over the side and onto the saucer.
“Whipped cream?” she asked, frowning now. Even if the world was ending, hot chocolate had to have that glorious white stuff on top, or what was the point? He reluctantly added some, keeping his eyes on her rather than the cup. Some of it actually went inside. “Chocolate shavings?” she nudged.
“Ah … we’re out,” he said, backing away like Riley had horns coming out of her skull.
Which I don’t. She would have noticed them in the bathroom mirror after showering away all the smoke and blood.
It’s just one creepo guy. No big.
But it wasn’t just him. Other customers stared at Riley as she made her way to an empty booth. One by one they looked up at the television screen high on the wall, then back to her, comparing images.
Ah, crap.
There, courtesy of CNN, was last night’s disaster in glorious color: flames pouring out of the roof of the Tabernacle as demons ran everywhere. And there she was, illuminated by the raging fire, kneeling on the pavement near her injured boyfriend. She was crying, holding Simon in her arms. It was the moment she knew that he was dying.
Oh, God. I can’t handle this.
The saucer in Riley’s hand began to quake, dislodging more of the hot chocolate. It’d been bad enough to live through that horror, but now it was all over the television in full and unflinching detail.
She paused near a booth as a picture of Simon appeared on the screen. It must have been his high-school graduation photo since his white-blond hair was shorter and his expression stone serious. He was usually that way, except when they were hanging together, then he’d let his guard down, especially when they were kissing.
Riley closed her eyes, recalling the time they’d spent together before the meeting. They’d talked of things close to their hearts and he’d admitted how much he cared for her. Then a demon had tried to kill him.
Riley sank into the booth and inhaled the rich scent of the hot chocolate, using it as a means to push the bad memories away. The effort failed, though it never had in the past. Instead, her mind dutifully conjured up the image of her boyfriend in his hospital bed, tubes everywhere, his face as white as the sheets.
Simon me
ant so much to her. He’d been a quiet, comforting presence after her father’s death. Losing him so soon after her dad was unthinkable. And Heaven had known that. What else could she do but agree to their terms: Simon’s life in trade for Riley owing Heaven a favor. A really big favor. Like stopping Armageddon in its tracks.
“Why me?” Riley muttered. “Why not someone else? Why not Simon?”
He was religious, followed all the rules. He’d be the perfect guy to keep the world from ending.
Instead they chose me.
A chime erupted from her messenger bag. The moment she’d sent a message to one of her classmates saying she was alive, it seemed like most of Atlanta had responded. Even technology called up bad memories. The cell phone was her dad’s and it’d been with him the night he’d been killed by a Grade Five demon, a Geo-Fiend as the Trappers called them. Now the phone was hers. Every time she held it she thought of him.
Another chime. On some level it felt good to know people cared, but most of them were just trying to hear the inside story.
Not happening.
Riley typed a response to the last message:
I’M OKAY. PASS IT ON.
To her annoyance, the hot chocolate had cooled beyond what was acceptable drinking temperature, but she sipped it anyway. She kept her eyes riveted on the cup’s contents, away from the television screen. Someone scraped a chair across the floor as they sat at a table and Riley jumped at the sound, half expecting a horde of demons to pour through the front door at any moment.
The cup trembled in her hands.
I have to find my dad. It was unlikely his body was buried under the rubble at the Tabernacle, not when a necro went to all the effort to summon him from his grave. By now that very necromancer would be lining up someone to buy Master Trapper Paul Blackthorne, if he hadn’t been sold already. Once he was owned by someone it’d be nearly impossible to get him back. She could take his new owner to court to prove the summoning hadn’t been legal, but rich people had expensive lawyers and she was barely making the rent. By the time the case reached a judge her father would be back in the ground, anyway. Deaders weren’t good for much more than a year, even with the best of care.
What is it like to be dead and walking around like you’re still alive? Besides the creep factor, it had to be truly weird. Did her dad remember dying? Did he remember the funeral and being buried? Did he even remember he had a daughter?
Spiky cold zipped down Riley’s spine. She had to get her head in the game.
I’ll find him. I’ll get him back in the ground and that’ll be the end of it.
A timid voice broke through her dark thoughts.
“Ah, ah…’scuse me?” it said.
Riley looked up to find a freckled-faced boy watching her. He was about seven years old with big, brown eyes. When he gets older, girls are going to love those. A man stood right behind him, his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“Go on, son,” he urged, smiling politely.
The boy gathered his courage. “Can I … can I have your aut’graph?”
You’re kidding me.
“But I’m … I’m…” Not important.
“You fought all those demons,” the boy said. “It was awesome!”
Awesome wasn’t the word she’d have chosen. Hellish. Bloody. Brutal. Still, the kid was so sincere she couldn’t blow him off.
“Sure.” Riley scribbled her signature on a Grounds Zero napkin with the pen his father handed her. The boy beamed like he’d just met the president or a rock star.
“Thanks!” He took off like a shot, bearing his prize back to a woman who sat at a table near the front of the store. Probably his mother.
Riley handed back the pen. “I’m not anyone special,” she said, feeling like a fraud. “I’m just an apprentice. The other guys, they’re the real deal.”
The boy’s dad shook his head. “I think you’re selling yourself short. We just want you to know we think y’all are real brave. We’re praying for you.”
“Thanks,” she said, not knowing what else to say. We’re going to need it.
Mercifully, the guy retreated and no one else came up to her.
Her eyes wandered back to the television. A different reporter was doing a play-by-play of last night’s horror. He had it mostly right—the local Trappers Guild had held a meeting at the Tabernacle in downtown Atlanta just like they always did. In the middle of the meeting, the demons had arrived. Then it got bad.
“Eyewitnesses say that at least two different kinds of Hellspawn were involved in the attack and that the trappers were quickly overwhelmed,” the reporter said.
Three different kinds, but who’s counting?
Riley frowned. The trappers hadn’t been overwhelmed. Well, not completely. They’d even managed to kill a few of the things.
When she went to pick up the cup of hot chocolate her hands were still shaking. They’d been that way since last night and nothing she did made them stop. She downed the liquid in small sips, knowing people were watching her. Talking among themselves. Someone took a picture of her with their cell phone.
Ah, jeez.
In the background, she could still hear the reporter on CNN.
“A number of the trappers escaped the inferno and were immediately set upon by a higher level fiend.”
The higher level fiend had been a Grade Five demon that’d opened up deep holes in the ground, spun off mini tornadoes, and caused the earth to shake. All in an effort to take out one trapper.
Me.
If it hadn’t been for Ori, a freelance demon hunter, the Five would have killed her just like it had her dad.
“Eyewitnesses are saying they saw angels last night,” the reporter continued. “We had Dr. Osbourne, a professor of religious studies at UC Santa Barbara, review the videos. He’s with us here today via satellite.” A gray-haired man appeared on the screen, solemn and stern. “What’s your take on this amazing event, doctor?”
“I’ve watched the videos and all that is visible is a circle of incredibly bright light that surrounds the demon trappers. I have colleagues in Atlanta who’ve claimed to see angels in your city. They’ve appeared throughout the Bible to Abraham, to Jacob. Sodom and Gomorrah rated two of them. In this case, they were actively protecting the trappers from Hellspawn. Biblically, I’d say that’s significant.”
Last night all the rules of engagement had changed.
Riley dug in her messenger bag, retrieved a pen and began a list on a crisp white napkin.
Find Dad
Bust Holy Water Scam
Save the World
Do Laundry
Buy Groceries
As she saw it, if number three on the list didn’t work out, the last two weren’t going to be needed.
TWO
Feeling a tickle in his throat, Denver Beck coughed deeply in an attempt to purge the stale smoke from his lungs. It did little good. In the distance, firefighters moved across the Tabernacle’s rubble, working on the hot spots and searching for charred bodies in the mounds of broken bricks and charred wood.
I should have died last night. In the past, it wouldn’t have mattered. Now it did. It was fear for Riley that had driven him out of the smoke and flames.
To his right, Master Trapper Angus Stewart leaned heavily on his cane in the late afternoon sun. His usually ruddy face was nearly the color of his white hair, pale against the bloodstained bandage tucked into his hairline. They stood near one of the many holes in the Tabernacle’s parking lot, the stench of burnt asphalt hanging heavy in the air. Beck bent over and stared into the hole’s maw, which was laced with tangled wires and debris. A thin column of steam rose from the center of the crater.
“How does a demon do this kind of damage?” he said, shaking his head at the sight.
“The Geo-Fiend just waved its hands and this abyss appeared. They have some strange power over the earth and the weather,” Stewart said in his rich Scottish accent. It was still noticeable, though blunted by a
decade in Atlanta.
Beck straightened up, the demon wound on his thigh cramping in protest. The dressing was leaking and the drainage had soaked into his blue jeans. He needed more aspirin—his temperature was up, and every now and then his teeth would chatter. Like a mild case of the flu with claw marks as the bonus.
Everythin’ has changed now. He knew angels were for real; he’d seen them around Atlanta. Most were the ministering kind, the most prolific of Heaven’s folk who came and went doing whatever God wanted them to do. He hadn’t seen any of the higher realm, the ones with the flaming swords. He had last night.
Beck shook his head, unable to deal with how eerie the things had been. At least seven feet tall, clothed in eye-blinding white with shimmering alabaster wings edged in gray, their fiery swords had roared like summer thunder and filled the night air with the crisp tang of ozone.
“I’ve never heard tell of Heaven steppin’ in to protect trappers,” Beck said in a lowered voice, mindful of a television news crew on the other side of the parking lot. They were all over the city now, trying to get a handle on one of the biggest stories to hit Atlanta since the Olympics. “Why’re the demons workin’ together now? It feels like a war’s brewin’.”
“So it does.” Stewart cleared his throat. “Seein’ the angels make ya a believer?”
Beck blinked at the question. Had it? He’d never really thought much about God, and he figured the feeling was mutual. “Maybe,” he admitted.
Stewart huffed in agreement. “The city will be wantin’ action.”
“Master Harper will take care of that, won’t he?” Harper was the most senior trapper in Atlanta and Riley’s master. From what Beck could tell he was a serious piece of work, but a good trapper when he wasn’t drinking.
“Nay, not with his ribs bein’ the way they are,” Stewart said. “I’ll have to take the lead.” He paused a moment, then added, “I’m pleased ta hear young Simon’s gonna make it. That’s good news for Riley.”
“Yeah,” Beck replied, unsure of where the old master was heading with that last comment.
